Trail of the Zodiac - Debt Collector 10 (A Jack Winchester Thriller)

by Jon Mills

  He tapped a key to authorize the upload of the latest video. The red upload bar stretched across the screen. 25%, 60%, 90%, 100%. Live!

  What a beautiful sight.

  It would be distributed to multiple video sites online within a matter of minutes, and then three media outlets; the Vallejo Times Herald, San Francisco Chronicle and San Francisco Examiner would each receive a copy. He would save the San Francisco Police Department until last. It had to be done this way as that was exactly what the Zodiac had done, except back then they were the gatekeepers in control. They were the ones that shaped the public’s view of him, and unfortunately for him, he was at their mercy. Not anymore. The birth of the Internet had torn down the walls. He no longer needed them for his game. Within an hour his video would rack up multiple views and be carried by an army of social lab rats hungry for clicks, likes and shares. The Zodiac had to request and threaten to have them publish his letters and ciphers, but not him. He didn’t even need to ask, it was done automatically. He’d already targeted the most narcissistic online. They’d share anything under the umbrella of freedom of speech.

  He leaned back in his seat leaving the video playing on the screen, enjoying the sense that anyone could walk by and see it. It was a feeling of power. It was better than having an orgasm.

  Minutes passed before he lunged forward, yanked the flash drive out and the video winked out. He took a second to log out of the library system and then collected his bag and went on his way. As he left, he caught sight of a video playing on the TV, there were several librarians gathered around listening as reporter Freddy Garbrant commented on the most recent murder. He couldn’t help but eavesdrop. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his smartphone and pretended as if he was on a call.

  He’d been out there that morning as the police tape had been rolled out. He’d seen the reporters flood out in numbers and listened to the rumors in the crowd. He’d also seen the sobbing mother. Oh, how it broke his heart. He stifled a laugh. They were all the same. How sad. A year or two from now they would laugh as though nothing had happened. That’s how fickle people were. That’s why he felt nothing squeezing the trigger and watching the life in their eyes vanish. In many ways he was doing his victims a favor. Rescuing them from a life of obscurity. They would forever be remembered, burned into the mind of the public.

  The news anchor droned on. “One of the longest running blues festivals debuting in 1973 was overshadowed by a grisly discovery by homicide detectives today. The police are not commenting at this time but it’s believed that last night’s murder could be the work of the same killer who went on a rampage back in the late 1960s. The Zodiac Killer. It’s hard to not compare this murder to the original one that occurred on December 20, 1968. Though the dates and the location are not the same, the positioning of the bodies and even number of shots fired are. And what has made this even more eerie is that the murder itself was uploaded to the Internet. The San Francisco police are actively working with the FBI to have the video taken down but it appears to have taken on a life of its own. Already, websites are discussing the case. What we do know is that the Zodiac was never caught. The case remains open to this day. Maybe this time, the police will actually catch the perpetrator.”

  An older librarian came over and clicked it off and told the two employees to get back to work. He smiled and continued to talk into his phone as they passed by.

  “Why would he upload it online?” the short blond one said.

  “Why does anyone upload videos online, they want attention.”

  That was always the conclusion they jumped to — except they were wrong. Sure, there was a great deal of satisfaction that came from hearing everyone talk about the murder but it was so much more, and soon they would all realize.

  * * *

  Romero slammed the phone down. “I’m telling you, every nutcase in the city has been calling in with leads.”

  “Well that’s a good thing, right?” Hudson replied.

  “Oh yeah, if we are willing to arrest sixty people. I have some folks throwing their boyfriend, father, hell even their mother-in-law under the bus. We’ve even had three guys come forward saying they did it and are ready to turn themselves in.”

  “So?” Hudson asked, typing away at her computer. “Were they able to verify anything?”

  He sloshed some coffee around in his cup before downing it. “That’s the thing, Hudson, all of them can because of that damn video. In the past, we could rule out the nutjobs by leading them in one direction and having them admit it was strangulation when it was a knife attack, etcetera. But now everyone knows how it was done, how many shots were fired and there is very little we can do to weed these folks out. We are going to be up to our shoulders in paperwork, DNA samples and headcases who want to admit to a murder they didn’t even do. Meanwhile that asshole is still out there, no doubt planning his next massacre.”

  “Well, you better get to it, or assign it to someone like Charley. He’s a go-getter.”

  Captain Dickson stepped out of his office. “Hudson. In here.”

  “Yes sir.” She got up and tossed a couple of folders onto Romero’s desk. “Go through these.”

  “Seriously? I have enough work to do.”

  She walked backward smiling. “So do I. Welcome to my world.”

  Dickson’s office was a quiet little room in a corner of the building — not much more than a desk, computer, two chairs and a gorgeous view of the city. Hudson was ushered through a glass door etched with his name in gold lettering.

  “Take a seat, Hudson,” Dickson said, not even casting a glance her way.

  “If you don’t mind I’ll stand.”

  He walked around an oversized mahogany desk that was covered in paperwork. She glanced at the framed family photo, and two coffee-stained cups on a side table. On his desk were a phone and a gold lamp. He mumbled to himself as he tapped on the keyboard in front of him. Behind him was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with biographies of American leaders. He had a few other items on the side table, one of which was a police baton given to him as a gift from a chief of police in China after they assisted with an international murder case.

