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

by Jon Mills

  For a period of two months in the late eighties he’d made waves in the media when he came forward claiming the Zodiac was his father. Unlike William Roberts he didn’t proclaim to own anything that belonged to the killer, instead his story was anchored on his father’s handwriting. Jack had examined a few of the sample copies he’d provided the media and he could see why it was convincing, there were similarities for sure. An entire thread on a social media platform continued to this day full of people convinced that Farrell was right. Some had even suggested that the police were dismissive because they feared public embarrassment for overlooking some of the key elements that seemed to tie him to the case.

  Jack parked his truck on the steep hill and looked up at the two-story mid-century apartment. The façade was a light blue with a two-car garage, and peekaboo bay views. From the road he could see people inside. The glow of lights behind the curtains, the silhouette of movement and his last name in print across a minivan outside gave Jack some reassurance that he at least had the address right. He pushed out and walked up fifteen iron steps that took him to the front door. He smiled thinking of the many ways he would catch people in New York, way back in the day. Sometimes he would kick the door down, other times have a buddy of his knock and then wait on the fire escape for his target to emerge, but more times than not, he would just wait until they came out and were distracted. His van would slide up, the door would open at the back and they’d be hauled in and transported to a pier, a warehouse or back to the Pigs Ear.

  As much as he wanted to bust down a few doors, he had to play it safe. One run-in with the police was more than enough.

  “I’ll get it,” a voice said from beyond the door. The short silhouette of a figure approached behind opaque glass. When it was opened, there was a young kid wearing a pink Barbie T-shirt. She couldn’t have been more than seven years of age.

  “Is your daddy home?”

  She held on to the door and shouted, “Dad!” Her voice carried and echoed down the hallway. “Someone for you.” She turned back to him and studied him, looking him up and down. “You’re real tall, mister.”

  He stifled a laugh. A man in his late fifties emerged from a room off to the right. He was well dressed. A crisp blue shirt, red tie and black pants. He had his phone in hand and looked distracted by it. He glanced up and frowned. “Hailey, go sit with your brother.” She hurried away, looking back over her shoulder as she went.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Steven Farrell?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Back in the ’80s you came forward with information related to the Zodiac. I was hoping to have a moment of your time.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Jack Winchester.”

  He shrugged, confused. “How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t hard.”

  He groaned, looked over his shoulder and stepped outside pulling the door shut. “That’s something in my past I want to forget. You know. I’ve moved on from that. I have a decent job, a good lady and a couple of kids. I just want to be left alone.”

  “I know, this will only take a few minutes.”

  He motioned for him to go towards the steps, and he pulled out of his pocket a pack of cigarettes. All the while Jack was observing him. Killers appeared in many forms. The best were masters at living double lives. That’s why days after a serial killer was convicted, neighbors would come out of the woodwork stating they didn’t have a clue. He was a quiet man. Friendly. Always would say hello. He even fixed my faucet. They thrived on fooling those around them while living out their fantasies. It would have been easy to assume that a monster would look like one but from all those that Jack had encountered, they were masters at manipulating girlfriends, co-workers and neighbors into believing they were normal.

  “Who is it, honey?” a female called out before making her way to the door and opening it. She was a pretty blonde with blue eyes and an average figure.

  “Trish, don’t worry, I’ll just be a second.”

  She scrutinized Jack, gave a nod and closed the door. Steven lit a cigarette and leaned up against the railing. “Are you from the media or the cops? If you’re here about the recent string of murders, there’s nothing I can do to help. No one listened to me back in the ’80s and quite frankly I’m not interested in getting my face out there again.”

  “A friend of mine was one of the victims. I was hoping that maybe you might be able to shed some light on who could be behind this.”

  His eyes widened. “Really? Shit. I’m sorry for your loss.” He took a hard drag on his cigarette and waved to his neighbor who peeked out from behind a curtain. “I’m not sure how I could be of any help. It’s pretty obvious the guy doing this isn’t the Zodiac. For all I know he could be some nutjob that prowls the online forums. You know, I’ve been online. I’ve seen what they’ve said about me.” He shook his head and blew smoke out of his nostrils. “They think I was just out to make money but that’s not the case. I just thought I could help, you know, provide some evidence that to me seemed credible. They didn’t think so.”

  “Back in the ’80s you made a claim that your father was the Zodiac, has that changed?”

  “No. I still believe it was him. I just don’t go out of my way to tell people nowadays.”

  “And you base it all on a sample of handwriting?”

