Zodiac Killer: Newly Discovered Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by Holy Ghost Writer

  “Here, come to the table. I have you a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a ham sandwich. You need to eat,” Jack said.

  Mark knew, even at eight years old, not to cross Jack. He had a frightening madness in his eyes, and his every move was charged with intensity, as if he were on the edge of losing his grasp on sanity. Mark was sure his grandpa would find him. Maybe Jack was the man who had circled that article in the paper. Mark felt his worry shift to his mom. He hoped this man hadn’t hurt her.

  Jack didn’t try to hide his face—he doubted a child could describe him well enough for even a very talented sketch artist to capture his features. Besides, he didn’t plan to have the kid around long, only for a day or two, maybe even just the afternoon. He wanted to make Holmes sweat, to show his power.

  Jack switched on the TV and found afternoon cartoons. “Here,” he said, “watch this while you eat your lunch and don’t make a sound.”

  ***

  Lydia was beside herself when she reached Holmes’s apartment. “Have you heard anything yet? Do you have any leads?” she demanded.

  “Don’t worry, Lydia. I know who the kidnapper is, and I doubt he will hurt Mark. We will find him. The police are working as we speak.”

  “What do you mean, you know who the kidnapper is? If you know who it is, why aren’t we looking for him right now? Oh, what will I do if anything happens to my baby?”

  “Nothing will. I promise. And I can’t say who the kidnapper is. He’s an old enemy, one who I fully intend to find and bring to justice once and for all.”

  Holmes was reluctant to tell Lydia the real reason behind Mark’s kidnapping—the Zodiac was trying to get Holmes’s attention. Holmes wasn’t moving fast enough on the investigation, and this was the Zodiac’s twisted method of motivation. He knew that if he told Lydia that, she would never forgive him, especially if any harm should come to the boy.

  Chapter 14

  Itch for Blood

  The Zodiac was growing jumpy and anxious with Mark in his apartment. He’d never had to care for another person before, and remembering to feed the boy put him on edge. He couldn’t leave his home without tying Mark up and gagging him, and the entire time the Zodiac spent out of the apartment, he envisioned Mark somehow escaping and leading Holmes straight to his captor. Taking the boy had been a risk—perhaps too big a risk—and in hindsight, the Zodiac realized how lucky he was to have escaped capture up until now. I’ll either have to do away with the boy or return him, he thought. Holmes once showed me mercy, so perhaps I should return the favor. Then again, I’ve never felt the need to be a noble man…

  His nerves slowly wore off, though, and he soon felt the persistent itch for blood—he needed to kill someone, and it didn’t matter who. He decided to take a cab ride. He had never killed a cabdriver before…he figured it should be fairly easy. He could have the man go anywhere he wanted without raising suspicion, and then he could do his dastardly deed. Off he went to find a poor, unsuspecting soul. Holmes better get ready, the Zodiac thought to himself. This one, he had decided, would be a bloody one.

  On October 11, 1969, in San Francisco, California, twenty-nine-year-old Paul Lee Stine began his shift as a cabdriver much the same as he did every night. He was paying his own way through San Francisco State University, earning his doctorate, and needed to work the odd hours that being a cabdriver provided.

  Paul cruised the streets of San Francisco, hoping to pick up some tourists for easy money, but the only person who waved him down was a stocky passenger who needed to get to Union Square from the high-class Presidio Heights neighborhood at the intersection of Washington and Cherry. It was a wealthy neighborhood with some of the most extravagant citizens in San Francisco, and Paul hoped for a good tip.

  It was Paul’s last fare, however. The cab had just entered into the outer edges of the Presidio, where expensive cars lined the street and lawns were immaculately kept by gardeners, when he felt the cold barrel of a gun on his temple.

  “Pull up another block,” the man commanded. “And then stop the car.”

  “I don’t have much cash on me, man,” said Paul, who assumed he was being robbed. “But you take whatever I have; just don’t shoot me.”

  As soon as Paul placed the car in park, the passenger pulled the gun’s trigger, which killed Paul instantly and sent a mist of red gore across the front seat of the car.

  The Zodiac left the backseat of the car and entered the front passenger door. The noise from the gunshot attracted the attention of three teenagers across the street, who watched from the second floor window as the Zodiac went through Paul’s pockets. Unsure of what they were witnessing, the teens stood and watched the man wipe down the car from the inside and then wipe down the car from the outside; he even wiped the side-view mirror.

  He then closed the door and left, walking away without urgency or fear. It was almost as if he were out for a nighttime stroll.

  Seeing him start to walk away, one of the teenagers ran to the phone and called the police. “I’d like to report a crime in progress,” she started and gave her address. “I think a man has been hurt or even killed. Please hurry.”

  “Can you describe the assailant?” the dispatcher asked calmly. “We’re sending police to the area right now.”

  By now, the girl could see that the body in the cab was deathly still, and she started to sob. “It’s dark. I don’t know,” she said. “It was a man, maybe five eight, a little heavy. I hear the sirens already! Thank God.”

