Fred Manalli

Manalli's mother's maiden name was Murawski. Manalli was married from 1958 until his divorce in 1973. He may have been bisexual, though probably in denial about that for a good number of years. He definitely had issues with women going by his letters to Curley.

Ok thanks. The other issues I have are him being 4 to 5 inches taller than the Mageau/Johns/LB/ SF kids reports and that he looks very Italian darker Latin features. But you guys have shown some interesting literary matches and other things look good. If he was the Sonoma killer than he is indeed astrong Z suspect.

Not sure if he was gay/bi, etc, but he supposedly called himself 'Freda' on drawings they found of his

Ok thats interesting. At mindhunter the poster called suspect zero who claims to have interviewed Allen several times says Allen knew Manalli and that Manalli liked to dress like a woman and was bisexual.

AK Wilks wrote:

Ok thats interesting. At mindhunter the poster called suspect zero who claims to have interviewed Allen several times says Allen knew Manalli and that Manalli liked to dress like a woman and was bisexual.

Yep, I read that too AK. I think the same poster claims that Allen was Z and had an accomplice. I don't believe he thinks Manalli was the accomplice though?

I wonder how he claims or proves the Allen-Manalli connection?

I am suspect of what Suspect Zero has to say. I've read some of his stuff and he claims to have lots of inside knowledge but has never offered a bit of documentation. He has said that he spoke with someone at Santa Rosa PD, too, about the SRHM cases and learned this and that. I do not know why Santa Rosa PD would be involved with the SRHM, it was never their case. Why would they have any special knowledge?

Allen was living in the county when he was arrested for the child molestation in Santa Rosa. The "police" report on that arrest posted at Tom's site was written up by the Sheriff's department not the PD. The location where the trailer park was located was in the county then but has been annexed into the city of Santa Rosa now.

Again, show me proof that Allen and Manalli knew eachother and that Allen went to SRJC. Suspect Zero has never been able provide proof no matter how many times he has been asked. I think he read Graysmith and concocted the rest of the story.

Right. Allen may have mentioned something about Manlli. But I agree with you we need proof.

I couldn't recover the entire story but I got some big chunks of it:

Quote :

Note: "Conscientously" is a misspelling

Transcription:

FS Manalli lives in Santa Rosa, California. He has published stories, poems, and reviews in Literary Review, MSS, and Outlet. This is his first appearance in Perspective.

Page 29:

FS MANALLI:

PARADISE, IT'S A NICE PLACE

So then, that bright Sunday morning, we brought Dad to Paradise. Not in a golden barque with heavenly houris hovering, but in our battered VW, Sue and I; for Paradise, California is a town of modest size a hard four hours' drive from here— to the north and east, in the upper Sacramento Valley.

Dad had come to visit us a few days, escaping the Midwest winter and other unhappy climates back there. The old country sense of clan unity has by now in us diminished to almost nothing; but if he could afford to leave his sales work (now, at age fifty-six) he would spend almost all his time wandering the face of America like an unsatisfied spirit, dropping in on people to "Say hello"— and not much else; with what time remained, he'd tend his yard and cultivate his young trees. Living in Paradise is his cousin Annie with her husband Phil. Dad had not seen Annie these twenty-nine years; Sue and I had never seen her, or her husband. Then why bring Dad to them, when we could as well have put him on a bus or a plane, then used that Sunday to rest and regain ourselves, our solitude? Because our solitude and our selves aren't always enough: time uses itself up, and the matter surrounding us wears out, falls apart, expends its energy and decays. Look at a picture of yourself taken years ago: smiling— you must have been burdened then, too, but who can remember with what? Yet you're sure youll remember today's burdens years from now. To ransom at least a part of the past at a present cost of a few hours' conversation doesn't seem, on a sunny late winter Sunday in busy California, too stiff a price to pay. Does it? Besides, none of us have ever been to Paradise. Or if we have, we've forgotten that too. So we're curious. The town is built on a ridge that rises suddenly from that surrounding flat; the ridge keeps rising, curving eastward, and ultimately joins the Sierra Nevada many miles away. Here, in Paradise, the elevation is only about two thousand feet— just enough to make you properly dizzy from the thinness of air, the brightness of light, and the heavy scent of pine and eucalyptus carried on an unremitting breeze. Paradise is rarefied enough. [SECTION POSSIBLY MISSING]

