The Haunting of the Gemini (19 page)

For the second series of shootings, he had the notes but didn't leave them, he said. “Why should I give them any more clues? I knew everyone's sign. There are no coincidences. He gave me the power of sight, confusion, and terror. The list goes on, Jackie.”

“But why add to the list, Eddie, once you were caught?” I pushed him. “Why confess to shooting somebody in June 1994, months after the police thought you had stopped?”

“I confessed to the June killing. They haven't found the bodies. They just didn't connect it to me. They messed up big time. I had nothing to lie about; why should I? I'm a killer, a natural-born killer. I live to kill.”

As for Patricia, the stabbing didn't fit his pattern—they never would have charged him with that one. So why did he confess to it? I asked.

“I confessed to killing Patricia because she is mine. That's my work of art. It takes a lot to carve someone up. I was proud of my work. There was more, but the bodies went to the city dump, the morgue. No one looked. No one cared.

“I cared enough to collect them all. The faces, the space they took up. They live inside of me now. You may have gotten Patricia out, but you'll have a lot more work, because I have killed many.”

* * *

My battles with Patricia continued. But the more I fought, the more I resisted, the more she'd take over. More nightly travels. More mysterious stains on my feet. More remnants of parties I didn't remember.

Sometimes I actually found myself feeling jealous of her free spirit. That tilted halo and the hands holding a smoke and a bottle. Life was short, baby. Live it up. She had fun where I couldn't. Like with the Christmas decorations. She had made time for Will and had had a great evening. I could barely manage a smile nowadays.

That was another sign that I was slipping further away. I would stare into the mirror and feel my face, trying to hold on to any little detail that would trigger my memory—Jackie's memory—of who I was. My name would sound so unfamiliar. My body would go cold. If I stood still long enough, I would become stiff. The breath would leave my body in little puffs of air that would frost my lips. The thought of death was always there.

NINETEEN

In the decade and a half that Eddie Seda has been in prison, you'd think people would have forgotten about him, especially people with no connection to the crimes, no connection to him before he was caught, no connection even to New York. But that is not the case. He gets letters, all the time, from all over the world. Most of them are from women, and they all want him to write back. They all want to get to know the “real” Heriberto. They all want to know his “side of the story.”

One chatty letter-writer said, “Dear Heriberto. . . I am writting [
sic
] to you for no reason other than to become your Pen Pal/Friend.” She asked if he had hobbies, if he'd had friends growing up, what he used to do for fun. “I have enclosed my photograph that way you have an idea whom your [
sic
] writting [
sic
] with and I'll send more. I really hope you reply and we can become pen pals.” A different letter stated, “I'm a very genuine person and through future correspondence I hope you'll see that for yourself . . . I'm here to listen to whatever you want to tell me and answer any questions you may have for me; I'm very open-minded and always listen with an open heart.”

“I've always been very fascinated in crime and what makes people do the unimaginable,” another letter stated. “Personnally [
sic
] I feel that not many people have taken the time to get to know you on a personal level or see you as the person you are not what your [
sic
] convicted of.” This one at least had the sense to put a post-office box as her return address.

Another one quite cheerfully stated that the author had been corresponding with prison inmates for more than two years and gave him her street address. Ladies, I would not recommend doing this. I asked Eddie once what he would do if he was out of prison and approached by someone like that who wanted to “get to know” him. He told me he'd probably kill her. That went for any of his fans.

The other type of mail that Eddie received came from people looking for a clinical relationship with him, not a personal one—researchers doing studies and surveys about prisoners and so forth. Most of these requests kept to the theme of educating the public. One psychologist sent him a fourteen-page questionnaire that included questions that asked for yes/no or sometimes/always/never responses, ones that required him to rate on a scale of 1 to 7, and a few that would need a written response that shouldn't take more than a paragraph to answer. Though I wholeheartedly agree that the public needs to know how people like Eddie think, sending out a mass questionnaire to serial killers is not helpful. They're just going to bullshit you. Plus, the mind of each one of these serial killers is very different. You can't lump them all together with a series of multiple-choice questions. Each killer is a whole different species.

