The Most Dangerous Animal of All

by Gary L. Stewart

  I felt terrible when I read her response. No matter what had happened, I loved Judy and was happy that she had found me.

  “I’m sorry for venting and saying, ‘enough of the lies,’ because that’s too harsh, and I apologize,” I wrote back. “I need to get this off my chest, because like you, I was shocked at the difference in the stories. Mom, I did not mean to hurt you . . . it just came blurting out. I’m sorry. I love you more every day.”

  Judy’s answer was not quite what I expected. “This is the second time since we’ve reunited that I regret having made my search,” she wrote. “I hope you find your answers, Baby, and I know I will never have enough of them for you. I am very uncomfortable when you ask me questions continually that I can’t answer. I am sick this has led to such unrest for you. I feel sorry for you and I feel sorry for your family, your Mom and Dad. It shows me for once and for all there are no winners in this adoption nightmare.”

  Judy later explained that what she meant to say was not that she was sorry she’d found me, but that she was sorry that finding me had caused me pain. I believed her, but our relationship suffered for a while.

  In May, I traveled to San Francisco, this time to visit the public library. I wanted to see if the newspapers there had more information that I should know. I began searching the contents of every newspaper from 1961 to 1963. The articles detailing Van and Judy’s illicit romance and life on the run appeared one after the other. If I had not been there reading the stories, I would never have believed them. Spread across the pages of the San Francisco Chronicle and the San Francisco Examiner were pictures of my parents. The quotes from my father about his love for my mother only reinforced for me that he was a very sick man.

  Judy went with me the second day. We were trying to mend our relationship, and now that I knew everything, she seemed sincere in her desire to help me. We started with the dates of my father’s arrest that were listed on his rap sheet, adding the San Francisco News–Call Bulletin to our search. The amount of information we accumulated was unbelievable.

  “Newsworthy” hadn’t been the half of it.

  Judy sat beside me at the microfiche machine, exclaiming, “Oh, I remember that one,” and, “Oh, yes, I do remember that now,” seemingly enjoying herself as she read about her teenage years.

  I began to feel an ache in the pit of my stomach. She just didn’t get it. All of this had led to my abandonment. These were criminal acts. Van had been a pedophile who had raped, kidnapped, and impregnated an underage girl. She had no idea how all of this was affecting me.

  I returned to Baton Rouge in low spirits, all the painful facts I had printed tucked into my briefcase.

  On June 21, 2005, I received an unexpected note from Lieutenant Hennessey, sent from his home e-mail address, not his SFPD one.

  Gary:

  I caught the Director of the Forensics Lab at a weak moment, and got her to agree to this.

  Be patient, it takes time.

  He had enclosed the laboratory examination request, which listed my case number as 041238785. Under “Complaint/Victim,” he had typed “Gary Stewart.”

  He’d also included a note for the lab on the form: “Please analyze the booked reference swabs and develop DNA profile. Compare profile with Zodiac sample.”

  The date the evidence was booked was listed as October 29, 2004. The date of the lab request was June 21, 2005. The SFPD had sat on my DNA for eight months.

  Even with the serious time lag, I was ecstatic. I had been so focused on coping with my new discoveries about my parents that I had pushed the Zodiac question to the back of my mind. Hennessey, by turning in the lab request, had shown me that he was taking my suspicions seriously. I knew that there had been only a few DNA comparisons with the Zodiac killer made over the past four decades. This was a huge step for the head of the SFPD homicide division to take.

  With renewed vigor, I began to dig further into my father’s life.

  50

  In 2005, Loyd and Leona were celebrating an occasion many married couples never reach: their fifty-third wedding anniversary. Loyd’s mother had lived with them for the past twenty years, and on this special night, my parents needed a “babysitter.” I volunteered to spend the evening with my grandmother, wanting my parents to enjoy their date without having to worry. I had always been in awe of the fact that after so many years together, they were still best friends.

