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.
Charlotte Wilson is an investigative journalist reporting on a global pandemic that seems to have no identifiable cause. When she is contacted by the COO of a multinational biotech company claiming he has the answer to what’s making people sick, Charlotte and her producer Nick start dreaming of Pulitzers and national syndication.
But as she begins to uncover the truth, Charlotte discovers she is at the center of a conspiracy that is 12 years in the making, one that touches every part of her professional and personal life. Millions of lives depend on her breaking the news, but the story is so big, will anyone believe it? Charlotte may not live long enough to find out.
Steven Booth’s The Orchard is many things – an intriguing mystery, an intense suspense tale, a terrifyingly plausible bio-thriller – but overall it’s just plain great. Pick it up at your own risk. You’ll be in its grip from the first page to the last…and thinking about it long after you put it down.
—Steve Hockensmith, author the Holmes on the Range mysteries and The White Magic Five and Dime
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SMITTY: My Marriage to Serial Killer Charles Schmid, the Pied Piper of Tucson unveils an unforgettable tale of love, betrayal, and survival. Diane Schmid thought she had found her Prince Charming when she met Charles Schmid, a charismatic and mysterious man who swept her off her feet as a teenager in the mid-1960s. But her fairytale quickly unraveled when her husband was arrested for multiple shocking murders that captured national attention.
Set against the backdrop of a rapidly changing America, this deeply personal memoir recounts Diane’s journey from a young girl in love to a woman facing unimaginable revelations. Through vivid memories and unflinching honesty, Diane reveals how she navigated a life overshadowed by her husband’s heinous crimes while striving to protect her family and find peace.
Written with co-author Marshall Terrill, this book offers a unique perspective on one of the most infamous cases in American history, shedding light on the devastating human cost of living with such a dark secret. Blending gripping storytelling with heartfelt reflection, SMITTY captures the strength of a survivor who chose to share her voice after decades of silence.
SMITTY is a compelling and haunting read for those who seek a deeper understanding of resilience in the face of unthinkable events.
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<h1 class="center" id="c2">Prologue</h1>
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<div class="indent">Jolo, Sulu Archipelago</div>
<div class="indent">The Philippines</div>
<div class="indent">The Battle of Bud Bagsak</div>
<div class="indent">July 15, 1913</div>
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<h2 class="center sigil_not_in_toc">Day Four</h2>
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<div>It was like being wide awake and being caught in the middle of a nightmare.</div>
<div class="indent">How many hours had it been?</div>
<div class="indent">He wished he knew. It was as if time itself had stopped.</div>
<div class="indent">The sweat poured out of Jim Bishop so copiously that it felt like a steady stream of water being poured over his face. His eyes burned and he had to keep blinking to try and clear his vision, but it was no use. The cloying moisture clung to his eyelids. His lips tasted the constant saltiness. It was their third trip up the mountain that day, and once again, their advance stalled as the crater came alive once more. One moment it was all green bushes, thick shrubbery, and clusters of trees and temporal placidity, and the next instant it gave way to a surging wave of brown men dressed in red loincloths and accompanying red headbands, their veins bulging out in bas-relief along limbs bound tight by constricting ligatures and vines. The Moros, or the <i>pulajans</i> as the Filipino Scouts called them, seemed to rise up from behind every bush, every tree, virtually from the dark earth itself. The surge of humanity descended from the lip of the crater, brandishing their razor-sharp <i>talibongs</i>. The rhythmic chant, “<i>Tac-tac, tac-tac, tac-tac</i>,” sounded in unison like an advancing drumbeat.</div>
<div class="indent">Tac-tac, tac-tac, tac-tac—Tagalog for Cut-cut, cut-cut, cut-cut.</div>
<div class="indent">And that’s what they did.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim stopped and raised the muzzle of his Winchester 1897 shotgun, racking the slide back and then forward to chamber a round.</div>
<div class="indent">The man next to him, a young lieutenant who’d just arrived in the country two weeks ago, turned and darted to his right toward the cover of a cluster of trees perhaps ten yards away. From the corner of his eye Jim saw the young officer’s foot snare the elongated vine trigger.</div>
<div class="indent">“Sir,” Jim yelled, taking his eye off the enemy for a split second. “Don’t move!”</div>
<div class="indent">But his warning was a millisecond too late.</div>
