The Zebra Murders

A group of Black Muslims declared war on whites in 1973 and turned San Francisco into a slaughterhouse for 179 days.

A group of Black Muslims declared war on whites in 1973 and turned San Francisco into a slaughterhouse for 179 days.

Six Months of Hell in San Francisco

Throughout history human beings have destroyed their own kind in an incredible variety of ways, for a multitude of reasons: in the name of gods, philosophies, politics, creeds, and infinitum. Not the rarest of the reasons have been those of race. Hitler slew Jews because they were an “inferior race”–and Pancho Villa executed “Chinamen” in Mexico for the same reason. The Chinese in turn beheaded “foreign devils” in their own land with little or no provocation, and Idi Amin killed even more promiscuously today. The Ku Klux Klan has burned alive black men in the South for reasons of “race” and “white religion”–and the Zebra killers murdered innocent whites in San Francisco because their Black Muslim faith taught them that “blue-eyed devils” were less than human.

Monstrous behavior has never been restricted by race or religion–and never will be. The telling of that behavior–the reconstruction of it in books, articles, and films–must never be restricted, either; not by censor, not by conscience. For only in the telling of it might understanding surface.

This article–and the book from which it is drawn–is a reconstruction as accurate as the author can make it of a series of particularly terrible crimes perpetrated on randomly selected victims in San Francisco late in 1973 and early in 1974. The terror continued for 179 days. All the victims were white; all of their assailants were black. The events became known as the “Zebra” crimes because of the wavelength on the police radio that handled nothing but these crimes.

In order to reconstruct the story with all possible accuracy, the author has availed himself of the contents of reams of available written material and the recollections of dozens of persons connected both directly and indirectly with the case. The article that follows is as close to the truth as anyone is ever likely to get. All of the characters are real people, except the person known as Van Dyke, who is a composite of several men alleged to have represented the Nation of Islam’s headquarters.

The meetings were held in the loft of a San Francisco warehouse. They were conducted by a dignified black man with a Vandyke beard. He wore a business suit and spoke in a quiet, almost ministerial tone.

“The population of the white man in North America has reached one hundred and three million. The population of the black man is only seventeen million. But,” he held a stiff forefinger next to one ear, “the population of the white man throughout the world is only four hundred million, while the population of the black man throughout the world has now reached four and a half billion.”

He turned and strolled at a measured pace before one wall of the loft. Facing him, sitting on old but comfortable club chairs and sofas, was an audience of a dozen black men. Their eyes followed as he strolled.

“There are fifty-seven million square miles of land on the earth. The white man uses only six million square miles; the black man uses nearly four times that amount: twenty-three million square miles.”

In two corners of the room, facing the audience, the speaker’s bodyguards stood: two large, powerful black men with narrowed, darting eyes that constantly scanned the attentive faces. These men accompanied the speaker everywhere, one of them driving the Continental in which he rode, the other opening doors for him wherever he went.

“So on the earth today,” the speaker continued, “there are more black men than white, and the black men occupy and use more land than the white.” He stopped strolling, and his voice took on a noticeable edge. “Why then has the white man been able to set himself up as our superior? Why has he been able to control our race for four hundred years? To answer that question–” the forefinger went up again, “–we must go back in time and learn how the white man came to be.”

The speaker returned to the center of the wall and faced his audience. Something seemed to be happening to his eyes; they were becoming wider and whiter.

“A thousand years ago, near the holy city of Mecca, there lived an evil black leader named Yakub. He desired to create a race of weak people that he and his ancestors could rule forever. To do this, he began to study the black race. He learned that in every black man there exist two germs: a black germ and a brown germ. He found a way to separate the brown germs from the black germs, and he put the brown germs into all the healthy, strong girls among his followers who were at least sixteen years of age. As they produced babies, he had the black ones separated and fed to wild beasts, but he had the brown ones carefully nursed and raised to adults. Then he passed a law that blacks who were alike could not marry; only those who were unlike could marry. Black had to marry brown. Dark had to marry light, and the light had to marry lighter.

“Yakub was pleased because he saw his people becoming weaker and weaker, while he and those who ruled with him remained black and strong. For six hundred years there continued this process of grafting brown from black, and lighter brown from darker brown, until finally the original black blood had thinned so much and become so weak that the germ it carried lost all its color and became white. Weak, wicked white.”

From the audience came a several low grunts of disapproval. The speaker nodded agreement with them.

“By the time the descendants of Yakub realized what had been done, it was too late. The grafted white devils had spread over the earth and were teaching lessons about a new, mysterious god that no one could see until after death. Soon eighty-five percent of the people on earth were being taught about this mystery god. They were being taught by ten percent who were clever and crafty and desired to lead them. Only a scant five percent of the earth’s population remained righteously believing in the true god Allah.”

The speaker raised his forefinger like a vengeful sword. “For four hundred years these white infidels have spread their false religion over the land like a great dirty plague, trying to put out the light of Allah. Christians and Jews alike are guilty of setting rivals to Allah. Both are black­slave-making religions, dedicated to the mental destruction of the black man. They are the enemies of Allah, and they are the sole people responsible for leading astray nine-tenths of the world’s black population!”

“Evil!” one of the men in the audience said loudly.

The speaker’s eyes widened even more. His voice grew raspy, hissing. “For four hundred years this grafted white devil has controlled the earth and manipulated the black man. For four hundred years he has castrated black men, raped black women, and stomped the heads of little black babies!”

“Devils!” said a voice in the audience. It was the same man who had spoken before. He was a thick-necked black man with a clean-shaven skull and eyes like bullet holes. The only soft feature of his entire presence was his long, almost feminine eyelashes. Under the overhead light his shiny skull glistened. Call this man Head.

