Zodiac Unmasked: The Identity of America's Most Elusive Serial Killers Revealed Read online

  In the Navy Allen had worked on a refrigerator ship, mostly scraping and painting hulls in the bright California light. “Leigh was also an excellent marksman in the Navy,” my Vallejo source verified, “one of the best in his group. Additionally, he often wrote to my mother and used the signals used by the flags at the bottom of the letters [Zodiac symbols in the letter codes could be matched to various semaphore flags]. Yet she burned the letters after her knowledge of Leigh later being sent to Atascadero.”

  He had even taken training in code. Zodiac had a masterful knowledge of code. “He did know code, and not only sewed well but was a sail maker,” said a source. The neat stitching on the hood worn by Zodiac at Berryessa suggested a man who could sew. It was doubtful Zodiac could ask anyone else to sew him an executioner’s hood. Leigh not only learned aquatic scuba diving during his Navy stint, but briefly worked as a wire operator, third-class radioman. Napa Captain Narlow was convinced that whoever Zodiac was, he also had technical knowledge of a #15 Teletype transmitter—he had duplicated its circuitry on one of his bomb plans and an early note attributed to him had been on Teletype paper.

  “The plans for Zodiac’s bomb came from [the schematic of a] UP 15 teleprinter,” an expert told me. “I also noticed that in his schematic diagrams, he properly draws ‘jumpers’ over two intersecting lines. I think these are the best clues for finding the Zodiac and that there is more than a fifty percent probability that he was an amateur radio operator (also known as ‘hams’). First, operators who used RTTY (Radio Teletype) used these surplus machines. . . . Secondly, the simple fact that he uses ‘jumpers’ on his schematic diagram tells me he has more than just a passing knowledge of electronics, which hams must master . . . other possible alternatives are Navy and Coast Guard personnel such as electronic techs and radiomen.”

  The relationship between heavy Leigh Allen and his slender father was complex. The strongest Navy influence came from the father. Ethan Warren Allen, a well-known, highly decorated Naval commander and pilot, was born April 6, 1903, in Meade, Kansas, the son of George M. Allen and Cora Woodard, both of Kansas. Leigh’s father, a twenty-five-year Vallejo resident, put in twenty-four years of service in Hawaii and on Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay. In his retirement, Ethan became a draftsman for the City of Vallejo. When he married Bernice Hanson of California, they had two sons, Arthur Leigh and Ronald Gene. Ethan passed on a love of hunting, flying, and sailing to both, but his elder son, Leigh, took it most to heart.

  It was no coincidence that Leigh hunted, had a pilot’s license, and sailed. But after his plane crash, Ethan, no longer the vibrant and confident officer he had once been, could not curb’s Leigh’s outbursts and abuse of Bernice. The death of his stern father set Allen free, but the earlier jet crack-up had given him license to pursue his desires. In this home, dominated by a strong-willed woman, the father, Ethan, became a shadow in the years before his death. Ethan died of carcinoma of the prostate with metastases on March 17, 1971.

  January 4, 1971, two months before Allen’s father died, an anonymous letter came to the paper:

  “If you are game print the following letter. An open letter to The Zodiac. You need no explosives for your big blast, just go to the nearest Police station and tell the truth about the man who has made a killer out of you, your father who has been getting away with famous American crimes since 1947 and is now an expert at giving killing lessons. Once you asked ‘What will they do to me?’ You will be placed in a mental institution which is better than a session with a double edge sword or a shot in the back because after the conviction of the scapegoats for your father’s murders with your help, he will have to take care of you since you have been placing a dent into his good reputation by duplicating his murders.” The typed letter went on to talk about an older brother. “Think about the big noses you could rub so many big boo-boos, it is fantastic. . . . You could also clear up a little mystery. If two people with only their hands tied do not run out to seek help, is it not because they are already in the process of being killed by two men. . . .”

  Father and son killing alongside one another? An odd theory and an even odder fantasy.

  Something certainly had happened in Zodiac’s life during the month of March 1971. After a six-month gap, Zodiac had penned two letters—March 13 to the Times and another on March 22 to the Chronicle. The first used the phrase “don’t bury me . . .” and the second depicted a man digging with a shovel.

