A Legacy

There was an eerie smell when we walked through the front door of my grandpa’s house. He had died a week earlier in the living room from a heart attack, and the lingering smell of death had never vacated. He had left his San Francisco home to my parents, who were eager to rummage through his belongings, throw away what they didn’t want and move us in.

I did not know much about my grandpa. He had sent me birthday cards over the years, but my parents had never taken me to visit him. My dad said it was because he was a mean old man, but I had always wanted to meet the man who sent the sweet cards. They were always type written with codes and ciphers attached on the back that when I finally solved them, would tell me how much he loved me or wanted to see me. I always admired that.

“I’ll start in the attic and work my way down” my dad said once we got over the smell and walked through the threshold of the big oak door.

Just inside was the living room with a spiral staircase in the back. To the right was the doorway that led to the kitchen, where I had decided to start. I was told to throw away all the dishes and empty out the cabinets.

“I’ll take the living room, sweetheart” my mom said sincerely. She was aware of how difficult it must’ve been for my dad to face the room his dad had died in. It’s ironic, really. To die in a living room.

We broke off into our separate ways. I skirted off to the right, through the kitchen door and took a long glance around. The kitchen was doused in a repulsive pea-green paint. The cabinetry along the bottom and top of the counter were glass paneled with small, white knobs and the glass appeared to be smoky. Wedged in between two cupboards, the stove was pushed against the back wall. It looked as though it hadn’t been used in half a century and cleaned even less. Walking over to one of the glass doors, I peered inside to see shelves of spices and oils that were undoubtedly older than my parents. The door, made from an old wood, creaked and groaned as I slowly opened it. The piquant smell of pepper flowed out with the movement.

I unloaded that cabinet, as well as the others, onto the countertops until the kitchen stunk of ancient McCormick, dust, and the mildew of dishes that were never properly dried after washing. The countertop was inundated with spices, pots, pans, cups, plates and bowls. Taking another long look around, I felt proud of the work I had done, and left the kitchen in search of newspaper and boxes.

“Hey, Jory!” my dad called out as I passed the spiral staircase. I looked up to see him dangling over the railing of the second floor. “Come here”. I didn’t much like being told what to do, but even at 16 years old, I understood he was still the boss.

Walking up the stairs, I was met by a dizzying feeling as the steps coiled upwards. Once at the top, I saw my dad standing at the bottom of the attic access ladder with a mountain of boxes.

“What’s up, dad?” I said as I approached him. He was facing the boxes with his sweat drenched back towards me. It was 97 degrees that day in northern California, and I imagined the attic was double that.

“Ya mind taking these boxes to the trash?” He replied as he turned towards me. His stringy, raven hair was clinging to his sweaty forehead. “You can dump them and use the boxes for the dishes.”

“Sure thing” I answered, walking over to the massif of boxes closest to me.

They were awkwardly stacked, clumsily even. The one on top was a large King Cobra box that packaged 40-ounces. The four flaps were bent under and over with the word memorabilia scribbled on one in blue Sharpie. I hoisted it up, nearly folding under the unprecedented weight, and carried it downstairs, outside, and across the driveway to the green trashcan by the yard fence, waddling like a penguin in hot pursuit.

The smell that crept from under the trashcan lid can only be described as sour. After I set the box on the ground and lifted the lid, I held my breath to peer inside, only to encounter the heat and stench breathing from the bellows. I turned away quickly and opened the box of memorabilia. Inside of it was a treasure cove of newspaper clippings, pages with tiny symbols, holiday cards and other uncanny things that seemed strange to be considered keepsakes.

I reached into the box and picked up an aged, discolored newspaper clipping. It was of an article written by a Paul Avery in 1969 titled “Cops No Closer on Zodiac Identity”. In the upper right corner of the article, drawn in black ink, there was a peculiar symbol I had never seen before. It was a circle with a cross hair in the middle, like looking into the scope of a rifle. I had heard of the Zodiac serial killer before but didn’t know too much about it. Assuming my grandpa was just following the case closely, I grabbed the box and raised it to the mouth of the trashcan, tipping it over. The rustling sound of pages were followed by a sound of a heavier object hitting the bottom.

Holding my breath once more, I leaned over and investigated the inside of the can. I noticed a black object to the right, accompanied by a black cloth sitting on top of the papers. Letting my eyes adjust to the contrast from inside of the can to the setting sun behind me, I realized the black object was a gun. Reaching in, my fingers closed around the handle of the gun, I pulled it out cautiously as to not get any filth from the trash on my hand. It was all black, heavy and powerful. I turned it over in my hands, inspecting the handle and clip mechanism. It was a M1911 as scribed onto the side of the barrel, but I also noticed the serial number had been scratched out. On the handle, much to my surprise, was the same cross-circle symbol scratched into the plastic paneling.

“Whoa” was all that I could mutter. I made sure the safety of the gun was on and slipped it into the waistband of the pair of shorts I was wearing. Reaching back in, I grabbed the black fabric and pulled it out to further inspect it.