“For four hundred years,” the speaker now began to rant, “we, the true followers of Allah, the true Muslims of the earth, have suffered persecution at the hands of this grafted white devil who came from our very own diluted seed! We have been relegated to ghettos, deprived of a decent education, victimized in the labor market, and sent to the white man’s prisons!” The forefinger whipped across the audience. “There are some in this very room who can give witness to the injustices wreaked on us in the white man’s prisons!”

“Right on!” said Head. He was one who could give such witness.

’’All right!” said a young, light-skinned Negro next to him. So light that his skin had faint freckles on it, he was seven years younger than Head, who was 28 and handsome in a boyish way. Unlike Head, he could not give witness to anything about the white man’s prison, because he had never even been arrested much less incarcerated. In the muted overhead light, with the dark contrast of Head next to him, he looked almost yellow-skinned. Call him Yellow.

“But we do not need the white man’s prisons to prove to us that the white man is our enemy,” the Vandyked speaker continued. “We need only to study our lessons from this.” He removed a small book from his inside pocket. “Message to the Black Man,” he said, lowering his voice to a reverent tone to read the book’s title Opening the cover, he recited a prayer on the first page. “In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Most Merciful Saviour, to whom all praise is due for raising up among us a Divine Leader, Teacher, and Guide, the most honorable Elijah Mohammed. As-salaam-alaikum.”

“As-salaam-alaikum,” the audience repeated in concert. It was a traditional Muslim saying, “Peace be with you.”

“Turn to the subject of Islam in this book, and you will find your answer as to who is the enemy of Allah,” the speaker said. “Turn to the fourth question and the fourth answer, and you will see; you will learn. Listen! The fourth question: ’Does Allah have enemies, and who are they? The fourth answer: ’The enemies of Allah are known at the present as the white race or European race, who are the sole people responsible for misleading nine-tenths of the total population of the black nation.’ That–” he stabbed the air above him with his forefinger “–tells us who our enemy is. Now you tell me!”

“The grafted white devil!” said Head. “White devils!” said Yellow.

“Whites-whites-whites!” said the others in a low chant.

Only one man in the audience did not respond. He was the third man who sat on the couch with Head and Yellow. He was the same age as Head and like him had been in the white man’s prison. The two had met in San Quentin; this one had only recently been released. Nothing about his appearance was unusual: he had neither the boyish good looks of Yellow nor the cold-eyed countenance of Head. He was simply ordinary-looking. What was extraordinary about him lay under the surface, unseen. It rested in his hands, which were lethal, and his feet, which were deadly. He was an expert at kung fu and jujitsu. Call this one Judo.

“Now that we know the enemy,” the speaker said, “what do we do about him?” He smiled, parting the hair around his lips. “Simply read the laws of Mohammed. Read the tenth lesson, which asks, ’Why does Mohammed and any Muslim murder the white devil?’ And answers, ’Because the white devil is one hundred percent wicked and will not keep and obey the laws of Islam. His ways and actions are like a snake of the grafted type. Mohammed had learned that he cannot reform the white devils; so, they must be murdered. All Muslims will murder the white devil because they know he is a snake. Each Muslim is required to kill four devils, and by bringing and presenting four at one time, his reward is a button to wear on the lapel of his coat and free transportation to the holy city of Mecca to see Brother Mohammed.”

“Praise Brother Mohammed’” the men in the audience said as one voice. Again except for Judo, who remained silent.

“The lessons are clear,” the speaker said. His eyes were very wide now, the eyeballs quivering white globes that rolled over the faces before him. “The lessons say who the enemy is!”

“Right on!”

“The lessons say what to do about the enemy?”

“Right on!”

“Kill the grafted snake!”

“Kill it!”

“Kill the evil whites!”

“Kill them!”

“Kill the blue-eyed devils!”

“Kill! Kill! Kill!”

The chant was low, murmured, sloshing across the room like dirty water in a flooded basement. It came from mechanized mouths below mesmerized eyes, robotlike, hypnotic, uncontrollable.

While the chant was going on, the speaker quietly left. His bodyguards opened the doors for him and followed him downstairs and out back to where the Continental was parked. They drove away into the night.

Behind, in the loft, the chant went on, created by the voices of all the men who had listened to the speaker. All but one.

Judo.

A little while after the speaker left, the chanting in the loft stopped and the dozen black men dispersed. It was dusk. Head, Yellow, and Judo crossed the rear parking lot to a white Dodge van. Yellow got behind the wheel. Head took the passenger seat, and Judo sat in back on a stack of folded furniture-moving pads.

Yellow turned to Head. “Where to, man?”

“Go south on Mission,” said Head. He stretched his muscular arms and threw a tight smile over his shoulder at Judo. ’’I’m glad it’s the weekend, man. Gives us lots of time to get even with the motherfuckers for all the nights we spent in Q.” He half turned in his seat, waiting for an answer from Judo. When one was not forthcoming, he prompted, “Right, man?”

“Yeah, man, right,” Judo replied. He hoped Head did not notice the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. Head could be very vicious when he got mad.

Yellow drove along Mission Street, down the middle of the San Francisco Peninsula. Head watched out the front and side windows, his bullet hole eyes looking, scanning, searching.

“Hey, man, tell me some more about Q,” said Yellow with boyish enthusiasm. It was a regular question with him. He was the kid asking the big guys about the service. Never having been arrested, he had a morbid curiosity about prison. It fascinated him.

“Ain’t nothin’ to tell, man,” said Head. “It’s a fucking white man’s joint. I’m just glad to be out, man. I been waiting a long time to pay my respects to my white enemies.”

