Zodiac Killer

In June 2003, I saw my Uncle Bubba board a city bus here in Vancouver's Downtown Eastside (DTES)/Gastown area. I asked him, "Uncle Bubba is that you?"

He did not answer, but instead, leaned over in his seat and stared at me in such a way that it made me uncomfortable.

"Uncle Bubba?", I said, baffled by my uncle's strange reaction.

He just kept staring at me with his eyes bulging out as if he was trying to touch me with them and had a very strange smile on his face.

He continued to stare at me, with the leary smile on his face, through two or three stops, then he rang the bell and got up to stand by the front door. As the bus pulled up to the stop, he thanked the driver and got off.

When I heard his voice, I knew it was he. I was not going to follow him off the bus to press the issue. It had been a while since I had heard the voice, but I knew it well. I had grown up hearing that voice; a deep, gravely voice with a slight, southern drawl. His mother had raised me. If he didn't want to speak to me, fine. I knew better than to get too close to him and I stayed on the bus.

He kept popping up in the neighbourhood, around the end of each month - Welfare Wednesday - all summer of 2003. Something my grandmother had told me about him came back to me. She had said to me on her dying bed, she felt in her heart, her son, my Uncle Bubba, was the Zodiac Killer. I agreed with her, because of what I had experienced living with him in the Bay Area in the summer of 1970.

At that time, I was 17, a non-smoker, didn't drink and was still a virgin. The KKK in my home town had forced my grandmother to send me to him, but that's another issue. My experience of living with him taught me not to let him have my hands. He had dragged me out of a friend's house in 1970 by my wrists which he held together tightly. He took me home and raped me, after trying to kill me. I knew how dangerous and strong he could be. Age did not look as if it had weakened him; he was only 68. His grandfather had lived to the ripe old age of 81, never showing signs of weakening strength. We come from a very sturdy stock. It dawned on me that people along the west coast of North America were still in grave danger and possibly had been for decades.

The only thing I had heard about the Zodiac Killer case was in 1970. My grandmother had read about the case and become concerned when she found a middle octave string missing from her baby grand piano after one of Uncle Bubba's visits in 1967. Also Uncle Bubba had commented to me, about the article on the cipher, saying, "It gives the cops something to do. That'll keep them busy guessing and make them feel smart."

Although my grandmother and I suspected he was a dangerous killer, we had no way to offer proof. I had not acted on my suspicions, even when I found the body with long, straight, red hair, buried on the side of Mount St. Davidson, in the backyard of our house on Portola in July of 1970. At the time, I was afraid of what more my uncle could do to me, than just rape and attempt to kill me. If I told the police about the body and they failed to arrest my uncle, I may not have lasted long, so I kept quiet. He had already threatened and tried to kill me more than once. I had no proof it was my uncle who put the body there, but I knew it was he none-the-less. He bragged about it in his own way.

It was the fear of what could happen if police didn't listen that kept me from voicing my suspicions. I did tell the Oregon State Police in the 1990's that my uncle should be suspect in any rape or crime in their vicinity, even gave them his name, address and phone number in Grant's Pass. Obviously they never acted on the information.

It wasn't until September 2003, that I decided to check out the Zodiac Killer case on the web, to see if it had been solved (in which case my suspicions about my uncle would have been wrong) or if there was any information about the suspect.

On the website www.crimelibrary.com was information on the case. It stated the case was still open. I read on to see if there was a description of the suspect. I was shocked when I read the descriptions given by a surviving victim and a police officer responding to the murder of Paul Stine. Both descriptions matched my uncle right down to the shiny hair, stocky build with no blubbery fat, shuffling lope, slight, southern drawl and ancestry.

Then I read that the suspect sometimes stalked his victims for months. I was scared as it became clear he was most likely stalking me. My life was in mortal danger, and/or lives of those dear to me. I kept reading to see if there was a way to offer conclusive proof of what I suspected was the truth about my uncle, before I disappeared. I read on http://www.crimelibrary.com/serial_killers/notorious/zodiac/river_1.html that police have on file some of the suspect's DNA from under the fingernails of his first victim, Cheri Jo Bates.

