An Apple for Zoë: Book One ~ The Forsaken Read online

  "I love you, Julie."

  * * *

  Stopping on the sidewalk to adjust his black horn-rimmed glasses, the melodic sounds of The Left Banke called his attention to a nearby window. Hidden by the darkness and fog, the stranger stepped from the sidewalk and into the yard. Cautiously he made his way to Julie's bedroom window. Silently he watched the young lovers as they lost themselves in their passion. Gripping the gun, which was buried in his pocket, his fingers caressed the gun in a fashion that mirrored the young boy's hand enjoying the touch of the girl's firm, supple breast. As he watched the boy, his own desire increased. Gripping the gun tighter, the stranger stepped closer to the window. The snap of a dry dead fallen tree branch caught the girl's attention. With a start Julie stopped kissing. Tommy quickly pulled his hand from her shirt.

  "Tommy did you hear that?" she said clicking off the radio. Tommy nodded and listened. Silently they both held their breath as to sharpen their hearing. The rustle of dead October leaves crunched slightly.

  "Tommy, I think someone is watching us," said Julie in the hushed tone of a frightened babysitter.

  "You want me to go look?" asked the boy valiantly.

  She nodded her approval. Slowly rising from the bed, Tommy cautiously moved to the window. Standing next to the sill he attempted to peek out and not be seen.

  "Julie, turn the light off," whispered Tommy. Julie reached over and pulled the plug from the wall, causing darkness to fill the room. Again Tommy made an attempt to stealthily look out the window. Julie slid off the bed and moved to her bedroom door and opened it slightly, from the distance she could hear her father laughing at the preview bumper for The Hollywood Palace.

  Looking out the window, Tommy tried to see, but the fog concealed most everything within view with the exception of the streetlight on the corner of Jackson and Maple. The fog gave the street a look of 1880's London. Slowly appearing from out of the mist, Tommy could see the stocky figure of a man lumbering into the glow of the streetlight. The man stopped for a moment at the corner and seemed to be looking at his watch. He turned and began walking south up Maple Street disappearing from Tommy's view. It was 9:00 p.m.

  * * *

  Sitting at his desk, staring out the window at the fog enshrouded San Francisco skyline, Detective Thomas James' thoughts returned to the present as his daydream was broken by the soft calming voice of fellow detective and best friend Michael Kirkland.

  "I heard you got a suicide note on this one, Tom."

  "No Mike, it's definitely not a suicide note, but it most certainly is disturbing."

  James's comment peaked Kirkland's interest, he found a chair and sat opposite of his best friend.

  "What do you mean?" asked Kirkland.

  James leaned in as if it would make the conversation more private. "I've seen a lot of weird crime scenes in my day, you know this city we get it all, but this one was downright scary."

  "Scary? In what way?"

  "It wasn't just the fact we had a double homicide, but it was everything, right down to the kinky little details. This guy didn't just murder two people, it was the way he killed them. Choosing a funeral home for a start."

  "Not your typical crime scene, but not out of place to bring a dead body," commented Kirkland.

  "That's where things begin to get scary, Mike. Amanda Carlyle wasn't dead when the killer brought her there."

  "He killed her inside the funeral home?"

  "Killed her, bathed her, dressed her, and even took the time to do her hair and make up."

  Kirkland shivered as he sat silently trying to absorb James' story.

  "The frustrating thing is that there are far more questions than there are clues," lamented James.

  "That's par for the course, so tell me what you do know for sure."

  James slid the case file across the desk to Kirkland.

  "At 11:00 p.m. last night Amanda Carlyle was out with a girlfriend. They were both seen at The Cellar nightclub on Sutter Street. She and her girlfriend got into an argument with another couple of girls and the bouncer kicked Amanda and her friend out. According to the friend, she left Amanda at the parking garage next to Pier 39. That was the last time she saw her."

  "So who's this friend?" asked Kirkland.

  "Valerie Rivera. We're still trying to catch up with her and check her alibi."