“Hey, man, you tell me about it,” Yellow said to Judo.

Judo sighed. The question was getting old. “What you want to know now, man?”

“Did you hate it in there?”

“I didn’t hate it. It wasn’t too bad.”

Head threw him s contemptuous look.

“Man, what the fuck’s the matter with you?”

You been in that fucking place two times and all you can say is ’It wasn’t too bad.’ Shit.” He looked back at Judo. “You better get your head on right and start thinking vicious, man. You a black man, and you’ve gone through four hundred fucking years of slavery.” Head twisted around in the seat. “Sometimes I wonder about you, man. Sometimes I wonder what kind of heart you got.”

“Don’t worry none about it,” Judo replied with an edge. “Ain’t nothing the matter with my heart.”

“We’ll see,” said Head. He faced forward again, and his expression became set. “We each gonna try to get one white kid tonight. It be the first of four that we all need.”

“Say, man, I want to ask you about that,” said Judo. “The man tonight, he say four white devils. He don’t say nothing about no kids. How come you looking for kids?”

“Because the man, he only be talking about what it take to be a regular Muslim. What we talking about is what it take to be a Death Angel.”

Judo rolled his eyes upward. The Death Angels. They were back to that shit again.

“Turn up Tingley Street,” Head told Yellow. “There’s usually white kids out playing in this neighborhood.”

Yellow turned off Mission into Tingley.

“I still don’t see why we need kids,” Judo said from the rear of the van.

“Oh, man,” Head said irritably. He slapped Yellow on the arm. “Explain it to the dude, will you?”

Yellow glanced at Judo in the rearview mirror. “Offing white kids is the quickest way to get into the Death Angels,” he said. “See, they figure it’s harder for a grown man to kill a kid or a woman than it is for him to kill a man. Killing men is easy. To get into the Death Angels, you gots to kill nine white men. Killing white women is harder; so you only gots to kill five. Killing kids is the hardest; alls you need to be a Death Angel is four of them.”

“Turn here and go over to the next street,” Head instructed.

Yellow drove over to Theresa Street. They cruised the block, searching. There were no children out.

“Try the next street,” Head directed. “Just keep going.”

Yellow drove down Cotter Street. No children.

“Next street.” Head’s voice was surly; his patience was thinning.

Yellow drove along Francis Street. Near the corner they saw two white children in front of the steps of a house and a third white youngster coming down the steps to meet them.

“Perfect,” said Head, “One for each of us.” He patted Yellow’s arm. “Pull over and park, brother.”

The girl coming down the steps of her home at 41 Francis Street was 11-year-old Michele Denise Carrasco. She was a slender child with huge, dark eyes and a quick, tentative smile. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and fell to each shoulder.

Inside the house Michele’s brother Greg was having a birthday party. Michele was out on the steps to see her friend, 12-year-old Marie Stewart. The two girls attended nearby Corpus Christi School together. On this evening Marie’s 15-year-old brother, Frank, a Unity Junior High School student, had walked over to Michele’s house with his sister: The two of them were waiting on the steps when Michele came out. As they began talking, all of them noticed two black men walking toward them. The youngsters continued talking until the men came up to them and stopped.

“Say,” Head said to Michele Carrasco, “where’s Mission Street?”

Michele pointed toward the corner: “Up there, one block,” she said.

Head looked around nervously. His hands played with the front of his black leather jacket. The other man, Judo, slipped one hand inside the black Nehru coat he wore.

“Where’s Mission Street?” Head asked again.

Michele frowned. “I told you: down there one block.”

Her words were barely out when Head drew a gun from his waistband. He grabbed the girl roughly by her arm. “Just be quiet,” Head warned, pointing the gun at her. “Just be quiet and follow us.” Judo was on the curb, blocking any possible escape by Frank and Marie Stewart. He still had one hand inside his Nehru coat.

The youngsters were marched three abreast along the sidewalk. Head walked on the inside, continuing to hold Michele’s arm, the gun at her back. Judo kept to the outside, his free hand holding Frank Stewart’s elbow.

“Hey, have you guys been drinking?” Frank asked. Maybe it was some kind of joke.

“Shut up!” Head snapped.

They walked toward the van, which was parked facing them on Francis just off the next cross street. Alemany Boulevard. Yellow was standing beside the van, waiting for them. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot as if he had to go to the bathroom.

“Get the door open,” Head told Yellow as they approached. Yellow hurried to the side of the van.

“Listen, is this a joke?” Michele asked. The black man was hurting her arm and had a wild look in his eyes. He forced her toward the side of the van.

Suddenly, Frank Stewart jerked away from Judo and yelled, “Cops!” His sister, who was in the middle, being held by no one, darted to his side. They both started running.

“Oh, man!” Head said angrily to Judo.

With the black man’s attention momentarily distracted, Michele jerked her own arm away and also started running. Because the black men and the van were between her and her house, Michele had to run in the opposite direction. She ran to the nearby corner and hurried down Alemany Boulevard.

Back at the van, Head glared at Judo. “Man, you fucked up!”

“No worse than you, motherfucker!” Judo snapped back at him.

Yellow was already getting behind the wheel. “Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here!” he said in a breaking voice. Now he did have to go to the bathroom; several drops of urine had already spotted his trousers.

Michele was still running–down Alemany one block to Santa Rosa, around another corner and down another street; unable to run home, she was heading for the next safest place she knew: the rectory of Corpus Christi Catholic Church.

Frank and Marie Stewart were safe by now. They had reached the Carrasco home, and the police were being called. On the next street over, at the church, a priest named Father Gerald took the terrified Michele by the hand and started walking her home.

And in the van Yellow was making a U-turn and swinging north on Alemany Boulevard to get out of the area. Next to him, Head was muttering, “Motherfucker! Motherfucker!”

