The Most Dangerous Animal of All (40 page)

As I stared at the exhibits he’d generated, I got chills. He had overlaid my father’s handwriting onto the Zodiac’s, and the results were stunning.

I had that final piece of evidence—forensic evidence that would stand up in a court of law.

A few weeks later, Wakshull sent another exhibit. He had decided to overlay my father’s face onto the two pictures in the Zodiac sketch to see how closely they matched. The result was indisputable.

When Susan finally told him my whole story, he went a step further. He noticed that the signature on the Cheri Jo Bates letters—the
Z
with the squiggly top line—looked like an
E
and a
V
. He compared the
E’
s from Van’s signature on his marriage licenses against the squiggly line and got another match.

By this time, he was getting just as excited as we were.

“You realize you are going to have to defend your findings,” Susan told him.

“I would defend them in a court of law,” Wakshull responded, and he put it in writing.

There was only one thing left that bothered me. I had found copies of Zodiac’s fingerprints online, taken from the Paul Stine crime scene, and I had noticed that Zodiac had a scar running across his right index finger. Van’s fingerprints on his booking sheet after his arrest for child stealing had the same scar, but it was running in the opposite direction. It finally hit me that crime scene technicians would have put a piece of paper over the bloody print and then laid that onto another piece of paper, reversing the print.

Susan and I began to search for a qualified expert to compare the fingerprints. We decided on Lieutenant Bob Garrett, a former detective and crime scene investigator and an expert in fingerprint identification, crime scene reconstruction, crime scene investigation, and digital imaging. He agreed to look at our samples but said it was unlikely that he could make a match with a bloody fingerprint.

A few days later, he informed Susan that a match could not be made because of the blood on the print.

“But what about the scar?” Susan asked.

“A scar is a starting point. You can’t make an identification from a scar,” Garrett replied.

Later that afternoon, he e-mailed Susan an exhibit showing five fingerprints: the original bloody print from Zodiac, the bloody print reversed, the bloody print with the scar highlighted, Van’s print, and then an overlay of the bloody print and Van’s print.

Susan called me immediately. “Check your e-mail. You’ve got to see this.”

The scars were identical—same angle, same length, same width.

Susan called Garrett back. “Can I have your permission to use this exhibit in the book?”

“Yes, as long as you make it clear that I could not make an identification,” he said.

Susan promised that we would.

Fifty-one years.

That’s how long I’ve waited to learn the truth about my life.

And I still don’t have all the answers.

It has been almost ten years since I was swabbed for DNA at the San Francisco Police Department. I have never heard back from anyone in the SFPD with the results of my DNA comparison, and I have not heard from Lieutenant Hennessey since 2006.

I’m not sure why he suddenly stopped communicating with me, and I still find it troubling. We had become friends. He had promised to “get to the bottom of this.” He had said he would give me the “closure” he wanted for me and my family—“one way or the other.”

I believed him.

I still believe him, even with all of the evidence to the contrary.

Through the years, I kept coming back to this, wondering if I had done something to upset him, wondering if someone at the SFPD had discovered he had requested the DNA comparison and put a stop to it.

As we were putting the finishing touches on this memoir, someone asked me whether Hennessey knew I was writing a book. That question prompted a memory.

I had not told him. Back then, this book was still in its infancy. I had planned to ask for his blessing when I got the results of the DNA comparison, I had made a commitment that I would not share with anyone what he was doing for me, and I did not want to publish a book without his approval. I felt I had kept that commitment.

But at the time—2006—Judy and I were in a very good place for the first time in a while. I had finally come to understand that her strong instinct for self-preservation would generally trump my need for the unabridged truth, and I had accepted that. I told her I was going to write a memoir about my experiences, which would include the Ice Cream Romance and my journey to discover the truth about my identity. She seemed excited and wanted to help. She suggested that we write an adoption/reunion story together and explained that she had friends in the literary world who could help bring it to life.

My mother didn’t know that my memoir contained so much more than the adoption/reunion aspect of our story.

Feeling confident that Judy would keep its contents confidential, I sent her my manuscript.

At the time, the book ended with me in Hennessey’s office being swabbed to compare my DNA to the partial Zodiac profile. Included was the DNA request form.

After she read it, Judy immediately became disenchanted with the whole “book thing,” as she called it, and responded to my manuscript with a chapter she had begun writing for our adoption/reunion book.

In the chapter, she explained how proud she had always been of Rotea and how disappointed she was that Harold Butler and Earl Sanders had not helped her more when I was first trying to find my father. “Actually, I talked to them both,” she wrote, “explaining that I didn’t have any details of Gary’s father. I wasn’t even sure of his full name, and we needed that plus his birth date, birthplace, and Social Security number.”

She went on to explain that Harold had refused to share the contents of the file with us. “We both e-mailed and called Harold on various occasions, but he was firm that he was not going to reveal anything further. I was so disappointed that my good friends had chosen to take this position. Finally, after much angst over the situation, I rationalized that they were not trying to protect Gary and me—they were probably trying to protect Rotea Gilford’s reputation.”

“I had no idea that Gary had begun discussions with the lieutenant in charge of homicide, John Hennessey,” she concluded.

It was then that my mother must have realized I wasn’t going to quit—that I had gone around Butler and Sanders to find the truth.

It was soon after I received that letter that I learned about Hennessey’s having moved from his position as head of homicide into special investigations. It didn’t seem suspicious at the time, because he had asked me to be patient, and I had assumed that I would hear from him when the results came back.

Seven years later, I continue to wonder why I didn’t hear from him, but the questions I have are different.

By revealing to my mother that Hennessy had requested the DNA comparison, had I unwittingly betrayed his trust?

Did my mother call her friends to let them know Hennessey had put in the DNA request?