After unfolding it, upon observation, I saw that it was an executioner style hood with two holes cut out for the eyes. Inside of the hood, I found another piece of black cloth that appeared to be an adult sized bib device meant to go over the chest. When I lifted the bib up and the bottom draped down, I saw a larger cross-circle symbol painted in white. A dreadful feeling swept over me, like the sun had disappeared and the world grew dark.

Was my grandpa the zodiac?

 I stuffed the hood and bib into my pockets, grabbed the box and ran back inside. Both my parents were standing at the foot of the stairwell. Their eyes widened when I burst through the front door.

“Ya okay there, bud?” My dad said as he wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Yeah” I gasped, catching my breath. “I found some cool stuff. Is it okay if I keep some of grandpas things?”

They both looked at each other, and after a moment of careful deliberation, my dad nodded to my mom.

“Just don’t keep too much” she said, pulling her hair into a tight ponytail. The athletic muscle tee she wore was drenched in sweat.

“Okay!” I exclaimed excitedly. I ran up the stairs and gathered the rest of the boxes into the guest room that was going to be my bedroom.

I spent the next several days cleaning out the room, sorting through the heaps of boxes for things I would keep. I needed to find more evidence that could prove my grandpa was either the Zodiac or an obsessed fan. I was hoping for the latter, but a part of me thought it’d be cool if he was the infamous serial killer that stumped police all this time. I found more newspaper clippings, codes and ciphers, holiday cards, all circumstantial evidence, but suspicious, nonetheless.

 Once I got the room situated to my liking, I started using my computer to research the cases from the San Francisco Bay area. I found the Wikipedia page, various sites dedicated to the Zodiac, but the most damning thing I found was a composite sketch that was eerily reminiscent of my grandpa. It was almost identical, save for a 40-year or so difference. The sketch, the hood, the bib, the gun (safely hidden inside my sock drawer) pushed me to a point where I began to believe he was the Zodiac. But then one day I saw the sketch of the hooded figure the victim witnessed at the Lake Berryessa murder, and it was an exact match to what I had found. Storming to my sock drawer, I pulled the bib and hood out, grabbing the gun and putting it into my waistband. They were a match! Yes! My grandpa was the Zodiac! I could see as clear as light and day, comparing the pieces to the sketch. The hood, the holes, the bib with the large iconic cross-circle symbol plastered on the front, and the gun. Yes!

I was shaking with what I thought was fear, but, when I put the bib over my head and it lay flat against my chest, I realized what I felt was pride. Running to the mirror on the back of the bedroom door, I stood vigilantly and saw how my grandpa must’ve looked when he killed that couple at the lake. I slid the hood over my head, and as I peered through the eye holes, I felt powerful and unseen, like a shadow of terror. I tilted my head from side to side and made my eyes wide. I even scared myself but found that I enjoyed it. I took the clothing off and stuffed them into my pockets, leaving my room in a frenzy.

“Where ya headed off to, son?” my dad called out. He and my mom were in the living room cuddled on the couch and watching the latest episode of Game of Thrones on the television.

I stopped for a moment…do I tell them of everything I had found? Would they tell the police? Of course, they would. It would tarnish my grandpa’s name. I couldn’t let that happen. My grandpa was a sweet man who sent me birthday cards every year and wanted to see me. They never let me meet him. Calling the police would be the right thing to do, right? Yes, it would be. But it’s not what my grandpa would want. What would the Zodiac do?

“Just going walking for a bit” I replied. Taking a few steps closer to the front door, I stopped and added “Some fresh air.”

“Back by midnight, yeah?” dad said, never looking my way.

“Okay, dad.”

And I was out the front door, down the driveway and standing on the sidewalk. The sun was already behind the little boxes of houses on the hillsides, leaving only the carcass of light beaming through the alleys and gaps in between. The sky was riddled with dark rain clouds passing by slowly. I walked briskly for several blocks, passing joggers and dog walkers, coffeeshops and stores, until I came to an alleyway between two tall apartment buildings. My mind was storming with thoughts of all the evidence I found. All the newspapers and ciphers, codes, the cross circle, the gun that was in my waistband still, the hood and bib in my pocket. I took a long glance around me and saw that I was alone, and the clouds above cushioned the sounds of cars…it was dead quiet. I pulled the clothing out of my pocket and looked down at them. They were silky in my hands. After taking a moment to venerate my grandpa, I slipped the bib and hood on, and walked down the alleyway soundlessly.

The rain began to fall in heavy droplets around me. The smell of water quickly filled my nostrils. Down the alleyway, where two emergency exit doors were for the apartment to the left, I saw a couple leaning against the wall kissing.

I pulled the M1911 .45 ACP gun out from my waistband shakily and walked faster towards them. I could see from the light above the doors the fear that rose in their eyes as I approached them in the heavy rain with the gun pointed at the man’s head.

“I am the Zodiac” my voice sliced through the sound of rain falling around us.