The Most Dangerous Animal of All (29 page)

Scandal in the police department was as common as the fog that blankets San Francisco Bay, so Judy had not been overly concerned when she heard about Sanders’s most recent imbroglio.

“What’s the matter?” Sanders said, his voice sounding weak.

“Remember I told you about my son? Well, he wants to find his father, and I don’t know where to look. I’m not even sure of his full name.”

“I’d be happy to help, but I’m in the hospital. I had a heart attack,” Sanders said.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry,” Judy cried.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be okay,” the chief laughed. “Call Harold Butler. He should be able to help you.”

“Thanks, Earl. I’ll check in on you later,” Judy said, hanging up the phone, worried now that the scandal was affecting her friend’s health.

“Earl can’t help us,” she informed me. “He’s in the middle of a big scandal, and he had a heart attack. He suggested we talk to Harold Butler. Harold and Rotea were buddies, and he used to come over all the time. I know he’ll do anything for me.”

She dialed Butler’s number.

“Harold, Earl told me to call you,” she said, explaining that she wanted him to help her son from a previous marriage find his father.

“I wasn’t aware that you had another son,” Butler said.

“No one was,” Judy said. “It’s a long story, but I promised my son I would help him. Can you do some digging for me? I know there’s got to be a record of his father somewhere, but all I remember is that his name was Van.”

Butler asked her a lot of questions, trying to glean any information he could from Judy. “Don’t worry. If he has a criminal record, I’ll find him,” he reassured her.

It took a month, but Butler finally contacted my mother with his findings. On June 6, 2003, Judy e-mailed me. In the subject line she wrote, “Hold on to your hat, Harold came through . . .”

Butler reported that my father’s name was Earl Van Best Jr., and he had been born July 14, 1934, in Wilmore, Kentucky. “He said all the info in your father’s file is thirty years old. Last he was heard from here was August 15, 1967, but Harold didn’t say in what regard. Honey, there are things in the file Harold won’t reveal, so suffice to say we are warned. I hate it’s like that, but I appreciate Harold’s judgment, and after all, I was married to the guy. Why would he have chosen (or settled for) a 13-year-old girl if . . . you know what I mean,” Judy wrote.

She informed me that there was no current California driver’s license in my father’s name, but Butler had uncovered my father’s Social Security number and an old driver’s license photograph. He had promised to give them to Judy. The file had Van’s address listed on Haight Street, but it also included Gertrude’s address on Noe Street. “Harold wants to continue to work with us on this and wants to meet you. He invited you to write him directly.”

I stared at my computer, rereading the e-mail. A year after meeting my mother, I finally had some concrete information about my father. I knew his name. I knew my real last name.

Best.

Excited, I booked a flight for San Francisco, eager to meet the sergeant who had promised to help me find my father.

Judy arranged for us to meet Butler and his family for dinner at Valencia Pizza & Pasta, in the Mission District. Butler arrived before us and stood up as we approached the table, his stunned, cautious gaze fixed on me. “I’m amazed at how much you look like your father,” he said.

“I can’t wait to see the picture of him,” I said. “Thank you for finding it.”

But Butler had forgotten to bring it. I had difficulty hiding the frustration and disappointment I felt as we ordered dinner. I wondered why he had not brought the picture, when that had been the point of our meeting.

“Can you tell me anything else about what you found?” I asked him.

“No,” Butler replied. “Some things have to be kept confidential. It’s the law.”

“But it was forty years ago,” I countered. “Surely it wouldn’t make a difference now.”

“I’m sorry, Gary. I know you probably have lots of questions, but there’s nothing more I can tell you. I will send you the photograph, though.”

Several times during dinner, I became uncomfortable when I looked up to find Butler staring at me, watching my every move. I decided it was best to quit asking questions.

When we finished our meal, Butler invited us to his house for coffee. He had recently remodeled, and proudly gave me and Judy a tour. Zach had befriended his sons while we talked, and they asked him to spend the night.