Judo, in the back, was trying to keep his trembling hands out of sight.

After the fiasco with the three white children, the men in the van were nervous and shaken. Head was furious at Judo.

“Man, you fucked up!” he accused again, his naturally petulant mouth puffed into a sullen pout.

“No more than you did,” Judo replied, detesting the weakness he could hear in his own voice.

Head picked up at once on the weakness. “You got piss for blood, man! You not fit to be a Death Angel!”

“Fuck you, motherfucker,” said Judo. It was all he could think of to say.

“Quit bitchin’ at one another,” Yellow said. He glanced at Head. “Tell me where to go, man.”

Head looked out the window to get his bearings. They were on the Bayshore Freeway now, heading north, passing San Francisco General Hospital. “Keep on going,” Head told him. “All the way to the end of the freeway.” He ignored both of them then and sat muttering to himself.

Yellow followed the curving, turning freeway toward its terminus near the Embarcadero. The men did not speak to each other for the 15 minutes or so that the drive took. Yellow concentrated on his driving, keeping the van in a middle lane and well within the speed limit. Judo laced his fingers together and gripped tightly to control his trembling. He silently cursed Head for being so accurate in his evaluation. Judo had been frightened back there; in prison vernacular he did have piss for blood. He glanced up and saw that Head’s lips were still moving as the bald man continued to mutter under his breath.

Yellow drove off the freeway and cruised along Battery Street. “Where to now?” he asked Head.

“Man, I don’t give a shit where,” Head replied crossly. He spotted a lone white man waiting to cross the street at Battery and Vallejo. “Pull over right here,” he said. “I’ll kill that motherfucker right on the corner.”

Judo’s mouth dropped open. “Man, you crazy! You just asking to go back to Q.” He slapped Yellow on the shoulder. “Keep driving, man.”

“I said stop here!” Head repeated. He snatched the pistol from his belt but did not point it at anyone.

“No, keep driving, man!” Judo ordered. “I ain’t going back to the shithouse on account of this crazy motherfucker.” Judo looked into Head’s eyes and saw the glare of murder. He slipped one hand under his Nehru coat in case Head lost control and decided to start shooting. The feel of his own gun was reassuring.

“Hey, man, he’s right,” Yellow said to a now extremely agitated Head. “This ain’t no place to do one. Besides, I want a woman or a kid; it takes too many men to get Death Angel wings.”

Death Angel wings were awarded to each man who killed four white children, five white women, or nine white men. Upon completion of the required quota, a new member’s photograph was taken, and a pair of black wings was drawn, extending from the neck. The photo was mounted on a board along with pictures of other successful candidates, and the board was displayed on an easel at the loft meetings. At that time there were 15 accredited Death Angels in California. To achieve their collective membership, they had already quietly killed throughout the state 135 white men, 75 white women, 60 white children-or enough of a combination thereof to give each of them his required four, five, or nine credits. This was October of 1973. The California attorney general’s office had already secretly compiled a list of 45 of those killings that had taken place in the cities of San Francisco, Oakland, Berkeley, Long Beach, Signal Hill, Santa Barbara, Palo Alto, Pacifica, San Diego, and Los Angeles, and in the counties of San Mateo, Santa Clara, Los Angeles, Contra Costa, Ventura, and Alameda. All of the victims were white. All the known suspects in the killings had been associated with the Black Muslim-movement. The killings were even then continuing throughout the state.

“Come on, man, I want me a white woman or a kid, hear?” said Yellow. “I don’t want to fuck with no men.” He drove past the man on the corner. Head muttered something but did not object further.

Yellow turned left off Battery and began cruising the Telegraph Hill area.

In their apartment at 399 Chestnut Street, Richard Hague and his wife, Quita, decided to go for a walk after dinner. It was a pleasant evening. Richard put on a light cardigan; Quita pulled a yellow-and­orange South American woolen shawl around her shoulders, over the sweat shirt and cardigan she already had on. They left the apartment and walked west on Chestnut, toward Columbus Avenue.

Richard Hague, age 30, was a mining engineer employed in the San Francisco office of Utah International Company. Quita, two years younger, was a reporter for the Industrial City Press in South San Francisco. The previous month they had celebrated their seventh wedding anniversary.

As they walked downhill on Chestnut, they held hands. Richard and Ou1ta Hague were white.

“There you are, man,” Head said to Yellow when he saw the young white couple. “What about him?” asked Yellow, bobbing his chin toward Judo and speaking as if he were not even present.

“His heart ain’t ready,” Head replied with a sneer.

“Fuck you, man!” Judo snapped.

“Pull over there by the corner,” Head instructed, ignoring Judo.

Yellow parked on the north side of Chestnut, near the corner of Powell. The young white couple were walking along the south side of the street, toward the same corner.

“You stay with the van like before,”

Head told Yellow. He turned to Judo. “You gonna help or not, man?” he asked coldly. Head and Judo locked eyes. Head’s question was a direct challenge, and Judo knew it.

“I’m right behind you, man,” said Judo. At that moment he hated Head.

Head and Judo got out of the van and strolled across the street. They stepped onto the sidewalk a hundred feet in front of the white couple. They separated: Head stood at the curb, Judo leaned against a fence across the sidewalk. The white couple would have to walk between them.

As she walked with her husband this evening, Quita was looking forward to Christmas. It was still two months away, but she habitually started thinking about it early. Whenever the season approached, she was always reminded of the first Christmas she and Richard had spent together. They had been married four months and were living in South-West Africa, where Richard was employed as a geologist. There was no such thing as an evergreen Christmas tree to be found; so Quita decided that they should decorate a camelthorn bush, which had countless tiny thorns. They ended up celebrating Christmas at a local swimming pool to escape the heat.

