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The Most Dangerous Animal of All
Susan D. Mustafa

Gary L. Stewart


An explosive and historic book of true crime and an emotionally powerful and revelatory memoir of a man whose ten-year search for his biological father leads to a chilling discovery: His father is one of the most notorious-and still at large-serial killers.Soon after his birthmother contacted him for the first time at the age of thirty-nine, adoptee Gary L. Stewart decided to search for his biological father. It was a quest that would lead him to a horrifying truth and force him to reconsider everything he thought he knew about himself and his world.Written with award-winning author and journalist Susan D. Mustafa, The Most Dangerous Animal of All tells the story of Stewart’s decade-long hunt for his father following a complex trail of startling twists and connections. Combing through government records and news reports and through conversations with his father’s relatives and friends, Stewart turns up a host of clues, including forensic evidence, identifying his father as one of the most infamous and still-wanted serial killers in history.Mustafa and Stewart construct a chilling psychological profile of Stewart’s father, raise disturbing questions about law enforcement-what they know and what they’ve suppressed-and present overwhelming evidence that should force relevant authorities to review the status of the case. Throughout, Stewart’s pressing need to know the truth about his parents and himself drives the narrative to its climactic discovery.









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For the man who adopted

the abandoned baby on the stairwell

and raised him as his own










Cover (#ub813aec1-3f30-5af5-b332-779b401b6bab)

Title Page (#ulink_e4cb81ca-a531-5d9a-8065-2fa3c0c1e038)

Dedication (#ulink_f49db33d-1d93-54d2-b083-79a753e180a4)

Author’s Note (#ulink_966e59d3-ab12-5544-946d-0d7e00d98af4)

Epigraph (#ulink_a3536670-7e30-5886-b1ca-84312a474366)

Prologue (#ulink_0baa43ae-1b63-5611-8dc5-6d3d1e951e46)

Part One: The Ice Cream Romance

Part Two: Signs of the Zodiac

Part Three: The Truth Deciphered

Memorium (#ulink_00d1535e-3d76-5a28-8fc2-4638054ab38e)

Acknowledgments (#ulink_927c4cae-cdd4-55b8-bd33-48edc1ad97c9)

Timeline (#ulink_2cfcf551-d71e-501c-b006-ba2893b6ed16)

Bibliography and Resources (#ulink_5ff461ad-de86-55c1-b9d6-8ddf47b2f4ee)

Picture Section (#ulink_f1f5a1c1-dd6a-5f42-a95f-6ba27d0865c7)

List of Searchable Terms (#ulink_8be2132f-7005-537c-a44a-479e2564f9ad)

About the Authors (#ulink_daeae167-8d6b-5f3a-b3f6-79a14b1c236e)

Copyright (#ulink_175e5c47-d5b0-5721-ba36-e072162fee70)

About the Publisher (#u9b37b043-63b7-506d-8091-e4a686a09c78)







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The Zodiac case has been shrouded in mystery for almost fifty years. When I began my journey to find my biological father, I never envisioned that my search would lead me to a series of brutal murders that terrorized the residents of California in the 1960s and ’70s. The very idea that my father committed these acts is repulsive to me, and I try hard to disassociate myself from the horrific crimes he perpetrated upon innocent young people. After I met my biological mother, I simply wanted to find the man responsible for giving me life. I wanted to know him, love him, and even forgive him for what he had done to me. I had been raised in an adoptive home and taught that love and forgiveness are tenets by which to live one’s life.

I had been gathering information about my father for two years before I got the first suspicion that he could somehow be connected to the Zodiac killings. At the time, I did not want to believe what my instincts were telling me, so I set out to uncover the truth, to prove to myself that my father could not possibly have been a serial killer. As years went by and more and more telling evidence unfolded, there came a day when I could no longer deny that my worst fears were true. That realization prompted me to write this memoir. I felt it was my responsibility to share the truths that I had learned in a way that would leave no doubt as to the identity of this killer and the reasons why he had committed these murders.

This memoir is based upon my research over a twelve-year period, which I recorded in a journal as I went through the process of discovering the facts of my father’s life. Through conversations with my father’s best friend, family members and my biological mother, police records, newspaper articles, old Best family letters, marriage and divorce records, and other government records, I was able to create a timeline of my father’s early life, which makes up Part One of this book. The narration of that period is presented in a novelistic manner of storytelling because this was the most coherent way to tell his story. I have taken some small liberties when re-creating dialogue in this section of the book, but even those conversations are based upon the memories of my father’s family and friends and the facts of his life that were related to me. Likewise, dialogue in Parts Two and Three is based upon twelve years of investigation and the facts that investigation revealed. I should note that all of the conversations that took place between me and others, including my biological mother, my father’s best friend, and detectives at the San Francisco Police Department, are related verbatim.