“I’m sorry, but we have to get to the airport early tomorrow. Maybe next time,” I promised.

As we said our good-byes, I shook Butler’s hand and thanked him for helping us.

“I’ll e-mail you the picture and then mail an original,” he said.

I left his house feeling a little better.

When I got back to Baton Rouge, the e-mail was already in my inbox.

It seemed to take forever to download the large file, and I could feel my anxiety mounting as the seconds went by. I was about to see the face of my father for the first time since he had left me in the stairwell.

Finally, a head and shoulders appeared on the screen. I stared at the photo for a long time. It looked nothing like what my mother had described. She had said Van looked charming, that he had dimples. There were no dimples, and definitely no charm.

An emotionless face with dead eyes stared back at me.

Zach walked into the room and peered over my shoulder. “Dad, he looks like a serial killer,” he said.

“No, he doesn’t,” I admonished, but I could see what he meant. The man in the picture did not look like a nice person. But then I started noticing similarities—the hairline, the jaw, the cleft in his chin, the shape of his eyes.

As I looked into those eyes, I felt a chill run through my body and wondered if I was doing the right thing. Butler had said there were things in the file he couldn’t reveal.

What did that mean?

I mulled over that question for the next few days, returning again and again to the picture I had saved on my desktop. I wondered if I should stop trying to find him now, but that burning desire to know who I was, the one that had plagued me all my life, pushed me onward.

The sergeant had also suggested that I contact the Social Security Administration to find out if my father was still alive. I decided to start my own search there.

On July 15, 2003, at 9:00 a.m., I walked into the Social Security Administration building in Baton Rouge, eager to learn what the clerk could tell me. I pulled a number from the dispenser and sat down, counting the minutes, then the hours, until my number was finally called.

A friendly woman smiled at me from behind the counter. “How may I help you?”

“My name is Gary Loyd Stewart, and I was adopted. I have discovered the Social Security number of my biological father, and I am trying to find out if he is deceased and was hoping you could tell me if any benefits have been paid on his behalf,” I said nervously.

Butler had told me that I would know if I had any siblings by learning whether death benefits had been paid.

“Can you give me the number?” the lady said.

“Yes, ma’am.” I read her the number and she entered the information into her computer, then studied the monitor for a few moments. “I am not allowed to tell you if he is living or deceased. I can tell you that no benefits have been paid on his behalf, but benefits are available.”

“So is my father dead or is he still alive?”

“Due to the Privacy Act, I am not at liberty to give you that information,” she said. Seeing the obvious disappointment on my face, she leaned closer and whispered, “But if he had been reported deceased, I would tell you that you were eligible for death benefits right now.”

I reached over the counter and gave this beautiful lady a hug.

I had my answer.

My father was alive!

44

“I think I’ll call my friend at the Department of Justice,” I said to Loyd and Leona. “The cop in San Francisco won’t tell me anything, but I know he knows something.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Loyd said.

“I have to try to find him. He’s alive.”

“But what if things don’t turn out the way you want them to? What if the cop isn’t telling you for a reason?” Loyd said. “You might want to slow down and think about things.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “Judy found me, and that turned out all right, didn’t it?”

“Yes, it did,” Leona said. “But this seems different. This man married her when she was fourteen. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one little bit.”

“I don’t either,” Loyd said.

“You two worry too much,” I said, kissing both of them before I left. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Not heeding my parents’ advice, I contacted my friend at the Louisiana Department of Justice.

“All I have is my father’s name and Social Security number,” I said, explaining the situation. “Do you think you can find anything with that?”

He promised to try and enlisted the help of some of his friends in law enforcement.

A week later, he called and said he had learned that a man with my father’s name had been arrested in 1996 and was incarcerated with the California Department of Corrections.

That was the last thing I wanted to hear. I knew my father would be sixty-two years old by now. What was he doing in prison?

I e-mailed Judy. “Why didn’t Butler tell me Van was arrested in 1996?” I asked her.

