It’s time to get “Happy Together” again! Discover the songs and the history of one of the most successful pop rock bands ever, The Turtles, who had many, many Top 40 hits including “It Ain’t Me Babe,” “Let Me Be,” “You Baby,” “She’d Rather Be with Me,” “You Know What I Mean,” “She’s My Girl,” “Elenore,” “You Showed Me” and of course, the iconic “Happy Together!” All of their Golden Hits!Authors Mark Arnold (Long Title: Looking for the Good Times; Examining The Monkees Songs, One by One and Headquartered: A Timeline of The Monkees Solo Years) and Charles F. Rosenay!!! (The Book of Top 10 Beatles Lists and The Book of Top 10 Horror Lists) have joined forces to cover the entire careers of The Turtles from their early days as The Crossfires, through their hit-filled years, into their break-up that led to most of The Turtles’ members joining forces with Frank Zappa’s Mothers of Invention, to Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan’s years as solo artists under the guise of Flo & Eddie, and even their forays into children’s records. Arnold and Rosenay!!! have reviewed every song and album, and interviewed many of The Turtles’ friends and associates along with most of The Turtles themselves, who have given startling new revelations that will surprise even the most hardcore fan.Open the doors to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and to your library to add this book. This definitive Turtles compendium is as unique as The Turtles themselves.
On a gray winter day in 1958, the body of a man washes up on Santa Barbara’s breakwater. He has wounds much like those of the crucified Christ. Trevor Westin, a young writer with deep family connections to the city, sees murder where the local press and powers that be see only a simple case of drowning. Trevor goes on a dangerous search for answers. Along the way he will cross paths with beatniks, beach bums, Aldous Huxley, Dennis Hopper, and agents from the CIA. He will also be introduced to the brave new world of hallucinogenic drugs. Meanwhile, off the coast of Santa Barbara, at the bottom of the sea . . .
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<h1 class="element-title case-upper"><span class="element-number-term">CHAPTER</span> <span class="element-number-number">1</span></h1>
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<h2 class="element-subtitle case-upper">ENCOUNTERING THE ZODIAC</h2>
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<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-with-first-letter-i"><span class="first-letter first-letter-i first-letter-without-punctuation">I</span>f my family tree were an actual living plant, it might appear as an unbalanced tangle of weird-shaped limbs. It’s not that my ancestors suffered from an excessively high rate of mental illnesses, or represented innumerable unstable families, though those are certainly present. For the most part, the people who make up my ancestry are simply unique individuals with their own idiosyncrasies. I am the product of an odd assortment: champions and charlatans, community pillars and misfits. I have often wished I had an average relative. Just one, single ancestor who could provide a role model to inspire me to some level of normality. Instead, my genealogy expresses itself as a stunted bonsai in sections, and wild, runaway overgrowth in others. Whimsy and eccentricity are everywhere in this obscure corner of the gene pool, such that no standard piece of lumber could be milled from any single branch. Throughout my childhood, I gained valuable lessons as a result of the people who came before me, and who would become my parents, grandparents, and beyond.</p>
<p class="subsq">My own family of origin was unique in its favored topics of conversation. Many families discuss politics and current events. Others talk about friends and neighbors, or whatever is happening in the lives of its members. In my family, while I was growing up, my parents shared interesting tales that have been passed down from generation to generation. They engaged in their fair share of gossip, and even ranted about the government at times. They more often related stories of ancestors they knew, and others about whom they had only heard. I eagerly enjoyed connecting with my roots and discovering my ancient past as I listened carefully to everything that was shared with me.</p>
<p class="subsq">I am, and always have been, an avid collector of interesting and compelling tales. Especially when it does not contain a complete ending, or in which a conclusion is not forthcoming, it will have my undivided attention. The open gestalt tantalizes me.</p>
<p class="subsq">One night at Bark Lake Summer Leadership Camp when I was a teenager, for instance, a fellow camper began to tell a shaggy dog tale, a genre consisting in a long, complex story that ends with a disappointingly dull pun. So great was my joy in listening, that at the end of my fellow camper’s lengthy recitation, I was the only other camper still awake, possibly emblematic of obsessiveness in my personality. Brian, the storyteller, called out to the darkened cabin once his pun had been delivered. It was about 1 a.m., and he had been talking for more than an hour. All the other teenagers were fast asleep, some quietly snoring. I, however, was wide awake. It didn’t even seem to matter to me that the tale went nowhere in the end. It was a story, and even told by a 15-year-old it captivated my imagination enough to put off much-needed sleep and restoration from a long day in the sun.</p>
<p class="subsq">For better and for worse, each of my family stories and each ancestor has played a part in shaping me. They poured content into my character, for as I grew, I learned what was important to my parents—and their parents—what professions were worthy of pursuit, and what lifestyles were unacceptable. My values were therefore forged in part by the light of those who went before me, and the lessons my ancestors learned through their own life experiences helped create the man I am today.</p>
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<p class="ornamental-break-as-text">* * *</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width">My beginnings in the Zodiac serial killing case can be traced back to 1987, directly, as well as indirectly to times and places many years earlier with events that even predated my life. In 1987, an innocuous gathering of a few college students—possibly only two—began to discuss the topic of true crime. The words would conspire to shape my future in ways I could never have fathomed. In that interaction, I learned about a serial killer who called himself the Zodiac. In time—and many years would pass before I became fully engaged—I would become obsessed with this one, cruel criminal, ultimately dedicating 11 years of my life in the pursuit of answers to lingering questions. The case became a compelling story that eventually wrapped its tentacles around me, and, at some point, removed my ability to separate myself from it. After initially dipping my toe in the water a few times, one day I took the irreversible plunge, and would not look back.</p>
