Zodiac Unmasked: The Identity of America's Most Elusive Serial Killer Revealed

by Robert Graysmith

  Zodiac’s paired stamps of presidents—Lincoln, Eisenhower, and FDR—might be equally symbolic—all had served as wartime presidents. Lincoln stamps might indicate someone named Green (Lincoln Green), Ford (Ford’s Theatre), or Booth (the assassin Booth or any actor for that matter). FDR stamps might stand for Delano, a county abutting Deer Lodge, Montana, a spot linked to Zodiac by his own words during a conversation with a surviving victim. This time Zodiac had decorated the lower right-hand corner of his envelope with gummed labels. Running vertically were these instructions:

  “Stamps in this book have been gummed with a matte finish adhesive which permits the elimination of the separation tissues. This book contains 25—8 cent stamps—four on this pane and seven each on three additional panes. Selling price $2.00.” In the upper right corner were the gummed stamps “MAIL EARLY IN THE DAY” [showing clock hands] and “Use ZIP code.”

  Did zip code somehow match up with one of Zodiac’s numerical codes as a key? The Exorcist letter re-energized the case. “Since the latest Zodiac letter was published,” Toschi said, “I’ve had fifty people in my office! Each claims he knows Zodiac personally. Bill and I have probably followed up a thousand leads in this case and heard a lot of weird stories. People tell us they’re sure it’s their neighbor because he looks like the drawing and walks around with a knife in a scabbard. . . . There are times when you’re listening to this and it’s hard to keep a straight face. But I feel I’ve got to listen to everyone, no matter how outlandish their story is.”

  Thursday, January 31, 1974

  “Are you aware of a rumor going around concerning a possible link between Zodiac and the San Francisco choral group the ‘Lamplighters’?” a woman informed Avery on Thursday morning. “A girl I heard talking about it used to belong to the group and thought one of the men in the group fit the description of Zodiac. She was reluctant to go to the police much as we tried to persuade her. Then it was dropped and I’m not sure what became of her. In any case, did the police check out that group? Zodiac (who’s probably Mr. Ordinary Guy Leading Typical Life who also happens to be a psychopath)—obviously listens to Gilbert and Sullivan. I would have written this directly to the police but what with giving parking tickets and busting pot rings, I know they are too busy to fight crime. All us ordinary citizen taxpayers are imprisoned within the walls of our homes because murderers, rapists and burglars who are free to roam can’t seem to get caught until they call in from a phone booth with their exact longitude and latitude.”

  Thursday, February 14, 1974

  Carol opened the morning mail and got a second shock—the flood-gates had truly been opened:

  “Dear Mr. Editor: Did you know that the initials SLA [Symbionese Liberation Army] spell ‘SLA’ an old Norse word meaning ‘kill.’ [signed] a friend.”

  Though the hand-lettered postcard was of doubtful authenticity, she alerted the FBI. They included it in their inventory of valid Zodiac letters. Almost three months passed. The next communication would be real—Zodiac was growing bolder again—restless, the old passions rising to the surface.

  Monday, April 15, 1974

  Leigh had been let go from Union Richfield. Adrift again he ceased attending Sonoma State University and began work at the Sonoma Auto Parts Store at 248 West Napa in Sonoma. Financially, his next job was a step down, but he knew and liked engines. He had gained expertise at Wogan’s Service Station before being fired. On a brighter note, Leigh was working with Jim, a friend he could confide in. “I’m almost through with all my academic requirements at Sonoma State,” he told Jim, although he would not receive his degree for another eight years. He told Jim other things too, unsettling hints about a secret life. Perhaps, now that Leigh’s professional student days were ending, good things would begin to happen for him. At age forty-one, he was about to go out into the world. The fires were cooling. Zodiac was, for all purposes, dead and Leigh Allen had a friend to confide in.

