Zodiac Killer: The Lake Berryessa Attack

The black hood wasn’t just cloth. It had clip-on sunglasses over the eye-holes. The man who wore it also strapped a chest bib emblazoned with a white crossed-circle, like a crude target. On September 27, 1969, he stepped out from behind a tree at Lake Berryessa, knife in hand, and changed the course of American true crime forever.

Bryan Hartnell was 20. He studied at the University of California, Riverside, known for being thoughtful and soft-spoken. Cecelia Shepard, 22, was an art major at Pacific Union College. She was outgoing, witty, and bright. They’d met as students and, by early fall 1969, were tentatively rekindling a college romance. On the last warm Saturday of September, they drove Hartnell’s white Karmann Ghia north, winding along the edges of Lake Berryessa, searching for a quiet place to sit and talk.

They parked in an isolated turnout, spread out a blanket, and settled beneath a stand of oaks overlooking the water. Decades later, the Napa County air would still be thick with the memory of what happened next.

It was late afternoon. Hartnell and Shepard spotted a man in the distance, dressed in dark clothing. They watched as he drifted closer, almost blending into the line of trees behind them. When he finally emerged, he wore a hood that covered his entire head, the sunglasses clipped over the eyeholes like a grotesque disguise. The crossed-circle symbol was painted stark white on his chest. He held a gun.

He told them he was an escaped convict from a Montana prison, needed car keys and money, and assured them he just wanted to get to Mexico. Hartnell handed over his wallet and keys without resistance. He asked if they would be harmed; the man replied no, he just needed the car. But then, he produced lengths of pre-cut plastic clothesline from his back pocket.

He ordered Cecelia to tie Bryan’s wrists. When she finished, he tightened the knots himself and bound her as well. The situation turned sharply when he drew a long, double-edged knife and began to stab them both. Hartnell was stabbed six times in the back. Cecelia was stabbed ten times, mostly in the back and once in the abdomen.

After the assault, the attacker hiked back to Hartnell’s car. With a black felt pen, he scrawled a message on the passenger door: the dates of that night’s attack, the previous two Zodiac assaults, and drew the now-infamous crossed-circle symbol.

A fisherman found the couple at 6:30 p.m., about 45 minutes after the attack began. Bryan Hartnell was alive, bleeding heavily but conscious. Cecelia Shepard was still breathing, but barely. Both were rushed to Queen of the Valley Hospital in Napa. Hartnell survived. Cecelia Shepard died two days later, never regaining consciousness.

Less than an hour after the stabbing, a man placed a call from a payphone outside the Napa County Sheriff’s Office. He spoke calmly and clearly, reporting a double stabbing at Lake Berryessa, giving directions, and then claiming responsibility for both that attack and the one at Blue Rock Springs Park two months earlier. The phone, when dusted for prints, revealed a single, partial palm print—never matched to any suspect.

The Zodiac Killer had struck again.

This was not his first attack. The dark path to Lake Berryessa began on December 20, 1968. That night, David Faraday and Betty Lou Jensen—ages 17 and 16—parked on a gravel turnout along Lake Herman Road, Benicia, California. Just before 11 p.m., they were shot dead at close range. Jensen tried to flee; Faraday was killed in the car. Police found .22-caliber shell casings, but no fingerprints, footprints, or witnesses. The case was unsolved, but shocking in its randomness and brutality.

Six months later, on July 4, 1969, Darlene Ferrin and Michael Mageau, both in their late teens, parked at Blue Rock Springs Park in Vallejo. Just before midnight, a car pulled up behind them. A man with a flashlight approached, and without warning, fired five shots through the passenger window. Mageau survived, wounded in the jaw, chest, and leg. Ferrin died from multiple gunshot wounds. Not long after, a phone call was placed to Vallejo Police Department, reporting the attack and referencing the Lake Herman Road murders.

On August 1, 1969, three nearly identical letters arrived at the Vallejo Times-Herald, San Francisco Chronicle, and San Francisco Examiner. Each contained a third of a 408-character cryptogram, plus boasts and threats from a self-identified “killer.” The cipher, cracked just a week later by Donald and Bettye Harden, described murder as “so much fun,” and claimed the killer was collecting “slaves for the afterlife.”

For law enforcement, the ciphers forced a new approach. A serial killer was not just murdering—he was also communicating, taunting, and demanding attention.

After Lake Berryessa, the Zodiac’s violence escalated and his methods shifted. On October 11, 1969, Paul Stine, a 29-year-old San Francisco taxi driver, picked up a fare near the theater district. The passenger asked to be dropped at Washington and Maple, in the upscale neighborhood of Presidio Heights. When the cab reached the intersection, the passenger shot Stine in the head, tore a piece of his shirt, and walked away, taking the wallet and keys.

The killer was seen by three teenagers watching from an upper window across the street. They called police, describing a man in his late 20s to early 30s, stocky, with reddish-brown hair and glasses. Officers responded within minutes but failed to detain the suspect after a miscommunication about the perpetrator’s race. The killer left behind bloody fingerprints on the car’s door and dashboard, but these too have never been matched to a suspect.

Days later, the Zodiac mailed a piece of Stine’s bloodied shirt to the San Francisco Chronicle, proving his involvement. His letters grew more menacing and bizarre, mixing coded messages, threats against schoolchildren, and taunts to police.