I called the San Francisco Police Department (SFPD) to speak with the lead investigator of the case. I was directed to a Detective Carroll. He only spoke briefly and was short with me. I got no where with the snappy detective, yet the thought that Uncle Bubba may be stalking a family member or myself motivated me to get protection for my family and self.

My attempts to elicit help from Sergeant Rideout of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), Cameron Ward (Vancouver lawyer) and Vancouver Police Department (VPD), failed as none would spare the time to hear me out, look at the evidence or even recognize the danger posed to the community in which they lived and supposedly served. They were only 'serving' up victims to my uncle by ignoring me.

No other family member would come forward, if I went missing, as no one else suspected my uncle of being the Zodiac Killer. So, if I went missing no one would ever know who the Zodiac Killer was and that he was still active. I feared that if my body went missing, he would be free to continue 'doing his thing'. I knew that would leave my son in danger; I would not be around to protect him if my body went missing. So I felt it was imperative that SFPD Homicide have a sample of my DNA, not only to save my life, but for public safety. It would be the only way they could find out for certain the true identity of the Zodiac Killer. I called Detective Carroll repeatedly to try and give him information about my uncle, but got no response. I wondered if he was a friend of my uncle.

Finally on September 20, 2003, I called the switchboard of the SFPD and asked the operator about a DNA comparison between the suspect's DNA and mine. She assured me that a comparison of the suspect's DNA and mine would show conclusively if the suspect was related to me.

As quickly as I could I got to San Francisco. I would have liked to have had a lawyer with me, helping me. Cameron Ward refused me his assistance. Five minutes before boarding the bus in Vancouver, I fell and pinched a nerve in my back quite severely. It was painful and I passed out, momentarily, at the border, but persisted on with my journey.

When the bus was crossing the bay to San Francisco, I called SFPD Homicide and Detective Walsh answered. He said he was uninterested in hearing from me and hung up. If I had not felt strongly my family and I, along with everyone else, were in danger of my uncle, I would have stopped and gone home defeated. But from what I knew of my uncle, I was convinced the public, my family and self have been in danger of my uncle for a long, long, long, long time and still was. I HAD to be heard.

When the bus arrived in the station, I got off and started smoking a cigarette. Two officers, Hildalgo and Piol came up to me in the station. They asked me to put the cigarette out. I kept smoking. They asked again for me to put the cigarette out and I refused.

Then one of them had had enough and grabbed the cigarette with one hand while grabbing my wrist with the other and tried to pull me up. I screamed in pain because of the pinched nerve in my back. He let go and I told him I rather be in jail with my uncle on the loose and the police not listening.

He asked me what I was talking about. I said I was in San Francisco to give evidence that my uncle is the Zodiac Killer.

Then the other officer stepped up. He said he knew all there was to know about the case and asked me what I was talking about.

I showed him how my uncle's name, Al Guy Hollingsworth, fit the cipher the Zodiac Killer had sent to the newspaper. I showed him that Bubba Hollingsworth, the name my family calls my uncle, fit the cipher. My uncle even has a title, Baron Hollingsworth, which also fits the cipher. I showed the officer the photo of my uncle taken back in the sixties somewhere in his favourite place, the Pacific Northwest. I showed them a photo of my grandmother, taken when she was the age my uncle is now, as he looks very much like her, only balding.

They changed their tunes after viewing what I had showed them and hearing what I had to say about my summer living with Uncle Bubba; about a body with long, red hair that was buried in the side of Mount St. Davidson back in July of 1970; about how my uncle bragged about being able to get away with doing his own thing privately; about how he used airplane glue on his fingertips to 'keep them clean' as he was an expert auto mechanic.

