Girl With a Past (31 page)

Elliott nodded his round gray head. His eyes
were filled with tears. “What a mess!”

60

Nancy decided that the best cure for the
waves of emotions that swept over all of us was a good hard work
out followed by a sauna or steam. Television was forbidden. She
unplugged the screens in the exercise facility and cranked up the
soundtrack from
Across the Universe.
She was right about the
cure. At least I felt less frustrated after working up a sweat.

Dad had one of his staff ask for still
another continuance in the trial he was prosecuting. Elliott did
the same with his lawsuit. They both tried to put a good face on
it, but the strain of grief, fear, and frustration showed in both
faces.

“Jeff, join me in a Bloody Mary before
lunch?” Elliott asked.

“May I have one too please?” I asked.

“Hell, I’ll make a pitcher,” Elliott
answered.

Dad, Steven, Elliott and I half-heartedly
played cards while Mom and Nancy napped after lunch.

Mom was starting to get some color back in
her cheeks, but all of the events of the last few days, including
Tom’s arrest and Ron’s death, were showing on her face too.

Dad had the doctor who checked her out at
the Sheriff’s Station send a colleague over to make sure she was
okay. The new doctor brought her a prescription to relax her.

I checked on her while Elliott dealt. She
had fallen asleep with a book on her chest. I took her reading
glasses off and pulled the covers up. It was good to see her
looking peaceful.

Cards were a good distraction. I was beating
the pants off the men when I pulled an ace to the front of my hand.
For some reason, that sight triggered a flash of memory of
Dave––Dave of forty years ago. When did he become such a meticulous
dresser?

“Your play, Al.” Steven nudged me.

“What’s the matter? You okay, sweetheart?”
Dad asked me. “You went kinda pale there.”

“I’m okay Dad.” I played my ace and took the
trick.

The unlisted landline rang. Elliott picked
up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Yes, Detective Schmidt, we’re all still
here.” Elliott hung up. “He says he’ll be here in a few hours.”

I wondered what was up, but I didn’t get so
distracted as to prevent my winning several hands. After sundown,
my fellow card players lost interest, having failed to win for most
of the afternoon.

Schmidt arrived as we were beginning the
evening cocktail hour lounging on down sofas and chairs in front of
the crackling flames in the fireplace.

“We got’em. They were holed up in Albany.”
Schmidt announced as he removed his heavy wool coat.

Elliott slammed his glass on the side table,
and jumped up from his armchair. “Let me take your coat. Detective.
Please have a seat.” Elliott waved to an empty armchair that sat
next to the welcoming warmth of the fireplace and carried the
Detective’s coat to the front hall closet.

Detective Schmidt addressed me, “I brought
photos for you and your mother to ID, but I’d rather you looked at
a line up.”

“Detective, my wife has been through an
awful lot,” Dad said. “She’s sleeping now, and I’d like for her to
rest for at least another day or two before we return to the city.
The media is liable to be difficult to deal with.”

“I can show her photos. What do you say to
Alexandra accompanying me in the morning?”

“I could go along, Dad,” Steven said. “We
could go back to school tomorrow.”

Dad nodded.

I was more than willing to look at a line up
and anything else I could do to bring them to justice for what they
had done to Mom, and especially for shooting Kira.

“May I offer you a cocktail?” Elliott said
to the detective.

Schmidt glanced around at what we were
drinking. “Just plain soda, or tonic, would be fine. Thank
you.”

Elliott poured a tonic from the bar set up
on the sidewall.

“There’s something else that’s come up.
Maybe you caught it on the news?” Detective Schmidt said.

“We’ve avoided the news today,” Dad
said.

Detective Schmidt nodded his understanding.
“The
Chronicle
received a letter from the Zodiac today.”

“Wha-at?” Dad blanched losing what little
color the previous good news had restored.

“From a dead guy?” Steven asked.

“The writing’s different, although it looks
like an attempt to copy the original," Schmidt said. "The tone and
sentence structure are very similar. The letter claims
responsibility for Ron Bailey’s murder.”

“Phew!”