<div class="indent">The vine trigger snapped and released a twisted branch in a horizontal arc, sending a row of sharpened spikes into the lieutenant’s body with a sickening thump.</div>
<div class="indent">The officer cried out, but the sound was reduced to a pathetic gurgle as he went limp, bouncing off the branch and flopping down onto his back. A trio of gaping holes, already filling with blood, was stitched across the front of his brown uniform shirt. His legs convulsed, like he was still on his feet, still trying to move away, but with each movement more blood and slithering intestines seeped out of his wounds.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim ran to the man, but could tell he was dying.</div>
<div class="indent">He wanted to offer some comfort, some assurance that it would be all right, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie. A few seconds later, he saw that it didn’t matter anyway. Vacuous eyes, still wide open from the shock, stared directly upward, unflinching under the unbearably bright sun as it shone down.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>Dead</i>, Jim thought.</div>
<div class="indent">There was no time for sentiment or mendacious words</div>
<div class="indent">The ominous mantra continued unabated: “Tac-tac, tac-tac, tac-tac . . .”</div>
<div class="indent">The Moros were almost upon them. The sons of bitches were savages, fighting with bows and arrows and spears and traps. They had some guns, but not a lot, and those huge talibong knifes could chop you apart with one solid swing. They gave no quarter, nor did they expect any. Worst yet, they kept the families with them like human shields—old men, women, children. It was sickening.</div>
<div class="indent">Shots rang out to Jim’s left.</div>
<div class="indent">From his kneeling position by the dead lieutenant, he raised the shotgun, aimed at the nearest advancing <i>pulajan</i>, and pulled the trigger. The double-aught buck load ripped into the Moro’s side, tearing a large swath of skin and a hunk of meat away. The Moro stumbled for two steps as his mouth twisted into a scowl, the talibong still raised above his head.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>Damn, these Moros are tough</i>, Jim thought as he worked the slide and chambered another round. The oblong blade caught a glint of sunlight for a moment before descending in an oblique arc.</div>
<div class="indent">The shotgun discharged again and this time the pulagam went down, enveloped in a crimson mist.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim felt the flecks of blood and body tissue dapple his face as the world suddenly went silent for several seconds.</div>
<div class="indent">Another one came at him.</div>
<div class="indent">A shotgun boomed off to his left.</div>
<div class="indent">Larry Rush was next to Jim now, the trail of smoke trickling upward from his shotgun muzzle as the advancing Moro’s head exploded like a muskmelon struck by an axe handle. The man did an awkward, headless pirouette as he went down. Rush chambered another round and moved next to Jim.</div>
<div class="indent">“The lieutenant dead?” Rush asked. He was shouting, but his voice still sounded far away.</div>
<div class="indent">Far away . . .</div>
<div class="indent">If only they could all be far away.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim grunted a response as he sighted in on another rushing Moro and fired.</div>
<div class="indent">Three more advanced from the left. Rush swiveled and blasted one, but the second one did a stutter-step, leaned back, and hurled a long bamboo spear. It sailed toward them. The next instant Rush dropped his weapon and grabbed his thigh as the pointed tip of the spear tore through the inner part of his pant leg. He toppled over, his eyes rolling back into his head.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim turned and fired. The rounds took down the assailant, but two more were closing in on them. He fired once more. One of the oncoming Moros took the hit in the side, but kept advancing, taking three slack steps before collapsing. Jim racked the slide back and then forward, chambering what he knew was his last remaining round, and fired again. The blast hit the closest man. He jerked forward, then curled into a fetal position as he fell to the ground.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>No more ammo</i>, Jim thought, gripping the Winchester’s hot barrel and stock. Despite the overheated metal searing his skin, he managed to bring the rifle up just in time to block the descent of another Moro’s two-foot-long talibong. The solid blade chunked into the wooden slide, splintering it. Jim twisted the rifle free and simultaneously rammed the base of the stock into the Filipino’s face. The man’s jaw jerked out of alignment and he paused just long enough for Jim to kick him in the groin as hard as he could. The Moro grimaced but drew back the large knife, ready to take another deadly swing.</div>