  “Making any progress?”

  “We are close to drowning if that’s what you are referring to.”

  He chuckled. “We just received a new video from our perp. Seems he fancies himself an actor as he recorded himself this time.”

  He turned the computer screen and hit play. There before them was a single wooden chair. Surrounding it was rubble, garbage and a concrete wall with smatterings of graffiti.

  “As we speak our team is trying to determine the location but it doesn’t look promising,” Dickson said. She watched as a large figure came into view wearing a black executioner’s mask with the infamous circle-cross symbol on it. The stranger took a seat and for a few seconds stared into the camera. When he eventually spoke, his voice was deep and gruff, like he’d smoked one too many cigarettes.

  “This is the Zodiac speaking. You are probably wondering who I am, where I am and how quickly you can find me. Don’t waste your time. You won’t find me until I’m ready to end this, and I haven’t decided when that will be.” They heard him take a deep breath. “Did you like my recent work, Detective Hudson?” He paused, and Hudson felt a cold shiver shoot through her. “Yes, I know you. I know everything about you. Where you live. What you eat. How long you’ve been with the department, and even your partner, Romero.”

  Right then Romero came into the office. The captain had the volume turned up loud enough that it had caught his attention. He didn’t say anything but stood by the door listening.

  “Question for you, detective. Do you find running on the treadmill at night helps you sleep?”

  The video switched to a shaky, dark video of her running, then back to him.

  The captain looked at her and she diverted her eyes. That bastard had been watching her. Her shift work had screwed up her body clock, and it was rare nowad
ays to get a good night’s rest. She’d often find herself awake at two in the morning, so she would squeeze in a workout on her treadmill located in the living area at the back of her apartment. It overlooked the bay.

  He didn’t continue with his line of questioning her. He simply moved on.

  “As you can tell from my latest work, I am back and I am only getting warmed up. There will be more murders, and I will continue to post them online for the world to see until you have cracked the code.”

  He paused.

  Hudson looked at Romero and he frowned. “What code?”

  If was almost as if he was giving them time to process. As if he knew they would be confused by what he was saying.

  “C’mon, detective, you must know what I’m referring to?” He chuckled. “You already have it in your possession, it’s just that no one has ever cracked it.”

  With that said he got up and walked off camera, and then returned holding up a sheet of paper, which he brought close to the camera.

  “The 340 Cipher holds the identity of who I am. Forty-eight years ago, this was sent to you, and still it remains a puzzle. How pathetic.” He took a seat again. “The killings will continue until you have solved the 340 Cipher.” He paused again. “Now, as I consider myself a fair man, and I don’t anticipate you being able to decipher the code if you haven’t done so already, I’m going to help you. I have forwarded to three media outlets and yourselves, four new ciphers. Each one reveals the location of where the next murders will take place. At the scene of the fourth attack I will provide the cipher key to 340. In turn this will provide my identity. If you can crack the 340 before I kill again, I will stop killing. So, it’s up to you. What matters more? Stopping me or solving the code? But I must warn you. You will have to work fast if you are going to stop me. Every twenty-four hours I will strike again. The ball is in your court.”

  He lifted a remote towards the camera. “Get some rest, detective. You’ll need it.”

  The video went dark.

  Chapter 5

  The journey to San Francisco had taken the better part of a day. He could have gone by plane and arrived fresh and awake in four and a half hours but walking through security with a gun, yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he drove through the night, taking I-80 west onto I-40 and then connecting with I-15 heading south.

  When the sun came up Friday morning, he took in the sight of the soaring concrete jungle, rolling hills and cranes rising over the downtown. As the black 4x4 truck crossed over the Oakland Bay Bridge, he glanced out at the shimmering waters and marveled at the sight of the city that was synonymous with both the hippie counterculture in the ’60s and the dot-com boom in the ’90s.

  His thoughts immediately drifted back to the job he’d done in the city seven months prior. It was a simple case of a pissed-off wife who wanted her husband dead. The police hadn’t managed to crack the case and so it went cold. Jack was brought in by the parents of the deceased and asked to investigate. It had taken him all of a week to connect the dots and follow a trail that led him to a hired killer. The wife had paid him a handsome amount to kill the husband and dump his body in the water. The hit man was twenty years younger than Jack and reminded him of himself back in the early days, except he didn’t kill husbands who’d been unfaithful. His work in New York revolved around the business dealings of the mob. Most murders were of people who hadn’t paid a debt.

  The traffic ahead slammed on their brakes jerking him out of the past and into the present. Horns honked. Early morning commuters and workers filled up the road bringing all the vehicles to a grinding halt. Jack brought down his window and breathed in the salty air. A few screeching herring gulls circled over vessels a few miles offshore.