The details concerning my father’s life span five decades and are complex. It seemed best to simply start at the beginning, in order to give the reader a real sense of how and why my father grew into a serial killer.

– GARY L. STEWART







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February 1963

The sound of the baby’s hungry cries pierced the darkness. His father angrily flung his covers aside and climbed out of bed, hurrying to the footlocker that doubled as the infant’s crib. Furiously, he slammed the lid shut.

Inside, the cries soon turned to gasps as the baby struggled for air.







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May 2002

Thirty-nine years. That’s how long I had waited to hear the words. Thirty-nine years spent wondering about my name, my parents’ names.

Finally, I knew.

My mother’s name was Judith.

I could see that something was bothering my adoptive parents, Loyd and Leona Stewart, the day I found out the truth. I observed them surreptitiously as I stirred the crawfish, sausage, corn, and potatoes one last time before dumping out the huge pot onto the newspapers lining the table in my sister Cindy’s backyard. Loyd wasn’t laughing and cracking jokes in his Cajun French accent like he usually did, and Leona’s pretty face was drawn tight, as though she had something serious on her mind.

It was hot, the Louisiana humidity already sucking any coolness from the spring air, but a light breeze made the heat bearable as we sat around the table pinching meat from the tails and sucking spicy seasonings from the heads of the tasty mudbugs. After I finished my pile, I began hosing out the boiling pot. I watched as Loyd and Leona nodded to each other and then began walking toward me.

Uh-oh. I could tell by the way they were so deliberate in their approach that something was very wrong. I wondered who had died.

“Hey, Geg,” Dad said.

Loyd never called me Geg. That was a shortened version of my name used only by my grandparents. His use of that nickname, coupled with the fact that he looked like he was going to cry, made me even more nervous.

I flipped the towel in my hand over my shoulder and said, “What’s the matter, you two?”

“There’s no easy way to say what we have to say, so I’m just going to say it,” Loyd said. “A couple of weeks ago, a lady in San Francisco called us and said she was your mother.”

My mother? What?

Leona slipped her arm around my waist. “When we first received the package and picture she sent, I didn’t want to believe she could be your mother, but your dad said how much you looked like the lady in the picture. I denied it with every ounce of my being. I even refused to look at the picture again for a day or two.”

I tried to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat.

“But then I prayed about it,” she continued, “and the Lord laid it upon my heart that this was your mother and that your daddy and I should be honest with you.”

“When I first saw the picture, I just knew it was your mother,” Loyd piped in. “I told your mama, and she just wouldn’t believe it.”

Seeing the tears that were welling in my eyes, Leona gave me a gentle squeeze.

I couldn’t believe it. After all these years, I would finally have an identity, a name that was really mine. I could feel a wave of excitement flowing through me, and I reached for my father and mother and hugged them tightly. I promised them that no matter what happened, they would always be my parents. At that moment, I had no way of knowing how much this day would alter the course of my life.

Leona explained that she had received the call on May Day. She and Cindy had been in the living room, visiting with Loyd’s mother, Evelyn, when the phone rang, and she went into the kitchen to answer it.

“Hello,” Leona said in her sweet southern voice.

“Hello. Is this Leona?” the voice on the other end of the line asked nervously.

“Yes, it is. And who is this?”

“My name is Judith Gilford, and I live in San Francisco. I believe I am your son Gary’s birth mother.”

For a few seconds, Leona couldn’t speak.

When she was able to catch her breath, she managed to say, “What makes you think that?”

“I have information from his placement file,” Judith explained. “Look, I don’t want to interfere in your lives,” she rushed on. “I just want to make the information available to Gary, to give him an identity just in case he wants to know.”

Leona listened as the woman explained some of the circumstances of her life and how she had come to give her baby up for adoption.

“I never wanted to give him up, and I’ve always wanted to find him,” Judith said just as Loyd poked his head into the room. Leona waved him away and walked into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She listened carefully while Judith told her everything she had gone through to find her son over the past few years. Leona, always attuned to the feelings of others, couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the woman.

