REASON TO DOUBT

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  The call went immediately to voicemail. But the message was unlike any I’d ever heard.

  “Sorry to miss your call. Baby’s on the way, and so are we! Valley Pres here we come!” Then came, three quick breaths, a scream, laughter and what sounded like another stifled scream. “Leave a message.”

  Tyler returned as I was packing up and stopped in the doorway to my office.

  “You’re still here. I thought by now you would have called it a day. You should get home. It’s late.”

  “We need to talk.” I followed Tyler back into his office and sat down in front of his desk.

  “What’s up? You look beat.”

  “Last time I met with Sam, she told me Xstacy was afraid of a man at the bar. She described him as scar-faced and said he sat up by the stage with Ely when she performed. I tried to meet with him, but I couldn’t get a name. But I’ve been doing some research, and I was able to get something more on Ely Wade and Brian Evans tonight. You won’t believe what I found.”

  “Start with Brian. I want to know why he was here today.”

  “It’s like you said, he wanted to know more about the girl the firefighters found. I think he suspects it might be Marilynn. At first, I thought he was just grieving the loss of his ex-girlfriend and needed closure. Maybe he felt talking to a reporter might help. But then he said the police had been talking to him again, and he needed my help.”

  “Your help?”

  “In addition to Marilynn, the cops were also talking to him about Xstacy. They wanted to know if he knew her.”

  “Did he?”

  “He said he didn’t know any of Marilynn’s friends. But I think he’s lying. He referred to the dancers in the club as Jezebels. Odd term isn’t it? I mean, who uses a word like that anymore?”

  “A little Old Testament, maybe.”

  “That’s what I thought too. Like temptress. That’s the word Xstacy told me Ely Wade used to describe the dancers. Said he was taking their pictures so that other girls wouldn’t be drawn into temptation. But it’s more than that.”

  I explained how Xstacy had left a brown and white rabbit’s foot with Misty for me, and that Brian had a similar rabbit’s foot on his keychain with three very distinctive, but similar looking beads attached to it.

  “When I asked him about it, he said Marilynn had made it for him, and that she had one exactly like it. The only difference between his rabbit’s foot and hers were the beads. They represented their individual birthstones and were in reverse in order. Other than that, the rabbit’s foot Brian had was an exact copy of the one Xstacy had left with Misty for me, with red, blue and red beads.”

  “You’re going to need more than a nervous ex-boyfriend with an old-world vocabulary and a lucky charm to pin Brian to the model slayings, Carol.”

  “Hold on. That keychain got me thinking Brian might be hiding something, and when I checked him out on the internet, I found Brian had a previous ex-girlfriend. It appears our milk-toast accountant’s a bit of player. Seven months ago, Brian was involved with a girl named Melissa Morgan. Looks like he might have had both Marilynn and Melissa going at the same time. Anyway, he and Melissa broke up, and Melissa served him with a restraining order. Even posted a copy of the order on Facebook. I doubt he’d give me the full scoop on their relationship, so I did a search for Melissa and got her phone number. And guess what?”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?” Tyler laughed and shook his head.

  “And not just pregnant. But nine months pregnant and ready to pop. When I called, I got her voicemail. She was on her way to the hospital. I plan to make a visit to the hospital sometime tomorrow to check her out.”

  “And Ely Wade?”

  “I really hit pay dirt with that one. Wade was an electrician, a gaffer. Looks like he worked mostly non-union jobs for a bunch of small production studios I never heard of. Except for one. Lenny Marx photography. Where...” I paused and looked up at the ceiling. I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. “Pete Pompidou had worked. I can’t prove if they knew each other or not, but it’s an uncomfortable coincidence and, unfortunately, not one I’m going to be able to get answers for right away. I called Marx’s studio, and got a recorded message. They’re away on assignment. However, I did learn Ely had a sister. She’s living in Pasadena in a duplex. Right next door to where her brother lived. And, wait for it,” I held my hand up. “The plex is for rent.”