  He’d spoken with Dana forty minutes before arriving and had arranged to meet with her at a local waterfront dive called Red’s Java House on Pier 30. Off to his right, in the distance he saw Alcatraz Island, a looming mound of rock, a place that reminded him of Rikers. The very thought of being locked up made him shudder. It didn’t matter how hardened a criminal was, the sound of a cell door slamming could break a man down. Jack veered to his left as he came off the bridge and followed the winding road around until reaching the pier. Set back about forty feet from the road was a low-slung white building barnacled to the waterfront. There was nothing fancy to the place — a simple burger joint that also served hot dogs and bottled beer along with cheap coffee. It had made a name for itself as the go-to stop for fans on their way to see a ballgame, or folks just looking for cheap beer and burgers for less than six bucks.

  His stomach grumbled as he entered a parking spot outside the clapboard relic. In large red lettering above the door was emblazoned: Red’s Java House. Jack hopped out and threw a few coins in the meter. After, he checked his reflection in the mirror, tossed back some mouthwash, spat it to the curb and headed in. Yeah, he could have done with a shower but she was adamant that she wanted to meet him in public, not at her home. He didn’t argue with her.

  As he stepped inside, he breathed in the aroma of burgers, fries and coffee. It wasn’t very spacious and almost felt like a movie set with historic photos hanging on the walls, red vinyl stools and napkin holders that resembled mini vintage Coke machines. He scanned the faces of patrons. There was an old couple sitting by the window and three fishermen on stools, one of them turned his way before sinking his teeth into a breakfast bun. Behind the counter a young girl was dashing back and forward with orders, she said she’d be right with him. He gave a nod and kept scanning the room. That’s when he saw her. She was seated at a table on the outside patio. He told the waitress that he just wanted coffee and a menu, and he’d be outside.

  He crossed the room, threading his way around tables.

  Jack stopped in the doorway and took a second to soak in the sight of her. It had been several years since he’d parked outside her motel in Rockland Cove. Her hair had grown longer, it was pulled back tight, and she was wearing a light summer dress with sandals. Sensing that someone was watching, she turned her head ever so slightly, and he pressed on towards her.

  “Dana.”

  * * *

  Hudson couldn’t believe the nerve of this asshole. Not only had he filmed her jogging on her treadmill but he’d posted the damn video across the Internet. Her face which would have become synonymous with the case eventually was now embedded in the minds of billions of viewers. Media were going to be hounding her for the next year, regardless of whether they caught him or not. And if he was never caught, the public would have someone to blame.

  “Shit!” she said pacing back and forth.

  “Look, we will post an officer outside your home and see if we can pinpoint the IP of where these videos are coming from. There has to be some digital fingerprint.”

  “And in the meantime this asshole is going to be searching for his next victim. How the hell do we catch someone when we don’t even have one witness?” Romero asked.

  “We wait until he screws up,” Dickson replied.

  She spun around. “He won’t. Don’t you get it? The Zodiac never screwed up. This guy won’t either.”

  “We don’t know that, Hudson. Look, DNA wasn’t readily available back then in the ’60s the way it is today. Communication between departments was shabby at best, and even though this freak is bypassing the media, that makes him more exposed. Whether he is hiding his IP or not, we will eventually track down where these are getting uploaded,” Dickson said. “Now I want you to get out there and hammer some doors, go speak with the victims’ parents, find out if there is anyone that might have been connected to them. For all we know they might have known their killer.”

  “You saw the look on their faces. They didn’t know him.”

  “Well, perhaps he was wearing that hood. We never got to see his face.”

  Hudson stopped pacing. “It was dark in the video. He was flashing a light on them. Lights reflects on glass, maybe the camera caught his reflection?”


  She charged out of the captain’s office brushing past Romero. “Hudson, it’s already been analyzed. If there is anything, we’ll find it. There is nothing you can do right now, except speak to Ms. Grant and the Gilbert family.”

  She heard him even though her back was turned. She was making a beeline for the paperwork she’d already gathered on the two families.

  * * *

  He’d expected her to act standoffish, anything less would have been strange. It had been years since they’d locked eyes on one another. Both had aged in that time, yet she still looked the same, except for a few more wrinkles around the eyes, though they were barely noticeable. Her smile was strained, which was normal for someone who’d not just lost her son but her entire world. She extended a hand, but instead he leaned in and hugged her. The tears began to flow again, and he reached across for a napkin.

  “I’m sorry, Dana.”

  He took a seat opposite her and she dried her eyes, some of her mascara streaked a little.

  “I…”

  She was at a loss for words so Jack tried to guide the conversation.

  “So San Francisco. Why here?” he asked as a waitress came over with a silver pot of coffee and poured a cup. She glanced at Dana and asked if she was okay. Dana smiled and nodded.

  She took a sip and ran a hand through her hair. “After Rockland Cove, and New York, we headed to Kansas for a while, that didn’t last long. I had trouble finding work, and well, my sister Jenna lives out here so I got in contact with her and picked up where we last left off.”

  He recalled her briefly mentioning that she had a sister but that the relationship was strained. Something about her not approving of Matt, her late husband.

  “Anyway, we came out this way and stayed with her family for a couple of weeks until I got on my feet. I landed a job with the San Francisco Chronicle as a blogger.”

  His eyes widened. “A blogger? That’s quite a change from running a motel.”