<div class="indent">A split-second burst of fire and smoke whipped between them, and the Moro’s head snapped to the side as a shot rang out. Rush had managed to pull out his long-barreled Colt .45 revolver and fire it. Jim dropped the Winchester and drew his own revolver. Cocking back the hammer, he fired at the next group of advancing Moros. A burst of red blossomed on one man’s upper torso, just under his clavicle, but that didn’t stop him. A diagonal constricting loop of twine bisected the man’s chest, limiting the bleeding and enabling him to keep moving. Jim adjusted his aim, lining up the rear, M-shaped sight on the revolver with the single bar of the tip of the barrel.</div>
<div class="indent">“Keep them damn sights flat across the top,” his drill sergeant had yelled at him in basic training.</div>
<div class="indent">He squeezed the trigger. His next round pierced his adversary’s right eye.</div>
<div class="indent">He fired four more times with undetermined results. The short, sweaty bodies kept coming, like a brown tidal wave capped with red. Jim turned to reach for Rush’s gun but saw his was empty, too.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>The lieutenant</i>, Jim thought. He sidestepped to the right and knelt beside the fallen officer. His fingers scrambled to undo the dead man’s flap holster before feeling a textured grip. He pulled the weapon out and saw it was one of those new 1911 semiautomatic pistols, something only a few of the officers had. They were supposedly sitting in crates in New York Harbor or someplace, their distribution to the troops in the Philippines delayed by yet another layer of bureaucratic inefficiency. It was rumored that a few, a very few, of the officers had managed to sneak a special shipment in, and that was apparently true. The magazine purportedly held seven rounds, but Jim had never fired one.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>No time like the present to learn</i>, he thought as he brought the pistol up, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.</div>
<div class="indent">Nothing.</div>
<div class="indent">In desperation he cocked back the hammer and tried again.</div>
<div class="indent">The next trio of Moros was almost on top of them.</div>
<div class="indent">The hammer clacked down and still the weapon didn’t fire.</div>
<div class="indent">Was it a dud?</div>
<div class="indent"><i>No</i>, he thought. <i>It’s just like a shotgun.</i> <i>There’s no round in the chamber.</i></div>
<div class="indent">Gripping the row of vertical lines on the rear of the slide, he racked it back, felt it catch, and then whip forward.</div>
<div class="indent">The Moro was raising his talibong over Rush’s supine body when this time the Colt’s round pierced the area just under the pulagam’s left armpit. The Moro fell like a marionette whose strings had been abruptly severed. Jim adjusted his aim and fired two more rounds, putting one into each of the advancing would-be killers. He dropped to one knee and frantically searched the dead lieutenant’s pouch for more magazines.</div>
<div class="indent">Suddenly the sound of distant thunder rumbled accompanied by a screaming sound. Another set of rumbles along with more whistles and a burst of explosions echoed further up the ridge, by the mouth of the crater.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>Artillery</i>, Jim thought. <i>Blackjack’s got the 40th zeroed in on them</i>.</div>
<div class="indent">He felt a surge of hope as the area along the lip of the crater, where he knew the last Moro stronghold was, erupted in more roiling clouds of dust.</div>
<div class="indent">The Moro advance suddenly halted, their heads rotating back toward the spiraling dust clouds farther up the hill, their eyes widening in horror.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim knew their families, the women, the children, the elderly, were all up there in this last cotta. They had nowhere left to run. Orders were to wipe them all out.</div>
<div class="indent">A company of Filipino Scouts, their brown uniforms drenched with sweat, streamed forward from the right flank and the left, their rifles barking fire, their bayonets fixed. They’d taken the brunt of the Moros’ attacks before and now they’d regrouped. From the look on their faces, no quarter would be given.</div>
<div class="indent">Nor none expected.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>Thank God</i>, he thought. <i>Maybe this nightmare is going to be over with now.</i></div>
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<div class="center">***</div>
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<div class="indent"><i>Historical Note</i></div>
<div>The final siege then started at seventeen-hundred-oh-five hours. Three hours later it was over.</div>
<div class="indent">Or was it?</div>
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1913. Veteran Jim Bishop takes a job with a motion picture company that is filming a movie based on a famous western gunfight. As the filming proceeds, Jim begins to wonder what really happened in Contention City, Arizona, those thirty-three years ago.