  “I assume you contacted her.”

  “I have an appointment to see her Saturday afternoon. She wouldn’t see me earlier, or I’d be there now if I could.”

  “So you got a couple of suspects.” Tyler reached for a bag of M&Ms on his desk and popped them, one at a time, into his mouth. “Some nameless scar-faced man at the bar you haven’t been able to talk to. Brian Evans, who the police suspect killed his girlfriend. And whether you want to accept it or not, your daughter’s boyfriend, Pete, and his roommate. Or maybe just his roommate Billy Tyson.” Tyler put the candy down. “You should work late more often, Childs. Anything more on Sam?”

  “Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything more about her than I already knew. For a millennial, Sam’s covered her tracks pretty well. The only online reference to her was on the UCLA website promoting their dance program. Her picture was there twice, once in a group shot, the other as the recipient of a Bob Fosse Scholarship. What I did find, however, was her mother.”

  “You think she might have gone to see her mom? Girls in trouble sometimes seek out their mothers.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not always. In fact, sometimes when they’re in trouble, they don’t even talk to them.” I took a couple of the M&M’s from the bag. “Sam’s mother lives in Las Vegas. She’s active on Facebook. She’s got lots of photos of herself and a few of Sam. I would have thought Sam might have gone there too. But, Sam’s mom posted she eloped and is honeymooning in Italy.”

  “So maybe Sam’s there?”

  “Not likely. In addition to her mother posting a photo of herself with her new husband leaving the church on Sunday, there was also another photo posted just today. It seems her mother arranged to have the house fumigated while they were away. Bed Bug Exterminators had slapped a photo on her Facebook page of her house all tented-up. Only a fool would go inside now. The only other contact I had for Sam was the sorority, and guess what? She doesn’t live there. She’s not even a Tri-Delt. So right now I’m coming up blank. Xstacy’s dead and I don’t have a clue where Sam is.”

  Tyler stood up and turned off the low hum of the intercom, silencing the pre-recorded overnight programming.

  “Go home, Carol. You need to get some rest.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. I was exhausted. “It’s funny, up until tonight, I had hoped when the cops found Xstacy’s van and realized she’d been involved in an accident,” I used air quotes around the word, “resulting in Ely Wade’s death, that they’d start to put two and two together and think Wade was the Model Slayer.”

  “And then the cops would get suspicious and wonder if Ely had a partner. Maybe somebody who knew Xstacy had killed Ely and come after her.”

  “That was the plan. And I was hoping the cops would find that somebody was Scarface. Only now I’m worried once the cops start looking into Ely Wade, they’re going to discover both Pete and Ely worked for Lenny Marx Photography. It won’t matter if they worked there the same time or not, Pete’ll be right back in their crosshairs, and Scarface will be just another drunk at the bar leering at the dancers.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Thursday morning I woke early and dressed casually, black slacks, white cotton T-shirt with a tan blazer and a pair of campy white tennis shoes. I figured since I had little more than three days left of freedom, I might as well be comfortable. Quietly, I snuck downstairs, fixed myself a cup of coffee so as not to wake Mis
ty, and poured it into a travel mug. I got as far as the front door when I heard my name.

  “Carol? Where are you going?” Misty was sitting in a small, gray swivel chair by the front window and stood up. She was dressed in a white, long-sleeved men’s shirt, something she frequently wore when out-and-about to protect herself from the sun, with her burlap bag slung over her shoulder.

  “Work,” I said. “Where else?”

  “Not without me, you’re not.” Misty shuffled to the door and placed her hand in front of it. “I heard you come in last night. You hardly slept. And don’t tell me differently, I could hear you thrashing around. Something’s up. I’m worried about you.”

  “Misty,” I laughed out loud, the idea she could help me ward off any danger was as dear as it was preposterous. “There’s no rea–”

  “No?” She cut me off. “You’re investigating a serial killer, Carol. One of his victims was at our front door on Sunday morning and wanted to see you. Why wouldn’t I be worried? I’m coming with you.”