<p class="subsq">Obsession—the correct word to describe my participation in the Zodiac case—can be described as the state in which someone is overtaken or overwhelmed by another person, idea, or activity in such a way that there is a loss of control over future choices. It can also refer to the object of the obsession—the person, idea, or activity over which someone has lost all control; the word can define an obsessiveness or the target of such obsessiveness. Since no degrees are assigned, there is no clear line drawn to tell us when a hobby has grown into a passion or a passion has devolved to an obsession. How many drinks does it take to move a social drinker into the category of an alcoholic? What is the exact dosage that marks the dividing line between a dabbler in narcotics and a full-fledged drug addict? In actuality, it’s many shades of gray along the descent.</p>
<p class="subsq">Obsession traces a familiar line in my life. I acquired the addictive personality honestly through the example of my family, whether by genetics or behavior. My mother was an alcoholic and died of it in her 70s. Her brother was similarly given to drink, and passed away in his early 50s, alcohol contributing to the early demise of both of the siblings.</p>
<p class="subsq">I am not an alcoholic, as some of my ancestors were. I have never been held hostage to drugs or to drink, and I know my personality too well to allow myself to venture too far down the rabbit hole of casino gambling. I have instead become addicted to a variety of people, hobbies, and activities over the past decades. My overwhelming passion for 11 years, from 2007 to 2018, was the criminal case of the Zodiac serial killer, though this was not my first love.</p>
<p class="subsq">Chess was my passion as a teenager, possibly initiating me into my first bout of obsessive behavior. I was 7 or 8 when I learned the rules from my dad as he instructed my older brother, Andrew. As the second born child, I was shielded from some of the ridicule, criticism, and steep demands that my father expressed in my early years. I incorporated the ancient game into my life as an enthusiastic spectator, without the expectations that were heaped on my brother.</p>
<p class="subsq">I remember asking my dad to play chess one evening when he was home from work. Despite the fact that my mother urged me to approach him, or maybe because of it, my dad yelled at me. He raged that the set was incomplete, a red checkers masquerading as the missing bishop. I didn’t play him that day. I also recall one childhood chess game loss to an adult at a community center in Moosonee, Ontario, one summer during a family vacation. I was around 10 years of age when I boldly asked my opponent for some pointers to improve my game, following my speedy defeat. It may have been the four-move checkmate, the “scholar’s mate,” or some variation of it, to which I had succumbed.</p>
<p class="subsq">In elementary school, I made some friends who were similarly drawn to the game. Classmate Andrew Smith in grade five taught me some strategy that he had learned from a relative or family friend. We often lingered after school to challenge our teacher, Mr. Hikola. We competed in a bicycle-decorating competition for which we taped a chess board and a handful of pieces to the frame of his three-speed. We did not win, but the experience cemented our friendship over the shared hobby.</p>
<p class="subsq">I joined the Scarborough Chess Club, a gathering of young and old men who stared at plastic pieces in a rickety, wooden community hall, and later competed in a few area tournaments during my middle and high school years. I entered an Ontario Open Chess Tournament and a Canadian Open Chess Tournament. In the public competitions, I generally won as many games as I lost. In the final round of one event, my opponent paid me $5.00 to concede an obviously drawn game so he could earn an age-related prize for which I did not qualify.</p>
<p class="subsq">One snowy day in January, when my high school classes were cancelled due to the inclement weather, I took advantage of my freedom and worked through the chess moves recorded in one of the many books I had acquired. (My schoolmates thought it strange that I played the game by myself.) Over time, I built a chess library of more than 50 volumes. I soon began to collect chess sets, specifically one from each country or region of a country I visited, eventually amassing more than 60, including ones made of onyx, ivory, and many different textures and shades of wood.</p>
<p class="subsq">With concerted effort over a decade, I learned to play at an advanced level, nearly achieving the status of Chess Master. I was listed as a top 10 Canadian junior player before I turned 16. When I played a bearded street hustler who wore shabby clothes and loudly broadcast the strength of his “kill-as-you-go gambit” one evening under the watchful eye of my father who had put up $2 for the game, I nearly won. Joe Smolij, a colorful character and fixture of Toronto nightlife, looked me straight in the eye at the end of our open-air match and proclaimed in his thick, Russian accent, “You play like master!” “You play like master!” I was 14 or 15. Later, my father took me to the Café Montmartre, an urban meeting place of chess players. My opponent for the evening, a man who must have been 25 years my senior, forced a draw by a repetition of moves. The game should have been an easy win for me, as I had battled to a large lead. After the game, I exclaimed to my dad, “I’ve never played against the Sicilian Defense in a serious game!”</p>
<p class="subsq">A move to Michigan for college pulled me away from the chess club, and the game I had grown to adore. By that time, I had graduated to another passion that also would grow to another obsession. I would continue to play chess socially, eventually buying an early chess computer and competing with other players online, but never would I pursue the game with the same fierceness and determination. By the time I graduated high school, I was focusing on my spirituality.</p>