1880. In the actual Contention City, Sheriff Lon Dayton is contacted by the notorious Dutch Bascom regarding the territorial governor’s proclamation of amnesty for Bascom and his gang. Dayton has no choice but to walk the tightrope balancing the alleged intentions of the outlaws against the promises of the unscrupulous politicians and railroad men who claim to be in favor of the outlaw’s surrender. But are they really?
The Hardcover Edition of 52 Weeks—52 Sherlock Holmes Novels includes more than 100 pages of additional essays and other bonus material. Full Color.
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More than just a year's worth of Sherlock-related reading, 52 Weeks—52 Sherlock Holmes Novels is a multi-personal look at fifty-two of the best Sherlockian pastiches. Each of the invited contributors, ranging from Sherlockian scholars to passionate devotees, have gone beyond the simple facts of plots and authors to give readers their personal insight or connection to their chosen novel.
In 52 Weeks—52 Sherlock Holmes Novels, fans of the world’s greatest detective, be they expert or novice, will find refreshingly original observations on established favorites as well as new contributions to the endlessly expanding Sherlockian universe. So settle in with whatever your version is of a comfortable armchair, a roaring fire, and a clay pipe filled with shag tobacco from a Persian slipper and lose yourself in the unique journey of 52 Weeks—52 Sherlock Holmes Novels.
This is the new Fourth Edition, with extra chapters and more details on this beloved song.
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Discover the song that shocked the nation!
Unravel a Musical Mystery: Discover the rich history of "St. James Infirmary," one of the most enduring and influential jazz-blues songs, tracing its roots from folk traditions to its modern cultural impact.
Dive into Jazz Era Intrigue: Follow a cast of fascinating characters—musicians, moguls, and minstrels—who shaped the song and left their mark on American music and culture.
Meticulously Researched, Wryly Told: Authored by Robert W. Harwood, this book blends humor, scholarly rigor, and vivid storytelling to illuminate the song’s origins, evolution, and mysterious allure.
Praise from Critics and Scholars: Called "the definitive statement on the subject," the book has been lauded for its compelling narrative and cultural insight by music historians and fans alike.
A Must-Read for Music Lovers: Whether you're a jazz enthusiast, history buff, or curious reader, this is a fascinating exploration of music’s power to inspire, unite, and endure.
This is the full color paperback edition. If you're looking for the black and white hardcover edition, click HERE!
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.
Looking for the Ebook? CLICK HERE!
From the Low Countries comes a high-stakes collection of crime fiction.
In Dutch Treats, the shadows stretch long and the tension runs deep. This gripping collection brings together twenty-one stories by some of the most celebrated crime writers in The Netherlands and Flanders—authors whose names are household words in Europe and whose work has won top awards like Holland's Golden Noose and Belgium's Hercule Poirot Prize.