  “To work? Misty, that’s ridiculous. If someone were after me, the safest place I could be would be inside the station.”

  Years ago when the station was built, broadcast studios were thought to be a potential target for groups looking to commandeer the station’s signal. Great care was taken in their design to prevent that from happening. Outside KTLK’s six-acre campus, the antenna field was secured by twelve-foot-high fences topped with barbed wire. Nobody got in or out without passing through a security gate, and once inside, the station itself was like a small fortress, built with thick block walls in the shape of a pentagon. The broadcast studios and the newsroom, or what Tyler liked to call the station’s cerebral cortex, were located in the windowless center of the building. Surrounding the studios like a castle moat was an eight-foot-wide circular hallway that served as a barrier between the studios on one side and a bevy of small business offices on the other. The conference room, sales bay, kitchen, bathrooms and employees’ lounge all faced the outside wall of the building. I couldn’t have been safer if I were inside the Pentagon itself.

  “Maybe so, but you’re not going alone, Carol. I’ve had a vision. Someone’s holding you against your will. And until the police find who’s behind these murders, I’m sticking with you.”

  I didn’t want to tell Misty I’d had the same concern, that the person or persons holding me against my will wasn’t the Model Slayer at all, but LAPD. All night long, all I could think about was how I was going to explain to the kids, particularly Cate, why some judge had plans to lock me up while a madman was still on the loose killing young girls. Cate would say I chose my job over my family. She couldn’t know what I was doing was trying to clear Pete’s name before the police arrested him again. Like a small tank, Misty stood in front the door and refused to allow me to pass.

  “Alright, Misty. You can come with me. However, you have to agree to remain in the lobby or the employees’ café. You cannot, absolutely must not, under any circumstances, disturb me in the studio or step foot inside the newsroom.”

  Misty smiled, a broad, closed-lip grin across her round, age-spotted face, then turned around and opened the door. “Shall we go?”

  I knew I’d regret my decision to take Misty to work, but it wasn’t until I had finished the eight-a.m. news update and was coming out of the studio that I realized the mistake I’d made.

  Tyler approached me in the hallway and pointed over his shoulder in the direction of the employees’ lounge. “Did I just see Misty Dawn in the café?”

  I nodded and rolled my eyes beneath my lids. “She’s had a vision. She’s afraid someone’s following me and insisted on coming to work.”

  “She’s your bodyguard?” Tyler raised a brow.

  “She’s concerned I may be in trouble.”

  “Well, she’s right about that. Your friend Detective Soto was over at Channel Nine this morning. I recorded the interview. You’re going to want to see it. Come with me.”

  I followed Tyler down the hall to the newsroom, a mid-sized bay area with four desks, file cabinets, water cooler and a big screen TV mounted on the wall. Tyler’s office, a small eight-by-ten room, was directly off the newsroom. As I entered, his eyes swept from me to an empty chair in front of the TV. I sat down and focused on the big screen.

  Tyler picked up the big screen’s remote control and hit the play button. I watched while Channel Nine’s cheerful morning duo finished their report about a pair of bear cubs swimming in a backyard pool, followed by a weather report warning of more severe temperatures. Today’s high was expected to set a record of 114 in the valley.

  The station went to commercial break, and Tyler fast-forwarded to a shot of Detective Soto. He was seated on a couch in the studio’s mock living room with Cynthia Madden, one of Channel Nine’s perky morning hosts. In front of them, for the sake of station ID, were a couple of KCAL 9 Coffee Mugs.

  Cynthia introduced Detective Soto and set up the interview. She recapped the latest news about the young woman whose body had been found at the beach and how frightened people were that a serial killer was on the loose.

  “I’m hoping, Detective, you’re here to tell us you’re close to making an arrest.”

  Soto shifted his heavy frame on the couch as the camera moved in for a close up on the detective’s face. The bags under his eyes made it clear the man hadn’t slept much in the last forty-eight hours.