  Somehow in the confusion of the call, though, the dispatcher sent out an APB for a black assailant, and the police drove right by the Zodiac. When he saw the cars speed by—sirens wailing—he went cold with fear, but then he realized he looked just like an ordinary man. No one could see the monster inside of him. As long as he left the area quickly, he would be safe. If only the police knew they almost had me in their grasp, he thought smugly. Stupid cops.

  He sprinted across a playground and then stuck to the shadows, skirting streetlights. He walked for a long time until he was far enough from the crime scene to catch a cab back to his apartment. As the cabbie drove him home, the Zodiac held his hand over his pants pocket, where he had tucked a piece of Paul’s bloody shirt.

  At least I won’t have to make the call to the police myself, he thought. And I hope this cabdriver knows how lucky he is. Not only does he get to drive the Zodiac home, but he could so easily have been my victim if he had picked me up a few hours earlier. Now I think it’s time to get that boy out of my apartment…

  Chapter 15

  Another Murder

  The shrill ring of the phone jolted Holmes out of a sound sleep. He fumbled on his nightstand until he pulled the receiver out of its cradle and raised it to his ear.

  “Sher—Dr. Greystone speaking,” he said groggily. “Have you found Mark?”

  “This is Davis,” barked a voice on the other end. “There’s been a murder, if you want to go to the scene. It’s in the Presidio.” Davis read off the address. “We don’t have any reason at this time to suspect the Zodiac is the perpetrator, but you did tell us to notify you immediately of any murders that weren’t directly tied to domestic issues.”

  Davis paused a bit, realizing he was being insensitive. “We’re searching for the boy with all the resources we can spare,” he said. “I know you must be in hell right now, wondering if he’s all right.”

  “But if we find the Zodiac Killer, he may lead us to Mark,” answered Holmes. “Thank you for calling me—you did exactly the right thing. I’ll be there soon.”

  Holmes was dressed within five minutes and then rapped at Watson’s door. “Old friend,” he called out, “I’m heading to a murder scene. The body is still there. Do you want to come along?”

  “Of course, of course,” Watson answered. Unlike Holmes, he always snapped awake quickly. “Let me get these old bones dressed.”

  While Watson dressed, Holmes wrote a note for Lydia and left it propped on the kitchen table. “Gone out,�
� it read. “Don’t open the door for anyone.”

  Detective Davis had sent a car for them so they wouldn’t have to park the Rolls in the area. Within fifteen minutes, a dark sedan pulled up to the curb, and Watson and Holmes were on their way.

  A barricade had already been set up, and police cars were parked everywhere with their lights flashing. Concerned residents stood in their yards draped in robes and blankets. They looked on and gossiped with one another.

  Davis saw the two men approach and waved them over. “These men are with me,” he called out to the crowd of officers. “If they ask a question, you answer it.”

  Paul’s upper body was lying in the passenger seat with his head in the floorboard and his arm hanging out of the door. His watch and class ring were still on his body. He had been shot in the head. Blood flowed everywhere. The meter was still running, but the car keys were missing.

  “He was dead when we arrived,” said Davis. “But we’ve sent the police dogs out through the neighborhood. Perhaps they can pick up some kind of scent.”

  “The killer is probably long gone,” said Holmes. “This looks like a textbook robbery. But why, I wonder, didn’t the robber take the man’s personal valuables? Why just take his wallet?”

  “Perhaps he got spooked and ran before he had time to grab anything other than the wallet,” said Watson.

  The EMTs loaded the body into an ambulance, and Holmes waited patiently for the officers to dust the interior and exterior of the car for fingerprints and collect blood and hair samples from the upholstery. Then he performed a search himself and dug a nine-millimeter shell casing from under the front passenger seat.

  “Does the victim have any family?” Holmes asked. “We’ll want to question them.”

  “A wife,” Davis said sadly. “I’ll be visiting her myself to break the news. It seems too cruel to do it over the phone.”

  “Do you think this was the Zodiac?” Watson asked.

  “Too soon to tell,” Davis answered. “But it does seem just like a robbery to me, as you said.”

  When Holmes and Watson returned to their apartment, it was still several hours until sunrise.

  “That murder was horrible, of course,” remarked Watson. “Yet I cannot get Mark off of my mind. He’s been gone for days now—Lydia is about to lose her mind with grief and anxiety. I wish we could do more!”

  Holmes agreed that the past few days had been harrowing; he was constantly torn between staying by Lydia’s side and waiting at the police station for any bit of news about Mark. San Francisco was covered with flyers asking if anyone had seen the missing boy, and volunteer groups were canvassing door to door to help, yet it seemed Mark had disappeared into thin air.

  Holmes and Watson were sitting in the kitchen, having decided to enjoy a cognac to help them sleep, when Mrs. Merritt came in, her hair in rollers and her robe wrapped tightly around her. Since Mark’s disappearance, she had taken up residence in the study so that Lydia did not have to spend a moment alone.

