The Most Dangerous Animal of All (33 page)

An article on April 20 stated, “Nab Father of Child left here.” It reported that Earl Van Best Jr., twenty-eight, of San Francisco, had been arrested for abandoning his two-month-old son in Baton Rouge.

I realized the newspaper had it wrong. I had not been two months old.

I had been only four weeks old when my father abandoned me.

Slowly, I got up from the microfiche machine, collected the articles I had printed, and made my way to my truck. I got in, started the engine, and steered it toward downtown Baton Rouge. I knew North Boulevard well. I had driven on that street many times.

I had not been left in a safe haven by people who had loved me but simply couldn’t care for me. I had been thrown out like the trash, left there to be found or not.

An intense feeling of rejection washed over me as I looked for the address the paper had listed: 736.

Within a few minutes I was there. Just across the street stood an old Anglican church, almost hidden by the beards of Spanish moss draped on the sloping limbs of the oak trees that shaded it. I parked the truck and got out.

Looking around, I walked to the back of the building and entered a parking area with a courtyard, retracing what must have been my father’s steps so many years before. I peeked inside, hoping to see the stairwell that led to Apartment 8. The newspaper had said that was where I had been left.

As I stood there, I realized that the last time I had seen my father was in that spot. With tears streaming down my face, I turned and walked back to North Boulevard and across to the First Presbyterian Church. The old building stood just as it had in 1963, when my father had passed it.

Maybe he had tried to turn me in to this church, I rationalized, hoping to ease the pain I was feeling. Maybe the church’s doors had been locked. Maybe the clergy had gone home for the day.

I stood on the steps of the church, trying to convince myself that this was what my father’s plan had been. Something had gone wrong, and my father had been forced to leave me in the apartment building.

Consoled somewhat, I walked back to my truck. It was too dark to see anything more.

By the time I got home, I didn’t know what to feel—anger, humiliation, betrayal, hurt.

Judy had promised that she would always be honest with me, and she had lied.

About so many things.

The next few days were rough. I felt abandoned all over again. I remembered the time when Loyd and my sister Cindy had taken me to my first visit to the barbershop. Cindy had noticed a scar on my head when the barber cropped my hair too short. Loyd and Leona could remember no fall, no injury, that would have left such a scar on my scalp. A doctor had told me that my nose had once been broken, but Loyd and Leona said that had never happened either. I wondered now if it had.

I read the articles again, realizing that my father had been arrested. The next morning, I went to Baton Rouge Police headquarters and filled out the paperwork to obtain a copy of the police report about the incident.

When the clerk asked for my name, I said, “Earl Van Dorne Best.” I thought that if I used that name, I would have a better chance of getting the report. For the first time ever, I signed my birth name on a piece of paper. It took about an hour, but the clerk, Regina, finally gave me the reports. The names had been blacked out, and I asked her for a copy without the omissions. “That’s protected information,” she said.

“But these files are about me,” I persisted. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“I’ll try,” she said.

On Valentine’s Day, I drove to New Orleans, hoping to obtain two things: the police reports from Van’s arrest there and any news articles I could find in the
Times-Picayune
. I had been informed the day before that criminal records from that far back had been placed on microfiche at the library.

I had not talked to Judy about any of this. My anger and hurt were still too close to the surface.

In the police reports, I finally learned the whole story. I read about how Judy had run away with my father to New Orleans and given birth at Southern Baptist Hospital.

“Earl could not stand to be around the baby,” she had said in her police statement. “There was no food in the house and the baby needed formula, so I went to work as a bar maid. It was about the middle of March when I was working, and when I came home from work the baby would usually be in the footlocker with the lid closed. I asked Earl why he closed the locker, and he said he was tired of hearing the baby cry.”

I couldn’t read any more.

I printed the report, walked outside, and vomited.

