REASON TO DOUBT

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  The Judge looked over at me, then back at the DA. “Would you care to expand, counselor?”

  “With the first three murders, we found black and white Polaroids. Pictures of the girls posed post-mortem. We asked Carol not to go public with that information, which she agreed to do. We appreciated her professionalism and the manner in which she continued to conduct her investigations. It wasn’t until Mr. Pompidou was arrested, and we learned Ms.Childs’ daughter had been dating the suspect, that we began to suspect Ms. Childs’ position as a reporter had been compromised in an effort to keep her daughter’s name out of the news.”

  “I wasn’t comprised.” I started to stand, and King pulled me back into my seat.

  “We believe Ms. Childs is protecting a witness. Someone who knows about the murders. Someone who may implicate her daughter’s boyfriend if she were to talk.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “And the only reason you think I might know someone who knows anything at all about the murders is because I shared with you the location of Stacy’s van. If I hadn’t you might never have found it.”

  “Your Honor, might I point out that Ms. Childs seems to have forgotten she was on the air only yesterday when an anonymous caller phoned into the station who claimed to have known Ms. Minor. That this caller said she knew Minor had feared for her life and may have known her killer.

  “And she made it very clear it wasn’t Pete Pompidou, Your Honor.” I wanted to scream back at the DA but didn’t dare.

  “An unusual statement, Your Honor. Are we really to believe Ms. Childs didn’t arrange for her anonymous source to call the station in an attempt to discredit our investigation into Mr. Pompidou’s suspected role in the murders?”

  “Your Honor,” King stood up. “It’s impossible for the DA to know what was in the mind of an anonymous caller.”

  “Counselors!” The judge scolded both men, then turned to the DA. “Mr. Allen, let me remind you, this is not a trial. If you wish to present evidence to Ms. Childs that might persuade her to share with you what she knows about her source, you need to do so. If not, I’m prepared to announce sentencing now.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” The DA opened his bag and took out a folder and placed it on the table. “If I might, I’d like to share with Ms. Childs something investigators found at the home of Ely Wade on Saturday. I believe it might ease her conscious about revealing information concerning her source and Pete Pompidou, who we believe she’s been protecting.”

  “Protecting? Pete Pompidou?” Now I was on my feet. “Sir, I’m not protecting Pete Pompidou. I don’t believe he’s guilty, but I’m certainly not protecting him. I’m only interested in seeing an innocent man isn’t tried and found guilty for crimes I don’t believe he committed.”

  Hensley pounded his gavel just as King grabbed my arm and pulled me back into my chair.

  “Might I remind you, Ms. Childs, while this is not a formal trial, it is a hearing, and I will have you maintain proper etiquette in my courtroom. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” I sat back down.

  “Mr. Allen, please proceed.”

  “What I’d like to do Your Honor, is have Detective Soto and Agent Langdon present several photos for Ms. Childs to review. She’s already aware of some of these photos. They were taken with the Polaroid camera we found at Ely Wade’s home yesterday.”

  I scribbled a note to King and slid it under his nose. Fingerprints?

  I hoped King might know if Soto had found Pete’s prints on the camera. If he had, it was all over. If he hadn’t, Pete still had a chance. King shook his head and whispered, “I don’t know. First I’ve heard of it.”

  “And along with these Polaroids are several more photos. Ones I believe will convince Ms. Childs she’s nothing to gain by protecting a source she’s afraid would implicate her daughter’s boyfriend.”

  King put his hand on top of mine.

  The judge asked if he could see the photos first. Allen said yes, and Soto and Eric stood up and approached the bench with a handful of small Polaroids and several large eight-by-ten black and whites. After a few whispered exchanges, the judge handed the small polaroid photos back to Eric, and the others to Soto, then looked at me.

  “Ms. Childs, before I ask you for the last time if you’d like to reveal your source, let me say, I agree with the District Attorney. I think you should look at these pictures.”

  Eric returned to the DA’s table, while Soto approached me and spread the larger glossy photos out on the table in front of me.