“Fuck!”

“Shit!

“Christ!”

“A copycat, of course, but damn close. The
weirdest thing is the bullet that killed Ron Bailey is a match for
two that killed Zodiac victims.” Schmidt laid that bomb on the
coffee table along with his glass.

“Does that mean you’re convinced that
Derek’s father––”

“Stepfather,” Schmidt corrected Steven.

“Are you convinced it was him?” Steven
asked.

“The hair turned over to us by Derek is from
the female victims, from more of them than we had tied to the
Zodiac, and the guns are a match too,” Detective Schmidt said.

“So Derek’s father, uh stepfather, was
definitely the Zodiac?” I asked.

“There is definitely a connection. We’re
doing some more DNA testing. Testing on the stamps has been
inconclusive.”

“How does that happen?” Steven asked with a
frown.

“It seems that more than one person licked
or handled those stamps.”

“What? On each stamp there is DNA from more
than one person?” I jumped to attention in my armchair.

“How does that happen?” Steven repeated.

“Perhaps the Zodiac had another person lick
some stamps, and then he licked’em later,” Detective Schmidt
said.

“Why would he do that? I mean DNA testing
didn’t start until like twenty years later. How could he have
foreseen that the stamps would be tested?” Elliott asked.

“We’ve no way of knowing that. Maybe it was
an accident, a coincidence.” Detective Schmidt looked at each of us
in turn. “Most of the stamps have one type of DNA. But there are
two different types of DNA represented on stamps. Just a couple
stamps have two. And the DNA types found on those two stamps are
the same as found individually on other stamps. Points to the
likelihood of two individuals being involved.”

“So you
aren’t
convinced of Derek’s
father’s guilt?” I asked.

“Let me explain. We have no doubts that
Derek’s father committed some of the murders, but we have not
eliminated the possibility of another murderer. We’ve got the hood
that Derek found. It fits a description given by a survivor. That’s
being tested, but it’s been handled by both Derek and his son Lian,
so results certainly wouldn’t be admissible.”

“But they don’t need to be if the guy is
dead, right?” Elliott asked the detective.

“If the guy is dead, yeah, but the latest
shooting muddies the waters. Profilers have always thought that the
Zodiac was at least in his late thirties. That put him in his late
seventies now, so him being dead didn’t seem unlikely. But Ron
Bailey was definitely shot with the same gun as two victims who
were killed in 1970.”

“But Derek gave you the Zodiac guns.” I
said.

“Maybe he didn’t give us all the guns. He
could’ve hidden one.” The detective answered.

“But didn’t you search the house?” I
asked.

“Not thoroughly. We had no reason to think
he was holding out on us. We’ve got Crime Scene over there
now.”

“Does that mean that you suspect Derek was
the Zodiac killer?” Steven asked.

Detective Schmidt shrugged with the corners
of his mouth turned down.

“Wait, wait. Are you sure that Lexi was
killed by the Zodiac?” I jumped up from my chair, nearly spilling
my gin and tonic.

“Yes, right gun, right MO, right
signature.”

Shit, how would I explain this one? I knew
Derek wasn’t the one who shot me. He was standing right behind me.
We had just kissed. Lexi was shot from the front and from at least
twenty feet away, Derek didn’t have a gun–– no it was impossible,
but what could I say? “What about what’s-his-name, cousin
Harold?”

“Both men have voluntarily given us samples.
Harold gave us two guns but he claimed he’s missing the third, a
rifle.”

“Why would Derek come forward with the
evidence, the hair and guns if he were the Zodiac?” I asked.

“There’s no explaining what some of these
nutcases do.”

“And what about the handwriting. You said it
was different?” I asked.

“It was somewhat similar, and handwriting
does evolve over forty years. We got handwriting samples from Derek
and Harold. Experts are lookin’ at ‘em.” Detective Schmidt
said.

“Derek was in Italy when most of the Zodiac
victims were killed. You’ll be able to check on that. He said he
went to the American embassy shortly after he arrived in Florence.
Check that out.” I said.