These stories are sharp, surprising, and expertly told. Each is a stand-alone mystery, translated with care by editor Josh Pachter, a well-known name in the world of short crime fiction. They explore everything from quiet deception to bold, dangerous choices—with characters who are clever, reckless ... and sometimes just unlucky.
This isn’t merely one more mystery collection. It’s a showcase of major talent, featuring heavy hitters like René Appel, Michael Berg, Dominique Biebau, Bavo Dhooge, Hilde Vandermeeren, and Marion Pauw, to name a few. Their stories have appeared in the world’s most respected mystery magazines, and now, for the first time, they’re gathered in one exciting volume.
For readers who enjoy clever plots, moody settings, and a fresh perspective on crime, Dutch Treats is an unforgettable read.
Learn how to spot the signs of truth—and deception.
Have you ever watched someone speak and thought, “Something feels off”? Whether you’re talking to a friend, watching a news interview, or trying to understand a high-profile case, this book gives you the tools to see what’s really going on.
In Uncover the Truth, Mike Ruggiero shares techniques he’s used throughout his 30-year career in law enforcement to evaluate body language and the way people speak. You’ll learn how small changes in posture, word choice, and even eye contact can reveal what someone might be hiding.
This book is filled with real examples—from major cases in Mike’s career to stories in the public eye. Step by step, he explains how to look for clues that often go unnoticed and how to make sense of them.
Whether you’re in law enforcement, work with people every day, or are simply curious about human behavior, these skills can help you better understand the world around you—and the people in it.
Looking for the Paperback? CLICK HERE!
Up-and-coming Amsterdam lawyer David Driessen thinks he’s hit the jackpot when a wealthy client showers him with praise, glamour, and plenty of money. But David learns far too late that every gift from the shady realtor comes with a catch—and a price tag. As his gambling addiction, his constant need for cash, and his wife’s infidelities combine to drag him deeper and deeper into his client’s twisted world of money and despair, David struggles to stay ahead of it all… before his time runs out.
In The Amsterdam Lawyer, René Appel—two-time winner of the Golden Noose, the Netherlands’ equivalent of the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Allan Poe Award—once again demonstrates the skill that led leading Dutch daily newspaper Algemeen Dagblad to proclaim him “the godfather of the Dutch psychological thriller.”
“A fascinating novel, bubbling over with greed, mistrust, and ruthlessness.” Gijs Korevaar, Algemeen Dagblad
"René Appel is a first-rate Dutch crime writer. The Amsterdam Lawyer is a compelling and twisted legal thriller, the first of what will hopefully be many of his books to appear in English." Steve Steinbock, reviewer for Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
The Amsterdam Lawyer is translated from the Dutch by Josh Pachter.
Looking for the Paperback? CLICK HERE!
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. But when one of his professors offers to send American grad student Jack Farmer to Europe to do historical research in Amsterdam’s Begijnhof—a peaceful closed community in the heart of the bustling Dutch capital—Jack looks forward to a summer of mostly play and not much work. Then he meets Jet Schilders, an attractive young nurse who takes care of the elderly woman next door, and realizes that his summer in The Netherlands might just turn out to be even more fun than he'd hoped.When the woman next door is brutally murdered, though, and her nurse turns out to be the prime suspect, Jack and Jet join forces in an attempt to find the real killer and clear her name. But their investigation puts them in Dutch with the local police, and a second murder raises the stakes … and paints a target on both of their backs.“Dutch Threat has wit, charm, and lovely crisp prose—everything that’s great about Josh Pachter’s short fiction. His debut novel was a long time coming, and it was well worth the wait!" —Tom Mead, author of Death and the Conjuror and The Murder Wheel
This is the Ebook edition of Hunted: The Zodiac Murders
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The Zodiac serial killer claimed the lives of at least five young victims between 1966 and 1974, and mocked the police with telephone calls, taunting letters, and encrypted messages. Thousands of men have been accused; nearly 2,500 have been investigated. Yet the Zodiac has never been identified.