  The first photos were from inside Pete’s van. Pictures of camping gear: ropes, sleeping bags, an ice chest, pup tent, and circled and marked in yellow were plastic restraints—similar to those found on the models—and a five-inch hunting knife. The type believed to have been used to slash the models. The other photos were from the inside of Xstacy’s van. A picture of a yellow sticky note attached to the dashboard with Pete’s address on it, and more from the inside cargo section of the van. It looked like somebody had been living in it. Empty fast food containers, a blue blanket, like the one found in the shopping cart by the volleyball court where her body had been found, and circled in yellow marking pen, a pair of plastic restraints. Then three more photos of the murdered models. Shana Walters. Kara Stieffers. Eileen Kim. All of them taken in a studio before their murders and marked with Pete’s insignia, PPP, Pete Pompidou Photography. And finally, a photo of Marilynn Brewer, a black and white full body shot of her in front of a microphone. Possibly something she’d used to promote her comedy act and another of Xstacy, also with the same insignia.

  “None of this proves Pete killed those girls. He’s a photographer, and he enjoys camping. So what?” I pushed the photos away from me.

  “How about this?” Soto placed the last photo on the table. An eight-and-a-half-by-eleven, black and white glossy. A trump card I felt sure he had been waiting to play. A picture of three men. Two of them sitting on a tall ladder, the type used to set lighting on a soundstage. The third man, wearing a baseball cap, leaned against it as they stared into the camera. Pete was seated casually at the top, his surfer-blond hair in his eyes with a stupid grin on his face. The photo looked several years old. Halfway down the ladder was the man I knew only because I had seen his face on the internet. Soto pointed to the center of the photo. “In case you don’t know, that’s Ely Wade in the middle. The man on top, that’s your boy, Pete Pompidou. Photo’s maybe three years old.”

  I picked the photo up and studied it. There was no disputing Pete’s identity. Soto was right, Ely and Pete had worked together. How long, I didn’t know. Where the photo was taken, I had no idea.

  “You see, Ms. Childs, giving up your witness doesn’t hurt Pete. We already have proof Pete and Ely worked together. We just want to know what this witness of yours knows.”

  “She knows Pete’s not the Model Slayer or his partner. And everything you’ve shown me, the photos of Pete’s camping equipment, his address on some sticky note on the dashboard of Xstacy’s van, a picture of Pete with Ely working somewhere. None of it proves he’s a murderer.”

  I was about to toss the photo back on the table when I noticed the face of the man beneath the baseball cap. I looked closer. Maybe it was Brian or Scarface, and the cap had hidden his identity the first time I looked. But it was another face I knew, and when I realized who it was, I gasped.

  “Oh my God! It’s Max!” I slapped the photo back on the table and pointed to the man standing next to the ladder in the baseball cap. The same angular face and slim build as the man who had been flirting with Sheri the night I had first visited the Sky High Club. “That’s Max. He’s the killer!”

  “Who?” Soto grabbed the photo off the table and stared at it.

  “Max,” I said. “The man standing next to the ladder. He was at the Sky High Club the night I went to check out the club for a story I was working on. He
hit on my girlfriend. They’ve been dating ever since.”

  Soto picked up the photo and laughed. “That’s impossible. You know who he is? His name’s Lenny Marx. He’s a world-class famous portrait photographer. He’s got pictures in museums around the world.”

  “He may be Richard Avedon for all I care. I’m telling you if that man knew Ely Wade and Ely’s the Model Slayer, then Pete is not his partner. That man is. Did you check him out?”

  Soto smiled smugly. “Actually, Carol, we did. We interviewed him early on. He’s no ties to any of the models, and he travels frequently for business. He wasn’t in town when the murders went down. However, he did have a lot to say about Pete.”

  “I don’t care what he said about Pete, you need to check him out. He was at the bar the night Sheri and I came in, and I don’t think he was any stranger to the Sky High Club. In fact, I think he was there looking for Xstacy.”

