Uninvited Guests

Butcher, Baker: The Untold Story, Part 4

Kitty’s was open to dancers of all stripes. Take the woman Cindy came to call “one-eyed Jack.” She was a dancer in the loosest sense of the word. A middle-aged woman, she had a habit of playing one-eyed Jacks while she awaited her turn on stage. In her world, at least half of everything had to be a “wild card.” With blonde hair and a body tan, her nails were always done. Her dress? Impeccable. But she only had one song and she danced for only one guy. Her sugar daddy. No wonder the club was placing ads in the local newspaper. To bring in more guests, they needed more talent.

The woman was sweet, though and, like strange comrades, she and Cindy took care of each other. When Cindy had to get away from one of her so-called “friends” – who had threatened her – one-eyed Jack was right where she should be. Cindy slid into her space, panicked. Blurted out, “That motherfucker is trying to catch me.” The one-eyed Jack hid Cindy at her place till it blew over.

Most nights, though, were a dull routine. Dance. Get tips. Dance again. Put the bills in your G-string. Sneak off and do a line or two. It wasn’t long, however, before Cindy got a big surprise. The first of her uninvited guests.

The Guests Appear

One night I’m at Miss Kitty’s and apparently Nate had come back up. Him and his buddy came in to see me and I’m dancing. And I didn’t even know it was him. That’s how loaded I was. Did I recognize him? Hell no. Did I see him? No. 

I kind of remember it, though. I had this white see-through gown on and I’m completely naked inside and I got these black heels on and I’m just dancing. And at the end of the bar I see these two black men, standing there, right? I’m high as hell, drunk as hell, but I don’t approach them and they just stand there and watch me. You know, they’re just watching me and I don’t approach them. And that’s when John told me that Nate’s back in town. That he had a new girl.

Cindy Paulson

A Confrontation

The sting of Cindy’s “Nate memories” were more immediate — and intense — than Cindy cared to admit. After her shift ended, John — a Samoan guy who co-managed Kitty’s — gave Cindy a ride home. Along the way, as they drove “the track,” John helpfully pointed out the young woman who was Nate’s new girl. “That’s his ‘next girl’ right there,” he said. 

What Cindy saw looked familiar. The woman was on the corner where the Sheraton was. Standing on the opposite side of the street, by herself. “That’s how Nate is,” Cindy thought. “She’s standing in my place.”

I got out of the car and faced her. I said, “He’s got you up here on this corner. You know, what the fuck?” She wouldn’t talk to me. She turned and walked away. Wouldn’t say nothing. And I told her, “Did you know he brought me up here and left me for dead? You know what kind of man he is? He ain’t a man.” And she let me just keep talking, like “I don’t hear you. You’re not existing.”

Cindy Paulson

Guests Keep Coming

The deeper truth was that Robert Hansen was still free, roaming Anchorage with near impunity. Cindy took pains to warn her friends of that reality. She wanted them to know that, no matter where Robert Hansen showed up, he was one of the most unwelcome guests.

“I told them, ‘Don’t go with that guy in the green Buick,’ Cindy recalls. “I told everybody the motherfucker was a killer. That’s one of the reasons I started dancing at Kitty’s. We knew Hansen wouldn’t come in there. Even if he did, what were the chances of me being there? One in a million?”

She had reason to hope. Kitty’s was not a prime spot on anybody’s radar. There were too many slow nights for anything else to ring true. He would never be among their guests.

And then, boom, there he was. I was dancing and I seen him. I said, “Oh, look, there he is. There he is.” And they all seen him. Everybody seen him. I told John and the bouncers, “that’s the guy right there.” They went after him. He tore the hell out of there. That’s when I knew there was a little demon inside him, always trying to get out. A moth-to-a-flame that he couldn’t shake. 

Cindy Paulson

Cindy had another thought: For him to show up meant that somehow Hansen was being protected by the very cops who were supposed to be protecting her. Well, that was the fantasy anyway. They’d all picked sides. And women like her were on the wrong one. The losing side.

Keeping Count

In fact, police kept adding potential victims to their list. It kept building the entire time Cindy worked at Kitty’s. By September of 1983, their published list reached seven. Inside police circles, some suspected even more. They just couldn’t be sure.

Most of the missing women were in their 20s, big busted with light-colored hair. Many were new in town and had disappeared under strikingly similar circumstances. “All these girls are missing and we don’t know where they went,” APD Inv. Maxine Farrell noted.

The specifics were tantalizing. There were reports of a woman who told friends she was to meet a man at a downtown restaurant, then go for a nude photo session. Another woman met a man offering $300 for one hour of her time. Police reports identified a third dancer who told friends she was meeting “a real neat guy” at a restaurant. Then there was the young woman who was going to a lunch date by cab, or the woman meeting a man who claimed he was a doctor. All gone missing. Maxine Farrell went on the stump, going to club after club, warning dancers of the danger.

For her part, Cindy Paulson does not remember ever meeting Maxine Farrell. Though the veteran cop made the rounds, admonishing dancers of the threats, street girls like Cindy are wily. They skitter like stray cats every time the wind changes. Meet with a cop? You’re either going to jail or making plans to skip town. There was too much money in Anchorage to take chances like that.

Looking back on that time, Cindy can see that the missing dancers were all over the newspapers. Were prominently featured on TV. But she didn’t watch TV. She didn’t read the papers. She was working. Working nights. Ultimately, what Cindy Paulson knew came from first hand experience. That was the worst experience of all.

Purchase Butcher, Baker

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