Page 30:

We find the house easily— almost at the end of a quiet lane in one of the oldest and highest parts of town. White frame, two story, set well back on a wooded lot of an acre or so, a drive that enters and exits again on the lane after curving in broad semi-circle in front of the garage and the stairway landing; this driveway is paved with crushed stone, pale red. Parked at one side is a Ford sedan, about seven years old but appearing in excellent condition; and an old green pick-up, with a small camper mounted on its bed. We parked behind, out of the way, and then here comes Annie rushing out to greet us. She is a tall woman, fiftyish, of good build; and apparent good health— loud and effusive, as though terribly relieved we've survived our long journey, she runs to Dad. They clasp, hug, kiss. Hug and kiss and gush somemore; their greeting is passionate and lengthy enough to make the rest of us restless. Phil has followed— more slowly; stately in a wiry little man's way (he is not quite as tall as Annie, who is almost as tall as my father and probably outweighs him a bit). Phil looks pugnacious in a pale and fallen-crested way. Both of them have dressed for the occasion: Annie in heels and hose, green jersey dress, girdle, jewelry; Phil in sportcoat, red plaid shirt with string tie, flannel trousers with pleats and a set of creases like the edges of a sword, two-tone shoes. The three of us watch, restlessly, the greeting of the other two; waiting for introductions. Then Annie spirits Sue up the stairs, through the kitchen door and the heavy rich smells of cooking— lots of tomatoes and other fresh vegetables, pasta, many spices, maybe a bird basting in there somewhere— while Phil conducts Dad and me through his garage, his basement workroom, and the guestroom. The latter is spotless and has the feel of not having been used for a long time. Dolls and party favors, an old photograph on the mirror of somebody's grandmother beside a crucifix and a tiny card with a picture of fair-haired little Jesus— all suggest that the room's last occupant was a child. I have never seen so many partially torn-down old radios, so many empty mason jars, cans of odd nails and screws, or so many bits of wire and rope and metal as fill the workroom.

Then Phil insists we see the downstairs lavatory. He presents it to us with a sweeping gesture after throwing open the door, then watches as we peek inside. Watching silent, head thrown back with pride. It's among the cleanest lavatories we've seen; what else is there to say? Then Dad wants to peek inside the camper as well; not so tidy there. "I don't use it so much anymore," says Phil. Hunting, fishing, long trips? "Oh, I used to. No more, though, not for me no more. Too hard." Pride goes before his fall. Phil is about my father's age, maybe a couple years more; both men are trim, with healthy heads of slick black hair, though perhaps as Dad would say, touching his with a finger, "a little bit high on the forehead." But Dad has never been an outdoorsman; I never fired a gun until the army taught me— and gave me my fill of firearms, everything from thirty caliber to ninety millimeter. Still, though Dad has no taste for hunting and fishing, here is a matter of age —his own and his host's (husband of bis cousin)— as well as pride, maybe even vanity. No more fishing and hunting and camping? Too hard? *My heart," Phil answers. Then, the quiet cocky pride returning: "Five heart attacks." Waves an open hand at us, fingers extended. "Five!" And he has survived. Dad commiserates; I congratulate. Phil jams hands in pockets and struts ahead of us into the garage. "But I don't run around in the woods no more. Nosir. Uh-uh, not me." We stand in the damp garage; we've seen everything down here, why don't we go upstairs? There, above our heads— clump clump- Sue is receiving the tour. We continue standing, talking: there is some good scenery Phil will show us: Feather River Dam, Mt. Lassen. "Beautiful around here, beautiful." I tell him for the second time that Sue and I must return this evening, but again he disregards the information. When we finally mount the stairs, we find that the house proper is all hysteria and heavy heated cooking smells. Annie is mainly responsible. Seeing Dad, she greets him again, holding him powerless and lifting him momentarily off his feet this time. She remembers me too. She saw me when I was a baby. "You've hardly changed, I knew it was you right away," she tells me. The heat and the hysteria mount. Annie scurries between kitchen and living room, working up a sweat, then finally throws open a dining room window, but the heating system pumps harder, and the heat of that house overpowers all the air of the outside. Phil gives us drinks— bourbon and lots of water— pours himself a straight one and gulps it down, ducks out of the room and returns with

[NOTE: The break to page 31 occurred somewhere above, but I couldn't find where]

