A podcaster with a secret launches the thriller “Tell Me What You Did”

Burlington, Vermont
October 15

I lean down to kiss Bailey on the head, and she tastes like dog. Doesn’t bother me.

Bailey’s my black Lab. Old, a tad overweight, and, to be frank, dumb as rocks. But she’s been with me for a long time and has been the only constant in my life. Whenever I’m doing some soul-searching and find only a black hole, I think of Bailey.

I love this fucking dog.

“Gotta go to work,” I tell her, adding a two-handed chin scritch to hold her over. She makes her signature grumbling sound and closes her eyes.

I head up the stairs of my house, down the hallway, and into my office. A fifteen-second commute to my job.

Before sitting down, I glance at the framed picture of my mom on the bookshelf. I’m compelled to go over and touch it, run a fingertip along the surface, circle her face. For the first time in a long time, I pick it up and kiss her cheek. She tastes like glass.

“Miss you.”

I take a seat at my desk, nestle my iPhone into the arm of the fourteen-inch ring light that casts an amber glow on my face, and start recording a video. The angle is straight on my face, capturing everything I say. I always make a second recording of every interview with my phone, and though all it captures is my side of the conversation, I like to have it since I promise my guests to delete the webcast video. I’ve had my audio recordings manipulated by some unscrupulous listeners more than once, so I always want a copy of what I say that exists only for me.

I launch GoPod and click on the event set up by Kip. Kip’s my producer, and he’s also my boyfriend. I hate the word boyfriend; he’s more to me than that, but I don’t think we’re at the partner stage of our relationship. We’ve been together for almost a year, and, well, hell, I love him. He lives in a loft in downtown Burlington, about five miles from me.

Moments later, my guest connects but hasn’t yet turned on their video, leaving me to stare at a black left side of my screen.

And I wonder for the 312th time, what will this blackness become? Whose face will I see?

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll see a ghost—the ghost of the man who killed my mother, making a very special back-from-the-dead appearance on my show, reliving the gruesome play-by-play that I remember all too well. Sometimes I think the whole reason I started the podcast was to lure that ghost onto my computer screen. And I’ll admit to no one that, after every single episode, I’m left with a crumb of disappointment he didn’t show.

I use GoPod Recording Studio software for my show, which is like Zoom on steroids. The screen says the user KOD4ever is connecting to audio.

There, audio connected. Still no video.

“Hi, this is Poe Webb,” I say. “Can you hear me?”

Silence, silence.

Then:

“Hello, Poe.” A man’s voice. Deep and lush. Heavy.

Still no goddamn video.

“Can you turn your camera on?” I ask. “I can’t do this unless your camera is on.”

“Oh, yes, I’m quite aware of that.”

A few seconds go by, and then, as if I’m summoning the dead, he appears on my screen.

White, middle-aged, maybe fifty. Bald head, fleshy cheeks painted in chocolate stubble. Small eyes, as if they were created as an afterthought.

By the time a guest has reached the recording stage of my podcast, Kip will have secured their permission to record them. The guest will also have signed a waiver releasing me from all liability if my listeners form a lynch mob against them.

My guests are almost always despised.

A private message from Kip pops up on my screen.

Kid toucher.

But my amusement fades when I think it could be true. The guy looks like a kid toucher. What does a kid toucher look like? Well, as the saying goes, you know it when you see it.

I don’t talk to kid touchers. Or sexual predators of any kind. This guest—and all others—are informed of this before I agree to talk to them. Sure, I’ll talk to murderers, arsonists, con artists who rob your grandmother of all her savings. But I won’t have a conversation with anyone confessing to sexual assault. It’s a major trigger for me. Maybe because the dance of sex and violence once played a seminal role in my life.

“I’m going to begin recording in a moment,” I say, launching into the speech I’ve recited so many times. “You know this, but I’m going to tell you again—only the audio is ever released. The video is for me, for my security, and I destroy it after six months unless it’s subpoenaed before that. Which has happened before, so you need to be aware of that.”

“Okay,” the guest says.

“You’re accepting all risk associated with your appearance on my show, and I’m risking believing that what you are about to tell me is true. If I don’t believe you, if you confess to something I explicitly disallow, or if I just find you boring, this episode will not air. Furthermore, I have the right to send all recorded material directly to the police, FBI, Interpol, whomever.”

“I understand.”

People…they’ll sacrifice so much just to be on my show. I still don’t get it.

“Once I start recording, I’ll intro the show, during which I need you to remain quiet. Then we’ll just jump into it, okay?”

