San Luis Obispo motel tied to British murder case

This story is just enough to titalize but not enough to draw solid evidence from. Slobody’s comment, I could turn into a Saturday Night Live skit.

Opening scene: John Wallace, our local engineering “pariah,” is wearing a Santa Claus cap and jumping up and down on a double-bed in his boxer shorts and tee shirt with a toilet plunger in one hand, looking unusually playful. Camera pans stage left to reveal two members of the Cuesta Women’s Tennis Team dressed in black lace underwear wapping the bed with their tennis rackets, shouting “Take that! You nasty boy!” then giving themselves an occassional wap on the buttocks, and shouting “Oooo!” through lips painted red and puckered in the shape of a heart.

tnn goes straight to the circumstantial evidence which consists of an “inferential fact, …(one) by which a fact sought to be established is deduced as a logical consequence from other facts, or a state of facts already proved or admitted.” (from Black”s Law Dictionary) The story’s allegation that Tabek rented a room under a false name at a hotel when he already had one, leads one to conclude that he didn’t want his employer to know what he was doing, and that he planned to engage in an activity that was in conflict with his work activities.

Dexter’s hypothesis is more than substantiated by the statement made in the article that U.S. Marshalls are investigating a link between (Tabak) and San Luis Obispo.

When I was a grad student, I used to work at the old Motel Inn as a hotel clerk. The area around the Peach Tree Inn (before it was built,) was San Luis Obispo’s “red light” district. Contrary to the image of seedy hotels and tired looking hookers, Monterey Street’s clean and comfortable bars were the places where men on business trips met good-looking, well-dressed women whom they paid to have sex.

How do I know this? Sometimes, after work, I used to go for a drink at that hotel where the bar is just a long narrow room, but it’s well lit because the entire wall behind the bar area is one long window that curves up and lets natural light in. One day, I’m in there, and this guy who looks to be about 70 asks me if he can buy me a drink. I say, sure. Then, he asks me if I’ll go to his room and he’ll pay me sixty bucks. I say, no thanks, with a smile, and he leaves. I say to the bartender, “I’ve got no make-up on; I smell like food, and I’m wearing blue jeans, a sweat-shirt and sneakers only my dog could love. Why would this guy think I’m a hooker?! Do I look like a hooker to you!?”

The bartender says to me, “It’s because you’re alone. Only hookers drink at the bar by themselves. That’s what he thinks. It’s because this is where hooker’s come to meet their johns.” He nods knowingly in the direction of a nice-looking woman in her early thirties at the other end of the bar, who is chatting seductively with a man twenty years older.

“Oh, that’s just great.” I say. “I guess I should be flattered. The only other time I’ve been asked on a date by a “local,” he offered to take me out into the forest so we could go squirrel hunting together. That’s all I need: to be taken out into the middle of nowhere by some guy I met in Camozzi’s with nothing between him and me but his .22 and a couple of dead squirrels….”

“To each his own…” says the bartender, noticing the empty peanut bowl. “So, how much do they pay you at the Motel Inn?”

“Two twenty-five an hour, but I don’t have to take my clothes off when I swim in their pool….”

“To each his own…” he says, and he fills up my peanut bowl.