Body of Evidence Read online

  “No offense,” Nick said, and he shared with the woman the boyish smile that had melted frostier types than Denard. “But you gotta admit, those are really nice houses.”

  Wouldn’t you know it, Denard smiled back at Nick, showing lots of white teeth. Caps? Catherine wondered.

  “My ex,” Denard said, “was a divorce lawyer…but not as good as mine, as it turned out.”

  Nick gave half a grin and a head nod, and Catherine chuckled politely, thinking, Shark. Then Catherine asked, “So, back on point—you came in around six-forty-five, and then?”

  A shrug. “I went about my routine.”

  Their silence prompted her to continue.

  Denard did: “I shut off the alarm, I went to my office, took off my coat and hung it up, then turned on my computer.”

  Catherine could almost see the movie Janice Denard seemed to be watching in her own mind, as she retraced her morning.

  “While the computer booted, I went through Saturday’s mail, which was piled on my desk.”

  “How did it get there?” O’Riley put in, lurking on the sidelines, on his feet.

  Denard blinked at him. “How did what get there?”

  “The mail.”

  “Oh! An intern put it there.”

  “When?”

  “On Saturday.”

  O’Riley frowned, mostly in thought. “You weren’t here on Saturday?”

  Nodding, Denard said, “In the morning, but I left before the mail came. Most of the staff works Saturday—”

  Catherine put in, “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Not in a competitive, deadline-driven business like ours. We’re just that busy, and that includes the interns. One of them would’ve been in charge of making sure the mail was on my desk, before he, or she, left.”

  Nick asked, “Which intern?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, with another shrug. “I could find that out for you. I can give you a list of all the interns, far as that’s concerned.”

  “If you could.”

  “But not right now,” O’Riley said, with just a little impatience. “Go on with your account, please, Ms. Denard.”

  She took a breath, and dove back in. “After I went through the mail, and my computer was up, I went online. I checked the e-mails of both myself and Mr. Gold. After that, I checked the fax machine in my office, and then went to the rear office and checked that fax, too. Once I had done that, I went out front and started the coffee.”

  “You started the coffee?” Catherine asked, sitting forward. “Not one of the interns?”

  “The interns’ll just be shuffling in about now. I’m here first and starting the coffee is just something I like to do myself. Anyway, after that…that’s when I found…found those…things.”

  Catherine and Nick exchanged glances, and O’Riley said, “Show us, if you would, please.”

  The woman took a moment to compose herself—as if preparing to do something very difficult; then, rising, Janice Denard said, “Come with me.”

  They followed her down the hall into a huge room divided into a colony of cubicles that seemed to be set off in squares of four with perhaps four central squares taking up the bulk of the space. The outside walls of the work area were the glass windows of offices that formed the room’s borders.

  Except for the framed advertisements, Newcombe-Gold looked to Catherine more like an insurance company than an ad agency, at least until they rounded a corner and she glanced into one of the corner offices and saw a giant slot car setup, and in an adjacent office an array of action figure toys surrounding a work station.

  Two doors later, Janice Denard took a right into a spacious office, outfitted in a sleekly modern fashion, accented with splashes of color via framed abstract art. A starship of a desk—wide, gray and fashioned of an indeterminate substance—jutted from the left wall at a forty-five degree angle, envelopes and papers in three neat stacks, a mini-missile-launch phone setup roosting nearby; adjacent, a small credenza was home to a computer monitor and printer.

  “This is my office,” Janice Denard said—gesturing to file cabinets and chairs as if addressing loyal subjects in passing. Sensing that her little safari group had slowed to take in the impressive surroundings, the personal assistant/office manager paused to make sure they were all keeping up before she led them into Ruben Gold’s office.

  Nearly a half again as large as Janice’s office, Gold’s quarters were tan and masculine—the only wall decorations a trio of framed ad magazines with Gold’s picture on the cover; the expansive area was dominated by a mahogany desk for which untold trees had given their lives. A speaker phone capable of defending against any missile attacks the lobby or Ms. Denard might launch perched on one corner, a silver airplane on a C-shaped silver base hovered on the other. Two leather armchairs faced the desk and a massive oxblood leather throne loomed behind it.