  James gave Kirkland a concerned look. "Trouble is Mike, there's something else. Something that's even more freaky then this whole crime scene." Kirkland sat the file down to listen.

  "So we found a note on Amanda. It's like a confession, and written in what appears to be a child's handwriting. It's signed by someone claiming to be Edmund Frayker."

  "So you checked out the name right?" asked Kirkland.

  "Oh yeah, I checked it out alright. Edmund Frayker was killed in a fire in England 1888. Or so people say. Based on the research I did, some people think the fire was just a ruse to get people to believe he had died. He was also a Jack the Ripper suspect, and London continued to suffer a string of prostitute murders well into 1892, Scotland Yard just kept it quiet."

  "Sounds like your killer likes playing games. Do you think this guy is pretending to be Edmund Frayker and is going after prostitutes, Tom?" James shrugged.

  "Because, this girl doesn't fit the prostitute category, she's young, attractive, comes from a decent background," continued Kirkland.

  "So did half the girls in the Manson Family, Mike. So far I can't find any evidence that tells me she was into drugs, or that she was a high price call girl, yet on top of her weird murder, we got this guy in the closet hung and bound with barbwire. And I can't link him to Amanda," said James.

  "And there was no identification on him, I take it?"

  James shook his head no and handed Kirkland the note from the lapel of the dead man.

  "Just this."

  Kirkland opened the note to read its contents. "Pretty Ballerina, what the hell does that mean? You think the killer is suggesting the guy's a fag?"

  "What?"

  "Yeah, think about it. The guy is in the closet, a term used for those who haven't come out yet, and he leaves a note that says 'pretty ballerina,' could be."

  "Actually it's a song."

  "What?"

  "Yeah, The Left Banke, remember them?"

  "I remember, Walk Away Renee.

  James nodded, "Same band. Anyway I think this note was left for me personally."

  "Why?"

  James took in a deep breath; he rose from his chair and closed the door to his office. Kirkland could see the conversation was about to get very serious. "I've never told anyone this, but when I was 14, I was at a girlfriend's house. We were in her bedroom making out and someone was standing at her window watching us. We heard a noise outside her window, I looked and saw some guy walking away down to the corner at Washington and Maple."

  "Okay, so, you got a peeper who gets off watching kids screw around. How does that have anything to do with this?"

  "The song playing on the radio that night was Pretty Ballerina.

  Kirkland sat looking puzzled, as James unfolded more of the bizarre events.

  "And that night wasn't just any old Saturday night in San Francisco. It happened to be October 11, 1969." Kirkland uttered a stunned whisper. "Zodiac."

  Chapter Three

  Zodiac

  "I met him you know," said James.

  "Zodiac?" asked Kirkland.

  "It was later that same night. As it happens Julie lived just two blocks from Washington and Cherry. After I calmed her down, we both thought it best that I head on home before her father did catch us. I started home right about 9:40 p.m. and as I'm walking up Cherry towards Washington I see a figure walking towards me from the other direction. I wouldn't have given it another thought, but I noticed the guy was lumbering along. Just like the guy who I saw standing at the corner about 40 minutes earlier. He continued his slow lumbering walk, and I stopped to think about crossing the street to avoid him, when he call
ed to me."

  Kirkland could see the uneasiness return to James as he recounted the story.

  "He says, 'Hey kid, can you tell me the time?' I start to say sure, when I see the guy already has on a watch. Which only creeps me out even more. I quickly glance at my watch and say 21:45. The guy stops and looks me dead in the eye. It's dark out and there's no light I can't really see anything except the top of his crew cut and edges of his horn-rimmed glasses. But his eyes were white. I mean really white Mike. Scared the shit out me. He then says, 'So you know military time?' I say the only thing I can think of which was, my father, he taught me. He's a retired navy man. The guy then says 'Navy man huh?' Then the guy got really quiet and looked around as if he's trying to make a decision. Then without looking at me says. 'You better get on home kid, it's getting late. The Zodiac might get you.' Then he just walked past me, continued down the street, turned the corner and was gone. I was so scared, I ran the rest of the way home, and I swear Mike, I have never told a soul that story. I mean no one. You are the first person I've ever repeated it to." James sat down heavily at his desk. He felt weary from talking about his brush with death.