This painstakingly researched and meticulously detailed compendium to the Zodiac serial killer case by True Crime author Mark Hewitt presents the crimes and their effect on a community, including the various sides of the many disputed issues within the case.
HUNTED: The Zodiac Murders is the true story of America's greatest criminal mystery. This indispensable companion book is accessible to anyone interested in joining the pursuit, exploring a mystery, or witnessing the police response to an appalling crime spree.
Looking for the Ebook? CLICK HERE!
Up-and-coming Amsterdam lawyer David Driessen thinks he’s hit the jackpot when a wealthy client showers him with praise, glamour, and plenty of money. But David learns far too late that every gift from the shady realtor comes with a catch—and a price tag. As his gambling addiction, his constant need for cash, and his wife’s infidelities combine to drag him deeper and deeper into his client’s twisted world of money and despair, David struggles to stay ahead of it all… before his time runs out.
In The Amsterdam Lawyer, René Appel—two-time winner of the Golden Noose, the Netherlands’ equivalent of the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Allan Poe Award—once again demonstrates the skill that led leading Dutch daily newspaper Algemeen Dagblad to proclaim him “the godfather of the Dutch psychological thriller.”
“A fascinating novel, bubbling over with greed, mistrust, and ruthlessness.” Gijs Korevaar, Algemeen Dagblad
"René Appel is a first-rate Dutch crime writer. The Amsterdam Lawyer is a compelling and twisted legal thriller, the first of what will hopefully be many of his books to appear in English." Steve Steinbock, reviewer for Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
The Amsterdam Lawyer is translated from the Dutch by Josh Pachter.
In this new collection, David Dean—Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine’s longtime favorite author—brings you the Edgar Award nominated “Tomorrow’s Dead,” along with ten other short stories of crime and suspense. This master of short fiction has entertained readers for decades with his suspenseful stories, and for the first time ever you can read them back-to-back.
Tomorrow’s Dead and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense takes the reader through mysterious misdeeds that will bring you to the edge of your seat… or have you hiding under your covers. In these arresting short stories, David Dean’s characters find themselves in sticky, often illegal, situations that shift at every turn. From the chief of police being blamed for a series of murders to long lost siblings on quests for revenge, these stories will leave you wanting more. Luckily, the next Collection is on its way soon!
Dawn is a rebellious girl skilled in secrecy.
Zander is a sullen boy armed with a fiery temper.
Dr. Duncan Bright treats patients who invent lovers, struggle with addiction, and constantly challenge and berate him. His dedication to guiding his clients through the turmoil of life is tested when he meets teenagers Dawn and Zander—their escalating violence and erratic behavior become his greatest challenge.
When a body is found in Central Park, Dawn and Zander are the prime suspects, and the police come to the psychologist for his insight. As he is drawn deeper into the investigation, his professional and personal lives become jeopardized.
Dawn’s Web, a gritty, page-turning psychological thriller, explores the twisted minds of Dr. Bright’s patients, the motives of murderers, and his own flawed intentions.
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.
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<p class="alignment-block-content-center"><img src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0301/3604/1571/files/OBSESSED-Kindle.jpg?v=1726845910" alt="" /></p>
<div id="chapter-1" class="element element-bodymatter element-container-single element-type-chapter element-with-heading" role="doc-chapter" epub:type="chapter">
<div class="heading heading-container-single heading-size-full heading-format-full heading-alignment-flexible heading-without-image">
<div class="heading-contents">
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<div class="title-block">
<h1 class="element-title case-upper"><span class="element-number-term">CHAPTER</span> <span class="element-number-number">1</span></h1>
</div>
<h2 class="element-subtitle case-upper">ENCOUNTERING THE ZODIAC</h2>
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</div>
</div>
<div class="text" id="chapter-1-text">
<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>
</div>
<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.