Page 32:

a refill before any of us realize he has been gone. Annie, wanting to hear about the other relatives, called Dad to the kitchen. Phil turns on one of his radios— gets the Sunday afternoon rock and roll from a Chico station— then leaves Sue and me to glance around the tiny living room which, other than the couch against one wall (facing the portable TV) is not meant for sitting: more like a picture gallery of relatives, children, babies, one wedding scene of Phil and Annie —she was gawky and toothy then, he was tough and grinning, eyes of a young bull— and one four-color scene of lakes and meadows, suitable for hanging (preferably above a bar and in a frame of colored lights). Standing on the floor, among all the dainty harem pillows, is a two-foot kewpie doll. Sue shares the easy chair with a huge teddy bear— but actually it's Smokey, complete with yellow ranger's hat. The shadow box above her head, containing a few figurines and smaller portraits, has the face of a clock built in one section of it. The clock has no numbers, having instead twelve tiny inlaid rectangles to represent the hours. And the clock has no hands either; the axle from which they once turned protrudes at the center of the face like the nose of a wooden doll. Annie shouts from the kitchen: "Hey you guys, your Dad says you can't stay over. By the time this sentence is finished, she's there with apron on in the door, arms akimbo, politely petulant and mock-demanding; we rattle off the usual the usual Monday-morn commitments and, with great air of regret, Annie retreats to her kitchen again, promising dinner within the hour. Phil returns then, taking her place in the doorway, calling after her: "See? I told you they have to go back tonight." Then he reassures my father that he can stay as long as he likes; they will drive him back to us when the time comes. Dad protests a little: he doesn't want to be any trouble— "No no no, don't you worry about a thing!" shouts Phil. "You stay here with us and visit as long as you want, we bring you back. Don't you worry. No no no no no." To support his argument, Phil's arms were burdened with the bourbon bottle and a load of firearms he has brought from his closet. He's the only one who needs a refill— his icecubes haven't even begun melting yet— then he sets the bottle down (it's almost empty) on the floor next to the couch, and hands me the largest of his guns: an old rifle with hand-carved stock and telescopic sight. Conscientously, I hold it pointed at the floor and try, unsuccessfully, to open the breech. "Careful, it's loaded," Phil says as Sue gives a little shriek. I hand the rifle back to him quickly, he clears the chamber, then hands it back. It's a

Page 33:

fine gun, so heavy Sue can't hold it. I draw a bead on one of the holes in the salt shaker on the dining table, then focus the sight on a cherry bud showing in the window beyond. Sue is examining his ten-gauge shotgun; it too is old, with carved stock and embossed blue steel. "It's so heavy," she says. "I've only held a twenty-two." Phil gets up, handing me his revolver, a German model, and then he goes to his closet again. I can see the pistol is loaded, so I hold it down again and, fingers away from the trigger, fiddle with it, but it's tricky: the six cartridges go clattering on the carpet. We have them picked up when Phil returns with another rifle and hands it to Sue. Presto— you want a twenty-two, here it is. Another fine old piece, tightly made and handling slick and easy. But it's loaded too: I take out the single for Sue. The three of us are hemmed in now with firearms and live ammunition— but at least it's loose. I start smoking, Phil does too, and the room gets even more uncomfortable. He drains his bottle in his own glass and mine. "What's amatter, you don't like to drink much?" I ask him why he keeps all his firearms loaded, even the shotgun. "Well, you never know," he answers. Then, as Annie and my father return to the room, Phil launches a story: "One time, it was right before we were married, I was driving back one night in that old Studebaker I used to have, a big seven-pointer tied on my hood, I was drunk as a skunk and couldn't even see the road, just outside town so it didn't matter I wasn't hurting anybody, and this cop stops me right there, young punk somenabeetch, and he says—" Phil's face distorting as he puts a snarl in his voice to imitate the cop "—he says, 'Awright buddy what the hell you think you doing anyway I gone have to give you a ticket.' And I tell him" shouting now his legendary retort, Phil's face redder than his shirt "I tell him, 'Look you, I been up in the mountains a long time getting meat for my family, it's depression times and what the hell you think, I got money to pay a ticket? Look you,' and I point to him my gun in the back seat, 'Look you,' I tell that punk kid, I got one more slug in there and whatta you think I'm gonna do with it if you try and give me a hard time? Huh? What you think?' And he step back and I think maybe reach for his gun, but no. 'Awright,' he tells me, 'on your way.'" We talk a little while then about cops and the way they give tickets. Phil tells another long story, shouting at times, about another time he bluffed the arresting officer by challenging him to prove Phil was actually speeding. [SECTION MISSING]