The officers said a lot of people come in claiming to know who the Zodiac Killer is. I asked if so many came in with so many facts that fit together so perfectly and insisting on leaving a sample of DNA. They saw to it I got to 850 Bryant Street, (without being arrested). The officers told me there was a $17,000,000 US reward on the Zodiac Killer's head. I have since learned that the reward was a hoax to keep police departments busy with in-fighting.

Vancouver is my home and I was short of funds, so it was important to be on the bus back to Vancouver at 4:00 PM. I only had a couple of hours at best. Once in the building at 850 Bryant Street, my back was in pain, but I ignored it while flagging down a rather nice-looking, older woman with short, grey hair wearing an attractive red suit, who looked as if she may have worked at the police station.

I briefly expressed my rush and urgency to the woman showed her what info I had about my uncle and told her I felt I did not have the luxury of going back to Canada wihtout leaving my DNA. I quickly explained that I feared if my suspicions were true about my uncle, this may be the only chance I would have to offer any proof as to the suspect's identity. I explained that if my body went missing, since my family did not suspect him, my uncle's identity would forever remain a mystery and that I was afraid for the life of my son - at an age my uncle likes. She helped me get through the security check and up to room 450 Homicide.

Detective Walsh was on duty that day. He took a statement from me in which I told him everything I could remember about my uncle and described where the body was exactly on the side of Mount St. Davidson. I told him about how my uncle had dragged me by my wrists, through a friend's house to his truck once, and taken me home to rape me, after attempting to kill me and before making me eat human flesh.

The detective said there was no evidence that the Zodiac Killer was a cannibal, but I asked him if there were no missing persons from the time of the Zodiac Killings.

Here is a list a reasons I gave the detective in a letter in October 2003:

• My uncle's physical appearance matches, exactly, the description of the suspect given by an officer responding to Paul Stine's murder as well as the description given by a surviving victim. (see photo above)
  
• His name fits the cipher: Al Guy Hollingsworth. (He has never used his full first name, Albert, to my knowledge. All his friends call him Al, a two-letter first name).
  
• His family name fits the cipher: Al Guy Hollingsworth as does the name family calls him, Bubba Hollingsworth. Also Baron Hollingsworth.
  
• His birth date makes him the right age to be both the Zodiac Killer and a Green River Murderer: October 25, 1934.
  
• He has a slight, southern drawl as he is from Terry, Mississippi. Has no witness ever describe the Zodiac Killer's voice as being deep and gravely? Uncle Bubba's voice is deep and gravely.
  
• He spent time in a California mental facility in 1959. He is still insane.
  
• His addresses put him in San Francisco (house at foot of Mount St. Davidson, apartment in San Bruno; dozens more in the bay area) at the time of the Zodiac killings as well as in the Pacific Northwest in the 1990's . He worked at San Francisco State University in the boiler room as the chief engineer in 1970.
  
• He is an expert auto mechanic. My uncle used airplane glue on his fingertips when working on cars to 'keep his fingernails clean'. He worked on and drove a tan Chevrolet during the time of the Zodiac killings.
  
• There was a body with straight, long, red hair buried in the side of Mount St. Davidson in our backyard on Portola, in the summer of 1970 when I lived with him.
  
• Uncle Bubba's mother had a New Williams baby grand piano, off of which a middle octave string went missing, during one of his visits in 1967.
  
• He told me a piano string was the best thing with which to choke a person to death, because it has good grip.
  
• He told me the difference in the tastes of flesh of humans who smoked cigarettes and those who did not. He said that non-smokers flesh tasted sweet, while smokers flesh was sour. Are there no missing persons from that period, anywhere on the west coast?
  
• He was not a good shot. He shot his own right middle toe off in a hunting accident when he was younger and had a 'shuffling lope'.
  
• He did tell me he used a penlight flashlight taped to the barrel of the gun for a site. His gun was a 'Saturday Night Police Special' with the site filed off and the residue of white adhesive tape on the barrel. The gun weighed approximately 11 ounces.
  
• He bragged to me once, about being 'proud' of the way he could fool John Q. Public and said his average looks help him disappear into a crowd. He said that if the public knew what he did in his private life, they would not approve, but that he was good at putting on a face for the public which kept them from suspecting what he did when he was "doing his thing".
  