  He brought the cigarette to his lips and sucked hard on it. “No, it was a hell of a lot more than that. Not only did he match the description of the composite put out by the San Francisco police, but prior to the murders, he was living in California, attending a college where a young woman was murdered.” He paused as if expecting Jack to be aware of this. Of course he’d spent hours browsing through details surrounding the case of the Zodiac but there were so many theories circulating online that a person could spend years wading through it and still be no closer to making an educated guess on who the killer was. “He’d dated her a few weeks before she died. The police ruled him out as he had an alibi but what they overlooked was his handwriting. After the murder a letter was sent to the victim’s family, the press and the police, well, a handwriting expert came forward and revealed that the handwriting of the letters matched the handwriting from the Zodiac’s. Problem is, they’d already ruled out my father. This was a man who had been in a mental institute before attending that college. He later moved from Sacramento to San Francisco a year before the murders started.” He stubbed out his cigarette and tossed it into the night. A light silver sedan crawled past and both of them stared as it sped off.

  “You’re not the only one that knows I live here. Over the last few days I’ve had others show up. I try to be respectful to everyone but it’s exhausting.”

  Jack leaned against the railing as a light breeze brushed against his cheek.

  “So how did you make the connection?”

  “Before my father died, he told me there were things he’d done in his life that he wasn’t proud of, and I felt he was going to confess to something. He didn’t. Even after that I didn’t clue in to it all. I thought it was just the regrets of a dying man. Anyway, after he died, I was going through his belongings, you know, clearing out his apartment, and I came across a box full of letters, and some newspaper clippings from the Zodiac case. That’s when I saw the match. I spoke to my mother, but she didn’t want to discuss it. She’d always had a strained relationship with him. Both of them never saw eye to eye, and she left him when I was young.” He cast a glance toward his children through the window before continuing. “So, I took the letters to the police and left it with them. Not even a week later they came back saying that the palm print on the letters didn’t match the palm print shown on the original Zodiac letters.”

  “Palm print?”

  “Yeah, anytime you write a letter you lay a portion of your palm down. They can take the print from that and match it. Seems his didn’t match.”

  “But what about the writing style?”

  “They sai
d it was similar but not the same. They dismissed it.”

  “And your father?”

  “Died of heart failure.” He exhaled hard. “You know, if I didn’t think it was him, I wouldn’t have come forward. I’ve lost more from sticking my neck out there than if I just remained silent. I know it was him but unfortunately you could walk into the San Francisco Police Department today with DNA proof and they would probably throw you out. The fact is, they don’t want to admit they screwed up. Can you imagine the civil lawsuits that would be filed against the department if it got out that they had turned away someone who could have identified who was behind the murders?”

  Jack straightened up. “How long you been in real estate?”

  “Eight years. Paid well until the bottom dropped out of the market. Now I’m lucky if I sell a few houses a month.” He turned to him. “So, if I was in it for the money, well I think I would have sold off a few of those original letters by now. I still have every single one of them. It’s all I’ve got left of my father.”

  “Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No, I was an only child.”

  Jack could tell from his tone of voice, his demeanor and willingness to discuss his past that he wasn’t behind the murders, and without any siblings, the chance of anyone he knew being involved was slim to none. Jack thanked him for his time and parted ways with him. He returned to his truck, fished out one of his burner phones and took a few minutes to look at the final two names on the list. One of them had already been classed as having died in a car accident two years ago in the Philippines; the other was a woman who was being cared for at the Langley Porter Psychiatric Hospital.

  Right then a text came in from Dana.

  “Jack, have you seen this?”

  There was an image attached. He clicked it and it linked to the San Francisco Chronicle news site. His stomach sank. There before him was a snapshot with the face of a dead man blacked out, and a headline.

  MAN SHOT DEAD ‘EXECUTION STYLE’ AND LEFT BY MONUMENT

  San Francisco police are investigating the killing of a man found dead this evening and left in front of the Pioneer Monument. It appears the man was shot “execution style” in the front of the head, Officer Diego Sanchez said. The body was reported about 7 p.m. at the Civic Center Plaza, near the San Francisco Public Library and Asian Art Museum. Police identified a dark blue 2016 Jeep Grand Cherokee that was seen in the area at the time. They are asking for any witnesses to come forward.

  The deceased has been identified as Wyatt Donahue, a cab driver for the Yellow Cab Company. It’s unclear at this time whether the motive was robbery. Police said they are following up on a lead after a note was discovered. Mr. Donahue is survived by his wife of eight years and two children.

  A second text message provided a shot of the letter that hadn’t been published but somehow Dana through her association with the Chronicle had managed to get a copy of it. No doubt the police had shut down whatever idea they might have had about publishing it. In that regard he was fortunate, but it now meant that his name was at the forefront of another police investigation and due to the nature of this, and its similarity to the Zodiac murders that were in full swing, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he was back in the crosshairs of the FBI.

  Jack sighed and shut off the phone. He knew immediately Marabelle had done this in retaliation. If he was willing to go to this length and risk drawing attention to himself, he wasn’t going to give up until Jack was dead. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. Just when he thought his life was becoming less complicated.

  His phone vibrated, and he checked it to find another text message asking him to call her.

  He cast a glance at the list and figured it could wait. Jack speed dialed her number and waited for her to pick up.

  “Jack, where are you?”

  “Still in the city.”