  Ethan lingered in the Oakland Naval Hospital for seventeen days. As Allen’s dad was dying, he was hospitalized in the 94566 postal district, the same ZIP code from which Zodiac mailed his letter to the L.A. Times. The two threatening March letters might have been Zodiac’s panicky stab at anonymous immortality. I recalled how old-fashioned Zodiac’s clothes had been—pleated pants pointed to an older man, or someone wearing an older man’s clothing. The Zodiac costume was really only Navy dress, his appearance only that of a sailor: close-cut hair, shined shoes, bell-bottoms, dark navy-blue jacket. Had Allen, out of hatred or love, dressed in his father’s clothes to do his killing as Zodiac? But Ethan, unlike his son, had been a slender man and Leigh, because of his size, could never have worn his father’s Naval costume.

  Sergeants Lynch and Lundblad had interviewed Allen from the first, Lynch more than once. Each time Allen pointed to his scuba gear or smiled his watery smile. His alibi was that he had gone diving alone or with people whose names he did not know at “Fort Point” or “Bodega Bay.” On the outskirts of Vallejo the quarries and creeks, ponds and lakes ran still, cold, and deep, holding who knows what secrets and mementos. The weapons police sought might even lie beneath the frigid clear waters of Lake Berryessa.

  Sources speculated that Zodiac had financial resources because he “purchased any number of guns, attended theater, saw numerous films, read multiple newspapers, overposted his letters, and had the luxury of free time in the summer and many cars and residences.” Others speculated that Zodiac was either rich or received money from relatives or a trust fund. Leigh Allen’s family had some money; police had known that from the first.

  10

  the devil

  Tuesday, March 6, 1973

  Though eight months had dragged by since Toschi and Armstrong ransacked his trailer, Allen knew he was still under scrutiny. He owned a police scanner and listened in on Vallejo police staking out his basement from a block away. But for large stretches of time he was unobserved. The Zodiac case was simply too immense, the pool of suspects too enormous, and manpower stretched too far for unbroken surveillance to be feasible. And there were hundreds of other suspects. One of Zodiac’s chief hunters, Dave Toschi, was often sidetracked by illness or suddenly diverted from his pursuit by other tasks.

  “We were not only working on Zodiac when it came our week to go on call,” Toschi told me, “but catching other cases. That particular week we had four. The night before we had a fireman stabbed to death out in the Haight. I was so exhausted because we had to go into the office on Saturday and I had nothing to eat but animal crackers and cold coffee. Then I dropped into bed about 8:30 P.M. An hour later the phone rang. I was barely able to get out of bed—punchy—a headache, but I had to get up. We had another one.”

  Mayor Joe Alioto also handpicked Toschi as a special investigator for the San Francisco Criminal Grand Jury on March 6, 1973, the first such assignment since a 1936 scandal. Alioto wanted Toschi to probe two riots and two fires at the San Bruno main county jail. Chief Don Scott and Chief of Inspectors Charlie Barca called Toschi in. “The mayor wants you to take statements at the county jail.” “This really stinks,” said Toschi. “I don’t want to get involved, Chief.” “You’ve been ordered. You’re on loan, Toschi, as of tomorrow morning. And keep quiet about your findings.”

  “And I did,” Toschi told me. “I worked alone to investigate the recent uprising at the county jail. The department was in terrible, terrible shape.” Toschi’s assistance was invaluable. James Rodman, Grand Jury foreman, wrote
Chief Scott that the SFPD was “indeed fortunate to have persons of Inspector Toschi’s calibre as a member of its staff. It would have been impossible to carry out our assigned duties were it not for his assistance.” Leigh Allen put his experience as a Union Oil chemist to use. His new job with Union Richfield in the East Bay allowed him time to settle down evenings in front of his trailer. He was a likable man when he chose to be (his staunch and unshakeable Fresno Street defenders, the children who thought he was a cowboy star, his drinking buddies, all were proof of that). These days, though, he carried a grim set to his mouth. He still had not forgiven the ransacking of his trailer or the oil refinery visit that got him fired. He stood in an arid patch of gravel, drinking a Coors, leaning back against the still-hot metal of his trailer, and watching autos rushing by on Santa Rosa Avenue. Droning like insects, the cars spun away, turning the bend toward remote Franz Valley Road. Crickets chirped. A warm westerly shrouded the court. He faced west, rocking on his heels, and peered beyond two pink flamingos listing drunkenly in the gravel. Between their metal legs echoed the tumultuous roar of traffic on 101, which ran parallel to Santa Rosa Avenue.