  Wednesday, May 8, 1974

  Every homicide Bill Armstrong investigated impacted him as hard as his first. The cold, dreadful finality of the deed always brought him up short. “Probably a .38,” said Armstrong at a crime scene. “Looks like the slug stopped here, behind the forehead.” He pointed to a swollen bulge just above the victim’s eye, then stood, shaking his head. “We’re really just information gatherers,” he said. “We put each case together the best we can and lay it on the table for the courts to decide.”

  Meanwhile, Zodiac was writing yet again. As with The Exorcist, he had returned to being a defender of public morals:

  “Sirs—I would like to express my consternation concerning your poor taste & lack of sympathy for the public, as evidenced by your running of ads for the movie ‘Badlands’ featuring the blurb ‘In 1959 most people were killing time. Kit & Holly were killing people.’ In light of recent events, this kind of murder-glorification can only be deplorable at best (not that glorification of violence was ever justifiable) why don’t you show some concern for the public sensibilities & cut the ad? [signed] A citizen.”

  Constantly suspicious, Zodiac drove to Alameda County to mail his latest letter. But as days passed, he scanned the front pages and grew furious. He had warned them before how much he hated to be ignored and what he would do if they showed him no respect.

  Monday, July 8, 1974

  Fuming after a full month’s rejection, Zodiac puzzled why his tongue-in-cheek Badlands letter had not been printed. Over the years the publicity-mad killer had tried to sneak letters into print under pseudonyms, mailing them from everywhere except where he really lived. All because the police had gotten too close to him; it was dangerous to mail any letter signed “Zodiac.” Because the Chronicle might be testing him, he prepared a second letter, a swipe at at a Chronicle columnist, and signed it, “A citizen.” He raced to San Rafael, deposited it in the first post box he reached, then rushed home to worry.

  Wednesday, July 10, 1974

  Zodiac had no way of knowing his first letter hadn’t reached the Chronicle until June 4 and they really were testing him. Although he had not signed it “Zodiac,” Carol recognized his handprinting. “He’s not fooling anybody—no matter what his game is,” said Toschi as he scanned the postcard. “There’s no doubt in my mind about either one . . . he’s trying to slip letters and cards into the Chronicle without being detected.” They also recognized a letter mailed two days ago as a Zodiac communication. The killer wrote about Chronicle columnist Count Marco this time. The former hairdresser was “The man women love to hate,” or as Time put it, “The voice from the sewer.”

  “Editor—Put Marco back in the hell-hole from whence it came—he has a serious psychological disorder—always needs to feel superior. I suggest you refer him to a shrink. Meanwhile, cancel the column. Since the Count can write anonymously, so can I. The Red Phantom (red with rage).”

  Why had Zodiac singled out the Count, an anti-feminist, nationally syndicated radio commentator whose real name was Marco Spinelli? Did another Spinelli somehow figure in his past and was this threat, in Zodiac’s maddening indirect way, actually meant for him? The Count was almost as colorful as Mel Belli.

  Count Marco’s business cards carried a royal crest. He lived in a fourteen-room apartment at the Stanford Court and wore a watch with sixty diamonds surrounding its face. He owned three Rolls-Royces, each with a chauffeur and footman. One Rolls was painted with twenty coats of silver to match Marco’s hair. He reserved the second for hauling his considerable luggage. The third belonged to his dachshund, and she was driven about attired in a diamond and emerald tail ring, crocheted hat, dark glasses, and a white mink stole. Her fur was dyed to match the Rolls.

  More than three years previously, the Count had received another anonymous letter. “Dear Morning Star,” the January 11, 1971 letter read. “Don’t you worry, Don’t you fear, Tea-time comes but once a year. . . . To lift thy spirits columnist Three bags of Tea within to twist Those drops of lemon (aromist), Also enclosed a few biscuits, Appr
oved and used by 12 fair fists—Faithful Savant. Have a nice day!” Count Marco had joined the Chronicle in 1959, the same time as Avery, but had had enough of such unsigned love letters. He left to divide his time a bit more securely between Hawaii and Palm Springs.

