The Most Dangerous Animal of All

by Gary L. Stewart

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  February 1963

  Prologue

  Part One: The Ice Cream Romance

  Part Two: Signs of the Zodiac

  Part Three: The Truth Deciphered

  In Memoriam

  Acknowledgments

  Timeline

  Bibliography and Resources

  Index

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  DEDICATION

  For the man who adopted

  the abandoned baby on the stairwell

  and raised him as his own

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Zodiac case has been shrouded in mystery for almost fifty years. When I began my journey to find my biological father, I never envisioned that my search would lead me to a series of brutal murders that terrorized the residents of California in the 1960s and ’70s. The very idea that my father committed these acts is repulsive to me, and I try hard to disassociate myself from the horrific crimes he perpetrated upon innocent young people. After I met my biological mother, I simply wanted to find the man responsible for giving me life. I wanted to know him, love him, and even forgive him for what he had done to me. I had been raised in an adoptive home and taught that love and forgiveness are tenets by which to live one’s life.

  I had been gathering information about my father for two years before I got the first suspicion that he could somehow be connected to the Zodiac killings. At the time, I did not want to believe what my instincts were telling me, so I set out to uncover the truth, to prove to myself that my father could not possibly have been a serial killer. As years went by and more and more telling evidence unfolded, there came a day when I could no longer deny that my worst fears were true. That realization prompted me to write this memoir. I felt it was my responsibility to share the truths that I had learned in a way that would leave no doubt as to the identity of this killer and the reasons why he had committed these murders.

  This memoir is based upon my research over a twelve-year period, which I recorded in a journal as I went through the process of discovering the facts of my father’s life. Through conversations with my father’s best friend, family members and my biological mother, police records, newspaper articles, old Best family letters, marriage and divorce records, and other government records, I was able to create a timeline of my father’s early life, which makes up Part One of this book. The narration of that period is presented in a novelistic manner of storytelling because this was the most coherent way to tell his story. I have taken some small liberties when re-creating dialogue in this section of the book, but even those conversations are based upon the memories of my father’s family and friends and the facts of his life that were related to me. Likewise, dialogue in Parts Two and Three is based upon twelve years of investigation and the facts that investigation revealed. I should note that all of the conversations that took place between me and others, including my biological mother, my father’s best friend, and detectives at the San Francisco Police Department, are related verbatim.

  The details concerning my father’s life span five decades and are complex. It seemed best to simply start at the beginning, in order to give the reader a real sense of how and why my father grew into a serial killer.

  —GARY L. STEWART

  February 1963

  The sound of the baby’s hungry cries pierced the darkness. His father angrily flung his covers aside and climbed out of bed, hurrying to the footlocker that doubled as the infant’s crib. Furiously, he slammed the lid shut.

  Inside, the cries soon turned to gasps as the baby struggled for air.

  PROLOGUE

  May 2002

  Thirty-nine years. That’s how long I had waited to hear the words. Thirty-nine years spent wondering about my name, my parents’ names.

  Finally, I knew.

  My mother’s name was Judith.

  I could see that something was bothering my adoptive parents, Loyd and Leona Stewart, the day I found out the truth. I observed them surreptitiously as I stirred the crawfish, sausage, corn, and potatoes one last time before dumping out the huge pot onto the newspapers lining the table in my sister Cindy’s backyard. Loyd wasn’t laughing and cracking jokes in his Cajun French accent like he usually did, and Leona’s pretty face was drawn tight, as though she had something serious on her mind.

  It was hot, the Louisiana humidity already sucking any coolness from the spring air, but a light breeze made the heat bearable as we sat around the table pinching meat from the tails and sucking spicy seasonings from the heads of the tasty mudbugs. After I finished my pile, I began hosing out the boiling pot. I watched as Loyd and Leona nodded to each other and then began walking toward me.

  Uh-oh. I could tell by the way they were so deliberate in their approach that something was very wrong. I wondered who had died.

  “Hey, Geg,” Dad said.

  Loyd never called me Geg. That was a shortened version of my name used only by my grandparents. His use of that nickname, coupled with the fact that he looked like he was going to cry, made me even more nervous.

  I flipped the towel in my hand over my shoulder and said, “What’s the matter, you two?”

  “There’s no easy way to say what we have to say, so I’m just going to say it,” Loyd said. “A couple of weeks ago, a lady in San Francisco called us and said she was your mother.”

  My mother? What?

  Leona slipped her arm around my waist. “When we first received the package and picture she sent, I didn’t want to believe she could be your mother, but your dad said how much you looked like the lady in the picture. I denied it with every ounce of my being. I even refused to look at the picture again for a day or two.”

  I tried to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat.

  “But then I prayed about it,” she continued, “and the Lord laid it upon my heart that this was your mother and that your daddy and I should be honest with you.”