“Please just let me send you a package with a letter and some pictures for him,” Judith begged.

“I’ll discuss it with my husband,” Leona said. “And I’ll talk to Gary.”

Judith cut her off. “Please don’t make me any promises. I will just send the information and trust that whatever should happen will happen.”

A few days later, when Leona received the FedEx box from Judith, she turned it over and over, afraid to open it, fearing the potential it had to change all of our lives.

All the birthday parties, the skinned knees, the boo-boos she had kissed. All of the memories she had shared with me flashed through her mind. Was this some kind of cruel joke? How dare this woman intrude into her life – her son’s life – like this?

With trembling fingers, Leona opened the box. A picture clipped to a letter caught her eye. The woman who had called stared at her from the wallet-size photograph. Tears began to cloud Leona’s vision and then rolled down her cheeks. She tried as she searched the picture to convince herself that the woman looked nothing like me. But try as she might to lie to herself, the truth stared back at her from the photo.

She brought the picture to Loyd.

He held Leona’s hand as he scanned the photo.

“He sure does look like her,” Loyd said. He wanted to tell his wife that this woman could not possibly be my mother, but he knew he had to be honest.

For the next few days, they talked about nothing but this unbelievable predicament in which they suddenly found themselves. Mine had been a closed adoption. This shouldn’t have happened. Should they tell me? Should they keep this a secret? Holding hands, they prayed together, asking God to show them what to do.

Finally, one night Loyd got his answer. He turned to his wife and said, “He deserves to know who he is and then decide what he wants to do.”

Leona knew her husband was right, but she was very afraid I would get hurt. For the next week, Leona and Loyd prayed harder than ever that God would give them the strength to be unselfish, that He would help them deliver this news in just the right way.

And now I knew.

I drove the twenty-eight miles back to my house that evening in a state of shock, remembering all the times I had fantasized about what my real parents might be like and wondering from whom I had inherited my reddish hair. Because I didn’t know my real name or why my adoption birth certificate stated that I had been born in New Orleans, I had struggled with an identity crisis for most of my life. Excited and anxious to look through the package Leona had given me, I pressed my foot a little harder on the accelerator, holding the picture of the woman in my hand. I caught myself veering off the road several times because I couldn’t take my eyes off it. As I drove, I thought about my son Zach’s reaction to the photo.

“Hey, Dad, he looks just like you,” Zach had naively said, looking at the man standing next to Judith in the photo she had sent. Everyone had laughed. The man was clearly of American Indian or Hispanic heritage, but Zach had assumed that if the woman was my mother, then the man had to be my father.

When I got home, I turned on the overhead light so I wouldn’t miss a detail as I sifted through the letters in the box. Sitting in my favorite recliner, I stared at the picture of the woman who claimed to be my mother.

Her eyes.

Her nose.

Her mouth.

They were like mine.

I pulled out the letter Judith had written to all of the men she could find who had been born on my birth date in Louisiana.

Tears gathered in my eyes as I read.

In the letter, she explained that she had been fifteen and a runaway from California when I was born. She had been married to my father, but the marriage had been annulled by her mother because she was underage. Judith went on to state that she and her husband had been apprehended and sent back to California. The condition her mother had set for her daughter to eventually move back in with her was that I – two months old at the time – be given up for adoption. She said she had married again at the age of twenty-six and had another son.

I had a brother?

Then she said that she had loved me from the day I was born and that I had been with her every day since. “It would be the happiest day of my life if the phone rang and my son said to me, ‘I believe you are my mother,’” she wrote.

I read the letter over and over and then reached for the phone. As I began to dial the number she had provided, my hand began to shake, and I hung up. What would I say?

My thoughts turned to Leona. I knew how difficult it must have been for her to share this news with me. The next day was Mother’s Day, and I felt guilty even thinking about calling this woman when Leona had been such a wonderful mother to me. Throughout my life, I had spent that special day in church honoring her as she proudly wore the corsage that announced she was a mother. She had chosen to love me when she had no obligation to do so. She had happily taken me into her home and treated me as well as she had her biological child. She didn’t deserve such disloyalty.

As I sat near her in the pew at church the next morning, I felt such love for her, but as I squeezed her hand, I couldn’t stop thinking about the other woman, the one who had given birth to me when she was only fifteen years old. I couldn’t quite fathom that. I felt compassion for the young girl who had been faced with such an adult situation.