• He had numerous conversations with our cousin, Eddy, who was a former police officer in New Orleans in the early sixties. My cousin told my uncle how easily murders went unsolved in that city. They keep in regular contact.
  
• He threatened to kill me several times in various different ways, such as: by steaming at San Francisco State University, in the boiler room; by electrocution in the tub by throwing in a radio and said, as we stood on the Golden Gate bridge once, that the current under the bridge ran strongly and deeply enough to carry a body out to sea, never to be seen again.
  
• His mother, my grandmother, confided in me on her deathbed, she felt her son was the Zodiac Killer. I agree because I feel he is capable and facts about Uncle Bubba match facts of the case.
  
• He had a brown, four cornered hood with gold symbols on each corner, which hung on the wall in our living room. He claimed he got it when he joined an old order of the Masons.
  

The detective took a swab of my DNA. I explained to him that by having told him what I know about my uncle, it left my family and I in danger of retaliation and asked for protection.

The detective laughed smugly and answered my plea with the question, "How do I know you didn't just sit around for the past forty years dreaming this stuff up?"

I reminded the detective he had my DNA. I was scared he wasn't going to do the comparison in time to save my life, so I asked how long it would take to do the comparison. He gave me a very ambiguous answer and never gave me a proper file number for the information I had given him. It was becoming apparent that the size of the reward money was getting in the way of finding the Zodiac Killer. Or is there more to it than that? Were police involved with him?

I left to head back to Canada, unsure if I had been taken seriously and scared that even though I had done my utmost best, I was not worth being protected by the law. I was too poor and had no lawyer by my side. The detective refused to give me a file number. He said I had to get that from the mysterious Detective Carroll. In November 2003 Detective Carroll finally, after much insistence on my part, gave me the file number of 0671, which Detectives Hennesey and Walsh said was not a real file number. I was never given another file number, real or otherwise.

On the way back to Vancouver, the bus I was traveling on passed a series of unusual occurrences. It was sunset of September 23, 2003, and we were about an hour north of Seattle on highway 5, at around exit 242. There was a car abandoned on the side of the road. The car had a big checkmark on the window. It struck me as odd, but I said nothing.

Then the bus passed another car with a few big checkmarks on the windows. This time I asked the driver what was the purpose of the checkmarks. He said 'they' put the checkmarks on the windows, so 'they' can tell how long the cars had been there.

I asked if people often left their cars just sitting on the side of the road. The driver said sometimes people were just too cheap to come get the cars.

When we passed a few more cars all within a mile or so of each other, all with many big checkmarks on the windows, I said I didn't think that that many people just left their cars on the side of the road. All of a sudden the bus passed a young woman, standing outside her stalled car at an exit from highway 5 from the mountain. She was on her cell phone. "Smart!", I said.

Then at the very next exit from the highway to the mountain, there was a stalled red truck. Behind the truck was a royal blue, Volvo-type, four-door sedan with silver stripes across the bottom half of the trunk and no rear license plate. There was a grey-haired person about my uncle's height and size sitting behind the wheel.

Three white, young people were getting out of the red truck. Two were tall and thin with long, light brown hair. They may have been twins. The third person was a short, young girl, about 16 or so, with shoulder-length, blond hair. All three young people were looking nervously between the royal blue car and each other.

They looked scared. I felt scared for them. The sun was going down fast and no one else was coming to their rescue but this strange man, who wasn't getting out of his car. The strange man had his car pulled up so close to the red truck's rear bumper, that the truck's license plate was hidden from view. There was no front license plate on the truck. It didn't look good for the three young people. I wondered if they had a cell phone and felt sad for them as the bus rolled by.

I reported the incident to two state troopers in Bellingham or Blaine and sent a fax about what I had seen on Highway 5 to Chief of Police Mace in Bellingham on September 26, 2003.