49

Taking a deep breath, I typed Judy’s e-mail address into my computer. First I sent her the police report, then an article from the
Times-Picayune
, dated April 20, 1963, which stated that my father had been arrested and had admitted to abandoning his son. The article also mentioned that Judy had been arrested for vagrancy and that she was being held in jail for criminal neglect of the child.

“I just want to know why you said that you left him as soon as he returned from Baton Rouge without me. You stayed with him for over a month before you left him. I just want the truth, enough of the lies,” I wrote. Before I had time to change my mind, I hit Send.

Later that night, I sent the last arrest report. “I hope you can remember better now” was all I wrote. She responded the next morning.

I am so sad that you think I’m lying to you. Why would I do that, Gary? I did not go to all the trouble to find you in order to ruin your life, Gary. Please believe that.

I was not living with him and had not been living with him. I don’t absolutely know for sure that I left him the same day he came back without you (I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that I did), but I know absolutely for sure I had not been living with him for some time when I was arrested.

Gary, I was fifteen years old. It was a shock to me that I knew you had been left in an apartment house. I have absolutely no recollection of that. It was a shock to learn that I was already working as a barmaid before he took you to Baton Rouge—that I had gone to work because he couldn’t find work. Gary, I am not a liar, and I would never lie to you.

I felt terrible when I read her response. No matter what had happened, I loved Judy and was happy that she had found me.

“I’m sorry for venting and saying, ‘enough of the lies,’ because that’s too harsh, and I apologize,” I wrote back. “I need to get this off my chest, because like you, I was shocked at the difference in the stories. Mom, I did not mean to hurt you . . . it just came blurting out. I’m sorry. I love you more every day.”

Judy’s answer was not quite what I expected. “This is the second time since we’ve reunited that I regret having made my search,” she wrote. “I hope you find your answers, Baby, and I know I will never have enough of them for you. I am very uncomfortable when you ask me questions continually that I can’t answer. I am sick this has led to such unrest for you. I feel sorry for you and I feel sorry for your family, your Mom and Dad. It shows me for once and for all there are no winners in this adoption nightmare.”

Judy later explained that what she meant to say was not that she was sorry she’d found me, but that she was sorry that finding me had caused me pain. I believed her, but our relationship suffered for a while.

In May, I traveled to San Francisco, this time to visit the public library. I wanted to see if the newspapers there had more information that I should know. I began searching the contents of every newspaper from 1961 to 1963. The articles detailing Van and Judy’s illicit romance and life on the run appeared one after the other. If I had not been there reading the stories, I would never have believed them. Spread across the pages of the
San Francisco Chronicle
and the
San Francisco Examiner
were pictures of my parents. The quotes from my father about his love for my mother only reinforced for me that he was a very sick man.

Judy went with me the second day. We were trying to mend our relationship, and now that I knew everything, she seemed sincere in her desire to help me. We started with the dates of my father’s arrest that were listed on his rap sheet, adding the
San Francisco News–Call Bulletin
to our search. The amount of information we accumulated was unbelievable.

“Newsworthy” hadn’t been the half of it.

Judy sat beside me at the microfiche machine, exclaiming, “Oh, I remember that one,” and, “Oh, yes, I do remember that now,” seemingly enjoying herself as she read about her teenage years.

I began to feel an ache in the pit of my stomach. She just didn’t get it. All of this had led to my abandonment. These were criminal acts. Van had been a pedophile who had raped, kidnapped, and impregnated an underage girl. She had no idea how all of this was affecting me.

I returned to Baton Rouge in low spirits, all the painful facts I had printed tucked into my briefcase.

On June 21, 2005, I received an unexpected note from Lieutenant Hennessey, sent from his home e-mail address, not his SFPD one.

Gary:

I caught the Director of the Forensics Lab at a weak moment, and got her to agree to this.

Be patient, it takes time.

He had enclosed the laboratory examination request, which listed my case number as 041238785. Under “Complaint/Victim,” he had typed “Gary Stewart.”