By the end of the day, I knew what I had to do. I had always believed that everything happens for a reason, and this could be no different.

When I got home, I walked into the living room and sat down in my favorite chair. Still holding the woman’s picture, I reached for the phone and began dialing. My heart was pounding as I punched in the numbers. Holding my breath, I waited.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Then I heard a man’s voice on the answering machine. Speaking with a distinct accent, he said, “You have reached Judy Gilford and Frank Velasquez. Your call is very important to us, but we are unable to take your call at this time. Please leave your name and phone number, along with your message, and we will return your call as soon as we can.”

Disappointment raced through me. I wanted so badly to hear her voice. I hesitated for a moment.

Taking a deep breath, I finally spoke. “This message is for Judith Gilford. This is Gary Stewart, and I think you may be my mother.” I paused for a moment, steadying my voice. “If you are my mother, I would like to wish you a happy Mother’s Day … for the first time. If you are not my mother, then I hope you have a happy Mother’s Day as well. If you would like to return my call, you can reach me at …” And I left my number.

Not knowing if I had done the right thing, I sank into my recliner, drained. It had taken everything I had to make that call. I reached over to turn on the lamp and then sat there for hours, staring at her picture.

Later that evening, Frank Velasquez decided to call home and check for messages. He and Judy, as she preferred to be called, were visiting relatives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Although they were not married, Judy often referred to him as her husband. They enjoyed traveling together and had booked this trip as a short getaway.

Frank listened for a moment and then retrieved the message again.

“Honey, you have to listen to this one,” he said, handing Judy the phone. She listened to the message over and over, crying uncontrollably as she heard my voice for the first time.

“You have to call him now,” Frank insisted.

Judy couldn’t. She was too overwrought.

“I can’t. It’s so late,” she hedged. “And I don’t think we have enough minutes on the phone card.”

Frank took the phone from her hand and dialed a number, paying for an additional thousand minutes before handing the phone back to her.

Judy stared at it for a moment and then dialed the number I had left on the recorder.

I was still sitting in my living room when the shrill ringing of the telephone startled me out of my reverie.

“Hello,” I said, my voice cracking as I tried to still my trembling hands.

“Hi,” Judy whispered into the phone. “This is Judy Gilford.”

The sound of her voice shot through me like an electrical current. I started crying. I couldn’t speak.

“I know you may not believe me, but I love you. I’ve always loved you,” Judy said, her voice quavering. Like a dam that had suddenly broken, we both started talking at once. “You have a grandson,” I told her. “He’s ten, and his name is Zach.”

We talked for what seemed like hours, interrupting each other in our eagerness to share everything. It felt as though I were in a dream – that this was happening to someone else, that an impossible prayer was being answered. We agreed to leave the past behind us and make our new relationship whatever we wanted it to be. Excitedly, we began to make plans to meet.

When I hung up the phone, I leaned back in my chair, savoring this special Mother’s Day. It was a day I would never forget.

I couldn’t sleep that night, so I tried to put my feelings into words by writing her a letter:

Mom,

Today my world changed. When I first learned that you were searching for me, I was completely shocked. Then, when I spoke to you this evening, I knew once and for all that you are my mother. Words cannot describe what my heart feels now. There is so much more to motherly love than most people understand. For all my life, I have had an emptiness in my heart that was impossible to fill. The missing piece was something that I did not understand, something I didn’t even know existed. When you spoke those words to me this evening, “Gary, I love you,” the emptiness was gone.

On June 1, 2002, Zach and I drove to New Orleans International Airport and boarded an airplane bound for Oakland, California. I sat quietly, my stomach in knots, looking out the window at the fluffy white clouds below while Zach talked with Joe Dean, the athletic director for Louisiana State University, who was seated next to us. Zach sensed how nervous I was and left me to my thoughts. As the plane made its way across the country, I became more afraid and excited.

Although I had experienced unconditional love and acceptance in my adoptive parents’ home, the knowledge that my biological parents had not wanted me had plagued me throughout my life. In my mind, I had always been John Doe, a boy who had been discarded and given a new name by adoptive parents. As a result, I had trust issues during my adolescent years and then later in my adult relationships. I lived with the fear that I could be rejected at any moment because I could never be good enough that someone would want to keep me around. Loyd and Leona did everything they could to make me feel loved and wanted, but all of my adult relationships with women were destined to fail as long as I remained John Doe in my heart. My fear of being discarded rendered me incapable of loving fully, because I felt like I didn’t deserve to be loved. After all, how could anyone love me when I didn’t even know who I was?