<p class="subsq">A series of summer camp positions during my teen years introduced me to Christians who arranged their lives around their faith in Jesus Christ. At the time, I considered church attendance and my Christian school enrollment an important component of my identity, but not something that particularly aroused any passion. I did not question or attempt to understand my inherited beliefs with any depth, but that was about to change for me in the late 1970s.</p>
<p class="subsq">It was the melting pot of Camp Ke-Mon-Oya, a summer scrum of a hundred energetic children and a mixed-aged staff of 30 that challenged any assumptions I had previously held about church. On the scenic property at Lake Chandos, north of Peterborough, Ontario, during long, bright summer days for ten summers in the late 1970s, and 1980s, I rubbed shoulders with, and lived among, Christians from a wide variety of denominations and faiths, including Catholics, Pentecostals, Baptists, and a few smaller denominations. I feared any disagreement—eager to please everyone at that stage in my life—so I accepted most of what I heard regardless of its source.</p>
<p class="subsq">In addition to scurrying from one area of the lush 260-acre camp property to another as we barked orders at distracted children, we swam, played soccer, and assembled masterpieces in the arts and crafts building. I balanced the challenges of being obedient to the camp rules with the hijinks of raids to the girls’ cabins after dark. It was exciting to develop crushes, begin lifelong friendships, and test the physical and emotional limits of my developing body. The entire process was magnified by the long, sunny days, and the close quarters that foster intense relationships. Throughout the experience, I also learned many ideas about which I had never heard.</p>
<p class="subsq">I witnessed staff members who were excited about spiritual things. They enjoyed reading the Bible, and seemed to want to talk about its stories at all hours of the day or night. As a teenager, I was soaking up new concepts like a dry sponge thrown into dishwater. One autumn, upon my return from the camp’s property, I covenanted to read through the entire Bible because I wanted to know its contents for myself. I also began to read books about the Bible.</p>
<p class="subsq">When I moved to Michigan, I matriculated into the engineering program of Calvin College (now Calvin University) on the strength of my math and science ability. By contrast to my father who had earned his bachelor’s in engineering, I did not last long in the department.</p>
<p class="subsq">I was soon feeling unhappy with my provisional career choice. The loneliness I felt for being a great distance from my family was compounded by a seasonal depression brought on by the cloudy, gray Michigan weather. I recall crying in bed one evening, then wandering about the darkened campus in complete despair. I repeated a mantra to myself, “I am nothing; I have nothing.” I felt desolate and empty. In an attempt to assuage the pain, I carefully memorized the words to Psalm 84. Late one Friday afternoon in drafting class, a group of young people gazed in upon me and my peers from the back of the classroom. They apparently spotted their friend who they had traveled to visit, and began to wave their arms wildly. I noticed them and assumed with a deep longing that their attention was directed at me; they were facing me as they eagerly gestured. It was a sad realization for me that they were looking toward a classmate of mine, beyond me, and likely perplexed by the strange student who was waving back at them. I became keenly aware of how little enjoyment I derived from the solo activity of huddling over a drafting table, or working my way through problem sets in mathematics and physics.</p>
<p class="subsq">When asked what type of engineering I intended to pursue, such as chemical or electrical, on more than one occasion, I answered, “theological engineering,” with tongue firmly planted in my cheek. I was less interested in the subjects taught in my classes, and was drawn instead to dorm bible studies and campus fellowship gatherings. Soon, my passion for theology thrust my academic career in a new direction.</p>
<p class="subsq">I signed up for a four-week interim course in eschatology, the study of “the last things” or “the end times.” In preparation, I gathered and read a pile of library books on the subject before the first class even commenced. The lectures and assignments turned out to be weak and uninspiring, because I had covered far more material in my personal reading than the professor even attempted. Additional, after-class discussions were not much more enlightening. While he taught from a decidedly a-millennial perspective, I had become well versed in numerous theological positions, including pre-millennial and post-millennial.</p>
<p class="subsq">After some soul searching, I switched my major to theology. I was now studying in the classroom the passion I had contracted at summer camp.</p>
<p class="subsq">Upon graduation from Calvin with a B.A. in theology in 1983, I had no specific, long-range plans. I considered teaching at the high school level, or engaging in mission work, but the prospect of both of these left me rather cold. I wrestled with an education class where the professor reminded the class that most teenaged students were not grateful for teachers and their assistance, and made it apparent that teaching in high school would never provide me a meaningful and rewarding career. I meandered for about six months weighing my life options. Writing was already on my mind by this time because I was captivated with films and plays. I wanted to create my own screenplay, but at the time I was not equal to the challenge.</p>
<p class="subsq">In the fall of 1983, I returned to Grand Rapids, Michigan from my parent’s home in Toronto to pursue a relationship, and to write the great American screenplay. Unfortunately, neither went as planned. While biking home from campus one fall evening as darkness enveloped the autumn-tinted trees, a plastic bag containing my written material flew from my hands. Dozens of 3 X 5 treatment cards fluttered away from me and covered an intersection in East Grand Rapids like snowflakes on an open field. It was late enough, and absent of traffic, so that I was able to collect most of the cards without incident. The streaks of dirt across my labor bore witness to me of the poor quality of my writing, and my complete dearth of understanding of what I was attempting.</p>