[UNKNOWN PAGE]

to drink, and that dinner will be ready soon. Phil gets up, demanding Sue and I accompany him; he wants to show us around a bit before dinner. But first, returning with his coat, he has something else for us to see: he hands me a small bottle, full of reddish fluid. "Here's what I drink. I wouldn't give it to you, though." I am holding a bottle of Watkins liniment. "You don't drink this," I tell him. "I do, I do." "You're supposed to rub it. Outside, not inside." "I drink it. It kept me alive when I had my heart attacks."
I read the label. Forty-five percent alcohol. "Man, this is ninety proof." I can't help laughing.
"I drink it. I really do. Little bit" -- he holds his thumb and forefinger two inches apart -- "in the morning, it kept me going through the day then." But is it the cause or effect of the heart condition? I open the cap, but am unable to bring the open bottle top any closer to my nose than several inches. "It's pretty strong stuff." "All good medicine is strong. It's good for you," he says. I hand the bottle back to him, and I question how anyone could take the stuff straight. "Oh," he answers, "I cut it with a little bit water. Not much." His thumb and forefinger come up again, now almost touching each other. "But my friend—" turning to my father "—you know Charley Skiro— " Dad shrugs. "Charley Skiro was the one who told me about it, how healthful it is, he drinks it straight. Charley is healthy like a bull." Annie rushes in again— she has changed into slacks and blouse now— to remind Phil about the imminence of dinner and the crucial lack of anything to drink in the house.

[SECTION MISSING]

We drive to a nearby shopping center, and he and I go into the liquor store where he is well known. Phil introduces me to the salesman as a nephew; the man looks me up and down: am I as big a drinking man as Uncle Phil? Do I like it in Paradise? It's a nice place. Phil takes two fifths, I buy a jug of white wine for the dinner. Then we return to the car, Phil quietly mentioning to Sue and me that his liquor bill comes to around two hundred a month— it's a fact, ask anybody

[SECTION MISSING]

Doranchak,thanks for posting. Hmm,weird story, all over the place. The part thats missing is where he threatens cop and talks about shooting them,etc. Pretty interesting,the way he just goes into a piece about guns, shooting,mentions a "german model"...(luger perhaps?)

Thanks for that Dave.

I was looking at it through blurry eyes and without zooming in and I focused right away on this bit.

Quote :

I can see the pistol is loaded, so I hold it down again and, fingers away from the trigger, fiddle with it, but it's tricky

There the obvious allusions as well with trigger and it's tricky (triger mech requires much work. it's so massive to dig in etc) but I though it was interesting to see the word "fiddle" used as well. Maybe somewhere he'll say "fart around" but probably not.

Quote :

she has changed into slacks

"Girl was wearing patterned slacks"

Quote :

"But I don't run around in the woods no more. Nosir. Uh-uh, not me." We stand in the damp garage; we've seen everything down here, why don't we go upstairs? There, above our heads— clump clump- Sue is receiving the tour.

"...by the rains we had a while back"?

Great observations. Maybe we can get the missing pieces of this story. More things that Z had in common with Manalli, they call pants slacks,and they use the word fiddle. Again, one or two things is a coincidence. Dozens of things is a pattern. There IS a pattern here between Manalli & Zodiac.

Manalli shows us he IS familiar with firearms,and if this man they were visiting in Paradise is a real person, he could have had access to this man's firearms.[b]

Seagull wrote:

Manalli's mother's maiden name was Murawski. Manalli was married from 1958 until his divorce in 1973. He may have been bisexual, though probably in denial about that for a good number of years. He definitely had issues with women going by his letters to Curley.

Seagull, what is your opinion regarding the two separate years there is a divorce listed for Manalli,and in two different counties? Could they have started aa divorce in 1970,and then tried to work things out,before they finally got divorced for good in 1973? Of course,we can only speculate,but if they were going to get a divorce in 1970,we have to assume things could have been going bad in 1969 when Z was working fast & furious. What issues came up that made them start a divorce after 12 years together? Nobody knows,but the timing seems of interest.

