![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
typedThat was the blunt denial on the dollar-pancake-size buttons we had made up as a gag after the Zodiac serial killer threatened my friend and Chronicle colleague, reporter Paul Avery, with a Halloween card in October 1970.
"From your secret pal," taunted the dancing skeleton on the front of the spooky card that the cryptic murderer addressed to Avery, although he misspelled it as "Averly." Inside the card, Zodiac printed neatly in felt-tip marker: "Peek-a-boo! You are doomed!"
By that time, police had already linked Zodiac to at least five random, brutal murders, dating back two years. He challenged police to catch him in boastful letters to The Chronicle and other Northern California newspapers, enclosing elaborate cryptograms and even scraps of one victim's bloody shirt as proof of his deeds.
Avery had written most of The Chronicle's stories about the case, and this was the first time Zodiac had targeted anyone by name. So we gathered around Paul for a closer look at this brazen new message, cracking jokes about his life expectancy. In the relative safety of the city room, we scoffed at the threat. (In 2006, 81 journalists were killed worldwide, but three decades ago, the notion that we were in a life-threatening occupation bordered on the preposterous.)
Someone produced the buttons in short order, and we all wore them on our lapels. Chronicle columnist Herb Caen mentioned it in a funny item that brought TV news crews scrambling to our third-floor offices at 901 Mission St.
Still, we had to wonder. If Zodiac was serious about whacking Avery, no silly buttons would throw him off, and he might just as easily take out one of us at the same time. Now, whenever I left the building with Paul, I couldn't help being more keenly aware of our surroundings. I looked much more carefully around corners, behind us, in parked cars and into the eyes of passing strangers.
Paul went along with the joke and wore an "I Am Not Avery" button on the front of his jacket. But inside his coat, he started to wear something else -- a .38-caliber revolver. A former Vietnam War correspondent and a licensed private eye, Paul was not easily intimidated, so he took out a concealed-weapon permit. "Are you really worried?" I asked him. "Nah," he shrugged, shaking his head. "But I'm not taking any chances."
[...]
Avery's colleagues regarded him as a reporter of consummate skill, but he was not above a little skulduggery to beat a competitor to an exclusive or usurp someone else's turf. Unsavory Avery was the not-so-affectionate sobriquet that reporter Charlie Howe hung on Paul for his investigative tactics.
[...]
Later, after Paul's growing struggles with alcohol and substance abuse led to his departure from The Chronicle, I took over the coverage. But Zodiac soon dropped out of sight, and precious little news occurred for three years until the last letter arrived in 1978.