“Will do young lady.” Detective Schmidt
smiled at me, stood up from his chair, then nodded at both Steven
and me. “I’d like to pick you up around eight in the morning.
Okay?”

Steven and I looked at Dad for
permission.

“Are you sure they’ll be safe?” Dad asked
the detective.

“They’ll be safe with me.” Detective Schmidt
assured Dad. “And I won’t drop them off in Berkeley if there is any
reason to believe they’re in danger.”

61

Detective Schmidt showed Steven and me into
a room with a huge window, presumably with one-way viewing, that
looked out into a larger room with an elevated platform at one end,
a lot of visible recording devices, and a row of metal chairs with
vinyl seats. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.

Steven grinned at me, raised an eyebrow.
“Tight, huh?”

“Yeah, I’m down with it.” I returned his
smile, but butterflies fluttered in my stomach.

On the other side of the window, a group of
six men were ushered onto the platform by uniformed policeman, and
lined up against a white wall. Brawny and Fatty were number three
and six.

“Well?” Detective Schmidt asked as he
re-entered the room.

“Number three and number six,” I said.

“You sure?”

“Totally.”

“Good deal. I’ll get your statement typed
up. You sign it, and we’re outta here. Let’s take you two back to
school.”

The process wasn’t quite that fast. I spoke
with a young officer who typed very fast, but then Detective
Schmidt and, I imagined, his supervisor wanted to see my statement.
Given the red tape, it took awhile to get something to sign, but by
late afternoon we were headed to Berkeley in the back seat of
Detective Schmidt’s police car. A uniformed officer drove.

We’d missed two weeks of classes. I wondered
if there was any hurry, or if we’d already blown it.

“Steven, have we missed the drop date?”

“Whatta ya mean?”

“I don’t know about you. But I don’t think I
can miss this many classes and still do okay.”

“You mean, maintain your stellar GPA?”

I frowned at my brother. With my hand out of
view of the front seat, I flipped him off. “Like you don’t care
about your grades,” I said.

We drove onto the Van Ness entrance to the
101 headed for the 80 and the Bay Bridge when Schmidt got a
call.

He hung up and turned around to speak to us.
“Sorry guys, just a little detour. Something’s come up. You’re
gonna stay in the car.” He motioned to the driver who took the next
exit and headed back to Van Ness and over to Pacific Heights. We
drove up California Street.

“We’re getting close to Derek and Lian’s
place,” I said.

No response from the front seat, but three
minutes later we pulled up across the street from Derek’s house.
The huge second floor window had the curtains drawn. No other
windows were visible from the street. Two uniformed policemen sat
on the wall that surrounded the courtyard entrance.

“Detective Schmidt, what’s going on?” I
asked.

“Stay here.” The detective and his driver
exited the car slamming the doors shut.

“Steven, what the hell?”

“You think I know?” Steven leaned back in
the seat.

“Are you still smarting over a remark I made
ten minutes ago? Get over it.” I leaned over him to see, if I could
tell who answered the door. “I’m not staying here. I wanta know
what’s going on.” I flipped the door handle down, but it didn’t
budge. “Shit, we’re locked in here.”

Steven tried his door. “Yep, we sure
are.”

62

What the hell were we doing here? I couldn’t
see past Schmidt and the uniformed driver in the courtyard, or the
two officers on the wall.

Detective Schmidt looked ready to spring
into the house. Somebody with dark hair, maybe Derek, stood in the
shadowed entry hall, blocking the entrance. The two figures in the
doorway were animated, agitated.

What the hell were they talking about? I
reached across Steven again and tried to put the window down.
“Trade places with me?”

Steven slid across the bench seat; I climbed
over his legs. The window went down exactly one inch but at least
now it was possible to hear the heated discussion taking place in
Derek’s entry court.

“There’s no need for your involvement here,”
Derek said. “It was an accident, I tell you. Nobody is hurt, no
harm done.” Derek blocked the entrance.

“Where is your son? Is he here?” Detective
Schmidt demanded.

No answer.

“We will not leave here without seeing your
son, without verifying that he’s okay.”