Early Thursday morning, September 25, 2003, as I was lying in my bed sleeping, a woman in high heels was walking by, under my window. The sound of her high heels woke me up. I watched her thinking, "How can she walk in those shoes?" She was over 5' tall, thin and had dark hair and I was afraid it was my friend Laura, a native woman.

She walked down the street, but as she came near the corner of Powell and Columbia, all of a sudden a man with a stocky build and barrel-chest, ran out from around the corner of a building and grabbed her wrists together. She screamed, "Help!, Help! Help!, Help! Help!, Help! Help!, Help! Help!, Help! Help!, Help! Help!, Help!" and her high heels clicked rapidly as he dragged her by her wrists to his waiting car, shoved her in and sped off.

(Did he grab women's wrists together and drag them away by their wrists so as not to make the same mistake he had made with Cheri Jo Bates, getting scratched?)

The abductor's car was a royal blue, Volvo-type, four-door sedan, the same car that had rescued the three young people on highway 5 in Washington State, not more that 48 hours earlier. This time I saw the driver and recognized him. He was my Uncle Bubba. I had a sinking feeling about the three young people from the stalled red truck. I laid there feeling sad and scared.

My sister, Holli Innes, was a drug addicted prostitute in the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver in the 80's & 90's. She had been to the pig farm and had called me in September 1997 to tell me about her friend Marnie Frey who had gone missing at the pig farm. Holli told me she had been out there and seen our uncle out there. If Uncle Bubba was at Piggy's Palace, it is all together likely he was one of the master minds of the snuff film industry Holli said went on out there. And neither the RCMP nor VPD (Uncle Bubba's friends?) wanted to know about him.

Since there was no public phone in my building, and because I would not go to the public phone on the corner where the woman had just been abducted, I did not call 911 that night, but would have if I had had a phone or if there was safe access to a public phone in the building where I live. I did call 911 the next day when it was safe to leave the building. It took two days for VPD officer #1498, Wayne Dore, to respond.

When he did show up at 8:00 AM Saturday, September 27, 2003, he barely listened, was most obtuse, laughed, refused to look at the photo and left. The officer returned shortly, saying he had checked on his computer and that my uncle had never been to Canada. I asked him if it was possible to enter the country under an assumed name. The officer just laughed at me, told me he didn't believe I had seen anything and left. "Have a nice day", he said patronizingly as he turned his back.

I saw my uncle at noon that day, right across the street from my building as I exited. I was scared and called 911 again. No one came. I felt as if my uncle was purposely terrorizing me.

On Sunday, September 28, I called 911 again, terrified of my uncle, who WAS in the neigbourhood. I met officer # 1498 at a local community centre. I wanted the staff there to witness the report I was trying to make. The officer gave me less than a minute to speak then cut me off, laughed at me and told me he did not believe me, still refusing to look at the photo. He tried to make me leave the building, where I thought I was safe. The Volunteer Coordinator of the community centre, Colleen Gorey, became annoyed with my urgent fear and would not listen when I told her I was being stalked. She laughed at me and I called her a fucking bitch. Then she threw me out of the centre and had me barred, without ever looking at the photo of my uncle. I have never been back through the doors of the centre where criminals are safer than the women of the neighbourhood. What a horrible place. It is disgusting that the centre that calls itself "the heart of the community" would do nothing to help protect lives in their very neighbourhood where so many have gone missing. I wondered how many women had been ignored by the staff of the community centre.

On September 29, 2003, the Bellingham Monday Morning News reported that a body dump had been found in a secluded ravine off the highway. The report stated there were fresh bodies at the top of the dump and that the body parts, found near the bottom, had been there for approximately twenty years.

On October 2, 2003, at around 5:30 PM, finally, a Crimestoppers report came on a local TV station, announcing that two women, one of them wearing high heels, had been "snatched off the street by a man with a stocky build and barrel-chest, about 6' tall". The description of the suspect matched my uncle. There was no description of the women and no photo of either of the two abducted women, as is customary in abduction cases reported by Crimestoppers. The report lasted about thirty seconds or so and was the only warning ever given. Although women are still being hacked to bits and still are being found every end of the month in dumpsters in the Vancouver area, there is no warning to the public (bad for tourism and the Olympic real estate market).