It had not been much of a first Christmas, but for the sentimental Quita it was a memory she cherished.

She held Richard’s hand a little tighter as they walked down Chestnut–toward two black men lounging on opposite sides of the sidewalk.

As the Hagues started to walk between them, Head reached out and grabbed Richard by the arm. “Hold it, man. Don’t move. You coming with us.”

Judo stepped away from the fence and leveled a gun at them. He was standing downhill, looking up at them. Richard froze. But not Quita.

“No, no, no,” she said, frightened, her voice breaking. She bolted past Judo and ran several yards downhill.

Now Head drew a gun. He pointed it at Richard’s chest. “Get on back up here, woman,” he said to Quita, “or I’ll kill him.”

The eyes of Quita Hague and her husband met for a split instant in the dull gray of the streetlight.

“They already have us,” said Richard. “Let’s cooperate. They won’t hurt us.”

Reluctantly, hesitantly, Quita walked back up to where her husband was being held. Judo took her arm.

“Over to that van,” Head said. Still holding Richard’s arm, he guided him across the narrow street. Judo followed a step behind with Quita.

Yellow saw them coming. He hopped out and ran around to open the cargo door on the passenger side.

“Get in there,” Head ordered, shoving Richard toward the van. Hague climbed into the van. “Move over there and lay down,” said Head. “On your stomach.” Hague crawled over and stretched out facedown next to the furniture pads stacked in the bed of the van.

“Now you,” Head nodded to Quita.

“No!’’ she said, terrified again. She started to run a second time. Yellow, younger and faster than either Head or Judo, reached out and grabbed her by the hair. He jerked her back and slammed her against the side of the van. She groaned and started to go limp.

“Get in there!” Yellow snapped, grabbing her under the arm, up close to the shoulder, and manhandling her into the van. He made her stretch out behind the passenger seat, facedown as her husband was lying. “You lay there, bitch!” he said in his ugly, boyish voice. The urine had dried on his trousers now, and he felt better. More like a man.

Then suddenly he heard something that made even his bowels queasy.

“Shit, man!” Judo hissed. “A fucking cop car is coming!”

Police officers Bruce Marovich and Ben McAllister were proceeding slowly down Chestnut toward Powell. McAllister was driving the black-and-white radio car, Marovich was in the passenger seat, routinely checking the street. As they passed the middle of the block, Marovich observed some activity on the sidewalk next, to where a light-colored Dodge van was parked. He frowned, studying the situation, as the radio car slowly passed the van. Marovich had been a policeman for more than five years. He could see nothing really suspicious occurring at the van, and yet–

“Hold it a minute,” he said to McAllister. “Back up next to the white van.”

McAllister backed up. As they halted parallel to the van, Head walked around to them.

“What’s going on?” Marovich asked out the passenger window.

“Everything’s okay, Officer. Head said with a smile. “We had a flat and we’re fixing it.”

Behind Head, Marovich could see another black man. He was vaguely aware of still a third person around by the open cargo door. But nothing seemed out of order. The two blacks he could see up close were neatly dressed, well-groomed men, certainly not hubcap thieves.

Marovich thought about it for a moment. Then he said, “Okay.”

He nodded to his partner, and they drove on, continuing their patrol.

Minutes later the van was on the freeway again, heading south toward the railroad yards below the Central Basin. Yellow was driving. Head was in the rear, astraddle Richard Hague, tying his hands behind him with heavy twine. Judo was next to him, astraddle Quita. Her hands were already tied. Judo had her rolled onto her side; one hand was up under her sweat shirt, feeling her breasts.

Yellow glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Head looking through Richard Hague’s wallet. “We not allowed to steal, man,” he said.

“You just drive,” Head snapped. “I ain’t doing nothing but just looking.” He closed the wallet and shoved it back into Richard’s pocket. Then he rolled Hague over and started going through his front pockets.

Hague raised his head and saw that Judo was doing something to Quita. “What are you doing to her?” he asked.

Judo, angered at being watched by the white woman’s husband, reached over and hit him in the mouth. “Shut up, motherfucker!” He glanced at Head. “Man, make him keep his fucking face down.”

Hague raised his head again, blood running over his bottom lip from Judo’s backhand. “What is he doing to her?”

Head reached behind him and picked up a straight lug wrench. “I done told you to keep your white motherfucking face down!” He swung the lug wrench and smashed Richard Hague’s jaw. Hague’s head flopped back as if his neck were broken; blood gushed from his nostrils. Head hit him again, breaking his jaw in two more places. “I told the motherfucker once,” he mumbled. “I don’t tell no motherfucker twice.” He hit him with the lug wrench a third time.

“Rich-” Quita said. It was little more than a plaintive whisper.

“Shut up, bitch,” said Judo. He had Quita on her back now, sweatshirt and cardigan pushed up around her neck, fondling her exposed breasts with both hands.

Head got off the unconscious Richard and moved over to them. He put his hand between Quita’s legs and started rubbing her through her jeans. Quita’s hands were tied behind her back, and she was lying on them. She had made fists and was arching her body up to relieve the pain in her wrists. Head thought she was pushing her lower body up because he was rubbing her. “You like that, baby?” he asked with a lewd grin. He looked around Judo at her face. “You suck dick, baby?”

“Hey, man,” said Yellow at the wheel, “we supposed to kill the white devils, not fuck with them.”

Head ignored him. He was trying to unbuckle a wide leather belt that Quita wore on her jeans, but he could not manage it because Judo was sitting too far back on her. He tried to get his hand to the zipper to unzip the fly, but he could not reach that, either. “Shit, man,” he said in frustration. He unzipped his own trousers and released his erection.