  Leigh shuffled inside, where he had unlimited time to brood and to hate the SFPD. When he wasn’t working, diving, or hunting, he sought diversions. Each year he attended the Scottish Games with his mother. But he missed the family dinners. “My mother longed for a happy family life,” said a friend of Leigh’s. “I think she enjoyed going to Leigh Allen’s house because it appeared to be such a ‘nice family.’ Everyone had nice table manners, and I think Leigh’s mother decorated the house very well—that type of thing. It only goes to show you you can’t go by what’s on the surface.” Leigh continued to attend Sonoma State College, majoring in biological sciences and working toward a master’s in mammalogy /biology. He had minored in chemistry, and had already earned a degree in botany and elementary education on the G.I. Bill in 1971. Learning came easy to him. Life did not.

  Tuesday, July 31, 1973

  Just around that bend from Allen’s trailer and down the country road, 2.2 miles north of Porter Creek on Franz Vallejo Road and down a familiar wooded slope, bodies continued to be found. Caroline Davis was discovered in the exact spot as Sterling and Weber. It could not be determined if Davis had been sexually molested. Zodiac had threatened to experiment with different ways to kill people, and it appeared he or someone else was doing just that.

  Her body exhibited signs of tetanus, such as rigid muscles, indicating strychnine poisoning. Death from strychnine is similar to that from lock-jaw, but more rapid—about fifteen minutes. Because of the irritating action of the poison on the spinal cord, muscular twitchings lead to generalized convulsions that become so intense the spine arches. The body’s entire weight is borne on the heels and back. Finally, the skin darkens to gray-blue and respiration ceases. Sergeant Brown wasn’t so sure Davis had been poisoned. “It’s kinda like when we get lab results on our autopsies of a guy who has a lethal dose of amphetamines in him,” he said much later. “If the guy is a chronic crank user a lethal dose to him and me are going to be totally different. As for strychnine poisoning, the state lab told me there’s a hallucinogenic mushroom that creates strychnine or a derivative of strychnine when it’s in your body. Basically, it’s like when a junkie uses heroin it becomes morphine in his body. It doesn’t necessarily mean this girl was poisoned; it means that she had probably taken these mushrooms. It doesn’t mean that poison killed her, but it might have been a contributing factor. She also had a good ligature mark on her neck.”

  Wednesday, October 24, 1973

  Zodiac’s symbols were always open to diverse interpretations. His crosshair symbol, used in targeting nuclear bombs, led police to quiz a nuclear weapons expert stationed at Travis AFB. His other signs represented weather symbols to a pilot, silver hallmarks to a jeweler, and something else entirely to a postman at the North Station Post Office in White Plains. “I spotted a Zodiac cryptogram in the New York News,” he explained to me. “After showing the three lines to several other postal employees, they all agreed that the symbols in the cryptogram were the same twenty-five symbols used in the Civil Service Post Office examination.” Zodiac’s symbol could also represent the astrological Southern Cross inscribed in an ellipse.

  Chemistry formulas and symbols danced through Zodiac’s letters. That the bombs he diagrammed were chemical bombs had not been lost on Toschi. Leigh Allen was an East Bay chemist. The previous April, the entire region had been jolted when a chemical plant there exploded. Physicist John Dalton’s icons for types of elements and their atomic weights resembled Zodiac code symbols—hydrogen: a circle with a dot at its center and sulfur: a crossed circle—the killer’s personal signet. The aroma of sulfur and brimstone persistently clung to Zodiac. One could almost hear the clatter of cloven hooves.