  I had some free time that morning, so I got on my computer and went through a new search engine I had recently discovered called Dogpile. I typed in “Earl Van Best.” I expected the “No results found” that I always got, but a list appeared with about twenty Best family residences in Conway, South Carolina. I called every one of them, but no one knew Earl Van Best.

  Disappointed, I searched the surrounding towns. A listing for Old Zion Cemetery, in Galivants Ferry, popped up. I clicked on the link and was directed to the Horry County Historical Society’s page. I scanned a list of names provided, and there it was: “Best, Earl Van Dorn 1866-1905.”

  That was my name! Although Van had added an e to the end of Dorn, I felt sure that this man was my ancestor.

  Excited about my find, I left to go to my parents’ home.

  Leona looked beautiful, as always. And as usual, she had picked out Loyd’s clothes. Her husband was notoriously color-blind, and for fifty-three years Leona had been dressing him to make sure that his shirts matched his pants and his socks were the same color. Looking as dapper as he had five decades before, Loyd held out his arm for his bride and walked her to the car. The thought that those two were still having romantic dates at their age warmed my heart and reminded me how blessed I was that they were the ones who had adopted me.

  A few days later, I returned to the website and learned that the township of Galivants Ferry still had residents named Best. Then I discovered a listing for J. M. Best in the small town of Aynor, nearby.

  I dialed the number, and a young lady answered the phone.

  “May I speak to Mr. Best?” I said.

  “I’m Alison Best, his daughter. My daddy passed away just a few months ago, but I would be glad to help you. What is it you are wanting with my daddy?” she said.

  I explained who I was and why I was calling. “I’m looking for family members of my father.”

  “I think you have the right family,” Alison said. “I’d better have you call Uncle Pressley. He’ll know for sure.”

  I quickly dialed the number she gave me. Before I could finish my spiel, Pressley stopped me. “Hold on just a minute, now. I know you have the right family, but I’m not so good at this genealogy stuff. You need to speak with my sister, Hattie. She’s the family historian.”

  He gave me Hattie’s number.

  Hattie graciously listened as I rattled off my story for the third time that day, and then she said she knew of my grandfather, Earl Van Best Sr. “I’ve heard he was a wonderful minister and a good man,” she said. “My father and your great-grandfather were brothers. Your great-grandfather was Earl Van Dorn Best. You have some relatives—direct cousins, I think—who live near the old home place by my brother, Pressley. One of them is named Bits. I believe she would be your second cousin. I remember something about your father and grandfather, but it’s been so long, and it was swept under the rug. I don’t remember any details.”

  Hoping to prompt her memory, I told her I had learned my father was a criminal.

  “Was it murder?” Hattie whispered.

  I was shocked. I had been talking to her for only a few minutes, and I couldn’t believe that word had come up so quickly in our conversation.

  “I don’t know everything he did,” I said. “Some of his files were destroyed.”

  Hattie became silent for a moment, realizing that maybe she had let something slip. Then she changed the subject, inviting me to the upcoming Best family reunion.

  “I think it’s wonderful that you’ve come out of the woodwork. It’ll be fun to have you there,” she said, informing
me that she was the reunion planner. She said she had finally located the grave of her great-grandfather, Captain John James Best, and planned to announce it at the reunion, but this would be even better. “He was a sniper in the Civil War, one of the Pee Dee Rifles,” Hattie said proudly.

  I promised her I would be there, and Hattie said she would send me some information about my family.

  That evening, I posted a message on the Horry County Historical Society Web page:

  “My name is Gary Loyd Stewart. I was born Earl Van Dorne Best in 1963 to Earl Van Best Jr., son of Earl Van Best Sr., grandson of Earl Van Dorn Best. I was relinquished for adoption by my father and recently reunited with my birth mother. I am looking for any family members that may have known my father or are distant relatives to my Best family.”

  I hoped my post would yield some results.

  The next day, I called my second cousin, Bits Best Rosser, and introduced myself. Hattie had already informed her that I would be calling. When I told her my story, Bits said there had been rumors floating around the family about a baby, but it had been long ago and no one seemed to remember.