Yellow looked over his shoulder. “We don’t supposed to be fucking with these white devils,” he warned again. “We only supposed to kill them.”

Head had one hand curled around his hard penis. “Ain’t no rule says I can’t fuck a white devil before we kill her,” he argued. “Ain’t that right, man?” he asked Judo, slapping him on the shoulder.

“Don’t ask me, man,” Judo replied. “I don’t know no rules.” Judo maneuvered around until he was not on top of Quita anymore but was kneeling beside her, near her neck. He bent and sucked one of her nipples.

At the wheel Yellow was becoming increasingly agitated. This was not the way it was supposed to be. Not sucking on the white devil’s tits or trying to get inside her clothes. He glanced at the next off-ramp sign: PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE. There were lonely, isolated railroad spurs just east of Pennsylvania Avenue. Yellow stepped down on the accelerator and changed to the off-ramp lane.

Quita Hague’s face was turned to the wall of the van. Tears streamed down her cheeks, trailing into her mouth and onto her neck. Her hands fell numb. She could feel Judo’s lips sucking her nipple raw, she could see Head walking toward her face on his knees, trousers open, black penis erect. And from the front of the van was the constant, whining voice talking about killing white devils.

“Please–please–” she begged. “Rape me–take my money–but please don’t kill me–please–”

“We won’t, baby,” said Head. “Leastwise wise, not until we through with you.”

Yellow got off the freeway, doubled back up Pennsylvania to Twenty-third Street, and drove under the freeway toward the industrial area. As he had surmised, the neighborhood was quiet, devoid of activity. Past Indiana Avenue he drove, to Minnesota. He swung into Minnesota, feeling gravel replace pavement under the tires. In seconds he was past Twenty-fourth Street. He drove alongside a single-track railroad spur until it turned down a narrow alley of warehouses and loading docks. There he jammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt.

“That white devil belongs to me!” he yelled.

Yellow leaped from behind the wheel and ran to the cargo door. He threw it open with a vengeance and reached under the back of the passenger seat. When he drew his hand out again, it held a 16-inch machete. He made several chops at the air with it, as if testing it.

“Say, man, be careful with that motherfucker,” Head said, covering his erection protectively.

“This white devil is mine!” Yellow declared again. His voice was a loud hiss; the boyish features of his face were distorted: lips twisted, eyes narrowed to slits, Adam’s apple throbbing. “I want her! She’s mine!”

“Yeah, right, man, take her,” Judo agreed quickly. “Just watch out with that fucking sword.”

Yellow took Quita Hague by her thick, dark hair and dragged her from the van. She came out on her side and fell heavily to the ground. Yellow dragged her up to her knees, dragged her on her knees for several yards, then angrily, impatiently, pulled her to her feet.

“Oh, please–oh, no–” she pled, choking and crying.

Yellow jerked viciously at her hair to make her keep up. She stumbled, staggered, almost fell. Her tied wrists were raw from the twine, her knees throb­bing from falling on them and being dragged on them, her scalp a mass of pain as her hair was literally being pulled out by the roots. But she probably felt none of that agony because her entire being had to be laced with the terrible fear of impending death. She could see the machete in Yellow’s hand. She must have known what he was going to do with it.

“Oh, please–oh, no–”

When Yellow got her where he wanted her, next to the railroad spur, he let go of her hair and used a hip throw to drop her to the ground. Judo, watching from next to the van, realized that it was a throw he himself had taught Yellow when he, Judo, first came out of prison. It was one of the basic jujitsu throws. Easy to execute. Particularly easy when applied to a terrified woman, 40 pounds lighter, with her hands tied behind her back.

“Oh, please–oh, no–”

Yellow grabbed her by the hair again and dragged her across one of the rails. When he let go, a handful of her hair came out, entwined in his fingers. Yellow stared at it in revulsion; he frantically shook his hand until the hair came loose and drifted to the ground.

“Now your head is mine, white devil,” Yellow said.

“Oh, please–oh, no–please–”

It was the last time Quita would beg for her life. Yellow raised the machete high in the air and brought it down with all his strength on the throat of Quita Hague.

Head and Judo were standing by the parked van when Yellow came running back over to them.

“I did it! I did it!” Yellow shouted triumphantly. He threw his hands into the air, still holding the bloody machete, and did a brief victory dance. It was, Judo thought, not unlike the quick little dances that football players do in the end zone following a touchdown. Judo stared at Yellow’s wild-eyed, frenzied grin. “You ought to see the blood gushing out of that devil’s neck!” Yellow said. “It’s wonderful, wonderful! I got to get a picture of it!” He shoved the machete into Head’s hand and ran around the van. From under the driver’s seat, he removed a Polaroid camera with flash attached. He hurried back to the railroad spur with it.

Head stared at the bloodstained blade he held. “Blue-eyed devils,” he muttered. “I wanted that bitch to suck my dick.” He peered in at Richard Hague in the van. “I bet she sucked his dick,” he said indignantly. “Blue-eyed motherfucker!”

With sudden ferocity, Head reached in with the machete and hacked at the unconscious Richard Hague’s face. He hacked twice. Three times. Then, drooling slightly over his puffy lips, he dragged the limp form out of the van and across the ground.

Judo, wide-eyed, watched Head walk away, pulling Richard Hague by one arm behind him. Crazy, Judo thought, the motherfucker is crazy.

When Head approached the railroad spur, he saw a flashbulb explode. Then another. Yellow taking pictures of his kill, he thought sullenly. He gots a woman, and I only gots a man. Shit.