<p class="subsq">That same fall, I made a decision, and received a “call” from God. I enrolled in seminary to embark on a career as a protestant minister in the Christian Reformed Church, the denomination of my college, and the church of my upbringing since 6<sup>th</sup> grade. I now had the certainty I sought—or so I thought. The rigors of seminary spared me from continued effort on the screenplay, and from great embarrassment had I ever attempted to see it through to completion. My girlfriend and I soon parted ways, a painful renting of boundary-less hearts that took me years to accept.</p>
<p class="subsq">During my study at seminary, I first encountered what was destined to become one of my greatest passions, though 20 years would pass before it would take root in the fertile ground of my imagination. I was pursuing a Master of Divinity degree at Calvin Theological Seminary on the same property as my college. In late 1987 or early 1988, I was relaxing one evening with my newest true crime book. My housemate Eric had come up from his basement hermitage to engage me in the living room area where the two of us, and two other students, shared a rented home.</p>
<p class="subsq">It was the custom of the mysterious Eric to emerge from his secluded habitation in the early evening. After a trek to the local convenience store for beer—typically two oversized cans—he would spend the rest of the night plying himself with his purchase until his speech was slurred, and he presumably descended into sleep back down in his basement room. Most nights, he disappeared from sight to enjoy his beer. On occasion, he lounged upstairs to interact with others. I do not now recall whether my odd housemate was also a student, or whether he had already entered the workforce. What I do vividly remember was his eager excitement when he noticed my book.</p>
<p class="subsq">Or perhaps <i>he</i> was the one reading true crime that evening and I was questioning him about his book, which sparked his excitement. The details are dimmed now in the misty corridors of distant memory. However it arose, the topic was of keen interest to the both of us. I would have similar exchanges with many friends and acquaintances over the following decades, but this was one of my first. Since many neither approve of, nor understand, a profound interest in true crime, especially within tight-knit conservative communities, it can be a real joy to find someone who revels in the genre. Today, with the thousands of documentaries and podcasts dedicated to the field, it is much more socially acceptable to be fascinated by, and challenged to understand, the deviant criminals in our society.</p>
<p class="subsq">I shared my reading list with Eric. In that era, I was frequently detouring into the true crime section of bookstores to examine the latest releases. At some point in the conversation, Eric turned to me and asked a question that would change my life forever, “Have you heard of the Zodiac?” (The query may have followed a question about other interesting titles that I could add to my library.) When he learned that I had not, he proceeded to educate me about the San Francisco Bay Area killer of five victims—and possibly many more. I learned the diabolical perpetrator had also written letters to the police, sent ciphers to the press, and had threatened school children with bomb sketches. And he was never caught.</p>
<p class="subsq">I responded with an amalgam of surprise and anger. Not so much because of the appalling deeds—I was by then rather inured to the actions of the most depraved in our society—but because I knew the Bay Area very well and had never heard of the Zodiac.</p>
<p class="subsq">I had just completed a nine-month internship with a medium-sized suburban congregation in Hayward, a Bay Area community to the south and east of San Francisco. I had lost my preaching virginity in the process, even though I did not possess the required preaching license to satisfy the rules of the denominational administrators. Vern, the affable senior pastor under whom I worked at the West Coast church, blithely told me, “It’s a long way to Grand Rapids (the headquarters of the Christian Reformed Church) from here.” Accordingly, during my stay in the region, I delivered a total of five sermons. The disjointed organization of my early efforts, together with my weak delivery as I cowered behind the lectern, left much to be desired. The congregation was very encouraging and infinitely patient.</p>
<p class="subsq">My job description with the church required that I engage with people in the neighborhood. I was the Outreach Pastor, responsible for inviting others to join our worship services, for enfolding new members into the full life of the congregation, and for functioning as a bridge between longstanding families and the church’s newly emerging members. My job enabled me to meet and talk with many, many area residents. Of the hundreds of fascinating and unique Californians I encountered that year, through thousands of conversations, not one single person mentioned to me the name of the serial killer who held court and terrified citizens in every corner of the Bay Area from 1968 to 1974. By 1986, apparently, the murders no longer hung in the air, even as a fleeting memory. The killer was either dead, incarcerated on unrelated offenses, or had moved to greener pastures, as far as most were concerned. No killings had been committed in the prior 17 years, and it had been at least a decade since the last authenticated Zodiac letter arrived by U.S. mail. The fear had evidently dissipated, and was no longer fodder for casual conversation. My position in the church may have made it uncomfortable for others to mention the appalling activities that had tarnished the region’s reputation. They may have falsely assumed that I as a preacher carried no interest in the horrendous actions of a deranged criminal.</p>
<p class="subsq">Now engaging Eric as his speech began to slow, my interest was piqued in a topic that would become near to my heart. The failure of Californians to even mention the events did not deter me from an obsessive quest to engage the crime spree—or from a desire to resolve it. The silence may even have heightened the case’s intrigue.</p>
<p class="subsq">Eric filled me in on as many details as he could recall, and told me about the one publication available at the time. Within three decades of our conversation, there would be three serious motion pictures that would inspire more than 100 books on the subject. The case would spawn television shows, documentaries, podcasts, and magazine articles, in addition to innumerable newspaper stories, a seemingly endless parade of Zodiac products. In the absence of any firm resolution to the case, some believed that anyone’s speculative guess was as good as anyone else’s. The marketplace ensured that any minor piece of circumstantial evidence could and would be packaged by someone bent on bringing a new product to market.</p>
