Zodiac Killer: Newly Discovered Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (2 page)

Chapter 3

Getting Help

The limo pulled up to the San Francisco Police Department. Holmes got out and went in through the double doors. He asked for his friend Detective Davis and sat down to wait. Davis had his hand outstretched as he approached his old acquaintance.

“Hello, my friend,” Davis said as he shook Holmes’s hand. “It’s been a long time. What can I do for you, or better yet, what can you do for me?”

“I have a lot to discuss with you,” said Holmes, “but first I’d like to offer my congratulations! Was it a boy or a girl?”

“What?” asked Davis, amazed. “How did you know? We haven’t spoken in quite some time!”

“How did I know you recently welcomed a child?” asked Holmes, smiling. “Quite simple. You usually have a faint whiff about you of fine tobacco and shaving cream, but you haven’t shaved in a few days, I’d guess, and I smelled baby powder as soon as I shook your hand. You may also have a bit on your jacket.” Davis looked embarrassed and brushed at his shoulder.

“You look exhausted but also very happy. And through the door into your office, I can see a large bouquet of flowers. When I put all of these clues together, it’s clear to me you’ve had a child. Again, congratulations!”

Davis shook his head. “Your mind misses nothing,” he said. “Thank you for congratulations—my wife and I are the proud parents of a little girl now. She’s about a month old. But now that you’ve reminded me of your excellent deductive skills, let’s chat about why you’re here.”

They went into the detective’s office, and Holmes handed over the newspaper, which he knew Davis had already seen. Davis prided himself on knowing every crime that happened in his city, no matter how small. Holmes had already decided to keep the letter to himself for the time being—handing it over would result in hard questions he wasn’t ready to answer. He needed to decide whether he really could believe the Ripper was still alive, though he wondered who else living, besides Watson, could have known his connection to that infamous killer other than the Ripper himself?

“I would really like to try to solve this Zodiac case. I have been keeping up with it in the newspapers, but I need more detailed information to start my own investigation. After all, the killer has been getting away with his heinous crimes for six years already, and while I know your men do their best, your precinct’s resources only go so far. Besides, I have a certain level of expertise in this matter—from a past life, you might say.”

Davis leaned back in his chair, looking pensive. Dr. Greystone had helped on a consultant basis before and had helped the department solve some exceptionally tricky cases, but he had never asked for straight access to confidential files.

“I suppose we can make an exception this time,” Davis said, “as long as you understand that what you will read and see is strictly confidential. If anyone finds out you are assisting with the case, we’ll have the FBI, the CIA, and who knows who else breathing down our necks for breach of protocol, so you must be discreet while you investigate. What exactly do you need? Anything I can do to help, you know I will.”

“I need all your records on the murders, starting in 1963. Though I know the papers haven’t confirmed those earlier murders as the definite work of the Zodiac Killer, there are enough similarities that I believe him to be the most likely culprit.”

“Of course,” Davis answered. “I’ll have my secretary run copies of the files. What do you intend to do as your next step? And how can I assist you? It goes without saying that I will want to be privy to any discoveries you make.”

Holmes smiled; he knew that he would have been just as possessive back in his days as a young detective with Scotland Yard. “Let me read through everything, and then I’m sure I will know exactly what I need from your department. I have to get a good hold on this. This killer is clearly a smart man, nothing impulsive about him, and everything he does will have been well thought-out. If he isn’t caught soon, he will easily become the second most notorious serial killer in history—if he’s not already. The first being Jack the Ripper, as you well know.”

A grim look settled over Davis’s face. “The difference is that Jack the Ripper evaded the police. We will catch the Zodiac and bring him to justice. Modern science has made us better equipped to track these monsters down.”

Holmes nodded in agreement, trying not to seem smug—of course, he himself had apprehended Jack the Ripper with very little help. Before reading the letter, Holmes had wondered if this killer could be a distant relative of Jack, who should be dead by now. Evil, like greatness, can be passed down through generations.

“Well, if anyone can catch him, it would be you…descendant of the great detective Sherlock Holmes. I know you must be proud to have his blood coursing through your veins,” Davis continued.

“Yes, I am. Having such an illustrious man in my family tree has been a source of inspiration and motivation to me. You might even say that without Sherlock, I would not be who I am today. By the way, if you have a suspect list, that would also be helpful to me as I review the files.”

“Of course. I am giving you all we have, interviews and all. The investigations have gone cold until now.”

Holmes collected his information and had James drive him home. Holmes lived in a large apartment downtown that he shared with his long-time friend Dr. John Watson. Watson had chosen to age along with his wife and had not started taking the astralagus until she passed away—in fact, it had been a hard decision for him to take it at all. It was only his desire to stay by his friend’s side and his knowledge that he could stop taking the potion and eventually join his wife in death that swayed him. As a result, he appeared to be ninety years old; he was wrinkled and stooped, though his brain was still as sharp as a young man’s. Often, he posed as Holmes’s father.