  A glass cutout in the top of Gold’s desk provided the (as yet absent) boss a view of his concealed computer monitor; atop a matching mahogany credenza, behind and to the throne’s right lurked a laser printer as well as a row of books between ornate silver bookends—the credenza likely sheltering the CPU tower.

  “Everything seemed fine this morning,” Janice said, her manner now detached, business-like, “until I happened to glance at Mr. Gold’s printer.”

  Nick asked, “How did that change things?”

  Janice’s face screwed up as she pointed toward the printer tray, where Catherine could see a small pile of paper. Walking to the printer, pulling on latex gloves, Catherine asked, “Let’s see what got your attention, Ms. Denard….”

  And, even as she pulled the sheaf of papers from the tray, Catherine could see what had disgusted Janice Denard.

  CSI Willows was not squeamish.

  Without a twinge, she had once walked into a room where waited a bloated corpse, undiscovered until the smell alerted a landlord; she had dealt with liquefied human remains, emotionlessly; she had handled dis-embodied arms, legs, limbs, torsos and heads without a flutter of her stomach.

  But revulsion and rage flowed through her now, an immediate response that she had to force back, to retain and maintain her professionalism.

  The top sheet was a pornographic picture of a girl about Lindsey’s age, being violated by a male adult in his thirties. Catherine closed her eyes, then opened them to glance toward Janice. “You found these in the printer this morning?”

  Janice managed a weak nod and backed away a half-step, as if something in Catherine’s manner had frightened her.

  Catherine placed the top sheet on the desk, with the image up, and Nick’s face whitened; his eyes looked unblinkingly, unflinchingly at the image, then looked away.

  “Nick,” Catherine said, gently.

  His gaze came to hers and he nodded a little, and she nodded back. They both had issues with this kind of crime, and they knew it…and they would both stay professional.

  Catherine looked at the next image.

  It was worse than the first, and on and on they went, nearly a dozen in all, every one featuring a minor, both boys and girls, every one obscene. When no one was looking (she hoped), she brushed the tears from her eyes with her sleeve, and somehow each sheet got laid out on the desk, and when she and her partner were done, each sheet was slipped into an individual transparent plastic evidence bag. Nick collected them all and held them face down in his hands.

  Her eyes again met his and she smiled, just a little, to be supportive. He swallowed and nodded, but didn’t seem able to summon anything close.

  With the photos out of sight, Catherine and Nick turned their attention back to Janice Denard.

  “Is this the kind of thing Mr. Gold might be interested in?” Catherine asked. “To your knowledge, I mean?”

  “My God, no!” She seemed shocked that Catherine might even suggest such a thing. “There’s no way,” she continued, looking from one CSI to the other. “He’s just…not like that.”

  “We can talk to
him at nine,” Nick said. “That’s when he’ll be in, you said.”

  Shocked, as if it had slipped her mind, she said, “He’s out of town.”

  “Out of town!” O’Riley blurted. “Where?”

  Her shrug was noncommittal, but her words were specific: “He flew to Los Angeles for a trade show that starts this morning. He left last Friday and isn’t due back until the end of the week.”

  Catherine, trying to keep the incredulity from her voice, asked, “And you simply forgot that little detail?”

  “No, no, no, of course not…. This, this thing that happened…and then you coming…I was taken by surprise, is all.”

  “If Mr. Gold wasn’t coming in,” Catherine said tersely, “why did you come in early to prep for him?”

  “I didn’t—I just came in at the time I usually do on Monday.” She was shaking her head, growing more and more agitated. “If you knew Mr. Gold, you would never dream….” Her voice trailed off.

  Nick gestured with the pornographic sheets still in his hand. “You never know who some people really are.”

  Catherine gave him a quick look, then asked, “Why wouldn’t we suspect Mr. Gold?”