(A warning to anyone who would visit and stay in Vancouver's Gastown area, which is preparing to host the 2010 Winter Olympic Games, the Vancouver Police Department most likely will not protect you. In 1998 VPD officers dragged an unconscious man, Frank Paul from a drunk tank and left him unconscious in the back alley where he died of exposure. There is video footage of the officers removing Frank Paul's body from the jail house to the back alley, yet the VPD told Frank Paul's family he was a victim of a 'hit and run'. This was later proven, by the surveillance footage, to be a lie . One of the officers was given a day's suspension with pay and the other officer two days suspension with pay. Visit Vancouver at your own risk. There have been many people abducted who are visitors from such countries as Germany.)

Crimestopper's asked anyone who had witnessed the abductions to contact them. I had seen the woman in high heels get abducted, so I called them. I told them what I had witnessed, that I knew the man who did it, that he was still in the neighbourhood and that I had a photo of him. They told me to contact the police.

When I called the police, the mental health squad showed up, I tried to tell them about the suspect mentioned in the Crimestopper report, but instead of taking any of the information, they told me if I called about the man I saw again, they would take me to a mental facility and have drugs forced on me. There were three officers, one named Suzanne, who seemed to be in charge, officer #2175 and another officer. Suzanne even told me I had not seen a Crimestoppers report on TV.

I told the Community Safety Officer, Dave Dickson about the abduction and the poor response from officer #1498 and explained that I needed a 911 cell phone. Dave Dickson responded by telling me, "Oh you should be safe enough running to the corner phone (right where the woman was abducted) to report it" at 2:30 AM. The Community Safety Officer knew full well the phones don't always work and if he didn't know, how did he get his job? He certainly doesn't deserve his job and should be fired. He was up for review recently yet somehow kept his job of telling women to run around the neighbourhood late at night looking for a working public phone to report abductions. What if that was where the woman in high heels was going, to make a 911 call?

[2007 Update: Dickson was retired in the past few years, but has retained his job at the Community Safety Office by receiving the new title of Community Liaison Officer for the city of Vancouver, the same community where 120+ people have now gone missing since the pig farmer, Willy Pickton, was arrested. 69 women had gone missing before that and only two were found alive. Pickton is charged with murder of 26 of them, leaving most of the missing women still not found. Are they at the bottom of a body dump off highway 5 in Washington State?]

On October 8, 2003, as I was returning home from my son's, a grey SUV was following me. I changed direction several times to avoid the man, but as I stood at a bus stop, he drove up behind me, heading south on Victoria Street, turning west onto Hastings, past where I was waiting for a bus. Fortunately their was a man standing with me and if not, I would have run to the restaurant behind me. I saw him as he turned in my direction. He was wearing a full hair piece of dark brown, short, curly hair and a full brown beard. I identified him as my uncle, or his son as he looked very much like Uncle Bubba, only younger. The license plate on the SUV was BC plate number: EKS 779. I did call 911 and report I was being stalked, but did not mention the man was my uncle whom I had seen abduct a woman off the street, due to the threat the 3 VPD officers had made on October 2, 2003.

On October 15, 2003, the building I live in was nearly blown to bits. There used to be tunnels under the sidewalks that surround the building. Someone had gained access to the tunnels and had punctured the gas main leading into the building where I live. The Fire Marshal claimed that the gas had been leaking for a week, since the night I was being stalked by my uncle.

At the end of October 2003, when I heard another woman scream, very loudly, and fight very hard for her life in the middle of the night, as she was being abducted from the Vancouver School Board corner of Powell and Columbia, I was unable to call and report the incident for fear of police following through with their threat to have me drugged. The fear I was experiencing had a real source, seeing and hearing women scream for their lives in the middle of the night, right outside my window, not to mention the police threats and responses. The drugs police threatened to subdue me with, could only leave me unable to adequately defend myself should I need to, and it was looking all too likely that I would have to defend myself, by myself, in order to survive. The thought crossed my mind that I should shoot my uncle, since police were incapable of listening or protecting the women of the DTES.

