REASON TO DOUBT Read online

  “But, since it’s Cate and you’re understaffed, you’re going to give it to me.” I stood up and snatched the call slip from Tyler’s hand. “Besides, if she is just some nut case, it’s no big deal. And if she’s not, and we uncover information the police don’t have–and aren’t likely to go looking for since they already have Pete Pompidou in their custody–then you’re helping me help my daughter.”

  Tyler held his hands up as though to surrender, then pointed to the door. “Just go. Check it out and keep me posted.”

  I called the number Tyler had scribbled on the call slip and suggested Xstacy meet me at Dupar’s, a diner located next to the Farmer’s Market off Third and Fairfax, not far from the station. We agreed to a late lunch at two p.m.

  I had no idea what to expect, but with a name like Xstacy and knowing she worked at a gentlemen’s club, I figured I would know her when I saw her. I took a seat in one of the restaurant’s red vinyl booths, next to the windows facing the parking lot, and grabbed a menu. From the looks of things, not much had changed at Dupar’s since the day the place opened in 1938. The waitstaff wore the same old-fashioned white uniforms with aprons and little caps. It was still possible to order a mile-high stack of pancakes or a Monte Cristo sandwich. The only difference was a much more modern price.

  I ordered an ice tea and waited. Xstacy was running late. Finally, about 2:20, I noticed a dirty, white utility van mounted on giant oversized truck tires pulling into a parking space directly behind the window where I was seated. It was obvious the van had been in an accident. The chassis was sprung, the front fender dented, and the right headlight had been patched with duct tape.

  The windows of the van were tinted black, so I couldn’t see the driver. But when the door on the driver’s side opened and a pair of short, very pale legs in combat boots shimmied out from behind the wheel, I knew, given the car, this had to be Xstacy. She wasn’t at all what I expected from a waitress working at a strip club. Xstacy was plump, a good twenty pounds overweight and dressed in a plaid mini-skirt and an Annie Oakley-style fringed vest with a black halter top beneath it. She had tats running up and down her arms and her hair, short and boy-cut, was dyed a kind of red-magenta with purple streaks.

  I stood up when she entered the restaurant. I had described myself on the phone as a tall blonde person. I’m six feet in heels and hard to miss. Xstacy noticed me right away.

  “You must be Carol Childs?”

  I nodded and pointed to an empty seat in the booth and sat down. “And you must be Xstacy.”

  Without saying another word, Xstacy slid into the booth, picked up the menu on the table, and started to flip through it. In addition to the tats up and down her arms, Xstacy had silver rings on every finger, and the nails on her hands had been polished black and were chipped and bitten to the quick.

  “Mind if I order?” Xstacy’s brown eyes flashed at me from above the menu. “I’m starving.”

  “Order whatever you like,” I said. “It’s on me. I’m not hungry.”

  The waitress came and Xstacy ordered a double cheeseburger with onion rings, plus fries and an extra-large slice of cherry pie a la mode with a soda.

  “Bet you don’t get many calls like mine.” Xstacy played with her napkin, twisting it between her hands as she spoke.

  “You’d be surprised,” I said. Talk radio gets a lot of crazies. People calling in to confess to all kinds of things. Some in hopes of clearing their conscience, others seeking fame or maybe just a free meal. Judging from the size of Xstacy’s order, this was the latter. “But you’re right, you’re the only one to call and confess to killing the Model Slayer.”

  “You don’t believe me, do ya?”

  “I didn’t say that. But I am curious as to why you called.”

  “Maybe it’s ’cause I got a conscience and I don’t wanna see Pete Pompidou take the wrap for somethin’ he didn’t do.”

  “You know Pete?” I pushed my ice tea away and reached into my reporter’s bag for my notepad. If Xstacy knew Pete, I wanted to know how and why and exactly when they’d met.

  “A little. Pete and me, we met when I was still on the street. He was taking pictures for some news story about homeless kids like I used to be. That article’s what got me off the street. Some ways I guess I owe him.”