  “And why would you think that, Ms. Childs?”

  “Because I had gone there myself to meet with my source. She was convinced the Model Slayer’s partner had been sitting up by the stage, that he was fixated on one of the dancers, and might still be there.”

  Soto looked at the picture again. “Those clubs are pretty dark. What makes you so sure this is your guy?”

  “I was at the bar, and my girlfriend was with that man,” I pointed at the photo, “maybe ten feet away. They were standing next to the cash register. There was a small light above the register so the bartender could see to make change, and it was enough light so I could see his face. Look, I’m telling you, this is your man.”

  “And is your girlfriend still dating this man? This Max person who you believe to be in this photo?”

  “Yes,” I looked back at a large clock above the court’s double doors. “And if I’m right he should be at her house right now. Look, we don’t have a lot of time. If you want to catch him, we have to go. If I’m wrong, you can lock me up and throw away the key, but if I’m right, my best friend may be the Model Slayer’s next victim.”

  Soto took the picture and went back to the table and huddled with Eric and the DA while I replayed in my mind everything that had happened that first night at the Sky High Club. How I had left Sheri and went to the end of the bar and met with Sam. The way Sam was dressed and how she teased nobody would recognize her in a place like that with her clothes on. The way I was convinced Scarface was the Model Slayer’s accomplice when all along it was Max, standing in the back of the bar, waiting for Xstacy and Jewels to reappear on stage.

  “Your Honor,” the DA looked up at the bench, “if I might have a moment.”

  The judge nodded and told the DA he could approach.

  I whispered to King. “What’s going on?”

  King reached over and held my hand. “They’re bargaining. Stay calm.”

  Seconds seemed like hours before the DA nodded to the judge, then glanced back at me and crossed back to the table with Soto and Eric and sat down. There was a mumbled exchange between Soto and the DA. Eric’s eyes flashed momentarily in my direction and then back to the group. Finally, the DA stood up. “Your Honor, I believe we’re in agreement.”

  From the bench, Judge Hensley asked me to stand. “Ms. Childs, the DA tells me there may be some doubt as to the identity of the man you’ve pointed out in the photo. If indeed it is Mr. Marx, I’m to understand that his current whereabouts and recent travel schedules haven’t been one hundred percent verified by investigators. Because of that, and the fact that LAPD arrested Mr. Pompidou, not once but twice, and I am loath to reverse a second arrest, and that you believe your friend may be in imminent danger, I’m about to do something unusual. I am going to release you to go with Detective Soto right now so that you can go to the home of your friend. And if you’re right, and this man, who you believe to be the Model Slayer, is with your friend, and the police can prove that, I’ll dismiss the charges against you. But if you’re wrong, I’ve instructed the DA to have Detective Soto return you to my courtroom without delay for sentencing. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  CHAPTER 32

  My first clue things weren’t okay when we got to Sheri’s house was the security gate. It was wide open. My second, the fact Chase’s car and three LAPD cruisers with their lights flashing and sirens blaring hadn’t sent Sheri running to the front door, worried me even more.

  Chase pulled up directly behind Detective Soto and slammed the breaks so hard the SUV skidded. Misty had to brace herself against the back of the front seat to keep from falling forward. Without waiting for us to come to a complete stop, I put my hand on the door handle and was about to jump out when Chase grabbed my arm. “Not so fast, Carol. You can’t go in.”

  “Fat chance I can’t.” I pulled my arm free from Chase. “Sheri’s my friend, and it’s my fault Max is here.” I slammed the car door behind me and sprinted toward the back of the house. I wasn’t about to wait in the car with my best friend alone inside with a serial killer.

  Soto spotted me and yelled for me to get back in the car, but I ignored him and scrambled up the back steps to the house and bolted into the kitchen. The room was a mess. On the center island where Sheri prepared meals like a Michelin chef, dishes were shattered, thrown about as though there had been a scuffle. On the floor lay a broken coffee cup and a blood-stained towel.