Eddie does not respond to researchers. But he certainly offered me insight into his attitudes when he forwarded one of these letters on to me. “Just for jokes, Jackie, read this,” he wrote in the top margin of the letter. Underneath that, he continued, “Speaking of jokes, your [
sic
] turning into my kill. Did you go to the park yet?” His handwriting continued down the sides of the page. “That night oh the signs are all in place now. Don't you hate when you feel all the stabbing sharp pains? I can make it better. How many times must you die?” And at the bottom: “And this is the Zodiac speaking again.”

As for the letter, Eddie said, “I used [it] to wipe my ass with.”

Even
America's Most Wanted
approached Eddie, asking him to help them “get a better understanding of what causes some individuals to repeatedly act violently . . . By doing this interview, we think you'll give our national audience a clearer perception of you, your situation, your actions, and why you did what you did.”

At the top of that letter, which Eddie also forwarded to me, he wrote:

Jackie, They think they know me, HA HA HA which one—

* * *

Eddie called.

“It's time to take notes, Jackie. Who am I to you? Who am I to the world?”

I started to speak.

“No,” he said, “don't interrupt me. I showed you things only others can imagine. Yes, I do exist! You can lock me up tight with chains, shackles, thick bars, and barbed wire. Tell me when to sleep and wake. Give me rancid food. And guess what? It doesn't affect me. I live in this world, as imperfect as I am. By eye, one can't tell. By actions, I brought people closer to God. Oh, God save me as I plunge the knife in your chest, and only then will the devil get his credit. Only then will the word
evil
, pure evil, be printed across every headline. The Zodiac strikes again! And yes, again!

“Believe, Jackie . . . believe in me. I am one of the many that have been set out into the world by the blood of the devil. I blow in the winter wind, bloom with the spring flowers, set beautiful sunsets. I move through the parks of laughing children and sit in the dark, curtains drawn.”

He was enjoying himself. “I laugh at the public thinking I did what I did out of frustration. Psychiatrists trying to diagnose me—first you must go to hell. Then priests fearing me. Oh, they knew they weren't authorized to cast the devil out. The collar didn't make them strong. Their faith was weak.”

I stopped trying to break into his barrage of words.

“When you're walking and feel the crowd thin . . . You pick up your pace, looking behind, hoping it was just your imagination . . . It was I! It was easy. Even the police didn't want to believe.” He cackled. “My notes to them were just a prank. Child's play. That's right. Ignore what's in your face—the shootings, the letters . . . someone just whacking off on those pigs. I was right in their face at all times. My master protected me, controlling the situation.

“How can we convince the public of such dark forces if the police and homicide detectives didn't want to open their eyes to my existence? Why didn't they listen to my coming, my warning, all my notes? It's fear of the truth.

“I will tell you why. I only am seen when it is convenient. When those holy people run to church at times of need, repenting their own sins to feel better. Only then will the word
devil
pass their lips . . .”

He was on a roll, talking faster and faster.

“I lay on my cement slab of a bed, looking up at the cement-and-cinder-block ceiling, all snug like a slimy slug—oops, I mean bug. Ha. Just thinking how many children all over the world are in bed. The lights go out, you hold your little fingers around the blanket, pulling it up easy, ever so easy . . . knowing that monster under the bed lives.

“You're alone now, sweat coming down your face. Your eyes squeeze tight. You open them just a crack, waiting to witness what every child knows—the good and evil. You feel me. You smell me. You see a little shadow on the wall. You scream. Mommy! Daddy! Your parents run in, turning on the light, coming to your aid. Your big, brave dad, who every kid thinks is his hero, says, ‘It's okay, I'm here now.'”

He switched focus for a moment. “For me, I never met my father, nor do I care. I never even asked what his name was. Even as a child, it didn't matter to me. I had a mission—yes, I shall grow to collect the souls and wear my mask well.”

Then it was back to those childhood fears that everyone had, except him.

“He looks under your bed just to ease your little mind. ‘See, nothing at all!' He checks the closet, moving things around. He should have looked over his shoulder. Your mother holds you tight, comforting you. All along, you know the truth! You believe! You're put back to bed with a kiss. That's the thing I count on! That's right . . .”

I was listening to one of the most evil creatures of our time. He pulled out that powerful book and scratched his name in it. He wrote a chapter in hell, and I don't know if it's finished.