There’s a fresh sheen of sweat on KOD4ever’s forehead. He’s nervous. They always are. “Okay.”

“Relax,” I say. “You’re about to be on the top-ranked crime podcast in the country.”

A readout on my screen tells me Kip is now recording.

“Welcome to this episode of Tell Me What You Did,” I say into my mic. Audio levels are good. “The show where I invite you, the public, to come on and confess your crimes. I can’t absolve you of your sins, I can’t protect you from any police listening, but I can give you a space to talk and I can attempt to understand why you did what you did. And, as always, I have no idea of each guest’s crime until they tell me, right here, digital face to digital face.”

KOD4ever offers a weird grin, like he’s not sure what to do with his mouth.

“Today I have with me KOD4ever,” I continue. “Welcome.”

Now he smiles, and how meaty it is. “I can’t tell you how excited—and nervous—I am to be here, Poe. I’ve been listening to your show for years. I’m such a big fan.”

“Uh-huh. So, my first question, as always, is this: Do you want to tell me your real name?”

“No,” he says.

Over three hundred episodes, and I’ve only been told a real name four times. And each of those four had burned through their respective statutes of limitations.

“As usual,” I say. “Before we get to your confession, what do you want to tell us about yourself? Paint a picture for our listeners.”

Now begins the dance.

My guests? They’re seeking fame in a sick kind of way. Sure, some of them truly feel massive relief confessing their crimes on a national platform, and by last count, nearly 30 percent have shed tears in the process. But they could confess anywhere. They want to do it here because, if the story is interesting enough, it’ll create a buzz online. From bloggers, mostly. One time, when I had on a guy in his fifties who confessed to poisoning his spouse, upset that his “trophy wife had grown into a consolation prize,” the story got picked up by both the Washington Post and the New York Times (the wife lived, apparently). And my guests know the more they reveal about themselves, the better the episode.

“I, uh, well,” he says, “let’s see. Ah, heck, I’d had it all planned out, and now I’m so nervous, I’m forgetting everything.”

“I don’t want anything planned out,” I tell him. My voice lowers, softens. I’m slipping into my therapist tone. It’s okay. You can tell me. I’m here to help you. “Take your time. Just tell me a few things. Like we’re meeting over the phone after matching on a dating app.”

He chuckles, and it’s kind of gross. “Well, that wouldn’t happen. You’re out of my league.”

“Stay focused.”

“Um…okay. Well, I’m in my forties. A bit overweight, but trying to exercise more. I live in the Midwest—you might have heard that in my accent.”

I had.

“And I work with numbers,” he adds.

“An accountant?”

“I’d rather not say, specifically.”

Kip pops onto my GoPod screen. Not a message, but his video image. A small box in the upper-right-hand corner, and only I can see him. He gives me a thumbs-up, telling me he thinks KOD4ever is being truthful so far.

It’s all about truth.

I get a shit ton of liars on this show. Like, sure, most criminals are going to lie, and most of the buzz around my show consists of debates over whether a certain guest made everything up just to be on the podcast. Some have, for sure. Sometimes I get fooled. But that’s where Kip comes in and why we insist on the guest’s video being on during the interview.

Kip’s a freaky genius when it comes to discerning if someone is being truthful. He knows all the visible and audible cues, and I swear it’s nothing short of magic. It’s also been a problem in our relationship because he knows if I’m hiding something.

So far, KOD4ever seems legit. But we haven’t gotten to the good stuff yet.

“Anything else you want to tell us?”

“No, not really.”

“Well, I’ll be asking some follow-up questions, as you know. Maybe you’ll feel more comfortable…after we get to the reason you’re here.”

“Okay.” More sweat, and he’s now at least two shades paler. I’m no Kip, but it’s painfully obvious this guy is fucking nervous. Could be he’s just going to tell me some bullshit story and hope I air his episode. But I don’t think so. I think this guy did some real shit.

Time to find out.

“Well, as a long-time listener of mine, you know how this works. I’m going to say three simple words, and when I do, the floor is yours. You start talking. Tell me your story. I won’t interrupt for any reason. You have fifteen minutes, and you can use all or some of it. When you’re done, and if I think you’re being truthful, we’ll have a chat. That sound okay to you?”

He wipes his forehead with a folded paper towel. “Ye…yes.”

“Okay, then,” I say. I pause, not for effect, but because this is the moment I love the most. I might be in for a huge letdown or a jolt that will shake me to my core. And not knowing always makes my hairs stand on end.

I lean closer to my mic. Lower my voice even more.

“Tell me what you did.”

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Type of Story: Review

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