On my own I began a campaign to warn the neighbourhood of the danger my uncle posed. I prepared a poster of my uncle and made copies of his photo from the sixties, as well as copies of the photo of my grandmother. He looks very much like my grandmother did at the age he is now, only he is balding. I wanted the people of my neighbourhood to know what he looked like. I warned the neighbourhood about how he hid around corners and in dark doorways waiting for his prey to cross his path; how he dragged his victims by their wrists which he held tightly together to keep his victims from scratching him the way Cheri Jo Bates had. I described his voice to everyone so they could be aware. I was thanked by most people on the street, but could elicit no help from any of the agencies, such as the DTES Women's Centre, DEYAS, battered women's groups, VPD Victim Services, lawyers nor any of the agencies designed to "help the poor". I tried to put up a poster at the DTES Women's Centre, but it was removed by staff and no copy of it was replaced.

It wasn't long before the neighbourhood missed another woman. This time she was a volunteer, Ruth Thompson, who worked at the Dugout, a coffee shop for poor people, in the neighbourhood. Everyone who knew her liked her and was worried about her, until police found her body in the Fraser River. Police called her death a suicide, because there were no signs of struggle. If someone pointed a gun at my head and said, "Jump or I'll shoot", I believe I would take my chances on jumping.

No one, who knew Ruth Thompson, believes her death was a suicide. The police say no one called to report the abduction, therefor it never happened. Excuse me? The guy at the end of the hall from me said he heard her scream all right and that, unlike myself, he has a cell phone. But he said he would never call 911 when he hears a woman scream, because, as he put it, "If the police don't care, why should I?" Perhaps the man had been previously threatened by the police, too.

I wrote and asked for help from Dr. Kim Rossmo, who had been fired by VPD when he insisted they were not listening to the leads coming in about Piggy's Palace. He never wrote me back, although I gave him plenty of reason to know I was a truthful person not prone to fits of delusion. (See DC Sniper Story)

I wrote the mayor of Vancouver begging him to have at least 911 phones installed in the Single Room Occupancy (SRO) hotels of the DTES/Gastown area, so that people could report crime safely making the neighbourhood safer for all, but he totally ignored me, as did Chief Graham of the VPD.

Soon it happened again. On Saturday, December 27, 2003, I woke up in the middle of the night when I heard the voice of a small woman screaming. She sounded like she was on the corner of Powell and Alexander, at the front of the Europe Hotel, in Vancouver's DTES/Gastown district. It was 1:30 AM. She screamed, "No I don't want to go with you. Please let go. I don't want to go with you. I don't want to go with you, Help!". Then a door slammed and a car sped off down Water Street.

I called the police and reported it the next morning, but was not going out at night to a public phone, which may or may not work, to report the incident. The officers who responded to my 911 call about the small woman's abduction, kept trying to insist I should run around in the middle of the night to find a phone and call them, when the incident occurred, much as Dave Dickson the Community Safety Officer had suggested. I told them they were crazy and refuse to try their horrendously unsafe suggestion. I was wondering if VPD had a 'Next' as well as a 'Missing' list. Were they also friends of my uncle?

Soon another woman was missing from the neighbourhood. A small woman, named Denise Stillwell, again a volunteer, from the DTES Women's Centre, the very people who removed the warning poster. At first, the center where she worked could not find her. Then her body mysteriously appeared, dead with a needle sticking in her arm, in her room. No one could explain how the Denise got into her room, in a building with security cameras (the video footage of that night was missing). The DTES Women's Centre said that she had locked the door behind herself. Does that mean the police know for certain her abductor did not make a copy of her key (he had her for two full weeks) or that access was not gained through the window? Police quickly called it suicide. Again a woman screamed in the middle of the night, an abduction report was made, a woman was missing, a body (matching the description of the woman in the abduction report) was found and suicide was the conclusion to which police jumped. The report I made about the abduction of the small woman from in front of the Europe Hotel was not followed up on.