Although I was divorced from Zach’s mother, my relationship with Zach was quite different. I might not know myself, but I knew my son deserved better from me than I had received from my biological parents. I dedicated my life to ensuring that he would never experience the horror of feeling unwanted and that he would always understand how much his father loved him.

Now that I knew that Judy had been a child when she gave me up for adoption, I had no residual bitterness as I mentally prepared for our meeting. My excitement began to build as I realized that I would finally have answers to the questions that had accumulated over my lifetime.

When the plane finally landed, I wiped the sweat that had beaded on my palms onto the legs of my pants. I had yearned for this moment my entire life, and now that it was here, suddenly I was torn.

I wanted to run away.

I wanted to meet my mother.

A few minutes later, I saw her at the far end of the terminal, standing with the man in the picture she had sent, and my heart began pumping furiously. She was tall – taller than the man next to her. Her hair was shorter and blonder than the picture had suggested. She was looking around anxiously. Even from a distance, I could see the same fear and excitement that I felt reflected in her face. I broke out in a cold sweat, but my steps quickened when our eyes met for the first time. From the moment I saw her eyes – clear blue like mine – I had no doubt. This woman was my mother.

When I reached her, I dropped my suitcase and gathered her into my arms, hugging her tightly to me.

“Mom,” I whispered into her hair.

Judy stepped back, her hands on my shoulders, searching my face. Tears filled her eyes as she took in every detail of my appearance.

“Gary,” she said, her voice trembling. “My son.”

Those words sounded magical to me.

With one arm still around her, I turned to introduce her to Zach. While they got acquainted, Frank held out his hand and introduced himself to me, then ushered us outside to his car.

As Frank drove from Oakland to San Francisco, I couldn’t stop stealing glances at my mother. At fifty-four, she was slender and youthful, her beautiful eyes and hair enhanced by flawless, tanned skin.

Before long, we arrived at Fisherman’s Wharf. Zach marveled at the huge Dungeness crabs that filled aquariums in front of Alioto’s restaurant, where we were to have dinner. Men, mostly immigrants wearing white smocks, fired the cauldrons while tourists sampled crab cocktails served in paper cups.

“Can we get one, Dad?” Zach said excitedly. He had never seen a crab that big in Louisiana.

“Maybe later,” I laughed. “Let’s eat at the restaurant first.”

Once seated, we looked out the window at the colorful fishing boats lined up along the dock, their hulls rocking back and forth to the rhythm of the bay. The menu, featuring seafood brought in on those boats, reminded me of home.

“What looks good?” Judy said.

“Everything,” I laughed, “but we definitely have to order calamari. I bet it’s much fresher here than in Louisiana.”

“Sometimes squid will school into the bay, but mostly they’re caught just beyond it in the Pacific,” Frank said.

We kept the conversation light throughout dinner, each of us wanting to say so much but realizing we had to get to know one another slowly. After dinner, we walked along the wharf, peeking in shop windows and watching street performers dance and hula-hoop for passersby.

“It feels so good here,” I told Judy, enjoying the cool breeze that swept along the bay. “At this time of year in Louisiana, you can’t even breathe because it’s so hot.”

“It’s like this all year round. We love it,” she said, reaching for my hand. “I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t wait to show you San Francisco.”

It was late when we arrived at the apartment Judy and Frank shared. After Frank and Zach fell asleep, Judy and I stayed up until three in the morning, sometimes talking, sometimes just staring at each other, neither of us really believing this was happening. Finally we could talk no more, and for the first time in my life, I kissed my mother good night.

The unfamiliar roar of city buses on the street below woke me the next morning. Zach was still sleeping on the couch when I walked into the living room, and I leaned down and kissed him on the cheek before walking to the sliding glass door of my mother’s third-story terrace overlooking the city.

The view of San Francisco was beautiful. Straight ahead, I could see Noe Valley, a working-class neighborhood filled with Edwardian row houses colored in pinks and blues and greens. In the midst of the valley, the twin steeples of St. Paul’s Catholic Church climbed high into the sky. Just across San Francisco Bay, I spotted the hills of Oakland. To the right, Candlestick Park carved an oval into the landscape, and to my left, cars moved quickly across the upper and lower decks of the Bay Bridge. Between the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay Bridge, Alcatraz appeared hauntingly serene. I stood there for a moment, taking it all in before getting dressed.