  I picked up the towel. “Sheri!”

  My own voice echoed back at me. The house felt empty.

  Behind me, Chase, Soto, and two cops swarmed the room, their guns drawn. Misty brought up the rear.

  I started to yell for Misty to get back in the car, but Soto hushed me. His index finger to his lips. Silently, he pointed for me to stay put, then nodded for his men to search the house, and went with them to check the downstairs.

  Without waiting for permission, I moved toward the kitchen stairway leading to the upstairs and took the steps two at a time with Chase close behind me.

  Upstairs, the double doors to Sheri’s master suite were open. Whatever scuffle had started in the kitchen had continued in the bedroom. The sheets from Sheri’s king-sized bed lay on the floor next to her robe and an antique clock. The clock’s glass casing had shattered, the hands stopped sometime after eleven a.m. I scanned the room. My eyes went from the bed to the bay window where the mid-morning light streamed through the pane casing and shimmered off the empty dance pole.

  I pointed down the hall toward the guest room and suggested Chase check there while I checked the bath. Chase refused to leave me alone and gave the bath a cursory inspection; then deciding there was nothing there, left to check the rest of the upstairs. I stood in the center of the bath. There was no sign of struggle. The towels were hung neatly by the tub, and Sheri’s dressing table, littered with knickknacks and bottles of cologne, hadn’t been disturbed. I was about to leave and go back downstairs when I heard a noise coming from within Sheri’s closet.

  “Sheri?” It was nearly impossible to see where the sound was coming from. Racks of clothing lining the closet’s wall stretched the full length of the house. I started with the area closest to me, frantically pushing clothes aside as I worked my way section-by-section down the closet until I came to a group of hanging garment bags that refused to budge. Hidden behind them, a carpet runner from the hallway had been rolled up and was leaning up against the wall. I pulled it out and lay it down on the floor and quickly unrolled it. Inside, bundled like a mummy with a bedsheet from Sheri’s bed and tied with a rope was a body.

  “Chase! She’s here.” My fingers worked to untie the rope from the sheets, tearing at them until I could see Sheri’s face. Her brown eyes blinked up at me as I pulled the covers from her face. “She’s alive!” I pushed the sheet from her body. A sock had been forced into her mouth like a gag, and a second nylon rope had been tied around her neck with her hands tied behind her, making it almost impossible for her to move.


  “Are you okay?” I removed the sock from Sheri’s mouth and held her in my arms.

  “I’m fine. Carol, it’s Max. He’s the Model Slayer. He told me everything.”

  Chase rushed into the room and spotted Sheri on the floor with her hands tied behind her back. In a matter of seconds, he cut the nylon rope that held her wrists with a pocket knife. Together we helped her over to a lounge chair while she explained Max was supposed to come by Sunday but had called to canceled.

  “He came by this morning instead, and when he got here, he was acting strange. Different than I’d ever seen him before. He started talking about Sam, only he said her name was Jewels, and he wanted to know if she was going to be here today. When I told him I didn’t know who he was talking about, he started to get mad. He said he had heard you on the air yesterday with that girl, and that you knew who she was, and he had to find her.” Sheri rubbed her wrists as she spoke, “Oh my God, Carol, was that Sam? Is she involved in all this?

  I nodded and asked Chase to bring Sheri a glass of water from the bathroom.

  “You didn’t give him her real name did you?”

  “No. I told him I didn’t know anyone named Jewels, but he didn’t believe me and said he’d prove it. He got my iPhone out of my purse and started to go through it.”

  “Was Sam’s number on your phone?”

  Chase came back with the water and Sheri took a sip.

  “No, but her number was, Carol. It was on my calendar where I keep all my appointments. I had listed my pole dancing lessons, without a name, and Max figured it had to be her. When I tried to grab the phone back, he picked up a knife from the kitchen counter and threatened me. He called me a spoiled brat. Said the only reason he was going out with me was because I was rich and stupid.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Not physically.”

  “I saw blood on a towel downstairs.”