The pair had nice neighbors who largely minded their own business, and both Holmes and Watson enjoyed their lives in San Francisco. Holmes could walk to many places, which suited him just fine. He drove only when he had to and preferred his chauffeur to take him longer distances. They had a housekeeper, Mrs. Merritt, who made sure their meals were cooked and their house was clean. She thought Holmes was a retired doctor and called him Doc, as did many of his acquaintances.

As Holmes arrived at his door, Mrs. Merritt greeted him. “I heard the town car pulling up. Good afternoon, Doc.”

“Hello, Mrs. Merritt. I hope you have had a good day,” he said to the attractive middle-aged woman. She always found his way of speaking to be so dignified, like an old-fashioned gentleman.

“It has been fine. I have prepared a roast with new potatoes and carrots…your favorite. The rice is still hot, and all you have to do is spoon your meat and vegetables over it. I even baked a chocolate pie for desert. Mr. Watson has had a good day too, but he has been waiting for you. He is in the den. Also, Lydia called and wanted you to get in touch with her as soon as you can.”

“Oh, my mouth is watering,” Holmes told her as he sniffed the air. Mrs. Merritt was such a good cook. “Thank you,” he said as he started for the den.

Watson was sitting in his favorite easy chair, smoking a cigar. The smoke hung in the air, and it made Holmes miss his cozy study in the house on Baker Street.

“Hello, my dear Watson.”

“Hello, Holmes. Did you have a good golf game?”

“No, actually something came up, and I did not play. I am going to tell you about it as soon as I call Lydia,” Holmes said as he reached for the phone. No matter how many years passed, Holmes still remained amazed that he could pick up that odd device called the telephone and speak to almost anyone in the world.

After a few rings, Lydia answered. She sounded a little out of breath.

“Hello, Lydia,” Holmes began. “Are you and Mark all right?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I’m sorry it took me a minute to get to the phone. I was upstairs.” She then related to Holmes the story about the newspaper article and the marking in red. Holmes felt a flash of panic. If Jack truly wanted to toy with him, the natural first target would be his family.

“I need to come and get that newspaper. Please do not leave the house until I get there,” Holmes told Lydia. He hung up without saying good-bye. Though he was impeccably mannered in person, he didn’t always grasp the nuances of social rules as they applied to technology.

“Watson, I will return shortly, and then I will tell you what is going on. Why don’t you go on and have your supper? I will eat mine when I return.”

“All right,” said Watson. “Hurry back, though. You know I hate being left out of the loop.” Though he would never admit it, Watson had times when he wished that he had stopped his aging process a little sooner; it was hard to see Holmes so vibrant and robust when he himself ached in the morning and occasionally walked with a cane. As he continued to take the astralagus, though, he felt his pains slowly fading—even if his wrinkles were irreversible.

Lydia’s house was a brisk walk away, and within half an hour, Holmes arrived. He hurried to the door, which Lydia had painted a cheery shade of blue, and was surprised when Mark answered on the first knock.

“Grandpa! Mom told me you were coming,” said Mark. “I have some questions for you.”

“I am very glad to see you, my boy,” Holmes said. “But I’m afraid your questions will have to wait. Your mother has told me something quite alarming.”

“We received a newspaper with a headline circled in red. We think it might be blood. Come look,” Mark said excitedly, forgetting his questions in the face of something so thrillingly dangerous.

“Hello, Lydia,” Holmes said as he hugged her. “What’s going on?”

“Did you see the headlines about the Zodiac?”

“Yes, I did. That’s why I felt the need to make sure you and Mark were safe. I’m puzzled that someone would leave the newspaper for you like this—unless they suspect your connection to me. We perhaps haven’t been as careful about that as we should have been. I will take the paper and have it tested to see if the ink is indeed blood. It seems someone might be wanting to catch my attention,” Holmes told her. “I will be following this case now, and I want to make sure you both stay out of harm’s way.”

“Oh, we will be fine. Two policemen live next door, and you can talk with them if you want. They’ll keep an eye on us. Mark and I have survived for this long alone.”

“Well, we will see,” Holmes answered. “You’ve never been truly alone because I have always watched over you. And if I feel the danger is too great, you will both have to move into my apartment. I am sorry I cannot stay, but I need to get to work on this case. I will call you tomorrow, and of course, I’ll let you know what the lab says about the newspaper.”

“Wait Grandpa,” Mark said. “I have one more question! Why do the police call him the Zodiac killer?”