“I’ll call him,” Judy responded.

That day, I called every prison in California, to no avail. They had no record of my father’s being incarcerated in 1996. I should have paid attention to that, but I was so eager for new information that I accepted his incarceration as fact.

I would pay for that mistake dearly.

“Harold said he knew about the arrest and that your father had been turned over to the FBI, but he doesn’t know anything else,” Judy reported a few days later.

“Why didn’t he just tell me that in the beginning?” I vented.

“I don’t know,” Judy said, “but I’ll talk to him. Look, I don’t want you to think anything your father did was because of you. He hated me, remember? If he turned bad, it was because of me. I don’t ever want you to think anything we find out is your fault.”

I didn’t understand what she was trying to say. What had my father done that had been so bad? Why had he hated my mother?

I sent an e-mail to Butler, asking again for my father’s file. “I don’t care what’s in it. I’m entitled to know what he did,” I wrote.

Back then, I really didn’t care what he had done. I just wanted to meet him. Leona had raised me to have love and forgiveness in my heart. I had forgiven Judy. I was confident I could forgive my father.

Butler did not answer my e-mail. Instead he contacted my mother.

“I am not going to reveal what is in that file. It would make what he did to you look inconsequential,” he told her.

“How could rape and kidnapping look inconsequential?” I asked Judy when she told me what Butler had said. “What could be worse than that? If it’s that bad, I have a right to know.”

“I don’t know, honey. That’s all he would say,” Judy answered.

“I have to know what my father did,” I said. “I am his son. I deserve to know.”

Judy started crying. “I know. This is all so upsetting. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“It’s not your fault, Mom. This thing is just eating at me. My father is out there somewhere, and I need to find him, or at least know why I shouldn’t.”

“Okay, honey. I’ll call Earl Sanders and try to find out just what your father did.”

A few days later, on April 6, 2004, I was out celebrating a victory with my co-workers when my phone rang. My company had just successfully completed its first major project engineered and executed by my employees in our Baton Rouge office, and we had gathered at the Lager’s Ale House, on Veterans Boulevard in Metairie, a suburb of New Orleans. When I saw my mother’s number on the caller ID, I left our noisy table and went into the bathroom to answer the call.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, honey,” she said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m out celebrating our first grand-slam project. My boss is here from California, and we’re doing great. How are you?”

“Well, I just left the coffee shop where I met Earl. He says he can’t tell us what your father did. He says what your father did was so heinous it would destroy us. I know this is not what you wanted to hear, but he begged me to tell you just to drop this thing with your father. He was very adamant about that.”

I could hear how upset she was.

“It’s okay, Mom. I know you’ve done everything you can. So we will never know. So what? We still have each other, right?”

“Honey, I think we just need to let go now.”

“I guess you’re right. Besides I have the best gift of all—you. That’s good enough for me,” I said, trying to cheer her up.

Inside, I was conflicted. Something wasn’t right here. Why did Earl Sanders care about what would destroy me? We had never met. And why would Harold Butler say that what was in that file would make what Van had done to Judy seem inconsequential? The more I thought about it, the less it made any sense at all.

Discouraged, I resolved to let it go. Maybe Loyd and Leona were right. Maybe it was best I didn’t know what Van had done. For the next few months, I pushed all thought of learning more about my father out of my mind.

45

July 31, 2004

I remember that day, the feeling of horror that swept through me, like it was yesterday.

Zach and I had spent the afternoon outdoors, grilling his favorite food—baby back ribs. After dinner, we washed the dishes, and I went to shower the smell of mesquite from my body. When I got out of the shower, I noticed that Zach was in his room playing a video game.

I walked into the living room, sat down in my chair, grabbed the remote, and flipped through the channels to A&E. I enjoyed watching true crime shows and saw that a special on the cold case of the Zodiac killer was airing. I didn’t know anything about this serial killer, and at the time, I thought it would be interesting.