  “When I first saw the picture, I just knew it was your mother,” Loyd piped in. “I told your mama, and she just wouldn’t believe it.”

  Seeing the tears that were welling in my eyes, Leona gave me a gentle squeeze.

  I couldn’t believe it. After all these years, I would finally have an identity, a name that was really mine. I could feel a wave of excitement flowing through me, and I reached for my father and mother and hugged them tightly. I promised them that no matter what happened, they would always be my parents. At that moment, I had no way of knowing how much this day would alter the course of my life.

  Leona explained that she had received the call on May Day. She and Cindy had been in the living room, visiting with Loyd’s mother, Evelyn, when the phone rang, and she went into the kitchen to answer it.

  “Hello,” Leona said in her sweet southern voice.

  “Hello. Is this Leona?” the voice on the other end of the line asked nervously.

  “Yes, it is. And who is this?”

  “My name is Judith Gilford, and I live in San Francisco. I believe I am your son Gary’s birth mother.”

  For a few seconds, Leona couldn’t speak.

  When she was able to catch her breath, she managed to say, “What makes you think that?”

  “I have information from his placement file,” Judith explained. “Look, I don’t want to interfere in your lives,” she rushed on. “I just want to make the information available to Gary, to give him an identity just in case he wants to know.”

  Leona listened as the woman explained some of the circumstances of her life and how she had come to give he
r baby up for adoption.

  “I never wanted to give him up, and I’ve always wanted to find him,” Judith said just as Loyd poked his head into the room. Leona waved him away and walked into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She listened carefully while Judith told her everything she had gone through to find her son over the past few years. Leona, always attuned to the feelings of others, couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the woman.

  “Please just let me send you a package with a letter and some pictures for him,” Judith begged.

  “I’ll discuss it with my husband,” Leona said. “And I’ll talk to Gary.”

  Judith cut her off. “Please don’t make me any promises. I will just send the information and trust that whatever should happen will happen.”

  A few days later, when Leona received the FedEx box from Judith, she turned it over and over, afraid to open it, fearing the potential it had to change all of our lives.

  All the birthday parties, the skinned knees, the boo-boos she had kissed. All of the memories she had shared with me flashed through her mind. Was this some kind of cruel joke? How dare this woman intrude into her life—her son’s life—like this?

  With trembling fingers, Leona opened the box. A picture clipped to a letter caught her eye. The woman who had called stared at her from the wallet-size photograph. Tears began to cloud Leona’s vision and then rolled down her cheeks. She tried as she searched the picture to convince herself that the woman looked nothing like me. But try as she might to lie to herself, the truth stared back at her from the photo.

  She brought the picture to Loyd.

  He held Leona’s hand as he scanned the photo.

  “He sure does look like her,” Loyd said. He wanted to tell his wife that this woman could not possibly be my mother, but he knew he had to be honest.

  For the next few days, they talked about nothing but this unbelievable predicament in which they suddenly found themselves. Mine had been a closed adoption. This shouldn’t have happened. Should they tell me? Should they keep this a secret? Holding hands, they prayed together, asking God to show them what to do.

  Finally, one night Loyd got his answer. He turned to his wife and said, “He deserves to know who he is and then decide what he wants to do.”

  Leona knew her husband was right, but she was very afraid I would get hurt. For the next week, Leona and Loyd prayed harder than ever that God would give them the strength to be unselfish, that He would help them deliver this news in just the right way.

  And now I knew.

  I drove the twenty-eight miles back to my house that evening in a state of shock, remembering all the times I had fantasized about what my real parents might be like and wondering from whom I had inherited my reddish hair. Because I didn’t know my real name or why my adoption birth certificate stated that I had been born in New Orleans, I had struggled with an identity crisis for most of my life. Excited and anxious to look through the package Leona had given me, I pressed my foot a little harder on the accelerator, holding the picture of the woman in my hand. I caught myself veering off the road several times because I couldn’t take my eyes off it. As I drove, I thought about my son Zach’s reaction to the photo.

  “Hey, Dad, he looks just like you,” Zach had naively said, looking at the man standing next to Judith in the photo she had sent. Everyone had laughed. The man was clearly of American Indian or Hispanic heritage, but Zach had assumed that if the woman was my mother, then the man had to be my father.

  When I got home, I turned on the overhead light so I wouldn’t miss a detail as I sifted through the letters in the box. Sitting in my favorite recliner, I stared at the picture of the woman who claimed to be my mother.

  Her eyes.

  Her nose.

  Her mouth.

  They were like mine.

  I pulled out the letter Judith had written to all of the men she could find who had been born on my birth date in Louisiana.

  Tears gathered in my eyes as I read.