  “Your grandfather, Uncle Earl, he was the chosen one. He was the baby of the household, and he became the prize of the Best family,” Bits explained. “And he was a wonderful minister. Your daddy, well, he was, I guess I should say, ‘different.’ When all of us kids were at the beach house in the summer, we all wanted to go swimming and play on the beach. Van, he didn’t like all that. He was interested in different things. He loved old things. I remember that old trunk that had the original land grant from the king of England and old christening gowns in it. That just fascinated your daddy. In fact, they were so old, and he opened that trunk so many times, that the air got to what was inside and it eventually disintegrated.”

  Bits was just warming up. “You know how kids do, and we shouldn’t have, but we picked on him. Then, when he got older and we found out he was in trouble and on the run, we asked ourselves if maybe we had something to do with him turning out the way he did. Your grandmother, Gertrude, was a beautiful lady and had a beautiful voice and could play a piano like an angel. I don’t know what went wrong with her, either, but she started running around on Uncle Earl, even on Sundays, when he was preaching. It just broke our heart. I know it broke your daddy’s heart, too. So many times he would tell us that he would hear the bed rails squeaking and the revolving door of men in and out of his mother’s bedroom. I think that may have affected him deeply. I know it broke Uncle Earl’s heart.”

  I listened as the details of my family’s past came pouring out.

  “They were in Japan as missionaries when World War II broke out,” Bits continued. “Uncle Earl used to write us letters and send us programs from plays and musicals and operas that he used to take Aunt Gertrude and Van to. They all loved music, and your daddy loved plays. We all thought Japan would be good for Uncle Earl and Aunt Gertrude, but we started hearing about her having affairs over there, too. When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, Uncle Earl put Aunt Gertrude and Van on the first boat home, and he got on the last one out. He came home and joined the Navy and went to chaplain school, and they shipped him back to the Pacific. This time he went alone. This is where I think your daddy really took a turn for the worse. I know it broke his heart having his daddy gone off to war and living in San Francisco with Aunt Gertrude. The things he must have seen! It was about then that Uncle Earl came home to Galivants Ferry to tell the family he had asked Gertrude for a divorce. He knew that he would be excommunicated from the Methodist Conference if he divorced, but he couldn’t live with an unfaithful wife. It broke his heart. It broke all our hearts to see our golden child going through the first divorce in the family, him being a respected minister and all. This is what must have really hurt your daddy.”

  Bits went on to explain how Earl Sr. had met his new wife, Eleanor Auble, and how they eventually married. “We were so happy for Uncle Earl. We just fell in love with Ellie the first time we laid eyes on her.”

  We talked for more than two hours. Well, Bits talked and I listened, soaking up every detail. Later that night, I received an e-mail from Joyce Long Smith, who lived in Palatka, Florida. She was the daughter of Bits’s sister Mildred. I couldn’t help but smile as I read the e-mail. The Best family was coming out of the woodwork to meet Van’s long-lost son. Like kids at a carnival sideshow, they all wanted to talk to the baby they had quietly discussed so many years before.

  “When your grandfather found out that your father had left you in Baton Rouge, he flew back home to Indianapolis and told his wife, Ellie, that he wanted to go to Baton Rouge and adopt you and raise you as his own. Your grandfather was heartbroken when they flew to Baton Rouge only to find out that you had been placed in another home for adoption. Your grandfather never got over that,” Joyce wrote.

  Soon after, I received an official invitation to the Best family reunion, where Zach and I were welcomed into the family with open arms.

  51

  One Sunday afternoon after I got back from attending church services with Loyd and Leona, I sat down at my computer to do what had by now become second nature to me: search for more clues about my father. I remembered I had put a post on the Horry County Historical Society website and decided to check to see whether anyone had responded.