“I’m not sure if he started calling himself that first, or the police did,” Holmes mused. “But it’s because sometimes he writes in cipher from something called the Zodiac alphabet—I think it’s his way of making sure he gets credit for his murders. Now, my dear boy, I must go.”

They all hugged good-bye, and Holmes took his leave. He headed for the San Francisco Police Department, where he left the paper to be analyzed. He slipped the technician a handful of bills to keep the results a secret; he didn’t want Davis prying into why relatives of Holmes—or Dr. Greystone, rather—were receiving bloody newspapers.

Holmes then returned home for the second time, hoping he would finally get his meal.

4

1963—The First

Looking back, the man now known as the Zodiac Killer took pride in his deviant accomplishments—his life’s work. No, he was not sorry for the murders he had committed in his past life as well as in this one. They were a joy to him. He loved seeing the essence seep out of someone who, only minutes before, had been so fiercely alive. If the Zodiac was honest with himself, he would have to admit that he thought Holmes would have caught up with him before now. But the murders themselves had lost their thrill as the Zodiac realized the cops were not even close to apprehending him. Now the Zodiac knew the detective would be hot on his trail, and he liked it that way.

Yes, he had promised to come to America and stop the murders—but only as Jack the Ripper. He had adhered to the agreement for a while, trying to be the gentleman Victorian society had raised him to be, but he eventually decided that if he changed the
method
of murder, he wasn’t technically breaking his promise.

He had also changed his appearance drastically, going from a clean-shaven, thin young man to a stocky, beard-stubbled man in his thirties—and there he had paused time by using the youth potion the silly morgue assistant had stolen from Holmes’s backyard garden. As a man who had once run in literary circles, the Zodiac had, of course, heard the rumors of that miracle oil that came from the Count of Monte Cristo—a rare bit of gossip that had turned out to be wholly based on fact.

After several decades in America, building a new life and being on his very best behavior, the Zodiac had also started to miss the thrill of toying with the great Sherlock Holmes. His surprise at this was outweighed only by his pleasure when he learned that the man’s descendants—as well as the man himself—had settled in San Francisco.

What a merry adventure I have before me—what fun I will have doing what comes naturally to me
, the Zodiac thought. He would continue to baffle the smartest detective in the world even if they both lived to be a thousand years old—and with the astralagus, both the Zodiac and Holmes might just hit that milestone.

The Zodiac Killer had committed even more murders than the police had given him credit for. Maybe one day, he would get his due for all of them if he were ever caught. He found himself remembering his first murder back in 1963. Oh, the memories…he looked back on it like a movie, almost as if he hadn’t been involved at all.

Robert Domingos, aged eighteen, and his fiancée, Linda Edwards, aged seventeen, were students at Lompoc High School and were excited to carry out the tradition of “Senior Ditch Day.” They decided not to join their other classmates and instead went somewhere alone. They found a lonely beach where they could sunbathe. They were totally absorbed with one another and didn’t notice as a stranger approached.

Even as the man stood a few feet from them, they, at first, assumed he was just a stranger out for a stroll, enjoying the fine weather like they were. It was only when Linda caught a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye that she saw the gun and screamed.

The Zodiac Killer, though that was not yet his name, threw a rope at Linda’s feet. “Tie him up,” he commanded.

Heart pounding, Robert jumped to his feet and pulled Linda along with him, taking off across the beach. Their feet dug into the sand, which caused them to slip, and the Zodiac Killer shot them in their backs several times, without a trace of emotion on his face. Then the killer dragged the bodies about thirty feet to an abandoned shack. He arranged Linda faceup on Robert’s body, with the top of her bathing suit cut open, showing her breasts. He didn’t touch her sexually; he felt no illicit excitement in looking at her naked body.

As a final touch, he decided to burn down the shack, but despite going through almost an entire pack of matches, he was unable to get the damp, rotting wood to light.

The police later found an empty ammunition box in the shack, which told them the killer had stopped to reload.

A young couple, isolated, shot or stabbed…the killings all had the same earmarks as the current murders, if only the authorities would connect the dots. The Zodiac Killer doubted that they ever would, and that was why he had sent the letter to his old enemy, Sherlock Holmes.

Across town, Holmes sat with his chin in his hand, thinking.
Yes, it all started back in 1963
, he told himself. As he looked at other similar killings in the area, Holmes realized he had a time line now and would do his best to stop the maniac before he could take any more innocent lives.

“Watson, have you noticed there is a jump from 1963 to 1968?” he asked, but it was a rhetorical question—both of their minds were already whirring with questions and possibilities.

One of the victims in that odd gap, who didn’t fit the Zodiac’s usual profile, was a young girl named Cheri Jo…