  “Before we begin, Cynthia, I want to thank you for allowing me to join you here today.”

  I glanced over at Tyler. “Is he kidding?” Every station in town wanted Soto for an interview. He’d hardly have to ask permission.

  Tyler raised his hand, a flat palm in my direction, his attention still on the screen.

  Soto explained he had chosen Channel Nine to share with the public LAPD’s latest findings because he appreciated their professionalism and fine reporting of the Model Slayings.

  “Really? Fine reporting?” I talked back to the screen. “They took their sister station’s feed of the first model’s murder and ran it as their own. Heaven forbid little Cynthia leave the studio and get her hair all messed up.”

  Tyler looked over at me and snarled, his fingers scratched cat-like in my direction.

  I deserved that. The morning Shana Walters’ body was found I had slipped on the muddy hillside while filing my report. I still held it against Cynthia, whose camera crew had arrived by helicopter right after I broadcast news of the murder. Channel 2, KCAL’s affiliate in the market, had filmed the area up near Big Bear as a body bag was loaded into the coroner’s van. Cynthia delivered the news of Shana’s murder along with the film, all from the comfort of KCAL’s mock living room studio while I was stuck driving back to the radio station in a pair of soggy sneakers.

  I turned my attention back to the big screen. Soto said he wanted to bring the public up to date on what the police now knew about the Model Slayer.

  “We’ve identified the woman whose body we found on the beach Tuesday morning. Her name was Stacy Minor. I’ll get to the details of Ms. Minor’s death in a moment. But first, I’d like to begin by letting the public know we’re no longer looking for just one serial killer. We believe the Model Slayer has a partner.

  “You mean like the Hillside Strangler?” Cynthia asked.

  “The Strangler didn’t work alone. Kenneth Bianchi worked with his cousin Angelo Buono. The two raped and murdered fifteen women and terrorized the city back in the late seventies. Which is why I’m here today.” Soto took a sip from the KCAL mug in front of him. “As you know, the models we found each had a blood-smile painted on their face. It troubled our investigators for obvious reasons. It appeared as though whoever killed the women had cut them and painted the smiles as part of some blood ritual. As a result, our forensics team paid a lot of attention to the blood on the girls’ faces and found something unusual. The blood used was not only
that from the model but looks to have been deliberately mixed with blood from her assailants.”

  “Agh,” Cynthia gasped and put her hand to heart. “Like some Indian blood ritual?”

  “We’re not sure,” Soto said.

  “And from the blood, have you been able to determine anything more about the killer or killers?”

  “I can tell you, from the test results we know one of the men is a very rare blood type. AB Negative. The other is more common. Type O.”

  “Anything else?” Melissa asked.

  “We believe the women all knew their killers or at least one of the killers.”

  “The newspaper said it seems likely the women all thought they were meeting with a photographer.”

  “We’re not ruling anything out. But we did find black and white Polaroids like those professional photographers sometimes use at each of the murder sites. They were laid at the feet of the girls. Whoever killed them posed the girls and took their pictures post-mortem.”

  “I didn’t read about the Polaroids, Detective.”

  “You wouldn’t have.” Soto picked up his coffee cup and took another drink.

  “Of course not!” I yelled back at the scene. “I was there, Detective, remember? You asked me not to include anything about the photos in my reports. And I didn’t.”

  A lot of good that did me now. Soto was spilling information to my competitor, and all I could do was sit back and take notes. The message was clear. You don’t want to talk to LAPD, we don’t want to talk to you.

  “We didn’t publicize it, Cynthia, and for obvious reasons. In high profile cases like this, we sometimes withhold information that may be useful when questioning suspects later on.”

  “And what about Stacy Minor? She was a cocktail waitress, not a model. You think she knew her attacker as well?”

  “We have reason to believe she did. In fact, Ms. Minor’s murder and her employment at a strip club has caused us to rethink not only the killers’ motives but their possible connections to their victims as well.”