Head dragged Richard Hague to the opposite side of the tracks from where Quita lay. A man’s better than nothing, he thought. Leastwise, better than what Judo was getting tonight. As indifferently as if he were chopping wood, Head began hacking away at Richard Hague’s face.

Across the tracks, Yellow finished taking pictures. He, too, thought briefly about Judo, waiting back at the van, Judo, who would get no credit for no kill tonight. Then Yellow remembered a ring he had seen on Quita Hague’s finger: a white-gold ring with a green stone. He knew that Death Angels were not supposed to steal from their victims, but he decided to take the ring anyway–for Judo. His friend was getting married in a few days; maybe he could use the ring. Bending, Yellow rolled Quita sideways enough to expose her limp, tied wrists, and worked the ring off her fingers.

As Yellow stepped back across the tracks, he saw Head still hacking away. “Hey, brother, you want a picture of that devil?”

“Don’t need no picture, man,” Head muttered. “If I say I killed the motherfucker, then I killed him. Don’t need no picture.”

“Okay, brother.” Yellow hurried back to the van.

When he was alone again, Head took Richard Hague’s wallet and slipped it into his own pocket. No one would ever know, he told himself.

Several minutes later Head returned to the van, tossed the bloody machete into the back, and got in.

Without headlights, the van drove slowly away from the railroad spur and the carnage that had been spread over it.

Shortly after eleven o’clock that night, John Battenberg and his wife, Beverly, were in their car, driving west on Twenty-fifth Street. Battenberg was a 41-year-old professor of art at San Jose State University. As the Hagues had done earlier, the Battenberg’s decided to get some air before going to bed. Unlike the Hagues, they drove instead of walking.

As the car passed the intersection of Minnesota Avenue, the Battenberg’s saw a figure lurch from the shadows and stagger toward the street.

“Looks like he’s drunk,’’ said Beverly Battenberg.

“Looks like,” her husband agreed. Then John Battenberg took a closer look. “Wait a minute. That man’s hands are tied behind his back–”

Battenberg pulled over and got out of the car. He hurried toward the lurching figure.

It was Richard Hague.

In shock, badly hacked about the face and head, Hague had done the incredible: he had clung to life, struggled to his feet with hands still tied, and set out on foot, looking for help for his wife.

Battenberg was appalled at what he saw. Richard Hague’s head was horribly mutilated. The flesh had been hacked open down to the bone. His skull was open and exposed. Ghastly strips of skin hung from his face, dripping steady rivulets of blood. He was muttering incoherently.

Battenberg untied Hague’s hands, dropping the rough twine to the ground. He guided Hague to his car. Not sure where the nearest hospital was located, he drove to the nearby Potrero District police station.

The van, meanwhile, had sped south on the freeway. It parked behind an apartment in the Hunters Point section. Judo went to the door of the apartment and knocked. The knock was answered by a plump, round-faced young black woman.

“As-salaam-alaikum,” Judo said, speaking the Muslim greeting.

“As-salaam-alaikum,” she replied.

“I need a favor,” Judo said. “My friends and I need a place to wash up.”

The woman noticed dark spots on his Nehru coat and the pink shirt he wore under it. “What have you been doing?”

Judo smiled. “We been out killing white folks,” he said. His voice was half serious, half joking. He took the young woman’s hand. “Listen, I don’t want you mixed up in this. You go on in the bedroom and stay until they’re gone. Don’t ask no questions.”

She studied his eyes for a moment, then nodded, and went into her bedroom.

Head and Yellow washed up in the bathroom, scrubbing the Hagues’ blood off their hands and arms. Then the three men filled a small garbage can with water and took it out to the van. They removed the furniture pads and sluiced down the cargo floor, cleaning out Richard Hague’s blood. Yellow used the excess water to wash off the machete and put it back under the passenger seat.

When Yellow and Judo were away from Head momentarily, Yellow gave Judo the ring he had taken from Quita Hague. “Just so’s the night won’t be a complete loss for you,” he said. “Maybe you can use it at your wedding.”

“Thanks, man,” Judo said.

In the light Judo examined the ring. Inside the band it was engraved: REH TO OPM 9-17-66 ALL MY LOVE.

Judo rubbed several tiny specks of red off the white gold and slipped the ring into his pocket.

At the police station John Battenberg ran up to the first occupied patrol car he saw and banged on the window. “I’ve got a man over here who may be dying!”

Officers Donald Hensic and John Chestnut hurried to the Battenberg car. They took one look at Richard Hague and radioed a request for a Code Three ambulance–emergency lights and siren. Within ten minutes Hague was on his way to San Francisco General Hospital.

The two policemen, along with another team and a sergeant, returned with the Battenberg’s to the intersection of Twenty-fifth and Minnesota. They began to search the area. The first thing they found was the length of twine that John Batten­berg had taken off Richard Hague’s hands. Next, they found a small pool of still-wet blood where Richard had lain. Then they found several patches of brown hair lying between the rails.

Finally, they found Quita.

Back at the Hunters Point apartment, Head and Yellow had left, and Judo and the Muslim girl were alone.

“You shouldn’t be over here without a chaperone,” she told him. “We’re not married yet.”

“We will be in three days,”

“Anyway, I got a present for you, and I wanted us to be alone when I gave it to you.”

He put Quita Hague’s white-gold-and­emerald ring on her finger.

“Oh, honey, it’s so pretty!” she praised, holding the back of her hand up to see it. “My, it must have cost something!”

“It wasn’t cheap,” Judo said.