The last time I saw my uncle, late January 2004, he was driving a white, newer model, Mazda-type car with an Oregon license plate: ULE 008, through Gastown, down Water Street. Feeling he would soon cross the border back into the states, I gave it to the FBI along with all the information I could about my uncle and my suspicions. I did not bother calling Vancouver or San Francisco Police Departments. I did not see him again after that.

The Zodiac Killer case was closed by Detective Carroll on April 8, 2004 (two weeks after the DNA comparison was to be completed) without so much as an explanation. I know why and it isn't the reasons you will hear from the good detective, but then I have nothing to hide. Closing the case had nothing to do with police budgetary concerns; that is a ruse excuse. Detective Hennessey told me Detective Carroll had been given a 'promotion' (for closing an 'unsolved' case?) I will be making another publication soon with a full explanation as to why the case was closed so silently. The answer may shock you, unbelievable as it is. There is MUCH to cover up (inept police work) and be silent about in the Zodiac Killer case.

My son gave me his cell phone after the last woman was abducted, so that I could call 911, if necessary. The first 911 call I made was on Saturday, January 3, 2004, at 4:00 AM, when I heard a very aggressive argument, a woman shouting at some men, and then eight rounds of gunfire in Gastown's Maple Tree Square (raging with drunks and their guns on a regular basis).

You may call me paranoid, but there are worse things to be called. What I do have going for myself is the ability to discern and tell the truth correctly.

As the abductions reported on Crimestopper's, October 2, 2003, are as yet unresolved, the poor of the DTES need to be on alert, as do visitors from afar. I have never been given so much as the transcripts for the October 2, 2003 Crimestopper report, even though I have been requesting them regularly since and shall continue requesting them until I have obtained them. (VPD claim transcripts or copies of publicly aired Crimestopper reports do not fall under the Access to Information Act of Canada)

Those who have phones, live in the Gastown/DTES area and have heard these women scream, yet did nothing, you know the difference between a hollering drunk and a woman screaming for her life in the middle of the night. Call 911 and report it. Stop ignoring it. Just because the VPD don't care about life, why must you emulate them, the worst of the society they are meant to protect?

Residents of Vancouver who live outside the DTES/Gastown area, don't feel too smug that it could never happen to anyone you care about. The people who prey on the weak, are not exactly in their right minds; they may not see things your way.

Should anyone be missing three young people who may have been "rescued" at sunset, on highway 5, Washington State, September 23, 2003, from a stalled red truck, please contact me. Should anyone have any questions for me about loved ones whose demise I have witnessed, please feel free to contact me. I will be happy to assist you in anyway I can to bring about justice.

Denise Stillwell did NOT commit suicide, someone helped her to OD. Ruth Thompson did NOT commit suicide, someone forced her to jump. Both women were abducted off the streets and had their lives brought to an end. They DID NOT commit suicide. Has the Zodiac Killer been caught or are we all still in danger of the man police have 'missed' time and time and time and time again? Is he their friend? Do police have a mandate to 'cleanup the neighbourhood' or are VPD part of a human smuggling ring? Visitors beware. Since Robert Willy Pickton's arrest, 120+ people have gone missing from the DTES/Gastown area of Vancouver, including visitors from other parts of the world. The trend is moving toward young men being abducted. If you visit Vancouver, you have no one to look out for you, except me. All I have been able to do, is to witness these atrocities and give a full, truthful account. Those who travel highway 5 in Washington state, keep your cell phones handy and your eyes on your car at all times to prevent anyone from tampering with your engines. You wouldn't want to stall in the middle of nowhere. You never know who might rescue you.

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Fatwah

DC Snipers


This work protected by copyright.
© Terri Williams

terri.williams@shaw.ca