* * *

When I was eight years old, my dad and I took the family station wagon to town to run some errands. That car always seemed huge to me . . . until he got in it. Once my father fit his giant body inside, it became compact, like a circus car, his head almost touching the top. I held back a laugh when I saw him crouching behind the wheel. He turned to smile at me as I sat on the seat with my knees up against my chest, and my rope belt caught his eye. It was part of my standard uniform, which included scuffed jeans and T-shirts. I was more tomboy than not, and he always let me be.

His eyes met mine, and I could read his thoughts right then as easily as if they were printed on paper.
Someday, she'll need that rope.
I thought back.
Yes, Dad, I know I will.
He grabbed my hand and spoke aloud: “Never let go, Jackie. Do you understand? Remember the things you'll someday need.”

I thought that over as we continued toward town. We passed the swamp, and the children who were always there waved at me as we drove by. I never waved back because I knew they were dead, and I wasn't quite sure how my father would react to my acknowledging dead people. That was why I sat with my legs up on the seat—so I could hide my head between my knees when the ghosts came around. But having to ride past the swamp was worth it if I got to hang out with my dad. Going to the supermarket with him was always an adventure, and most of the time it even got me a piece of Bazooka bubble gum. I loved those big pink bricks and their wrappers with the comics inside.

I was thinking about that treat when I got out of the car in the hot parking lot. I walked around to the driver's side of the car and stopped at the expression on my dad's face. Then I followed his gaze. He was staring at the poor box.

That's what we called it, anyway. It was the huge, dark-green metal collection box for the Salvation Army, and it sat in the supermarket parking lot. It was about six feet tall and four feet wide, and today, it was making noises. I walked slowly toward it, looking back and forth from it to my dad. I heard movement and rustling coming from inside it. From the look on his face, I knew he had, too.

“Come on,” he said, waving me on. “Just walk past it, Jacks.”

Whatever was inside the box seemed to hear my footsteps. I could sense its awareness that I was coming near.
Don't talk . . . She's coming closer . . . She could hear us . . .
I wanted desperately to get out of there.

My dad bent down to my eye level. “Look at me, and just walk. Don't run. Never run.”

The box, solid metal, began to move from side to side. Then all the voices in it spoke at once—millions of them, chattering and whispering. I leaped into the arms of my best protector and buried my head in his shoulder, hoping he would whisk me off to safety in the store. Instead, he sat me down on the hood of the station wagon and unhooked my gripping hands from his shirt.

“You will learn,” he said, “when you run past the fear, it has won. When you run, it runs faster. When you hide, it only lets you think you got away.”

His words sank in, leaving an impression that would last me a lifetime. I stared over his shoulder at the box and closed my eyes. My mind went inside, through the many layers of clothing, to look for the bodies that went with the voices. But all I found were the residues left behind on the belongings of others. The fragments of their lives. I opened my eyes and looked at my father.

I knew I had no place to hide.

* * *

I was on my way into Manhattan, off to catch the express bus a few blocks from my house. I tried to ignore the noise around me. So many people bustling by, with so many thoughts and disappointments I tried so hard not to hear. I was attempting to tune it all out when I turned the corner and saw it. The poor box. Sitting in the middle of a city block in Brooklyn. I stopped short and stared. It was the same—same dark-green paint, same iron handle and mailbox-type slot for sliding in the donations. The sticker on the side was half-torn and scratched. It read only “Salvation”—the “Army” was missing.

I was getting jostled and pushed by pedestrians trying to get around me. No one seemed to notice the box. I walked forward, stopped in front of it, and put my ear against the side. Like that last time, so long ago, I could hear movements and voices. I closed my eyes, trying to separate the noises of the passersby around me from those inside the container. Everything slowed to a halt, and the air around me changed. It felt like an invisible bed sheet twisting and twirling around me, sharp snaps like a whip slapping my face.

Then I heard a growl, and the sound of something crawling up the inside of the box. The handle began to move, and the slot opened wide enough for me to see eyes looking out at me and hear a little girl's voice. She pleaded for help and started crying softly, but she didn't move. A small back corner of my brain said that she couldn't be real—for example, any real child stuck in this kind of prison would be hysterical and screaming. I looked around. No one even glanced at me as they walked by, and certainly no one stopped and offered to help. I turned back. Screw it. It was obvious that this was meant for me. I opened the slot wider and stuck my arm in, trying to grab the girl.