  “I heard you come home,” she said. “Would you like me to whip you up a quick snack? I’ve been tossing and turning—Lydia cried herself to sleep again, and it just about breaks my heart.”

  “You are a kind woman and a good friend,” said Holmes, smiling at her. “But I think Watson and I will both be headed to bed when we find the bottom of this glass.”

  “I’ll just sit with you a moment then,” Mrs. Merritt said.

  Holmes fetched another glass and poured Mrs. Merritt a nightcap as well. “I really shouldn’t,” she said, “but I suppose I deserve it too!”

  Suddenly she tilted her head, her eyes growing wide. “Sir,” she whispered. “Doctor! I think someone is outside, and he sounds upset.”

  Holmes raced to the door and pulled it open, not thinking for an instant of his own safety. There on the mat was Mark, huddled, his eyes red from sobbing, and his hands and feet bound.

  Holmes gathered Mark into his arms and hurried him to the couch. He then called for Lydia. “Mark is home!” he yelled. “He’s safe!”

  Lydia awoke in an instant when she heard Holmes’s voice and ran from her room to Mark’s side, rubbing his wrists and ankles to return the circulation. “Honey, I’m so glad you’re back with us!” she cried. “Who took you? Did he hurt you?”

  “He said his name was Jack,” Mark said. “He didn’t hurt me. He fed me ham sandwiches and turned on cartoons for me. But he said next time he wouldn’t be so nice, and he said Grandpa needed to hurry up.”

  “You’ll both stay here for now,” Holmes said. “We can’t take any more chances. It’s time for me to get back on track and end this once and for all.”

  Mark turned to Holmes, his eyes wiser than they had been a few days before. “I know who you really are now, Grandpa,” Mark said. “And if anyone can catch this man, it’s you.”

  Chapter 16

  Maps

  Breakfast was a little late the following morning, as Holmes and Watson had been out so late and then had stayed up with Mark until the sun rose. Mrs. Merritt had fixed a feast. They had waffles with creamy butter and rich syrup. She had also made fried eggs, scrambling them with cheese and green onions. There were homemade biscuits, gravy, and thick slices of ham. They also had freshly squeezed California orange juice. They did not do much talking while they devoured the delicious food, but once they were finished, Holmes thought it was time to talk to Mark about his abduction.

  “Mark, do you feel up to talking about what happened?” he asked.

  “I guess so. I was playing in the front yard, and the next thing I remember was waking up on a black couch.”

  “Do you remember what Jack looked like?” asked Holmes.

  “Well, he was kinda fat and not too tall. He had brown hair and wore black glasses.”

  “What about his voice?”

  “He talked a little funny. His words sounded a little different than how I say them. Actually he sounded a little like you, Grandpa.”

  “Do you think you could tell me where he lives?”

  “No. I was asleep when we got there, and when we left, he put a mask on me. He said he didn’t want anyone to know where he lived. Did I do OK, Grandpa?”

  “Yes, Mark, you did great.”

  “Grandpa, why didn’t you ever tell me you were Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Mark, there are some things about our family that I do not think you are old enough to understand yet. One day, I will explain them to you, and you will understand. But for now, just trust that you have the blood of Sherlock Holmes running through your veins. We are family, and I will always protect you. Don’t forget how much I love you. OK?”

  “OK, Grandpa.”

  “Where did you go last night before Mark came back?” asked Lydia. “I heard you go out, and I was worried!”

  “There was a murder,” Holmes said. “If the paper has come, you can probably read all about it. I think we should not discuss it when Mark is around, but I will talk to you about it later,” Holmes told her.

  “I understand.”

  After Holmes called Detective Davis to let him know Mark was safe, Holmes and Watson went out onto the patio and picked up the San Francisco Chronicle. Holmes read the letter that was printed prominently on the front page.

  This is the Zodiac speaking.

  I am the murderer of the taxi driver over by Washington St + Maple St last night, to prove this here is a blood stained piece of his shirt. I am the same man who did in the people in the north bay area.

  The S. F. police could have caught me last night if they had searched the park properly instead of holding road races with their motorcycles seeing who could make the most noise. The car drivers should have just parked their cars and sat there quietly waiting for me to come out of cover.

  School children make nice targets, I think I shall wipe out a school bus some morning. Just shoot out the front tire + then pick off the kiddies as they come bouncing out.

  “Look here, Watson. The Zodiac has writ
ten a confession already. It is posted in the paper,” Holmes said and read it to his friend. “He even sent a piece of Stine’s bloody shirt. What gall the man has.”

  “Yes, but we already knew this. And even if they get any fingerprints from the cab, it won’t be evidence—countless passengers could have left their fingerprints on the seats and windows over the past few days.”

  “I’ve expanded the police profile of him since I am privy to some information they don’t know—and wouldn’t believe anyway,” Holmes said. “He probably lives in an apartment because he wouldn’t want to be tied to a long-term commitment. As someone who wants to fly under the radar, he probably also has a menial job and doesn’t make much money. That means he doesn’t live in an upscale area.”