<p class="subsq">Eric’s words penetrated far deeper into my psyche than I realized at the time, and for far longer than I ever would have ever guessed. I was captivated by the details he shared in part because the serial killing case was unsolved. Most of the true crime I was reading at the time covered criminals who had been caught by the time of publication, and whose life was an open book for scrutiny. Following the carefully described details of the murders and the extended investigation, my chosen reading material inevitably lingered long on the tale’s conclusion—an arrest and a successful prosecution usually covered in excruciating detail. The idea of a “modern” high profile-killer that had eluded capture, like Jack the Ripper in London’s East End back in the late 1800s, overtook my imagination. And it had occurred in the United States. And it had happened in California, a region I love.</p>
<p class="subsq">When I finally determined to tackle the case with a conscious and concerted effort in 2007, there were still only a handful of books that even remotely covered the topic, some fictional, the others loose with the case’s facts. I committed myself to reading all that had been written—an exercise that would occupy a few months of my time—and to viewing all the documentaries that had been produced. It took somewhat longer to wade through the hundreds of pages of police reports made available to the public.</p>
<p class="subsq">There have been other passions in my life, but none that ever challenged the huge monoliths of chess, theology, or the Zodiac. I at various times pursued Canadian coins and currency (hoarding the world’s largest collection of 1948 Canadian 10-cent pieces), the acoustic guitar—later, also the electric guitar—and table tennis (ping-pong). I recently found an autobiography I wrote in grade six, which reminded me that I also went through phases of breeding guppies, completing paint by number oil paintings, and learning to play the piano. I also indulged a passion for jogging and competitive long-distance running, which I received from Andrew, my taciturn older brother.</p>
<p class="subsq">One day when I was in grade six, out of the blue, Andrew informed me that he was going for a run with a friend, using a term that I had never heard before: “jogging.” The two had mapped out a course in the neighborhood, and were going to trace its four-mile perimeter. I now suspect that there was a classmate of Andrew’s along the route, some girl who had captured his attention, though I didn’t know about any current love interest, and never saw any young woman that night.</p>
<p class="subsq">When I asked to join them, they warily accepted me, not certain that I could keep up with their pace since I was a full two years younger. The distance proved not to be arduous, and I was barely winded by the time we returned home. It was a great challenge for me to match my brother step for step. In the end, I had succeeded.</p>
<p class="subsq">Andrew and I each began our own regiment of jogging. I assumed that he felt the same joy in the physical activity and the pride of accomplishment that I did, but we never discussed it at any great length. At first, I didn’t track my mileage, or set any goals. Soon, my competitive nature emerged, and over the course of a few years, I bought a bright red jogging suit, received a professional stopwatch for Christmas, and acquired some books about running. I was particularly drawn to the long distances that enabled me to set an easy pace, and lose myself in imagination as I worked through any emotional or intellectual challenges of the day.</p>
<p class="subsq">Soon even very long distances felt comfortable to me. The private elementary school I attended, Immanuel Christian School, which consisted of four classrooms and a couple dilapidated portables, held annual walk-a-thons to help raise tuition money. I spent many hours canvassing our neighborhood to gather sponsors, generous families who would agree to pay even a small amount for every mile I covered. Each fall beginning in grade seven, I ran the entire walk-a-thon course to see if I could complete the distance more quickly than the other participants. It became an annual competition among fellow runners.</p>
<p class="subsq">One year, I was the first person back at the school, having completed the 16-mile course (the distance was also listed as 25 kilometers, as Canada transitioned from the British system to the metric system); the following year, as I tried to match my accomplishment, I made a wrong turn and ran four more miles than required. I had pulled so far ahead of the other runners at the beginning of the course that when I detoured, I was unable hear the shouts of my classmates and the teachers directing me to return. I ran on, oblivious to those who sought to help me. I did not realize that the route had been altered from the previous year. I arrived at the final check point, the school itself, about 15 minutes after the first runners, having covered the few more miles than the “winner.”</p>
<p class="subsq">In high school, at the end of each year, the physical education teacher awarded a small trophy—smaller than a hand and not much bigger than a thumb—to each student who ran 125 miles over the course of the previous school year. It was a ritual designed to encourage physical activity among members of the student body. I dutifully recorded all my jogging sessions, and qualified each of the four years I was enrolled. In my senior year, grade 12, I pushed myself in the final weeks to accomplish the lofty total of 500 miles, four times the necessary distance. Janet, the teacher who awarded the trophies that year, and my colleague at summer camp—we awkwardly transitioned each summer from a teacher-student relationship to that of fellow staff members, then back again—simply announced that some students had run more than the required mileage, some “many more miles.” I was downcast that my name wasn’t specifically mentioned or the details of my effort. I may have hoped to impress my female classmates but I remained anonymous; my long hours unrecognized apart from the tiny trophy that I and a dozen other students were awarded.</p>