  At the stroke of midnight the Devil made his appearance in the Zodiac case. A San Francisco man, attending a nude rock dance of the Venus Psychedelic Church on Third Avenue, arrived dressed as Satan. As he approached a group of four nude men, one was leading a discussion about Zodiac. “Zodiac must be some sort of devil or fiend,” interjected the costumed devil. The man discoursing about “Mr. Zodiac” wheeled suddenly and pointed a finger at him. “YOU ARE THE ZODIAC!” he shouted. The red devil smiled, blushed beneath the red dye staining his face, and replied, “I am Satan incarnate.” He moved on. However, the man followed and drew Satan aside. “I am the Zodiac, you fool,” he hissed, “and I made a point of outfoxing the police and newspapers. I have killed many more than have ever been identified as Zodiac killings.”

  “Is this because Zodiac has already killed twelve of the astrological Zodiac signs?” said Satan uneasily.

  “I have killed more than thirty-seven,” said the burly but good-looking stranger. He now seemed, the devil recalled, “cool, calm, collected . . . an OK, normal, 100 percent All-American Guy, sound as he could be.” “Most of my victims are unknown,” he continued, “and never even linked to Zodiac. It’s just a game like Monopoly, chess or checkers or bridge. I enjoy killing people as a game between myself and the police. Killing to me means no more than flicking ashes.” The man rushed away with a pale, thin-lipped woman. The reveler never saw either again. Oddly enough, a future letter from Zodiac on January 30, 1974 (the last time he gave a specific figure) claimed almost the same number of victims—thirty-seven.

  “We continued to get tips on Satan worshippers and astrology freaks throughout the investigation,” Toschi said. Zodiac’s arcane symbols drew wild theories, even threats against those involved in the occult. Satanist Anton Szandor La Vey, master of the Church of Satan, publisher of The Cloven Hoof and The Satanic Bible, received a death threat from someone who thought he might be Zodiac. Because of the astrology angle, witchcraft symbols, and satanic black robes (the “Code Killer’s” grisly executioner’s costume had obvious ties to the Black Mass), La Vey himself had once been a suspect. Immediately, he sent the letter over to Avery at the Chronicle.

  “Dear Satan . . . Now women lay in the streets in your Devil control. But of course all things come to ends . . . forces are working against you. My fight against you has been going on for many generations with little success. This really bothers me, Satan, to no end! You can choose your choice of weapons, but I prefer knives. . . . I wish more than anything to have your blood on my sword.”

  “He prefers knives,” thought the journalist. He rang fellow reporter Dave Peterson for his opinion on the threat. “And knives are used in rituals,” Peterson told Avery, “which brings me to black magician Aleister Crowley’s ceremonial hooded robe. Crowley’s robe, used in arcane rituals, was emblazoned with the Rose and Cross of the Secret Order of the Golden Dawn—a crossed circle.” If Zodiac was part of a satanic cult sacrificing victims in accordance with the phases of the moon and religious holidays, that might explain everything. How else could Zodiac drive so many different cars, kill over a sizable geographical area, come in so many shapes and sizes,
and write letters in different handwriting styles? The hand of Satan had to figure somewhere in the mystery.

  “Satanism—possibly,” said Zodiac buff David Rice. “Satanism is a more fruitful area.” Zodiac used inverted words, the number thirteen, Sartor Crosses, and Black Mass phrases. He employed astrology and numerology and drew evil eyes and bloody crosses. His triangles (representing the Holy Trinity) were turned upside down. I had heard tales of the Blue Rock Springs victim’s interest in the occult—“a candle and skull in her San Francisco apartment,” said her sister, “witchcraft in the Virgin Islands where she had gone skin diving on her honeymoon,” and “a Vallejo satanic cult.”

  Later on October 24, Dr. Gilbert Holloway, an ESP expert, was interviewed by Jack Carney on KSFO Radio. “I have a possible leaning that the killer’s name is something like Cullen, Collin, or Callen,” Holloway said. He spelled the names out. “I see a detective with an Italian name—something like Banducci or Sanducci, tackling the Zodiac. But he has poison on his body like Herman Goering and does not expect to be taken alive. . . . Zodiac has some acquaintance with the First Church of Satan in San Francisco. He is under largely Satanic influence.”

  Satan caught the interest of the California Department of Justice too. Their 1971 report from Napa read:

  “Because of Zodiac’s letter talking about the afterlife and ‘slaves in paradice,’ the Department of Justice focused on people in groups who had these weird beliefs and they were able to eliminate everybody including all male members of the Manson family.”