  “How long ago?” I asked.

  “Not long. A year. Maybe more.”

  The waitress arrived with Xstacy’s order and placed it on the table. Without waiting, Xstacy reached for her burger with both hands and took a bite. Then, grabbing her napkin like she was suddenly self-conscious of her table manners, she dabbed the side of her mouth. “But you gotta promise me somethin’ ’fore I tell you anymore.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You don’t go tellin’ the cops ’bout me. It’s the reason I called the radio station, you being a reporter and all. I thought you could find a way to convince the cops Pete’s not their guy without telling ’em ’bout me. Like they do in the movies. So the cops don’t come back after me and wanna talk.”

  “You mean off the record?” I put my pen down.

  “If that’s what ya call it, yeah. Off the record. I just don’t want nobody knowing it was me who told you the guy I hit was the Model Slayer.”

  I looked away. If Xstacy was on the level, she was going to have to tell me something about the murders I didn’t already know.

  “Okay, but before I agree to that. Tell me something that’ll prove to me why you’re convinced this man you hit was the Model Slayer.”

  Xstacy took another bite of her burger and started talking. “Those girls, the models he killed, he painted smiles on their faces with his own blood.”

  I pushed myself away from the table. If this was an excuse for a free lunch, I’d pay the server and leave now. I didn’t have time to be drawn into some made-up story she was peddling.

  “Nice try, Xstacy. That was reported in the paper.”

  “Wait.” Xstacy held her hand up. “He took their pictures with one of those Polaroid cameras right before he killed them.”

  Now she had my interest. I put my elbows on the table and leaned closer to her. “How do you know that? Did he show you a photo?”

  “No. And I didn’t ask. I’m not some freak.” Xstacy took a sip of her cola and put the glass back down on the table. “But I heard him talkin’ about it plenty. So you gonna promise me or what?”

  None of the news reports had mentioned anything about Polaroid photos being left at the crime scene. But I knew it was true. I had seen the photos myself when I had reported on Shana Walters’ murder, the first of the Model Slayer’s victims. They had been scattered at her feet and were the kind I’d seen Pete use to test for composition before taking a final shot. When I questioned one of the detectives about them, he asked me not to mention them in my report. Which I didn’t. In high profile cases, it’s not unusual for cops to ask the press to hold back certain details. But the fact Xstacy knew about the photos was.

  “Okay,” I said. “I promise.” I had no idea what to expect, but as far as the rules for confidentiality go, as long as Xstacy wasn’t about to tell me she was planning to murder someone else, there was no reason I couldn’t keep her name out of it. “But first, I need you to start by telling me what you know about the Model Slayer.”

  “I know for sure it’s not Pete. ’Cause like I told your boss when I called the station, I killed the Model Slayer. I ran him over with my van a couple weeks ago outside the Sky High Club where I worked.”

  “And then you reported it to the police?”

  “I did. Just like you’re supposed to. Told the cops it was an accident.” Xstacy put her napkin down and started to bite the side of her thumb. “But–”

  “But what?”

  “It didn’t really happen that way. I mean like how I told the cops.”

  I glanced at the room ar
ound us. The restaurant was nearly empty. Midday slow. A couple of regulars at the counter, but nobody close enough to hear our conversation. All the same, I lowered my voice, “Then how did it happen, Xstacy?”

  “I knew he’d be there. He had been coming to the club for months. Always sittin’ at my table, up front by the stage. When I’d bring him drinks, I’d hear him talkin’ ’bout the girls on stage.”

  “Was he talking to himself?”

  “No. There was another man sittin’ at the table with him. Don’t ask me who, I couldn’t tell you. The club’s dark and with the strobe lights, I can’t always see the faces. Anyway, one night I have this tray full of drinks, and I’m waitin’ to get paid by the table next to him, and I hear him talkin’. He’s super drunk and talkin’ to the guy at the table with him, and I realize he’s sayin’ somethin’ about those models. How they had all been stabbed and their blood used to paint smiles on their faces. At first, I thought he must have read somethin’ ’bout it in the news. But then he kept talking ’bout how they all deserved what they got. Little temptresses, he called them. Said he was taking their pictures so other young women wouldn’t follow them into temptation.”