<p class="subsq">Three times that school year, I attempted to jog home from my high school, a distance of more than 19 miles. On my first try I only ran for about 10 miles before I acceded to public transportation for the remainder of the journey, hopping on a public bus that was going in the correct direction. I covered 13 miles on my next attempt. It was not until my third and final run that I was successful, and completed the entire 19.5-mile trek without stopping. On one of those runs, one of my school’s buses passed me, a handful of students staring out of the back window as it drove away. I wondered whether the students realized I was bound for Scarborough, and a Plato-like Odyssey.</p>
<p class="subsq">Also in my senior year, I competed in the second annual Toronto Marathon. Partly because I carried no food or sugar—and the checkpoints provided only water—I was only capable of running for the first 20 miles. I walked most of the remaining 6 miles for an elapsed time that exceeded four hours. I was pleased with the certificate that arrived in the mail a few weeks later.</p>
<p class="subsq">That fall, as I began my first semester at Calvin, I sauntered into the office of the track and field coach, hoping to share my running skills with my new school. As I sat in a waiting room and listened to a fellow athlete discuss his strategy for an upcoming event—the runner was worried that two races on the same day would prevent him from posting a good time for the second one, I heard him note, “Sometimes in a second race on the same day, I <i>do</i> run my best time.” When my turn came to speak with the coach, I learned that the upperclassman who had just left competed at a pace that approached a four-minute mile. My times were far too slow to provide any help to the team. I listed my track times, and the coach politely thanked me for visiting.</p>
<p class="subsq">My disappointment in not being fast enough, and the depression brought on by the gray skies of West Michigan, both led me to set aside my sneakers. Running, like table tennis and chess beforehand, had lost a prized place in my life, and was relegated to sporadic eruptions in my usually busy life. But I would never completely forget the tug on my heart that was induced by Eric and his intriguing details of an unidentified California serial killer.</p>
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In Obsessed: My Relentless Pursuit of the Zodiac Killer, Dr. Mark Hewitt invites readers into his gripping journey of unraveling one of America's most enduring mysteries. Dr. Hewitt, an expert on the Zodiac case, shares his transformation from a pastor to a dedicated true crime investigator.
This memoir details Dr. Hewitt's meticulous research, personal encounters, and the profound impact of the Zodiac case on his life. Moving to California reignited his passion, leading him to explore crime scenes and connect with other enthusiasts. His relentless pursuit is not only about the Zodiac but also about understanding the complexities of human nature and the quest for truth.
Obsessed: My Relentless Pursuit of the Zodiac Killer provides a unique blend of personal narrative and investigative insight, offering readers a compelling look at the determination and challenges faced by those who seek to solve cold cases. Join Dr. Hewitt as he navigates the twists and turns of this enigmatic case, shedding light on his life's work and his unwavering commitment to uncovering the truth.
These information documents for each of the official Trade Mark of Quality releases includes the known details for each genuine TMQ title. This includes the TMQ catalogue number, artist, record title, track list, musicians, venue, recording date, master tape and record matrix info and the other particulars for each album.
These information documents for each of the official Trade Mark of Quality releases includes the known details for each genuine TMQ title. This includes the TMQ catalogue number, artist, record title, track list, musicians, venue, recording date, master tape and record matrix info and the other particulars for each album.
These information documents for each of the official Trade Mark of Quality releases includes the known details for each genuine TMQ title. This includes the TMQ catalogue number, artist, record title, track list, musicians, venue, recording date, master tape and record matrix info and the other particulars for each album.
These information documents for each of the official Trade Mark of Quality releases includes the known details for each genuine TMQ title. This includes the TMQ catalogue number, artist, record title, track list, musicians, venue, recording date, master tape and record matrix info and the other particulars for each album.
In Police Pranks, Jokes, and Other Stories Not Suitable for Children, retired Long Beach (California) police officer Richard “Buz” Williams collects nearly one hundred anecdotes of pranks, gags, and other antics played by law enforcement officers on other law enforcement and on suspects. Spanning from the 1930s to the present, Police Pranks shares some of the funniest moments handed down from Williams family, including both grandfathers, his father, great uncle, and cousin (all Los Angeles PD officers), from his time in the Long Beach PD, and from stories collected from other parts of the law enforcement world.
This collection of short stories is a perfect quick read for anyone interested in law enforcement or just a good laugh.
"Prescription for Evil" is the story of the most horrifying FBI case in American medical history. It begins on May 27, 2001, when a nurse in a Kansas City doctor's office sends a vial of chemotherapy medicine called Taxol to a lab. When the results come back on June 12, 2001, it's a shocking revelation. The Taxol sample from the lab contains only about one-third of the amount of medication the doctor had prescribed. This is a dangerous situation because diluted medicine could lead to severe, even deadly consequences.
In September 2001, the FBI starts a new case called "Diluted Trust," which quickly became their top priority under the leadership of FBI Director Robert S. Mueller III. As they dig deeper, they uncover a disturbing truth. A pharmacist named Robert Ray Courtney had been diluting chemotherapy drugs for years, making a huge profit. But the real tragedy lies in the human cost. More than 4,200 patients were affected, with at least 40 known deaths. This was an unprecedented case in American medical history.
"Prescription for Evil" takes you on a heart-pounding journey through the FBI's pursuit of Robert Ray Courtney and the devastating impact he had on thousands of patients and their families. “Prescription for Evil” is a must-read that will keep you on the edge of your seat.
The Search Continues....