  Friday, September 27, 1974

  Sporting his Zodiac watch and ring, Allen, now weighing 240 pounds, spent the morning in his trailer, puttering about. An hour later, his world collapsed. The crunch of boots on the gravel had already alerted him, so he didn’t jump when there came a furious thumping on his trailer door. “Open up!”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department!”

  Deputy Haas’s arrival was not totally unexpected. Events had been set in motion on September 23 when a complaint was lodged against Allen. Yesterday the Sheriff’s Department had filed against him in Central Municipal Court. “You’re under arrest,” Haas said. “The charge is PC 288, 288a—child molesting and exciting the lust of a minor under fourteen years old.” Between July 11 and July 25, Allen had enticed two boys into his trailer bedroom. Afterward, he had pressed money, two quarters, into their hands.

  “I know you don’t like it,” Allen told the deputy, “but I’m just a nasty man.”

  “It was one of the oddest remarks I had ever heard under the circumstances,” recalled the officer.

  As soon as he was arrested, Leigh wanted a pencil and piece of paper so he could work out his thoughts on paper. He was trying to decide if he should plead guilty or not. He drew a line down the middle of the paper. On one side he wrote “guilty” and on the other “public defender,” then listed the pros and cons of each. He began to sob.

  The next day, Allen was released on $5,000 bail for each count of felony child molesting. However, back in Vallejo, he told friends he had been arrested because he “was the Zodiac.”

  “In 1974 Leigh Allen molested a nine-year-old boy from the Fremont Elementary School in his trailer.” A Santa Rosa police sergeant elaborated. “Another eight-year-old was there too. Leigh had lured them inside to see some chipmunks and committed lewd acts involving oral copulation upon the two children. The file says he worked part-time at Yaeger and Kirk’s Lumber Yard. And we have his traffic ticket here. He has a ‘D file.’ On the file is a notation that I’ve never seen before: ‘RS-6,’ [a CI&I high priority code] and this notation is marked ‘yes.’” The daughter of a woman Allen had known for years related, “As I understand his incarceration at Atascadero, it was for molesting the son of a female friend of his. The boy was maybe anywhere from eight to thirteen years old. The version he told my mother was the woman was just jealous of his relationship with her son. I believe he was dating the woman. He said that was why she had turned him in—jealousy.” This turned out not to be true. Their relationship had never been anything but platonic, as had all of Leigh’s relationships with women.

  “Sexual sadists like Zodiac are limited or incapable of forming normal adult sexual relationships,” Dr. Lunde told me. “And so what are the alternatives? One is sex with dead bodies or killing for sexual satisfaction. Another is sex with children.” CI&I, alerted by the arrest, requested Allen’s Valley Springs School file and began probing for earlier signs of improper relationships with children. Police also contacted every school where he had taught. As authorities tried to build a bigger case, Allen remained free on bail. He took to harassing a deputy testifying against him. At night, he stood menacingly outside the man’s house. Finally, the cop rushed out and chased him away. Just before Leigh’s trial, someone mailed an anonymous typewritten letter to a local judge. The judge brought it into the Calistoga P.D.

  “Did you miss me?” it read. “Was busy doing some nefarious destardly work, for which I am well suited. . . . Ah yes! Justice shall be done. I had to laugh. [San Francisco Chronicle columnist] Herb Caen mentioned that Toschi was the only man looking for the Zodiac. Zodiac gave me a car to pick up the evidence. He knew my Plymouth was sabotaged.”

  A disabled Plymouth had been spotted by a teenage boy at Blue Rock Springs the night of the Fourth of July murder.

  Thursday, January 23, 1975

  Police drove to Allen’s home in Vallejo and rearrested him. His mother let the deputies in and they descended to find Leigh shrieking in the center of the basement. Live chipmunks were crawling all over him—the pets and victims he let share his subterranean room. “Squirrel shit was dripping from his shoulders,” recalled one cop. “He remained in our custody from that date on. When he was at the Sonoma County Jail, cell block #2B2, he came to the attention of three Mexican guys who tried to ‘punk’ him. He let them screw him. Later, in court, the other little boy testified against Allen.”

