be recognized by the investigators. The again . . . perhaps the investigators of that period may have lacked the present-day sophistication to have recognized the absence of such items from the scenes.”
But what was there? A pile of recipe cards that had words humorously misspelled, a slip of yellow paper and a Zodiac Sea Wolf Watch the detectives had expected to find. They anticipated clippings on Zodiac; they were there. A serial killer who craved publicity would be compelled to keep cuttings of his newspaper appearances. He not only had videotapes of news programs mentioning Zodiac, but had retained a copy of the return of service of a search warrant Toschi had handed him in 1972. Allen had smiled then, as if he knew a joke that the police did not.
I thought of Lynch’s anonymous tip in 1969. Without that tip, Leigh would not have been a suspect until he spoke freely to the three detectives at the oil refinery. He seemed to want to interact with the police, and enjoyed it when he has finally a suspect. What if Leigh had turned himself in? If not, who had been the tipster?
“I probably hadn’t seen Leigh in twenty-five of thirty years,” Kay Huffman told me later. “I hadn’t kept in touch. I knew he had been down in Atascadero and I knew what for. And that blew me away because I had had no inkling of anything like that. Harold and Leigh had gone to an air show and he brought him home here. There was this little old man. I don’t know what happened to the young vigorous person I knew, but he wasn’t there anymore. Now the diabetes had made him look terrible and aged. I was devastated for days afterward. I couldn’t believe it was the same person.
“My dad was very ill too and so I’d go up to Vallejo to visit him. I usually did that about every other weekend and if Leigh was in, I’d stop by and visit him a little bit. The first time I stopped by, he wanted to tell me about how he had burglar-proofed the house ’cause there had been a break-in. Then he wanted to know if I wanted to see the guns and knives he kept in the basement room his mother built for him. We used to call it ‘The Dungeon.’ I looked at him and said, ‘That isn’t what I came to see. I came to see you.’ And he says, ‘You don’t want to talk about my guns?’ ‘No, I don’t want to talk about them and I dont want to see them ever.’”
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