Quote :

while Phil conducts Dad and me through his garage, his basement workroom, and the guestroom

Or it's all fiction but either way Manalli is getting his inspiration for the details from somewhere and as we've seen, he more often than not draws that from himself.

traveller1st wrote:

Quote :

while Phil conducts Dad and me through his garage, his basement workroom, and the guestroom

Or it's all fiction but either way Manalli is getting his inspiration for the details from somewhere and as we've seen, he more often than not draws that from himself.

Good point, and this story that he wrote was being published in 1969. Was Zodiac using Manalli's writing for inspiration? If so, who would have access to Manalli's writing? Seems like the more likely answer would be that Manall could have been Zodiac.

On page 30 I noticed that there is an old green pick up with a camper on it. I believe that is the description of the vehicle Jeannette Kamahele was seen getting into at the spot where she was last seen.

Thanks Doranchak for getting most of this story!

Quote :

Not in a golden barque with heavenly houris hovering

Muslim men who die as martyrs (fighting in battle or other deaths) are promised 72 (or sometimes 73) beautiful, black-eyed perpetual virgins as wives in heaven. - And they have their regular wives on earth still tagging along too. This short page is simply a brief description of what the hadiths say about these heavenly virgins, called "houris".

Slaves in Paradice?

http://www.muslimhope.com/HourisHeavenlyMaidensInIslam.htm

EDITS: some phrases / statements.

Quote :

‘The first group of people who will enter Paradise, … Their wives will be houris.

Quote :

‘The smallest reward for the people of paradise is an abode where there are 80,000 servants and 72 wives

Seagull wrote:

On page 30 I noticed that there is an old green pick up with a camper on it. I believe that is the description of the vehicle Jeannette Kamahele was seen getting into at the spot where she was last seen.

Thanks Doranchak for getting most of this story!

Wow,are you serious???

morf13 wrote:

Seagull wrote:

On page 30 I noticed that there is an old green pick up with a camper on it. I believe that is the description of the vehicle Jeannette Kamahele was seen getting into at the spot where she was last seen.

Thanks Doranchak for getting most of this story!

Wow,are you serious???

"Jeannette Kamahele, 20, wearing a brown sweater, blue jeans and sandals, was standing on a Highway 101 on-ramp in Cotati on April 25, 1972 when a friend saw her get into a 1950s pickup fitted with a homemade wooden camper. A white man in his 20s or 30s was behind the wheel, according to newspaper archives.
Her friend called authorities after he learned that she never arrived at the Santa Rosa Junior College that day. No trace of Kamahele has been found."

I read elsewhere that the truck was faded brown.

Sorry if this info has been posted but what high school and college did he go to again?

Here's another description...

"A friend saw her climb into a 1950-52 faded brown Chevy pickup with a wooden, homemade camper in back. The friend later told police the driver was white, 20-30 years old, with light brown hair in an afro style."

I generated a list of words from all the letters in the Zodiac corpus (http://zodiac-killer-ciphers.googlecode.com/svn/trunk/letters/). I compared them to the partial Manalli's Paradise story. Here's a list of the words in common between the Zodiac letters and Manalli's story:

Words are shown in descending order of length. Words of the same length are shown in descending order of frequency of appearance in Manalli's "Paradise" story (the number indicates how many times the word appears in "Paradise"):

Quote :

california, 3
everything, 2

beautiful, 2
wandering, 1
something, 1
published, 1
afternoon, 1

properly, 1
followed, 1
finished, 1
children, 1
battered, 1
basement, 1

another, 4
through, 3
morning, 2
holding, 2
waiting, 1
unhappy, 1
suggest, 1
station, 1
sitting, 1
quietly, 1
instead, 1
himself, 1
getting, 1
evening, 1
dressed, 1
country, 1
because, 1

little, 8
though, 5
around, 5
enough, 4
before, 4
matter, 3
inside, 3
window, 2
parked, 2
inches, 2
having, 2
center, 2
system, 1
string, 1
slowly, 1
slacks, 1
sierra, 1
selves, 1
seeing, 1
really, 1
people, 1
mirror, 1
friend, 1
fiddle, 1
either, 1
couple, 1
circle, 1
called, 1
behind, 1
anyway, 1
anyone, 1
always, 1

