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From the New York Times Bestselling Author of Zodiac , Auto Focus and Black Fire.

DAVID FINCHER WAS AFTER THE TRUTH.
WITHOUT IT, HE WOULD NOT SHOOT ZODIAC.

For nearly two decades, Hollywood had been trying to make a movie of Zodiac, and for nearly two decades, it had failed.

In 2003, producer Brad Fischer, and screenwriter Jamie Vanderbilt attempted the undoable, and set their sights on the one filmmaker they felt unequalled for the helm: director David Fincher (Se7en, Fight Club).

Fincher’s eye for detail, probing mind, and unrelenting quest for answers made him ideal. His personal connection to the case made him perfect.

From Hollywood boardrooms to remote fog-shrouded crime scenes, they battle a huge script that refuses to be beaten, a case that refuses to be solved, and a running time and budget that threaten their film.

Follow as they track down missing witnesses, gather the original investigators, visit the original crime scenes, discover boxes of Zodiac case files from an attic, unearth new clues, a videotape of the prime suspect’s police interrogation, and a surviving victim who doesn’t want to be found.

To keep Fincher on board, and get their film greenlit, it will take cold leads, private eyes, new evidence, and most of all, perseverance.

“He’s hooked. If he doesn’t make the film, he’ll solve the case.”
—Detective Ken Narlow

“SOMETHING DRAWS THE GIRL’S attention,” David Fincher said. The maverick director paused at the spot along the shore Captain Ken Narlow had indicated. Something was not right. Fincher looked down at the rocky ground and the steep slope of the rotting tree as if he had not seen them before. Without a word he wheeled and walked some distance around to the adjacent peninsula. The retired detectives watched the celebrated filmmaker follow the curve of land and circle to a little inlet on the other bank. His head was down as he took long, athletic strides. Suddenly, he knelt and studied the ground. He picked up a fistful of earth, let it drift between his fingers, and watched as the wind carried the reddish particles away. He looked up at the road high above where the victims’ car had been found, then looked back at the tree. Next, he tossed a few rocks in the air and gazed to the center of the lake where it was a couple hundred feet deep. Fincher wondered what other mysteries might be buried there. Further up, underneath the dam at Devil’s Gate, was the narrow point of Putah Creek.

Fincher returned from his scouting trip and made an announcement. His voice was confident and clear, ringing out over the lake. “The other side of the little island out there is much more vertical than this side,” he said. “I think that is the actual murder site.”

“Let’s go over and take a look,” Narlow said and started north with Jamie Vanderbilt. “I’m not one hundred percent convinced this is the place.” When Narlow reached the other side of the inlet, he clapped a hand to his forehead and then hailed Fincher and the rest of the men across the water. “My God!” he hollered, “I took you to the wrong spot!”

In that arcane way he had of penetrating to the heart of a riddle, Fincher had discerned the truth. He became quiet as he began working the puzzle of the open taxi door, the blood that should have been elsewhere, a bloody print that belonged to no one, and the shot nobody heard.

“David’s considered one of the touchiest and weirdest directors by executives, but as a writer I consider him the nicest and most normal of them all. But maybe the same thing that is wrong with him is wrong with me.”
—Jamie Vanderbilt, screenwriter