At the railroad spur Quita Hague was being photographed in death for the second time. Standing around her body were men from the Crime Lab, Photo Lab, Operations Center, and Homicide details and a representative from the coroner’s office. Quita was still lying across one rail of the tracks. Her hair, face, and upper torso were matted with her own drying blood. Her head lay back at a grotesque angle, its neck open, almost severed from the body. Her windpipe and most of her major neck arteries had been cut open, and her backbone and spinal cord had been lacerated.

Her hands were still tied.

Quita Hague was pronounced dead at 11:45 PM.

It was the first loft meeting following the Hague kidnap-killing. Head had the floor and was complaining bitterly about Judo’s participation.

“The man don’t have the heart for Death Angel business,” he proclaimed.

“Can you elaborate on that for us?” asked the man with the Vandyke, who was moderating the meeting. He was flanked, as usual, by his bodyguards.

“You want to hear more, I’ll tell you more,” said Head. He ignored Judo, who was glaring at him from the audience. “First, he fucked up when we had three white kids almos’ in the van. He let one of them break away; then they all broke away. Next, when we had the two white devils down on the railroad track, he didn’t even help. He didn’t do nothing. The man just don’t have the heart.”

The moderator looked at Judo, raising his eyebrows. “Your reply, brother?”

Judo stood. “I got as much heart as he has. It’s just that this is all new to me. I’m not used to it. I haven’t been out of prison very long; it’s taking me a while to adjust.”

Yellow looked up at Judo and winked. That was exactly the right thing to say. Exactly as they had rehearsed it.

“Anyhow,” Judo added, and this was not rehearsed, “he’s just pissed off because his white devil didn’t die.” Judo turned his eyes to Head, who was now glaring back at him. He decided to rub salt in Head’s wound. “He had the sucker knocked out and his hands tied behind his back. He had a machete big enough to chop down a fucking tree. He had all that going for him, and he couldn’t even kill the devil.”

There were several smiles and a few chuckles from the audience as the men saw Head’s discomfiture. Head’s lips were pursed as far out as they would go, and his forehead was drawn into a tight scowl. ’At least I tried, motherfucker,” he said to Judo. “More than you did.”

ln the audience Yellow raised his hand for permission to speak. The moderator nodded. All eyes turned to Yellow with interest: he had a new status because of what he had done to Quita Hague.

“I think maybe we might be pushing this brother too fast,” he said. “After all, like he told us, he just got out of the white man’s prison a while back. We can’t expect to push him out front right away and have him score a kill.” He glanced at Judo and grinned. “Anyhow, he getting married soon, you know, and he nervous about it. He don’t know can he handle her or not.”

There were some raucous laughs from the audience. The moderator smiled through his Vandyke.

“All in all,” Yellow continued, “I don’t think this brother did too bad for his first time out. I vote we overlook what happened with those three white kids. This brother will do all right if we give him time.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” said the moderator. He motioned for Head, Judo, and Yellow to sit down. From his coat pocket he took a neatly cut one-column newspaper clipping headlined:

He read aloud from the clipping. ’A young woman was hacked to death and her husband severely slashed after they were abducted by three men. Police say Mrs. Hague… had been nearly decapitated by a single stroke to her throat by a heavy-bladed weapon, probably a machete… Richard Hague found staggering around… taken to San Francisco General Hospital… underwent several hours of surgery… deep savage slash wounds… in serious condition… “He stopped reading and said “In light of our younger brothers splendid kill, I think we will not cloud the event with any internal discipline or reprimand. Suffice it to say that he–” the moderator raised both hands and pointed to Yellow “–is well on his way to becoming a respected Death Angel, while his two participating brothers–” he gestured toward Head and Judo “–have some catching up to do.”

There were more laughs from the group, good-natured now instead of derisive.

“One final point, however,” the moderator said, looking at the clipping again. “The police say the motive for the killing might have been robbery, since Hague’s wallet was missing. Do any of you know anything about that?”

Yellow and Judo looked at Head.

“Don’t be looking at me, motherfuckers,” Head muttered. “I don’t know nothing ’bout no fucking wallet.”

The moderator allowed a moment of silence to pass. Then he said, “Of course, it could have been lost somewhere during the night, or a policeman may have stolen it. I bring it up simply to emphasize that we–” he spoke the word loftily “–are not thieves. Nor are we rapists. What we do, we do to avenge four hundred years of abuse. Always remember that.” Before he left, the moderator took Judo aside and spoke to him in private. “I don’t want you to be discouraged by this temporary setback,” he told him in confidential tones. “I know a lot about you, and I feel that you have great potential. I think that if you work hard and apply yourself, you can become an important man in the Nation of Islam. Men of your caliber are needed in New Mecca.”

The Zebra killings lasted for 179 days and claimed 23 victims–15 dead and 8 wounded. The violence reached its high point on January 28, 1974, on the one hundred first day, on the night of the second Muhammad Ali–Joe Frazier boxing match. Interpreting Ali’s victory as a portent from Allah, three Nation of Islam members went out into the San Francisco streets, attacking white men and women at random. By morning four people were dead, and one was critically wounded. The city was thrown into a panic.

For the first time in San Francisco’s history, the police department officially warned citizens not to venture outdoors after dark. Local businesses were badly disrupted. And neighborhood groups formed their own patrols to guard the members of their communities.

On May 1, 1974, a man named Anthony Harris contacted police authorities and slowly pieced together for them the names and places of the various killings. His confession led to the arrest of seven members of the Islamic community and the end of the Zebra affair.

The ensuing one-year-and-six-days trial was the longest criminal trial in California history. One hundred eighty-one witnesses testified, but it was Harris’s firsthand testimony that was the back­bone of the prosecutor’s case. On March 9, 1976, four men were found guilty of first-degree murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. In return for turning state’s evidence, Anthony Harris was granted immunity for his participation in the Zebra affair.