  I saw a post underneath mine from someone called Anonymous William. He wrote:

  “I believe that your father was arrested in San Francisco for abducting your mother. She was 14 at the time. You were born in New Orleans. I am glad you found your birth mother! There is an Earl Best living in San Francisco at this time on 46th or 47th Avenue. He is listed. This may be you or a relative. Good luck—William.”

  This person had apparently known Judy and Van. I hurriedly clicked on the e-mail address and responded, asking William how he knew my father. “You are the only person that I have had any contact with that was not part of the distant relatives. Are you a Best descendant?” I wrote.

  While I waited for his response, I searched the Internet for an Earl Best in San Francisco and found the listing. I nervously dialed the number, and a woman answered. After I explained that I was looking for my father, who had abandoned me, she said, “You have the wrong person,” and hung up the phone.

  The next day, the mysterious stranger wrote back.

  William informed me that he and my father had been best friends in high school and into their adult lives. As I read his note, my heart was pounding. He said he had driven Van and Judy to the airport when they eloped.

  “Should you care to hear more about his HS days and our adventures, please ask.—William.”

  Anonymous William turned out to be William Vsevolod Lohmus von Bellingshausen. We began to correspond weekly, if not daily, for several months. I probed him for every detail he could remember. Fortunately for me, William had a great memory, although he bluntly informed me that he had some very bad memories of my father.

  “I was summoned to testify at the Grand Jury,” he wrote. “I did not know what Van or your mother told the US marshals when they were apprehended. But unbeknownst to me, the Grand Jury indicted me as an accessory to child stealing. It took over one year to get me out of this mess, not to mention thousands of dollars in legal fees.”

  Soon we were talking on the phone regularly. At one point, the dredging up of old memories became too much for him and he told me, “You should find a good psychiatrist, stretch out on his couch, and try and straighten out that screwed up head of yours that your father left you. Have a nice life.”

  I apologized immediately. I had been so eager to learn everything I could that I had not thought about how all of this might be affecting him. He had really cared about my father and had been hurt by him, too.

  “I’m truly sorry for what my father did to you,” I said. “Please don’t hold what he did against me.”

  William soon began sharing more stories than I ever could have imagined. Before long, he invited me to visit the next time
I was in California.

  On January 25, 2005, I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and drove into Marin County, looking for the small town of Novato, excited by the prospect of meeting my father’s best friend, although I was a little uncertain whether it was a good idea, knowing what I now knew about Van.

  When I pulled into William’s driveway, I was struck by the beauty of the area. In the distance, tall redwoods dotted the landscape. A wooden fence enclosed the thick shrubbery, trees, and flowers that surrounded the property, almost obscuring the four-story, multitiered home from view. A gigantic hydrangea bush loaded with violet and blue flowers stood alone near the front entrance.

  I walked up the stairs and rang the doorbell.

  William, wearing an olive green sweater, a purple striped shirt, and blue slacks, opened the door. A beautiful silver-haired lady with a sweet smile stood next to him. William leaned his cane against the wall and reached out his left hand to shake mine. He kept his other hand carefully tucked into his pocket. I would later learn that he had suffered a stroke and a heart attack that had paralyzed his right arm.

  He introduced me to his wife, Tania. “Follow me,” she said as she led the way through the foyer and up a few steps. “Vsevé will be along shortly,” she informed me, using her husband’s nickname.

  I followed her down another short corridor and turned left into the living room. “Sit down,” she said, pointing to an L-shaped couch. “It takes him a little longer to get around now.”

  When William hobbled into the room, I realized what an effort he had made to greet me at the door. Tania visited with us for a few minutes and then told William that she would be in her studio. “She paints,” William said, pointing to an impressionistic oil painting hanging on the wall, above several giant bookcases. Books about every historical artist imaginable were packed onto the shelves.

  “You have your father’s eyes,” he said. “It’s uncanny.”

  William seemed a little reserved at first, perhaps unsure whether he could trust the son of the man who had once caused him to be arrested, but as the day progressed and he got to know me, he relaxed.