The Zodiac continued to communicate. In November 1969, he sent a 340-character cipher to the Chronicle—later called the “Z340.” For over 50 years, it remained unsolved, until a trio of codebreakers announced in 2020 that they had finally cracked it. The message inside was chilling, but non-specific: “I hope you are having lots of fun in trying to catch me... I am not afraid of the gas chamber because it will send me to paradise all the sooner...”

The Zodiac was obsessed with public recognition and fear. Over the next year, he sent increasingly cryptic letters. On July 26, 1970, he mailed a map of the San Francisco Bay Area and a 32-character cipher to the Chronicle. In October, a Halloween card arrived for reporter Paul Avery—inside was a punning message, the crossed-circle symbol, and a chilling “peek-a-boo” threat. On March 13, 1971, the Zodiac wrote to the Los Angeles Times claiming responsibility for the 1966 murder of Cheri Jo Bates, expanding his possible victim count. His final confirmed letter came on January 29, 1974, praising the film “The Exorcist” and taunting police with the sign-off: “Me = 37, SFPD = 0.”

The attacks and letters terrorized Northern California. Investigators from multiple jurisdictions were quickly pulled into the case. Benicia and Vallejo police handled the first shootings. Napa County Sheriff’s Office took the lead after Lake Berryessa. San Francisco Police Department ran the Stine investigation, with the FBI providing criminal profiling and technical assistance.

Evidence came in fragments. Shell casings at the first two scenes matched the same gun. The Lake Berryessa attacker’s elaborate hood and crossed-circle symbol provided a signature—both physical and psychological. At Presidio Heights, the killer left bloody fingerprints and took a trophy: part of Stine’s shirt.

Surviving victims gave partial descriptions. Michael Mageau described the Blue Rock Springs shooter as a heavyset man, possibly 5’8” or taller, with light brown hair. Bryan Hartnell remembered the Lake Berryessa attacker’s voice and calm demeanor, but the disguise prevented a facial identification.

The Zodiac’s ciphers were a second front in the investigation. The 408-character code was solved within a week, revealing the killer’s twisted motives. The “Z340” cipher took over five decades to crack. Two other ciphers—the 13-character and 32-character codes—remain unsolved. Cryptographers, amateur and professional, continue to debate their meaning.

After the Stine murder, San Francisco police had their closest brush with the killer. Officers Donald Fouke and Eric Zelms saw a man walking away from the scene, but due to a mistaken radio dispatch—describing the suspect as Black—they let him go. Only later did they realize they may have seen the killer less than a block from the murder.

The Zodiac often phoned in his attacks. After Blue Rock Springs, he called Vallejo police from a payphone, calmly describing the scene, providing directions, and even correcting police accounts. After Lake Berryessa, he called Napa County Sheriff’s Office. Both times, his voice was steady, deliberate, and unhurried.

Despite hundreds of suspects and thousands of tips, the Zodiac was never positively identified. His claimed victim count ballooned in letters—to 37 murders by 1974—but only five killings and two non-fatal attacks are considered confirmed. Some detectives believe he may be linked to earlier, unsolved cases: Robert Domingos and Linda Edwards, murdered on a Santa Barbara beach in 1963, and Cheri Jo Bates in Riverside, 1966. No proof has ever emerged.

The killer’s psychological profile baffled experts. Former FBI profiler Gregg McCrary noted, “The killer constantly changed his method of operating and openly admitted that murder was sport for him.” The Zodiac shifted weapons—moving from a .22-caliber handgun to a knife, then to a 9mm pistol. He swapped rural lover’s lanes for city streets. He staged elaborate costume attacks, then blended into urban crowds. This unpredictability hampered attempts to catch him.

Physical evidence, including the partial palm print from the payphone, the bloody fingerprints from Stine’s cab, and the handwritten letters, was meticulously cataloged. But without a confirmed suspect, DNA analysis and fingerprint comparisons yielded no conclusive matches.

Public fear grew as the killer taunted authorities. In multiple letters, he threatened to shoot children exiting school buses, prompting emergency police escorts and panic across the Bay Area. Newspapers published his codes as demanded, fearful of more violence.

Despite the nationwide attention, the Zodiac’s crimes faded in frequency after 1971. His last confirmed letter arrived in January 1974. The murders stopped, or at least stopped being claimed. Some investigators believe he died, was imprisoned for an unrelated crime, or simply lost interest. Others think he kept killing, but without the public spectacle.

The Zodiac’s influence has endured. He was among the first American serial killers to use the media as a weapon, amplifying terror beyond his immediate victims. His ciphers and codes continue to draw hobbyists, cryptographers, and conspiracy theorists. The unsolved status of his case remains a source of frustration and fascination for both law enforcement and the public.

Expert assessments emphasize the sophistication of his campaign. The killer’s ability to operate undetected across multiple jurisdictions exposed limits in police coordination and forensic science of the era. His taunting letters forced police and newspapers to cooperate under duress, often publishing material that fueled further threats.

The Zodiac’s hood at Lake Berryessa remains one of the most chilling artifacts in American crime. Unlike most serial killers, who seek privacy, he deliberately inserted himself into the investigation—calling police, leaving coded notes, and mailing pieces of evidence. The crossed-circle symbol, first seen on his costume, is now infamous, a reminder of how the killer wove his own mythology.

Two of the Zodiac’s ciphers remain unsolved: the 13-character and 32-character codes, both sent in 1970. The persistence of these mysteries continues to taunt both cryptanalysts and survivors.

In a 1974 letter, the Zodiac claimed “Me = 37, SFPD = 0,” asserting a body count over seven times greater than police could confirm. To this day, only five murders and two attempted murders are definitively linked to him.