Why hasn’t available DNA evidence provided to the SFPD been fully investigated?

The fact remains: Judy married Van, the Zodiac. Judy married Rotea, the homicide detective. Did this remarkable coincidence have anything to do with Butler’s and then Sanders’s responses to whatever was in Van’s file? Were Hennessey’s efforts to help me find the truth about my father shut down? Or were they simply set aside in the face of the SFPD’s crushing workload and the long history of false Zodiac leads?

I don’t know for sure. What I do know is that I have not heard from my friend John Hennessey since I sent Judy that manuscript.

I have weighed the pros and cons of publishing this book for years, considering what could happen from every angle. One thought keeps coming back to me: the surviving families of the Zodiac victims deserve to know who committed these horrible acts.

I talked with my son, Zach, about it, being very honest about what I thought could happen if people didn’t believe me. “You could be ridiculed,” I told him. “Some of your friends might say some very mean things about your dad and your grandma Judy. And those who believe me could give you a very hard time about being the grandson of a serial killer.”

“Dad, really, you are such a worrier. I’ll be okay. I can handle it. You do what you have to do,” he had said, giving me a hug. “Whatever happens, we can deal with it.”

I have never been more proud of my son than in that moment.

When I talked to Judy, she seemed less certain, but she assured me that she would support me in whatever I decided to do. We will deal with the fallout together. We have been through a lot, and I have faith that our relationship will survive. When I was young, if Loyd suspected we were telling fibs, he was fond of saying, “The truth will set you free.” I hope that will be the case for both of us. Through this book, I have handed the SFPD their killer. I’ve given them motive, means, opportunity, a forensic handwriting match, identical scars, and my father’s name embedded throughout the Zodiac ciphers. And I have a DNA profile of my father waiting for comparison.

It will be interesting to see what happens.

I know without a doubt that God has led me to this place. I believe He intended for me to share this story, leaving out nothing that I’ve discovered along the way. I have fulfilled that responsibility with all that I am and all that He made me to be. I know that no matter what happens, He will watch over all of us and protect us, just as He so lovingly protected the baby in the stairwell.

The Zodiac abandoned me so long ago.

Maybe now I can abandon him.

IN MEMORIAM

In Loving Memory of Sheryl Lynn Stewart

December 6, 1959–January 7, 1961

and

Harry Loyd Stewart

December 21, 1931–June 16, 2012

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are so many people who helped shape my destiny and who assisted me in learning about my past and that of my parents: Detectives Fournier and Jonau, who searched for the parents of the abandoned baby; Mary Bonnette; who found me; Lieutenant Hennessey, who believed me; William Lohmus, who came to love me and whose knowledge of my father seemed limitless; the Best family, who filled in the gaps and welcomed me with open arms; and Sergio, a stranger who was there for me during one of my most painful moments. A special thank-you to Michael Wakshull, Dr. Bo Scales, Lisa Hobbs Birnie, Max Davis, and Judy Riffel. I am eternally grateful to each of you.

I would like to thank my mom and dad, Loyd and Leona Stewart, for opening their hearts and their home to their adopted children—first Sheryl, then Cindy, and finally me. Thank you for treating us like we were your own. There was never a question that we were loved completely and as much as if we had been born to you. Thank you for raising me in Istrouma Baptist Church and making me attend services even when I didn’t want to go. Your faith in God was the best example a son could have and instilled in me the faith, courage, and strength to face all of the challenges placed before me as I followed His plan for my life.

I would like to thank Judy Gilford for the gift of life she gave to me. Our journey together has not been an easy one, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

To Susan Mustafa, who took the complex, patchworked story of my life and, with her creative writing brilliance, produced this book. Thank you. You are now officially the fourth and last of the adopted children in the Stewart family. And to my agent, B. G. Dilworth, thank you for your hard work and dedication to this project.

To Michael Signorelli: Thank you for your belief in us. To Jennifer Barth at HarperCollins: Thank you for the countless hours you spent working with us to make this book the best it could be. Your contributions helped turn what was an incredible journey into a riveting narrative.

I also want to thank the two people I love most in this world: my wife and my son. You believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself, when I questioned why God was taking so long to reveal the truth to me. You lifted me up and encouraged me through my discoveries, through my heartaches, through my disappointments, and you celebrated those times I was the happiest. Without you, this book would never have happened. To my beautiful and precious Kristy and my pride and joy, Zach, I am because you believed in me, and I love you dearly.

Finally, and most important, I am so thankful to God for this life He gave to me, for rescuing me, delivering me, and redeeming me from whence I came.

I will always miss you, Daddy, until I see you again!

—GARY L. STEWART

When I first read Gary Stewart’s journal that became the foundation for this book, I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I knew immediately that this would be a challenging project—so many stories, so many years, a romance and a serial killer case, all rolled up into one story that begins with a baby being abandoned on a stairwell. As I researched Gary’s life and got to know him personally, I became more and more impressed with the character of this man who had persevered through this heart-wrenching journey to find his identity. Thank you, Gary, for choosing me to be your co-author. Any writer wants to find that one story that begs to be told. For me, this story was the one, and I am honored by your belief in me.

To my husband, Scott, thank you for putting up with all the nights I sit at my computer burning the midnight oil. Your understanding of what it takes to write a book makes what I do possible, and your critiques of my work have become invaluable to me. Your love and your friendship always make my world such a happy place to be.

I have been blessed in this life with so many wonderful people—my mom, “B-Bunny,” whose strength and courage inspire me every day; my sisters, Bridget and Cathy, who always have a multisyllabic word handy when I need one; my children, Angel, Brandon, Gasper, and Jonathon, who make every day of my life worthwhile; and my granddaughter, Isabella StellaMaria, who has melted my heart since the day she was born.