Bloor Line, a little puffy under the eyes.

Caucasian male, mid 20s, with slicked back hair and petit goatee, wearing a black jacket and cupping a coffee thermos between his knees.

Zodiac, Robert Graysmith (Jove)

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Secretive and guarded in his dealings with the world.
Very angry that police tells lies about him.
Zodiac is reasonably truthful in what he writes.

He doubles back around the block, always walking against one way streets. Up the stairs, quick, to check his mail, then back down, stopping short to acknowledge the old man in the stairwell, a chronic pot smoker, with eye contact and nothing more. He hates the four seconds it takes to clear the alley to his back landing, keys readied, his neck bare and vulnerable. There are no windows, no doors, but in those four seconds he knows what he could do two, maybe three, four, five times over if you didn't know to look for him. He suppresses the panic. Just follow the motions. He has it down, the opening of the screen door, slipping the key into the lock he keeps greased for ease, a sly smile at the thought of it, and he's inside, hand already on the screen to close in a sharp snap. If he's feeling unusually agitated he'll force himself to stand in the dark, back to the door, and count to five, ten, sometimes twenty, because he's not good at stopping. At 35, 40, 45, he closes the door and leans heavy on the washing machine, his neighbour's laundry day. The odour of dryer sheets calms him and he's safe at home. He takes the bloodied hankerchief from his pocket and tosses it in the load, ready to end this, and glides down the stairs to his basement apartment.