He’d also included a note for the lab on the form: “Please analyze the booked reference swabs and develop DNA profile. Compare profile with Zodiac sample.”

The date the evidence was booked was listed as October 29, 2004. The date of the lab request was June 21, 2005. The SFPD had sat on my DNA for eight months.

Even with the serious time lag, I was ecstatic. I had been so focused on coping with my new discoveries about my parents that I had pushed the Zodiac question to the back of my mind. Hennessey, by turning in the lab request, had shown me that he was taking my suspicions seriously. I knew that there had been only a few DNA comparisons with the Zodiac killer made over the past four decades. This was a huge step for the head of the SFPD homicide division to take.

With renewed vigor, I began to dig further into my father’s life.

50

In 2005, Loyd and Leona were celebrating an occasion many married couples never reach: their fifty-third wedding anniversary. Loyd’s mother had lived with them for the past twenty years, and on this special night, my parents needed a “babysitter.” I volunteered to spend the evening with my grandmother, wanting my parents to enjoy their date without having to worry. I had always been in awe of the fact that after so many years together, they were still best friends.

I had some free time that morning, so I got on my computer and went through a new search engine I had recently discovered called Dogpile. I typed in “Earl Van Best.” I expected the “No results found” that I always got, but a list appeared with about twenty Best family residences in Conway, South Carolina. I called every one of them, but no one knew Earl Van Best.

Disappointed, I searched the surrounding towns. A listing for Old Zion Cemetery, in Galivants Ferry, popped up. I clicked on the link and was directed to the Horry County Historical Society’s page. I scanned a list of names provided, and there it was: “Best, Earl Van Dorn 1866-1905.”

That was my name! Although Van had added an
e
to the end of Dorn, I felt sure that this man was my ancestor.

Excited about my find, I left to go to my parents’ home.

Leona looked beautiful, as always. And as usual, she had picked out Loyd’s clothes. Her husband was notoriously color-blind, and for fifty-three years Leona had been dressing him to make sure that his shirts matched his pants and his socks were the same color. Looking as dapper as he had five decades before, Loyd held out his arm for his bride and walked her to the car. The thought that those two were still having romantic dates at their age warmed my heart and reminded me how blessed I was that they were the ones who had adopted me.

A few days later, I returned to the website and learned that the township of Galivants Ferry still had residents named Best. Then I discovered a listing for J. M. Best in the small town of Aynor, nearby.

I dialed the number, and a young lady answered the phone.

“May I speak to Mr. Best?” I said.

“I’m Alison Best, his daughter. My daddy passed away just a few months ago, but I would be glad to help you. What is it you are wanting with my daddy?” she said.

I explained who I was and why I was calling. “I’m looking for family members of my father.”

“I think you have the right family,” Alison said. “I’d better have you call Uncle Pressley. He’ll know for sure.”

I quickly dialed the number she gave me. Before I could finish my spiel, Pressley stopped me. “Hold on just a minute, now. I know you have the right family, but I’m not so good at this genealogy stuff. You need to speak with my sister, Hattie. She’s the family historian.”

He gave me Hattie’s number.

Hattie graciously listened as I rattled off my story for the third time that day, and then she said she knew of my grandfather, Earl Van Best Sr. “I’ve heard he was a wonderful minister and a good man,” she said. “My father and your great-grandfather were brothers. Your great-grandfather was Earl Van Dorn Best. You have some relatives—direct cousins, I think—who live near the old home place by my brother, Pressley. One of them is named Bits. I believe she would be your second cousin. I remember something about your father and grandfather, but it’s been so long, and it was swept under the rug. I don’t remember any details.”

Hoping to prompt her memory, I told her I had learned my father was a criminal.

“Was it murder?” Hattie whispered.

I was shocked. I had been talking to her for only a few minutes, and I couldn’t believe that word had come up so quickly in our conversation.

“I don’t know everything he did,” I said. “Some of his files were destroyed.”