Following up on the meticulously-detailed research of HUNTED: The Zodiac Murders (Book 1), PROFILED: The Zodiac Examined (Book 2) goes beyond the case files to develop a comprehensive criminal profile that examines the personality, psychology, physical characteristics, and motives of the Zodiac. Based in the same detailed research of HUNTED, PROFILED sticks to the facts and articulates at every step how the conclusions of the profile were reached.
At the time the Zodiac was committing his crimes, the term “serial killer” had not yet been coined, and psychological profiles were practically unknown. Now, using 21st century crime analytics and a sophisticated understanding of serial killers, it is possible to create a comprehensive profile that may help identify the kind of man who could commit these terrible crimes and get away with it for decades, despite an overabundance of evidence that should have pointed directly to him.
Join the search for the killer as the evidence is compiled and analyzed in PROFILED: The Zodiac Examined.
IT’S TIME TO PUT YOUR CRIME SOLVING SKILLS TO WORK
Just between us, we know you like true crime investigations. You’ve seen every episode, heard every podcast, and now you can name the killer in the first five minutes of that cable show you’re watching… again. But how many times have you yelled at the screen, “YOU GOT IT ALL WRONG!” Well, Barney Doyle is here to tell you that they probably did.
Reckless Speculation about Murder takes on some of the most infamous unsolved cases in recent American history. From the murders of JonBenét Ramsey and Kathleen Peterson to the shootings of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls, your host Barney Doyle will lead you through the evidence, give you all the facts (even the inconvenient ones), and let you decide for yourself who committed these infamous atrocities.
Disregard what you thought you knew about these crimes. Fill up your coffee cup (or wine glass), turn down Forensic Files, and take a fresh look at these notorious murders.
This is the Second Edition with an additional chapter on the Jeffery MacDonald case.
Reverberations: 21 Classic 1950s Rock 'N' Roll Songs That Still Reverberate is a journey through the golden age of rock and roll. This book dives into the stories behind twenty-one iconic songs from the 1950s that have left a lasting impact on music and culture.
From the rebellious energy of "Hound Dog" to the infectious rhythm of "Rock Around the Clock," these tracks defined a generation and continue to inspire artists today. You'll discover how "Tutti Frutti" brought Little Richard's flamboyant style to the forefront and how "Johnny B. Goode" became a rock and roll anthem thanks to Chuck Berry's groundbreaking guitar work.
The Beatles, in their early days, played almost all these songs, showcasing their timeless appeal and influence. Ted Clark's meticulous research and insight offers a fresh perspective on these classics, revealing their origins, the numerous subsequent artists who covered these songs and/or included them on their concert set lists, the movie soundtracks they have appeared on, and why they still resonate with listeners around the world.
The book explores in detail the tremendous impact that songs like “Rock Around the Clock,” “Be-Bop-A-Lula,” “That’ll Be the Day,” and “Summertime Blues” had in the UK. And Clark explains why the artists who sang these songs—Bill Haley, Gene Vincent, Buddy Holly and The Crickets, and Eddie Cochran respectively—are more revered across the pond than they are in the U.S.
Whether you're a lifelong fan of 1950s rock and roll or new to the genre, this book provides a rich and engaging look at the music that started it all. With each chapter, you'll gain a deeper appreciation for the songs that shaped the course of popular music and continue to reverberate through the decades.
The Zombies Are Coming… Again.
Small town Sheriff Penny Miller and her outlaw friend Scratch managed to survive a nuclear blast in Nevada and a brutal attack on their peaceful lodge in Colorado. They head for Los Angeles, looking for a fresh start. It seems the citizens of Southern California remain blissfully ignorant of the coming war. They believe zombies are simply an urban legend.
As usual, there’s no rest for the wicked. When they find themselves in a suspiciously run Malibu rehab facility, Miller can't relax. She knows the gore is about to hit the fan. It seems that Miller can sense when zombies are near. And they’re almost always near.
When all hell breaks loose around them, Miller and Scratch must survive deadly experiments, resist an ongoing government conspiracy, and battle another horde of ravenous zombies. And that’s just for starters.
The Zombies Are Coming… Again.
Small town Sheriff Penny Miller and her outlaw friend Scratch managed to survive a nuclear blast in Nevada and a brutal attack on their peaceful lodge in Colorado. They head for Los Angeles, looking for a fresh start. It seems the citizens of Southern California remain blissfully ignorant of the coming war. They believe zombies are simply an urban legend.
As usual, there’s no rest for the wicked. When they find themselves in a suspiciously run Malibu rehab facility, Miller can't relax. She knows the gore is about to hit the fan. It seems that Miller can sense when zombies are near. And they’re almost always near.
When all hell breaks loose around them, Miller and Scratch must survive deadly experiments, resist an ongoing government conspiracy, and battle another horde of ravenous zombies. And that’s just for starters.
Rise of the Triad follows Sheriff Penny Miller and biker Scratch to California where they are hoping for a rest and a new start. But when they get thrown in a questionable rehab center in Malibu, things could definitely get worse.
Blood Desert is an alternate timeline, set before the outbreak of the zombie virus, where they are more likely to be bitten by blood sucking vampires than slobbering hordes of zombies. Penny and Terrill Lee have to navigate the dangers and the politics of small town life in order to protect the population of Flat Rock from this new threat.