  "So after you became a cop, you never looked into the Zodiac files? You never talked to any of the guys who worked it?"

  "Come on Mike, I was 14 when this happened. I never said anything because if I tell and they don't catch him then I'm as good as dead. By time I joined, Zodiac was beyond being a cold case, and it wasn't as if I could really help the investigation any further," stated James.

  "Are you kidding Tom? If you really were face to face with Zodiac, then you're probably the only person he ever let go."

  Both men sat in silence. James stood and stared out the window. His mind was a flood of confusing thoughts. Finally Kirkland broke the silence.

  "Was it Arthur Leigh Allen?"

  James stood with his back to Kirkland. The memory flashed in his mind's eye. He then turned and faced his friend.

  "It was dark. But yeah, I always thought so."

  "God was looking out for you that night, Tom."

  "Oh come on Mike, you know I don't believe in that crap. The guy already killed the cab driver, maybe he got spooked or I just got lucky. But I don't believe there was any divine intervention. Not for a moment."

  "You wait Tom, someday you will feel very differently. Mark my words. Okay so, do you think that after all this time, Zodiac is still alive and left a note to remind you of that night?"

  James shook his head. "God, Mike, that's just too surreal to be true. I mean it can't be. Arthur Leigh Allen died in 1992. And if it really was Zodiac the guy would have to be in his late seventies, hell even eighties. No, this crime scene was clever. Calculating and for lack of a better term, evil. And then there's the note. Only three people in the world could possibly know what it means. And that is myself, the guy in the window and Julie."

  "Where is Julie today? Would you have any idea?"

  "Maybe Los Angeles. The last time I saw her was at her mother's funeral. That was 13 years ago. We actually considered getting back together since neither of us had ever married."

  "So why didn't you?" asked Kirkland.

  "We spent a few nights together and as wonderful as it was, we both somehow felt it would never work. She had to return to Hollywood and care for her father and I already had over twenty years with the department. I couldn't just give all that up to chase a childhood crush."

  Kirkland gave a disappointed look. "That's too bad Tom. True love rarely comes once in a lifetime let alone twice."

  "We both promised to write. But I never got a letter from her. There hasn't been a day I didn't regret letting her go from my life."

  "You ever think about trying to find her again?"

  Thoughts of Julie gave James a feeling he had long missed. The feelings then gave way to even more sadness. "I have Mike, but I have to think, she's moved on with her life now. She could be married with children of her own. I mean she never wrote back so I think that sort of says it all. Besides if she is married I honestly don't think I would want to know. I mean at the moment, she still belongs to me. My memory of her is still the beautiful brunette that I was head over heels in love with. The girl I eventually lost my virginity to."

  Kirkland started laughing, "Okay, too much information."

  "Hey you asked," stated James.

  Kirkland's mind raced as he tried to put everything into perspective. "Tom, you think the guy in the closet was also the guy in the window?"

  James nodded in agreement. "I did consider that. But think about it. I mean let's say the guy in the closet is him, and he did kill Amanda. For all of his cleverness and planning, how can he be certain that I'm going to be the investigating detective? I mean isn't that the whole ball game?"

  "Not at all. It's fifty-fifty odds. If he gets you on the crime scene, then for him, it's a stroke of good luck. But even if he doesn't, this thing is too spooky and bizarre. Someone is going to say something about the note. You're going to hear about it, and then he's got your attention."

  James laughed. "Damn Mike, why do you always have to be right?"

  "It's a gift. What can I say?"

  "I say you buy me lunch."

  "You name the place and as long as it's not over a buck, I've got you covered."