  “You just wouldn’t. He’s honest, he has integrity, he works hard. And he’s dated a lot of women…mature women. I don’t mean old, but women his own age.”

  O’Riley asked, “How old is Mr. Gold?”

  “In his early forties, I guess. I can get you that information, if it’s important.

  Knowing that dating habits seldom had any real relevance to an interest in child porn, Catherine took the woman in another direction. “Who else has access to Mr. Gold’s personal computer?”

  Janice shook her head immediately. “No one.”

  Slowly, Catherine said, “No one has access to Mr. Gold’s computer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re his personal assistant.”

  The blonde risked a frown. “Do I have to tell you, a computer is also personal?”

  “Some are more personal than others,” Nick said dryly.

  “Mr. Gold,” Catherine said, letting each word out, one at a time, “is in LA and won’t be back for a week…and yet you have no idea who could have printed out these pictures?”

  The frown went away and a placating manner accompanied Denard’s reply: “What I meant to say was, no one could have used Mr. Gold’s PC to print those pictures. We each have our own private passwords, and there’s no way anyone could use Mr. Gold’s computer, unless he were careless with that password, which I assure you he was not.”

  Nick perked. “Was he especially careful about his password?”

  Defensive now, Denard accused, “You make that sound suspicious! Are you careful about your password, Mr. Stone?”

  “Stokes,” Nick said.

  Catherine could feel this interview starting to slip away from them, and she gave Nick a gently reproving glance, then said, “It is his printer, Ms. Denard.”

  “Our computers here are networked, linked together so that any of the work stations, or other offices, could have accessed Mr. Gold’s printer.”

  “On purpose, you mean?” Catherine asked.

  “Yes…but also by mistake! Just with a wrong keystroke.”

  Eyes narrowing, Catherine said, “So, we’re looking at how many people, who’ve been in the building since the end of shift last Friday?”

  “Nearly everyone. We work six days here most of the time—Newcombe-Gold is rated number two ad agency in Las Vegas, you know.”

  Catherine asked, “How many employees?”

  “With computer access?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman didn’t miss a beat; she knew her office. “Twenty-seven.”

  Trading dismayed glances with Nick, Catherine said, “Twenty-seven?”

  “Plus Mr. Gold, of course, and Mr. Newcombe. Without computer access? There’s five interns and half a dozen janitorial staff.”

  Turning to O’Riley, Catherine said, “We’re going to need a search warrant for all the computers, floppies, CDs, everything.”

  O’Riley sighed, nodded, withdrew his cell phone and punched in numbers, stepping over to the corner of the office for some privacy.

  Janice Denard’s eyes were wide and she looked as white as Nick had on seeing the pictures. “Oh, no—please don’t say you’re—”

  “This is a serious felony,” Catherine said, cutting the woman off. Then to Nick, she said: “Call Tomas Nunez, would you? Tell him to get down here ASAP.”

  “On it,” Nick said, hauling out his own cell phone and moving to the corner opposite O’Riley.

  Tomas Nunez, the best of several computer gurus the department used part time, would come in to oversee the operation of taking the computers out of Newcombe-Gold. Catherine was about to seriously inconvenience this business, but there was no other way.

  “A search warrant means you’ll…search the building, right?” Denard asked weakly.

  “A warrant means,” Catherine replied, “that we’ll take everything in, computers, maybe some of the other hardware, and most of the software, and our expert will work on it until we figure out the origin of this material. This isn’t an employee logging on to some adult website on his coffee break, Ms. Denard—this is child pornography. A serious crime.”

  “Eighty percent of our graphics are computer generated!”

  “We don’t do this lightly. And we do regret the inconvenience.”

  O’Riley asked, “Is Mr. Newcombe in town?”

  More flustered than angry, Janice glanced at her watch. “Yes, he should be here any minute now.”

  “Good.” O’Riley returned to the cell phone, spoke a few words, then punched the STOP button and faced them. “Warrant’ll be here in ten minutes. I got Judge Madsen to issue it.”