  He could hear Dana moving around. “The police have been asking about you. How do they know about you? And what is this letter? Is it the guy? Is it the Zodiac?”

  “No.”

  “Look, they have an officer stationed outside my apartment. I can’t go anywhere without him following. It’s probably best you stay clear of here.”

  “What did the cops say?”

  “They wanted to know where you are.”

  “Is that why you asked? Are they there?”

  “No. At least not at the moment. Have you managed to make any progress?”

  He sighed. “Whoever this guy is, he’s done a good job of hiding his trail.”

  “Yeah, the cops don’t seem clued into anything and if they are, the media hasn’t heard from our source in the department. The last we heard they thought they had him at the library but he escaped.”

  “I’ll speak to you soon, Dana.”

  He looked at the time on his watch and hung up, then drove off into the night, tossing the burner phone out the window. He wasn’t dumb. A long time ago, back when he was living in Rockland Cove, he’d discussed what she should do if the cops ever showed up. If they ever put her in a position where they were trying to trace the call, and he asked if they were there, she was to say, “Not at the moment.” To anyone else listening in it would have seemed like a passing comment. Between them it was a red flag.

  * * *

  At Dana’s apartment she was surrounded by four police officers, one of whom was Romero. He turned to one of the guys who had her phone rigged up to equipment for tracing.

  “Did you get it?”

  “No, if he’d just been on ten seconds longer we would have had it.”

  “Sonofabitch,” he cast a glance at her and she glanced down into her hands.

  “Ms. Grant. I need you to be straightforward with me. Who is Jack Winchester?”

  Chapter 20

  First thing the next morning, media cameras flashed, and journalists stabbed their microphones out in eager anticipation of capturing a soundbite they could twist. It was the second media since the attacks had started. Hudson gulped down a glass of water in preparation to speak. Her throat was dry, and palms sweaty from what she was about to do. Dickson had fought her on it but every other avenue they’d taken was coming up short. She wouldn’t admit that Winchester had suggested it, neither could she guarantee that the Zodiac would take the hook, but it was the only viable option. It was no different than sticking a cop out onto the streets as a prostitute to catch those that preyed upon them. At times they had to take risks to draw out those that hid in the shadows. The same thing had been done in the hunt for the Green River Killer.

  As she waited to go out, her mind flipped back to the discussion she’d had with Dickson earlier that morning. Romero had been there for moral support even though he offered as much support as a wonky crutch.

  “You want to do what?” Dickson said. “I really think you have finally lost your mind.”

  “Just hear me out, captain,” she said. Romero perched on a desk sipping on coffee. “Up to now we have had no luck drawing him out. He’s been one step ahead of us. Now for whatever reason he’s focused his attention on me, so let’s take advantage of that. Let’s make him sweat. Hang enough of the noose out there and hope he hangs himself.”

  “You know what you are asking me to approve, right?”

  “Captain, it’s no different than one of our female cops going undercover as a prostitute. We’ll set it up as a sting operation. After I give the briefing, I will be wired up and placed under surveillance. He’s going to show his face within forty-eight hours. When he does, we’ll move in on him.”

  “And if he doesn’t? What then? And what do we tell the media?”

  “There was a mistake in deciphering and we are currently seeking other avenues.”

  “Seems to me like we are asking for trouble.”

  “He’s working to a timeline, captain. He could have spread out these attacks the same way the original Zodiac did, instead he’s committing each one within a space of twenty-four hours. Trying to apply pressur
e, knowing full well we can’t crack his ciphers in that amount of time. He has an agenda and by the looks of it, it’s all related to the Zodiac’s identity. So let’s make him think we have cracked 340.”

  Dickson shook his head. “Hudson, you’ve already tried once to catch him and he got away. We can’t afford to have that happen again. It’s too risky. Besides, you said it yourself, he knows we can’t crack them so what makes you think he’s going to believe us now?”

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the next. “I don’t. We’ll say it was a member of the public. The odds of someone out there who has seen the 340 and has cracked it may make it seem believable. He’ll want to know how, who did it, and ultimately what was the name hidden behind the cipher?”

  “I don’t know about this, Hudson.”

  “Captain, he’s going to kill either way, at least this way we have another opportunity to draw him out, and perhaps hold him at bay for forty-eight hours. It might be the last chance we get before he sets off an explosion. In the meantime we keep eyes in the sky, cops patrolling parks and rest stops and maybe, just maybe, he screws up and we get lucky.”

  Dickson hemmed and hawed. He paced back and forth and then said he would need to speak with the chief before making his final decision.

  She wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. It was a ballsy move, and she knew the risk but without a clear description or a witness, they were doing nothing more than reacting and playing into his game. It was time the tables were turned, like Winchester had said. Make him sweat.

  “Any luck finding Winchester?” Hudson asked Romero before heading out to face the onslaught of media.

  “About as much luck as finding the Zodiac.”

  “We’ll keep trying.”