Judy and I had agreed to attend church that morning, and later that afternoon we drove to Benicia, a tiny fishing village that had grown into a thriving city thirty-five miles northeast of San Francisco, to see the corporate headquarters of a company that had recently offered me a position.

My seventeen-year career as an electrical engineer had been an unsteady rise up the ladder of success. I graduated from Louisiana State University with a bachelor of science in 1985, and over the years I’d advanced with one company and then another, working my way into management before becoming vice president of industrial services for a large company. As often happens in the boom-and-bust industrial cycle in Louisiana, that company started showing signs of downsizing, and I began to worry about my job security.

A month before Judy called my mother, Delta Tech Service, in Benicia, had contacted me. The company was looking for someone to open an industrial service location in Baton Rouge. Fatigued by the ups and downs of the oil business, I turned the offer down and accepted a job as plant manager at a plastics manufacturer. I was supposed to start that job the Monday after Mother’s Day, but then Judy entered my life and everything changed. I accepted the position with Delta Tech, excited about the prospect of being able to travel in and out of San Francisco. It seemed like divine intervention that the job offer had come so close to the time I needed to be in California as often as possible. It was perfect. I could visit my mother whenever I was needed at our company headquarters.

Judy and I rode together in her sporty red Grand Am while Frank, wanting to give us some time alone, followed with Zach in a blue Mercury Sable. As we rode, I absorbed the landscape – the colorful Victorian houses climbing one after another up the hills, the unfamiliar shrubs and trees, the golden wild grass. It all seemed so surreal – a lifetime of emotions and experiences being crammed into a few short days. For a while we rode in silence, Judy wondering when I would start asking the tough questions and me trying to figure out what to ask first.

“Isn’t this where the bridge collapsed during the 1989 earthquake?” I said.

“Oh, yes. In fact,” Judy said, pointing overhead through the windshield to the bottom of the upper deck of the Bay Bridge, “right here where the red markers are is the exact spot the bridge failed.”

“I remember seeing that on TV like it was yesterday,” I said, before spitting out the question I had been dying to ask. We had been dancing around it since I arrived.

“So, Mom … who is my father?”

Putting both hands on the steering wheel, Judy cleared her throat and straightened in her seat. I could see she was nervous.

“You remember when we first talked on the phone, and you asked me to be completely honest with you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I promise you that I will always tell you the truth. We have to build our relationship on love, truth, and honesty. But, honey, it’s been so long now, and you have to realize that I was forced to forget everything about your father and about you. My memory of that time is severely repressed.”

Judy began sharing with me some of her recollections of my father, which were sketchy at best. “His name was Van. I don’t remember his full name,” she said, before explaining that they had met when she was very young and had run away together.

“Anyway, we ended up in New Orleans, and I ended up pregnant. One day, I think when you were about three months old, your father took you to Baton Rouge. I remember he took you by train, because we still didn’t own a car. He took you to a church. When he returned without you, I left him,” Judy continued. “Your father got mad at me for leaving and turned me in to the authorities.”

I struggled to comprehend what I was hearing. I had been brought to a church?

“So my father took me to Baton Rouge and turned me in to the authorities at a church, and then he turned you in to the authorities?” I queried, wanting to be sure about every detail.

Judy hesitated and then nodded her answer. “Yes.”

I sat quietly for a moment, taking it all in. Finally I said, “You know what, Mom? I really don’t think I want to know any more about my father. I have a wonderful family back home in Baton Rouge, and my dad is the best father in the world.”

Judy’s relief was visible. She obviously didn’t want me to find him, either.

I wish that would have been the end of it for me, but over the next few months, the more I thought about my biological father, the more I wanted to meet him, to learn his side of the story, maybe even forgive him and begin a relationship. My mother’s memories were limited. Maybe his memories would be better, and he could give me a reason why he had brought me to Baton Rouge and left me there.

I decided I would try to find him after all. I wanted to learn the truth about him – what kind of man he was, why he didn’t want me. I know now that sometimes things should be left in the past, that knowing isn’t always better. Sometimes the truth is so horrible that it must be uncovered in bits and pieces, snippets here and there, absorbed slowly, as the whole of it at once is simply too shocking to bear.

And sometimes the truth changes everything …






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