  In the letter, she explained that she had been fifteen and a runaway from California when I was born. She had been married to my father, but the marriage had been annulled by her mother because she was underage. Judith went on to state that she and her husband had been apprehended and sent back to California. The condition her mother had set for her daughter to eventually move back in with her was that I—two months old at the time—be given up for adoption. She said she had married again at the age of twenty-six and had another son.

  I had a brother?

  Then she said that she had loved me from the day I was born and that I had been with her every day since. “It would be the happiest day of my life if the phone rang and my son said to me, ‘I believe you are my mother,’ ” she wrote.

  I read the letter over and over and then reached for the phone. As I began to dial the number she had provided, my hand began to shake, and I hung up. What would I say?

  My thoughts turned to Leona. I knew how difficult it must have been for her to share this news with me. The next day was Mother’s Day, and I felt guilty even thinking about calling this woman when Leona had been such a wonderful mother to me. Throughout my life, I had spent that special day in church honoring her as she proudly wore the corsage that announced she was a mother. She had chosen to love me when she had no obligation to do so. She had happily taken me into her home and treated me as well as she had her biological child. She didn’t deserve such disloyalty.

  As I sat near her in the pew at church the next morning, I felt such love for her, but as I squeezed her hand, I couldn’t stop thinking about the other woman, the one who had given birth to me when she was only fifteen years old. I couldn’t quite fathom that. I felt compassion for the young girl who had been faced with such an adult situation.

  By the end of the day, I knew what I had to do. I had always believed that everything happens for a reason, and this could be no different.

  When I got home, I walked into the living room and sat down in my favorite chair. Still holding the woman’s picture, I reached for the phone and began dialing. My heart was pounding as I punched in the numbers. Holding my breath, I waited.

  One ring.

  Two rings.

  Three rings.

  Then I heard a man’s voice on the answering machine. Speaking with a distinct accent, he said, “You have reached Judy Gilford and Frank Velasquez. Your call is very important to us, but we are unable to take your call at this time. Please leave your name and phone number, along with your message, and we will return your call as soon as we can.”

  Disappointment raced through me. I wanted so badly to hear her voice. I hesitated for a moment.

  Taking a deep breath, I finally spoke. “This message is for Judith Gilford. This is Gary Stewart, and I think you may be my mother.” I paused for a moment, steadying my voice. “If you are my mother, I would like to wish you a happy Mother’s Day . . . for the first time. If you are not my mother, then I hope you have a happy Mother’s Day as well. If you would like to return my call, you can reach me at . . .” And I left my number.

  Not knowing if I had done the right thing, I sank into my recliner, drained. It had taken everything I had to make that call. I reached over to turn on the lamp and then sat there for hours, staring at her picture.

  Later that evening, Frank Velasquez decided to call home and check for messages. He and Judy, as she preferred to be called, were visiting relatives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Although they were not married, Judy often referred to him as her husband. They enjoyed traveling together and had booked this trip as a short getaway.

  Frank listened for a moment and then retrieved the message again.

  “Honey, you have to listen to this one,” he said, handing Judy the phone. She listened to the message over and over, crying uncontrollably as she heard my voice for the first time.

  “You have to call him now,” Frank insisted.

  Judy couldn’t. She was too overwrought.

  “I can’t. It’s
so late,” she hedged. “And I don’t think we have enough minutes on the phone card.”

  Frank took the phone from her hand and dialed a number, paying for an additional thousand minutes before handing the phone back to her.

  Judy stared at it for a moment and then dialed the number I had left on the recorder.

  I was still sitting in my living room when the shrill ringing of the telephone startled me out of my reverie.

  “Hello,” I said, my voice cracking as I tried to still my trembling hands.

  “Hi,” Judy whispered into the phone. “This is Judy Gilford.”

  The sound of her voice shot through me like an electrical current. I started crying. I couldn’t speak.

  “I know you may not believe me, but I love you. I’ve always loved you,” Judy said, her voice quavering. Like a dam that had suddenly broken, we both started talking at once. “You have a grandson,” I told her. “He’s ten, and his name is Zach.”

  We talked for what seemed like hours, interrupting each other in our eagerness to share everything. It felt as though I were in a dream—that this was happening to someone else, that an impossible prayer was being answered. We agreed to leave the past behind us and make our new relationship whatever we wanted it to be. Excitedly, we began to make plans to meet.

  When I hung up the phone, I leaned back in my chair, savoring this special Mother’s Day. It was a day I would never forget.

  I couldn’t sleep that night, so I tried to put my feelings into words by writing her a letter:

  Mom,

  Today my world changed. When I first learned that you were searching for me, I was completely shocked. Then, when I spoke to you this evening, I knew once and for all that you are my mother. Words cannot describe what my heart feels now. There is so much more to motherly love than most people understand. For all my life, I have had an emptiness in my heart that was impossible to fill. The missing piece was something that I did not understand, something I didn’t even know existed. When you spoke those words to me this evening, “Gary, I love you,” the emptiness was gone.