there, 9
about, 9
again, 8
other, 6
hands, 6
years, 5
think, 5
never, 5
maybe, 4
young, 3
right, 3
place, 3
floor, 3
could, 3
clock, 3
after, 3
would, 2
while, 2
which, 2
water, 2
times, 2
small, 2
sight, 2
shirt, 2
seven, 2
heads, 2
gives, 2
first, 2
apart, 2
youll, 1
where, 1
watch, 1
until, 1
trees, 1
thing, 1
these, 1
their, 1
taste, 1
store, 1
start, 1
shoes, 1
ready, 1
reach, 1
quite, 1
prove, 1
proof, 1
price, 1
piece, 1
parts, 1
north, 1
night, 1
needs, 1
nails, 1
money, 1
loose, 1
light, 1
leave, 1
holes, 1
great, 1
going, 1
front, 1
fired, 1
dress, 1
doing, 1
black, 1
alive, 1

with, 28
then, 23
that, 15
time, 12
back, 12
have, 10
from, 10
more, 9
here, 9
what, 8
this, 8
long, 7
like, 7
when, 6
well, 6
open, 6
down, 6
been, 6
they, 5
tell, 5
seen, 5
good, 5
face, 5
even, 5
used, 4
town, 4
much, 4
look, 4
hard, 4
hand, 4
give, 4
will, 3
want, 3
them, 3
than, 3
only, 3
into, 3
hold, 3
else, 3
door, 3
away, 3
your, 2
were, 2
told, 2
take, 2
show, 2
rest, 2
peek, 2
nice, 2
must, 2
make, 2
know, 2
just, 2
hell, 2
heat, 2
head, 2
goes, 2
find, 2
feet, 2
easy, 2
come, 2
work, 1
wire, 1
wall, 1
tone, 1
talk, 1
some, 1
side, 1
seat, 1
salt, 1
rope, 1
road, 1
read, 1
pine, 1
pick, 1
part, 1
over, 1
once, 1
none, 1
nine, 1
next, 1
mine, 1
made, 1
last, 1
lack, 1
hose, 1
high, 1
help, 1
gave, 1
full, 1
feel, 1
fall, 1
fact, 1
ever, 1
each, 1
draw, 1
cops, 1
blue, 1
baby, 1
army, 1

the, 134
and, 104
his, 32
you, 31
but, 17
him, 16
for, 15
one, 14
has, 14
not, 11
was, 10
two, 10
she, 10
too, 9
old, 9
now, 7
her, 7
all, 7
can, 6
way, 5
see, 5
out, 5
who, 4
man, 4
had, 4
gun, 4
why, 3
say, 3
few, 3
any, 3
air, 3
yet, 2
try, 2
set, 2
red, 2
pay, 2
own, 2
off, 2
its, 2
how, 2
got, 2
cop, 2
big, 2
ask, 2
are, 2
use, 1
top, 1
tie, 1
ten, 1
saw, 1
run, 1
rub, 1
put, 1
men, 1
lot, 1
hey, 1
end, 1
day, 1
cut, 1
car, 1
bus, 1

of, 61
to, 58
it, 44
in, 40
he, 37
is, 33
we, 24
as, 23
me, 21
on, 20
no, 16
my, 13
so, 12
at, 11
up, 10
an, 8
or, 6
do, 5
go, 4
re, 3
if, 3
by, 3
am, 3
oh, 2
be, 2
mt, 1

a, 84
i, 57

I wonder who gave the description of the pick up. My son is color blind and mistakes green for brown and visa-versa regularly. Because of that I never assume that a person is correct when it comes to color.

I know that Manalli went to the University of Illinois Champlain-Urbana campus for his BA degree and San Francisco State College for his masters.. Morf got the high school pix so he would know which high school.

Seagull wrote:

I wonder who gave the description of the pick up. My son is color blind and mistakes green for brown and visa-versa regularly. Because of that I never assume that a person is correct when it comes to color.

I know that Manalli went to the University of Illinois Champlain-Urbana campus for his BA degree and San Francisco State College for his masters.. Morf got the high school pix so he would know which high school.

He went to Rockford West Hs

RWHS attempt to re-create the HC symbol.

I see there is a SAM MAGGIO listed in the 53, 54 year books for RWHS.

Wonder if he was anything to so with the name S.A. Maggio or S.A.M in the "strategic Withdrawal" short story.