  Thursday, March 13, 1975

  Sergeant Mulanax had not given up on Allen, and wrote the FBI:

  “SYNOPSIS: Subject fits the general description of Zodiac. He was born in Honolulu, Hawaii. He attended school in Riverside, California. He is employed in Oakland Calif. He is a convicted sex offender of children. TYPE OF EXAMINATION: Evaluation of fingerprints and palm prints. Evaluation of handwriting exemplars submitted, with evidence on file. MATERIAL SUBMITTED: 1. Two yellow pages of yellow material (partial text of Zodiac messages.) 2. Red diary written by subject over period of one year. 3. Palm prints of subject of left and right hands. 4. One white sheet containing Zodiac text, written with ink pen by subject. 5. Solano County jail arrest record.”

  Later that day Allen was sentenced to Atascadero State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

  “As for the little animals Leigh always had,” a friend of Allen’s told me, “he definitely had lots of chipmunks, and even a skunk at one time. When he was sent to Atascadero he gave the animals to the Elnoka Nursery off Highway 12. He had an abundance of the little creatures. I remember hating to see them caged all the time and now Leigh was going to be caged as well.”

  A sharp-eyed officer, Sergeant John Burke, noticed he was wearing a Zodiac wristwatch and entered the fact in his file.

  Friday, March 14, 1975

  Leigh arrived at Atascadero and began serving his sentence. Back in 1969 he had shown his sister-in-law several pages of handprinted legal terminology and cryptograms. “They pertain to a person who had been committed to Atascadero State Hospital for molesting a child,” he had said. “This is the work of an insane person.” Leigh had been prescient, for he was now in that very situation. Meanwhile, all Zodiac-type attacks, sightings, and letters ceased. That inactivity from Zodiac was extraordinarily telling. Only the investigation continued, grinding slowly, but exceedingly fine. The old clock in the Homicide room in San Francisco ticked on as if measuring off three years as slowly as it could.

  Meanwhile, Allen’s friend, Jim, was troubled. “Leigh called me at work one night,” he told me later, “I felt sorry for him so I would listen. That’s why he thought I was his buddy. ‘I have to go to jail,’ he said. ‘I need to come down and talk to you. I have some unfinished business, something I want to get off my chest. I want you to be by yourself, and I want you to wait for me after work.’ I thought, ‘Good grief, this is weird. All these stories are flying around. I don’t know if I really want to meet him after work alone.’ But I told him I’d wait for him. After work and a couple of beers, he’d go through his two-hour dissertation. Another kid was working with me, Paul Blakesly. So I told Paul, ‘You know, old Leigh wants to come down and see me by myself, and I don’t really trust him. I don’t know what he’s got up his sleeve, so would you hang around and break a beer with me and we’ll wait for him.’ So we laid a couple of club-like things around the store just in case. Old Leigh comes down and, of course, he looked like hell. His eyes were all red, and he had a little stubble all over his face. He had been crying his guts out. He wanted to spill the beans—that he was being investigated for the Zodiac thing when they’d picked him up again.

  “He’s going on with this big story all about Zodiac. Leigh claimed he was being checked because a bunch of girls had disappeared up th
e Russian River area, and they were all on his days off or time off. The police had come down and checked his time-card records behind closed doors. A lot of coincidences pointed to him, he said, but they were circumstantial. It seemed so beyond comprehension that I was afraid if I start repeating all these stories—Christ! They could hang him on a story and I don’t want to tell them the wrong thing. This went on to probably nine o’clock at night. Nothing happened and we all parted ways.”

  11

  atascadero

  Tuesday, October 14, 1975

  Allen had been to Atascadero before, but in the capacity of a therapist. Now he returned as a prisoner. If police had comprehended how repugnant the mental institution was to him, how terrified he was of being confined there, they might have employed a useful tool. Allen’s fear might have been used as a pry bar to extract information about Zodiac. But Allen coped, began working in the print shop, and soon had mastered new techniques. In the print shop he devised a plan to get the police off his back.

  Back home the Times-Herald reported that: