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THE NUMBERS MANCHAPTER ONE
October 11, 1969 The sirens were closer now and loud in a raw way Hawke felt along his spine. He pushed off the rock wall and started across the playground toward the street, expecting a fire or car accident, but saw only a man running toward him, not really running, more like chugging along the way heavy guys do, then slowing to a walk as a police car came around the corner. The cops pulled in fast alongside him and Hawke stopped under a streetlight to watch. He took a quick look back across the dark playground for his older brother. This could be fun. But nothing happened. The officers stayed in their car and the guy seemed to be giving them directions. When they drove off, he stared down the street at Hawke, who gave it right back to him, letting him know he'd seen him running even if the cops hadn't. He heard the voice of his dad, a San Francisco cop, saying, no grown man ever runs without a reason. But when the guy started toward him, Hawke left the streetlight. He headed back into the darkness of the playground and the rock wall where he'd been waiting for his older brother, Donny. He watched the playground entrance and though he was only a tall skinny fifteen year old, when the man entered the playground and came at him, he squared around to face the guy. "What do you want?" Hawke asked, and the guy didn't answer. He took a step closer to Hawke and pulled his right hand from his coat. Then a motorcycle cop turned down Cherry and came at them. The headlight soon cut a bobbing arc through the thin fog over the playground asphalt and when the light touched them, the man ran. He went crashing down through bushes into the Presidio as the cop wheeled his bike around and parked. Now fragments of radio conversation carried to Hawke. His heart hammered and he was close to going out to talk to the officer, but before he moved Donny and his new girlfriend, Sarah, came out of the trees. They stumbled onto the asphalt ten feet to Hawke's right, smelling of dope and laughing. Sarah wrapped her arm around Hawke. He smelled perfume and the shampoo in her hair and felt her smooth skin as she kissed him on the cheek, and said, "I have a little brother, but he's not as cute as you." If it had just been Donny, Hawke would have told him everything right then. Instead, he tried to be cool. "You guys missed a freak." "Let's miss the cops too," Donny said. "Let's blow out of here." They worked single file down along the rock wall bordering the Presidio, Sarah and Donny leading and Hawke telling about hearing the sirens and going out to the streetlight and seeing the man running before the cops came around the corner. About the vibe that came off the guy as he'd walked down the sidewalk, the pale face, the cap, the bulky coat, and then coming into the playground. "Sounds trippy," Sarah said, and Hawke didn't even know if Donny was listening. When they came down off Presidio Heights they climbed over the rock wall and went through someone's yard out to the street up from Sarah's house. She gave Donny a kiss goodbye and flashed Hawke the peace sign before walking away. They watched her go inside before making the long walk back to North Beach together. The next day, Sunday, there was news about a cab driver who got murdered at the corner of Washington and Cherry Streets. Hawke heard it first on his clock radio, on KFRC, before seeing it on TV. The TV anchor said whoever the cab driver picked up had probably killed him. They called it the 'Death Ride,' and later that night when their dad got off his shift he told Hawke the police were initially given the wrong description and that's why the killer got away. They'd been looking for an NMA, a Negro Male Adult, when they should have been looking for a Caucasian. He debated telling his dad that he and Donny had been there, and that he might have seen the man. He came close to it, but he and Donny had been grounded all of September after their dad found a six-pack of beer in their room. If he found out they'd snuck out of the house last night it would be even worse. Still, holding it inside bothered him. He hardly slept Sunday night, and the next day in algebra he wrote an anonymous letter and worked on a sketch. He was a crummy artist and hadn't gotten a good look at the face, but he mailed the sketch and letter that afternoon. The next day, Tuesday, October 14, 1969, a different letter arrived, this one at the San Francisco Chronicle. Hawke didn't see that letter until many years later, until after his father had retired from SFPD and Donny was dead. Until after he'd gotten his star and become a San Francisco homicide inspector. The envelope had been addressed with blue felt tip. Where the return address should have been was a crossed circle. That letter was still with the Zodiac binders. Hawke had pored over all of them, and he hadn't seen the Chronicle letter in over a decade, but still knew it word for word. He was like that. The letter started this way,
This is the Zodiac speaking
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