  The two men enjoyed a moment of levity only to be broken by the ringing of Inspector James' phone. James answered the call as Kirkland attempted to grasp the conversation based on James' expressions. Quickly James stood up and thanked the caller. He then replaced the phone and gave Kirkland a look of satisfaction.

  "That was Captain Shelton, they found a wallet in the alley behind the funeral home. They think it belongs to the dead guy in the closet."

  "Finally a step in the right direction I hope," said Kirkland.

  "Cap wants us to meet CSI at the morgue. Dr. Roberts is doing the autopsy on the old man at one-thirty this afternoon. Can you join me?" asked James.

  "Lawrence Roberts? The Burlingame Butcher? I swear when he's not carving up corpses he's working the dinner shift at Benihana's. I think you better buy me lunch."

  "Sure, chopped liver okay with you?"

  "You're a sick man, Thomas James."

  "Point taken. Okay you get the car and I'll confirm our appointment with the coroner's office. And when I speak to Lawrence I'll be sure to not pass along your moniker."

  Both men laughed and then James shook his head and repeated the title with a critical tone.

  "The Burlingame Butcher."

  Chapter Four

  The Burlingame Butcher

  The stale smell of blood mixed with running water always hung in the air inside the morgue. No matter how many times the 75-year-old tile floor was mopped, it still showed signs of bloodstains, urine and feces. There seemed to be a never-ending supply of dead bodies. James hated coming here. He called it the death factory. The chief pathologist, Lawrence Roberts, was a tall intense bespectacled man growing close to retirement age. Yet his skill with a scalpel was notorious among the chosen few who had been allowed to witness one of his autopsies. He was a brilliant man, who seemed to understand death as if it had its own language. James remembered his first encounter with Roberts. The case was a 10-year-old girl.

  James would never get used to seeing dead children. He knew the doctor had seen so many by this point in his career, the girl might as well been a log of wood. To Roberts there was no difference. He expressed no remorse for cutting the body, no emotion, he was direct and to the point. Roberts was, at the end of the day, always a professional.

  Let me tell you a secret, Thomas James, the answer to every murder is right here in the body. Everything you need to catch your killer is right here it's just how you interpret the results. James heard those words in his head over and over, as if they were on a loop whenever he witnessed an autopsy. He would never forget them.

  James grew to like Roberts over the years. At first he didn't know what to make of the man whose mood could change i
n an instant. Like Dr. Jekyll, he was quick, efficient and could discern the cause of death within in a matter of minutes. This same man could also turn into Mr. Hyde with no warning, and you could find yourself being lambasted by a tyrant with a scalpel. Smoke and mirrors to those who knew him well.

  As James looked around the room for his crime victims, he noticed the small metal table displaying Roberts, instruments of death. The stainless steel surgical tools were used so often they no longer glistened in the light of the room. A make shift tea towel lay underneath them to absorb the residual water left from the hasty cleaning of the previous operation. There were three scalpels and two sets of toothed forceps. One large, the other one was not much smaller which seemed redundant. However James thought they must serve some distinct purpose. An "S" shaped needle with six strands of precut waxed string knotted at one end was also there. An everyday household butchers knife, hammer and bone chisel were also present. These were all the things one would need it seems, to operate on the deceased. It was macabre to think the very instruments that lay before him could have just as easily been a murder kit. Finally the piece de resistance was the vibrating bone saw. An odd- shaped device that gave James chills just thinking about it cutting through chest bones and skullcaps. He couldn't decide which bothered him more, the sound of the saw cutting into bone or the smell of burnt skull mixed with smoke as the blade cut its way into the unfortunate victims cranium.

  Wayne Stevens, the morgue attendant, entered through the double swinging doors pushing a stainless steel table, which carried the body of the old man from mortuary's closet. His body was still dressed, face gray, eyes puffed shut. The tip of a swollen blackened tongue emerged between his lips and was held in place by tightly clenched teeth frozen in a final bite. The barbed wire still wrapped around his wrists binding them together behind his back, with the knotted cord buried deep inside his neck flesh.