Get this two book set for a great price.
Rock Legends Bundle – Three Groundbreaking Reads, One Epic Journey Through Music History!
Dive deep into rock 'n' roll’s wildest stories and rarest moments with the Rock Legends Bundle—three captivating books that are essential reading for any true music aficionado. At $95 (discounted from $125), this exclusive bundle offers an immersive experience across the music world, bringing readers face-to-face with rock's most iconic moments and enigmatic figures.
Save over 20% on these rock legends’ untold stories when you grab all three books for $95 instead of the full $125!
Here’s what you get in this legendary collection:
🎸 A Pig’s Tale (Click here for more information)Dive into the underground world of bootleg records with A Pig’s Tale, an insider’s account by Ralph Sutherland and Harold Sherrick that uncovers the origins of the Trade Mark of Quality (TMQ) label. This fascinating book chronicles the rise of one of the most famous bootleg labels, known for rare and iconic records from The Beatles to Bob Dylan. With vivid storytelling, behind-the-scenes stories, and original album art by William Stout, A Pig’s Tale provides an unfiltered look into the rebellious spirit and innovative culture that gave fans access to the music they loved—despite industry gatekeeping. For collectors and rock historians, this book is a treasure trove of musical history from the golden age of vinyl.
🎸 Brian Jones: Butterfly in the Park (Click here for more information)Butterfly in the Park is an evocative visual and narrative tribute to the life of Brian Jones, the founding member of the Rolling Stones and a revolutionary force in the music world. With rare and intimate photographs by Michael Cooper, this book captures Brian’s journey as a pioneer of electric blues, an aesthetic visionary, and an androgynous icon of the ‘60s counterculture. Edited by Cooper's son Adam, Butterfly in the Park offers readers a unique perspective on Jones’s life—from the powerful Hyde Park tribute concert following his tragic passing, to his innovative spirit that helped shape rock history. This book is essential for anyone who wants to delve deeper into the mystique of a man who was both a musical and cultural trailblazer.
🎸 Not Just Happy Together (Click here for more information)"Not Just Happy Together: The Turtles from A-Z (AM Radio to Zappa)" offers fans a deep, humorous, and heartfelt exploration of one of rock's quirkiest and most beloved bands. Co-authors Mark Arnold and Charles F. Rosenay!!! celebrate The Turtles’ unique blend of humor and harmony that made songs like “Happy Together” timeless classics. This book goes beyond the hits, covering the band’s journey from 1960s stardom to unforgettable collaborations and everything in between. With personal anecdotes, mini-reviews, and historical tidbits, Not Just Happy Together is essential for any fan looking to relive the era when The Turtles’ charm filled the airwaves.
Why Pay $95? With this bundle, you’re saving over 20% and gaining a collector’s dream set—three books that each tell a unique piece of rock history. Together, they offer a deeply satisfying look at music’s legends, underbelly, and unforgettable personalities. For fans who live for music’s raw stories, this is the ultimate bundle that captures the essence of rock 'n' roll’s glory days.
Whether you're a collector, a superfan, or just discovering rock's greatest legends, this bundle is your backstage pass to music history. Get yours now and own a piece of rock 'n' roll's legacy!
Shipping Note: A Pig's Tale will ship separately.
These information documents for each of the official Trade Mark of Quality releases includes the known details for each genuine TMQ title. This includes the TMQ catalogue number, artist, record title, track list, musicians, venue, recording date, master tape and record matrix info and the other particulars for each album.
These information documents for each of the official Trade Mark of Quality releases includes the known details for each genuine TMQ title. This includes the TMQ catalogue number, artist, record title, track list, musicians, venue, recording date, master tape and record matrix info and the other particulars for each album.
Sebastian Reed is a young, handsome congressman, and heir to a political dynasty. Daria Stewart is the girl who got away. They have tried to forge their own paths and forget their time together on the campaign trail when Daria was the dedicated intern and Sebastian the dashing candidate. Daria escaped to Paris, Sebastian to Washington D.C. Years later, Sebastian has his sights set on the oval office when Daria walks into a high-society party on the arm of Sebastian’s troublesome younger brother, Garrison. In Secrets of the Potomac, author Kimberly Croft spins the tale of Daria and Sebastian as they navigate the dangerous political landscape of Washington D.C. and the path to power. How far will Sebastian go to keep Daria safe from his growing list of enemies?
Dive into the electrifying world of live music through See the Music, the latest photo book by renowned concert and backstage photographer, Brian Blauser. This stunning collection of photographs offers an exclusive glimpse behind the scenes, capturing the raw, unfiltered moments that define unforgettable performances. From the high-energy chaos of the stage to the intimate, candid shots backstage, Blauser’s lens reveals the passion and artistry that pulse through every concert.
Not only does Blauser share his extraordinary photos, but he also invites you into the stories behind the shots. Through personal anecdotes and behind-the-scenes tales, he shares the unforgettable experiences and vibrant personalities that bring each performance to life.
Whether you're a music enthusiast, a photography lover, or simply curious about the inner workings of live performances, See the Music is a captivating journey into the heart of the music scene. Each page pulsates with the energy found only in live shows and the emotions of intimate moments, making this book a must-have for anyone who treasures the magic of music. Feel the beat, see the artistry, and own the experience with Brian Blauser’s remarkable vision.