  “He said this in a public place?”

  “It’s a bar, a strip club. It’s not like anybody’s paying attention to him. Everybody’s drunk, know what I mean?”

  “And he used the word temptress and the phrase, ‘into temptation’? You’re sure?”

  “Swear to God.” Xstacy crossed herself with the sign of the cross. “And he started talkin’ ’bout the pictures, too. Said he left some Polaroids at the foot of each girl. Like a shrine, only to shame them.”

  “I assume you told your management?”

  “They thought I was makin’ it up. Said nobody would be stupid enough to take pictures of a dead body and ’sides, there was nothin’ in the paper about photos being found with the girls.”

  I nodded. I could understand the club, particularly a strip club with a questionable clientele, not wanting to support a whistle-blower. And Xstacy didn’t exactly look like a reliable witness.

  “Plus, the guy was a big tipper,” Xstacy said. “The bouncers, they looked out for the girls. But when there’s money on the table, what are they gonna do? Throw him out? Besides, the last thing a club like the Sky High wants is a bunch of undercover cops hanging ’round.”

  “And you never told the cops?”

  “I figured I’d done my job. And if the club knew I’d said anything, by the time the cops got ’round to lookin’ into it, I’d be out of a job.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “That night?” Xstacy paused and took the last bite of her burger and wiped her hands on her legs. “I spilled my drink tray on him. That good enough for you?”

  I squelched a smiled. “I take it that didn’t work?”

  “Hardly. I nearly lost my job. But it was worth it. I told you, the man was disgusting. He used to make all kinds of hand signals to the girls when they were dancing. You know what I mean.” Xstacy put her hand to her mouth and spread her middle and ring finger, then started to pantomime an obscene gesture with her tongue. “And when he started harassing my girlfriend–”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “Yeah, Jewels. She’s one of the dancers. I call her that ’cause the club calls her their ‘Crown Jewel’. Best dancer they got. He kept following her around. Showing up backstage, and out back when she’d go for a cigarette break. Kept telling her how pretty he thought she was and how much he could help, and that he wanted to take her picture all professional like.”

  “And?”

  “And then, Jewels and me, we came up with a plan. If the club wouldn’t get rid of him, we would. So we waited ’til it was almost closing time and Jewels went out back for a smoke. Like she usually did. Meanwhile, I closed out my drink tab, told everybody I was going home for the night, then went out back and got in my car and waited. Few minutes later, this creep shows up and starts hitting on Jewels, just like we knew he’d do. That’s when I gunned it. Mowed him down like the miserable piece of sh–”

  “Whoa! Hang on a minute.” I put my hands up and took a deep breath. This was a very different story from what I expected to hear. “You deliberately ran him over? Planned it out and waited for him to come out of the club and then hit him?”

  “Yep. And I’d do it again if I had to.”

  My head was spinning. “No regrets? No remorse?”

  “He dented my van. But other than that, I figured I did the world a favor.”

  I steadied myself with both hands on the side of the table and took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. If what Xstacy had just told me was true, she had just confessed to first-degree murder. “Okay, so this man you hit, the man you think was the Model Slayer, you got his name?”

  “Ely Wade. But I didn’t know it until after the accident. The guy always paid cash. Never used a credit card. It wasn’t until the cops checked for his wallet that I got a name.”

  “And the cops just assumed he was some derelict?”

  “I don’t know what the cops thought. By the time they got there, he smelled of alcohol and cigarettes, and his clothes were all messed up from the accident. I may have helped a bit. You know, poured a little extra scotch on him. I think the cops figured he had tied one on and gone out back to sober up ’fore driving home. Cops said he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and I wasn’t about to say any different. I just wanted to get out of there.”