  Catherine, Nick and O’Riley all knew that crimes against children sent Judge Andrew Madsen completely around the bend and he, of all local judges, would act fastest to help them gain possession of the evidence.

  “When exactly is Mr. Newcombe due in?” O’Riley asked.

  As if on cue, a tall, lantern-jawed man appeared in the doorway, a laptop computer case strapped over his left shoulder. Perhaps fifty, he might have stepped from an ad for his expensively tailored gray suit. He had silver-gray hair and thin, dark eyebrows, and managed to look both confident and confused as he strode into Ruben Gold’s office.

  Ignoring O’Riley and the CSIs, he demanded of Denard, “What’s going on here?”

  “Mr. Newcombe,” she said, taking a tentative step toward her boss. “I…I…found something…terrible, this morning, and I’m afraid….”

  O’Riley stepped between the man and woman, his badge coming up into Newcombe’s face. “I’m Detective Sergeant O’Riley, Mr. Newcombe. You are Mr. Newcombe? These are crime scene investigators I called over—Catherine Willows and Nick Stokes.”

  “Crime scene…” Wheeling slowly, the polished Newcombe seemed finally to realize the CSIs were in the room. He repeated what he’d said, upon entering, but the words came out soft, even apologetic: “What’s going on here?” Then, as an afterthought, he stuck out his hand and said, “Ian Newcombe, Sergeant, sorry.”

  O’Riley gave the man’s hand a cursory shake and said, “Ms. Denard discovered something in Mr. Gold’s printer this morning, and was exactly right in calling us.”

  “Something in a printer serious enough to call the police?” Newcombe said, his bewildered look travelling from O’Riley back to Janice.

  Nick stepped forward and tossed one of the evidence bags onto the desk—image up. Newcombe eyed it from a distance, glanced at the officers, then—as if approaching a dangerous beast—took a few steps closer, moving past O’Riley, and finally braving to pick up the bag for a better look….

  “Oh…my…God….”

  “I take it,” O’Riley said, matter of fact, “you’ve never seen these before?”

  The adman dropped the bag onto the desk as if it were on
fire, the laptop clunking against his hip as he involuntarily stepped back.

  Nick spread the rest of the evidence bags out on the desk, like a terrible (if winning) hand of cards.

  Newcombe glanced from picture to picture, his eyes never resting on one photo longer than a second, his mouth falling open in appalled shock, hands balling into fists then uncoiling and balling again.

  “I have frankly never seen anything like this,” he said, the calm in his voice obviously forced, his tone cold, almost mechanical. “One…hears of such things. These are…,” he searched for the word, “…revolting.”

  But O’Riley was still in charge, saying to the ad exec, “You have no idea how they could have gotten here?”

  “None,” Newcombe said. “I…I don’t recognize any of these children, either…if that helps at all.”

  Catherine said, “So you’re as surprised as Mr. Denard to find these photos in Mr. Gold’s printer?”

  “Absolutely…. How could that have happened?”

  “That’s what we have to find out,” Nick said.

  “But your company will be inconvenienced,” Catherine said. “You can speak to your lawyers if you like, of course, but we’ll have a warrant shortly and—”

  He held up a hand in a “stop” motion. “Anything we can do to help, we’ll do.”

  “I’m relieved to hear you say that, Mr. Newcombe, because we’re going to have to confiscate every computer in this facility.”

  Newcombe’s shock seemed to congeal on his face, then something new appeared in his eyes: alarm. “What?”

  O’Riley’s face was as expressionless as a block of granite. “Ms. Willows is correct. We’re going to take along everything these criminalists consider to be evidence, so we can trace the source of the pornography.”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you, Mr. Newcombe,” Janice said, appearing at the executive’s side, looking up at him pitifully. “They’re planning to shut us down.”

  The adman stood a little straighter. “Oh, they are, are they? Well, maybe I will call my attorneys, at that.”

  “You said you’d do anything to help,” Catherine reminded him.

  “Not shut down the source of income for thirty people,” he said, eyes intense. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”