  Xstacy stared at the empty soda glass in front of her and started playing with it, turning it around between her fingers. She had been careful throughout our conversation not to make eye contact. If I’ve learned one thing as a reporter, it’s a fallacy to think eye contact made a Jack’s-worth of difference. I had been looked straight in the eye by some pretty good con artists, while some of the most oppressed victims I’d interviewed refused to make any eye contact at all. I put my hands on top of hers to stop her fidgeting. I thought there might be something more she wanted to say.

  “You want something else to drink?”

  “Why not? I got time.” Xstacy shrugged and looked out the window at her van. “It’s not like I got anywhere to be.”

  I signaled the waiter and waited for him to refill her glass. “How long have you been working at the club?”

  “Depends on what you mean by long.” Xstacy took a sip of her drink then put the glass down. “I’ve never been anywhere for long if you know what I mean. I move around a lot.”

  “You have a last name?”

  “My real name’s Stacy Minor, but nobody needs to know that. ’Sides like I told you, I need you to keep my story about Jewels and me running that Ely Wade guy down on purpose a secret. I don’t want no cops or anybody else coming back at me or Jewels ’bout it.”

  “What do mean coming back at you?” I took a sip of my ice tea. I couldn’t help but feel there was something more to Xstacy’s story than she was telling me. “You ever been in trouble with the law?”

  “I’m not a prostitute if that’s what you’re asking. Not that I haven’t lived the life. Got arrested once, but I was underage and the record’s sealed. Turned out to be a good thing, or as good as those things can be. Got me into a shelter, and later I lived with a foster family who helped me turn my life around. I was with them ’til I aged out of the system at eighteen.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Nineteen. But my driver’s license says I’m twenty-one. Which I need to be to serve liquor. So that’s ’tween you and me, too.”

  Xstacy’s age surprised me. I would have pegged her much older.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Different places. Right now I got a place in Venice Beach with a bunch of other kids like me. All trying to stay clean. Look, I didn’t come here to talk about me, but if it helps, you can call Jewels.” Xstacy reached
across the table for my notepad and wrote Jewels’ number down. “She’s better at this kind of thing than I am. Tell her we talked. Long as you promise to keep her name out of it, she’ll tell you all about Ely and what went down. The rest is up to you.”

  I called Tyler from the car as I left Dupar’s. The phone rang through to his office. He answered and put me on speaker.

  “What ya got, Childs? I’m on deadline.”

  In the background, I could hear the sound of the newsroom, the clacking of Tyler’s keyboard, and the broadcast of the midday team piped through the office on the intercom. At best I had only half of Tyler’s attention and not much time to get more. I led with news of Xstacy’s confession.

  “Xstacy’s convinced she killed the Model Slayer. And get this–she claims she and her girlfriend, a dancer from the club named Jewels, did it together. Planned it out, step-by-step.”

  “You believe her?”

  “She knew about the Polaroids. Said this guy they killed was a regular at the club and bragged about the murders.”

  Tyler picked up the phone.

  “Xstacy give you her real name?”

  “She did, but it wouldn’t make any difference if she didn’t.” I gripped the steering wheel tighter. Tyler wasn’t going to like this. “She’d only speak to me if I agreed to keep both her name and that of her girlfriend off the record.”

  “Undisclosed source confesses to the murder?” Tyler chuckled. “I’ve heard that before.” I expected Tyler to say as much. Talk radio had more than its share of people who called to hype conspiracy theories or confess to things they hadn’t done. “We’re going to need more than that for a story, Carol.”

  “Let me chase it, Tyler. There’s something there. Xstacy gave me her girlfriend’s number. She said Jewels could back up her story and I think there’s more to it than she’d say. Until I’ve talked with her friend and verified this so-called ‘accident’, I don’t know how on the level this all is. But if there’s anything there at all, I’m going to pursue it.”