Body of Evidence Read online

  Actually, Catherine thought, twenty-nine, but she said, “Sir,” with a smile that at least pretended to be friendly, “that’s just it: you don’t. Have anything to say about it, I mean.”

  A uniformed officer walked in with a folded sheaf of papers and handed them to O’Riley.

  “Thanks,” the detective said, as the uniform turned and left the room. O’Riley gave the warrant a cursory read, then handed the papers to Newcombe.

  The adman was on his cell phone before he was done with the first page.

  “Is that your lawyer?” Catherine asked, helpfully.

  “You can rest assured it is.”

  “That would be the attorney who handles all your business affairs?”

  “Yes, and why is that of any concern to you?”

  “It isn’t—but it might be to you. This is a criminal matter and your attorney probably hasn’t studied in that area since law school.”

  O’Riley got into it, saying to the exec: “But, hey—yammer at the guy all you want, if it’ll make you feel better…and for, what? Five hundred bucks an hour?…He’ll get back to you and consult with a real criminal attorney and then finally they’ll tell you what I’m about to tell you…for free.”

  Newcombe looked pissed, but he said into the phone, “Just a moment, Wayne,” then said to O’Riley, “And what legal advice can you share with me?”

  O’Riley shrugged. “That you can’t do shit.”

  The adman growled into the phone, “Wayne, I’ll call you back from my office,” and started to leave.

  Catherine called out: “There’s another thing your attorney can tell you, Mr. Newcombe!”

  The executive halted in the doorway, looked over his shoulder at her, glaring.

  “It’s that if you do try to fight this,” she said, “it could cause you far more harm than being shut down for a day or two.”

  Newcombe’s eyes tightened, but there was no hostility in his tone as he said: “What kind of trouble?”

  Catherine approached him, her manner calm, professional. “Let’s explore the path that doesn’t come with trouble. Let’s say you don’t stand in our way, we take your equipment, and find the kiddie porn source. Then, when the case makes the news—and trust me, it will make the news—we praise you and your agency in all the media for helping us ferret out this dangerous individual.”

  Newcombe cocked his head, skeptically.

  “Or,” Nick said, an edge in his voice, “not.”

  The executive came back into the room, put himself at the center of Catherine, O’Riley and Nick. “How long do you think we’ll be shut down?”

  Catherine said, “A few days, if we’re lucky. You might want to call your insurance company—you may be able to file a lost time claim.”

  Newcombe nodded. “Our coverage may include something for this, at that. What else can we do to help you?”

  O’Riley pulled out a pad. “Tell us about this trade show your partner’s attending.”

  “The aaay miss buddy show?”

  O’Riley squinted; it wasn’t the most intelligent expression Catherine had ever seen on a face. “Pardon?” O’Riley asked.

  The exec spelled it out: “The AAAA-MIS-BUDDY show.”

  The detective looked at the CSIs, his eyebrows raised in confusion; the spelling bee hadn’t helped any of them, both Catherine and Nick shaking their heads.

  Newcombe turned on a smile normally reserved for clients—its wattage lower than your average Strip marquee, but just barely.

  “Sorry,” he said, “too much time with ad people. The American Association of Advertising Agencies, AAAA, has a Member Information Services section, the MIS, and they are using the trade show in LA to introduce their Business Demographics and Data for You or BUDDY system.”

  O’Riley tried to write all that down, but it was clear he was struggling. So Nick asked, “And that’s where Mr. Gold is now?”

  “Yeah, since Friday.”

  Turning to Janice, Nick asked “You said he flew out, Ms. Denard—what airline?”

  “Airline?” she asked, confused for a moment, then she said, “Oh, I’m sorry—Mr. Gold didn’t use any airline: he flew himself.”

  Catherine nodded toward the silver airplane on the desk. “So he’s a pilot?”

  “Yes,” Newcombe said. “As am I. The company owns the plane, but we both use it. At our own discretion.”

  Tomas Nunez strolled in.

  The computer geek looked more like a refugee from a Southwestern biker gang than the best computer analyst in the state. Tall and rangy, his long, black hair slicked straight back, Nunez had a leathery brown, pockmarked face, a stringy black mustache, and deep-set eyes as brown as they were cold. He wore a black leather vest, black jeans and a black promo T-shirt for an album by Los Fabulosos Cadillacs.

  Newcombe and Janice Denard eyed him like they thought he’d blown in to rob the place.

  Nunez smiled, displaying even, white teeth, startlingly so against his dark complexion. “Hola, Catherine—Nick, you rang? Lucky for all of us I was close by—over at Mandalay Bay, catching breakfast.”

  Catherine brought him up to speed, including showing him the pornographic printouts. He betrayed no emotion, which Catherine envied.

  “You want all the computers processed?” he asked.

  “Yes, Tomas—every last one.”

  He clapped once. “All right. Gonna need a trout with a Polaroid—maybe two.”

  Catherine nodded. Newcombe and Janice looked at each other as if Nunez’s English was outer-space lingo. Catherine did not bother to explain that a “trout” was one of those uniformed officers who stood around at crime scenes, gawking more than helping, generally with their mouths hanging open—like a trout. One would be pressed into duty, taking photos of all the computers and where they sat, the wiring hooked to each one, and—if Nunez demanded it—pictures of devices they were hooked to, as well.

  Before any of the computers could be processed, that photographic record had to be made.

  “We’re going to need more hands,” Nick sighed, “and a Ryder truck.”

  O’Riley held up a hand for silence—he was already making the call.

  Nunez approached Newcombe; the adman backed up half a step.

  “Might as well start with yours,” Nunez said.

  Newcombe bristled and his hand tightened around the strap of his laptop bag. “Now, I’m sorry, but there I’m just going to have to draw the line. This is my personal computer from home!”

  “Warrant specifies every computer on the premises,” Nunez said. “That’s a computer, these are the premises.”

  Newcombe tried to stare down the computer expert, and—though the tactic may have worked for Newcombe in the business world—with the likes of Nunez, the cause was a lost one. The geek just stared back deadpan, hand held out, until Newcombe finally laid the bag in it.

  “Gracias,” Nunez said. Turning to Nick, he said, “Nicky, can you get the pictures of this one—be real thorough, man—and pull it out while Catherine and I take care of the rest.”

  “No problem, Tomas.”

  “Gracias.”

  Officer Leary came in then, a Polaroid camera in his hands, his mouth yawning open, waiting for Nunez’s hook.

  “Hope you got a shitload of film,” Nunez said.

  Leary’s expression turned confused, but the uniform had the good sense to tag after Nunez when the computer expert waltzed out of Gold’s office and into Denard’s.

  Catherine followed and watched as Nunez had the officer take photos of the keyboard, the front of the computer tower, then the back to match the wiring and finally, Janice Denard’s Zip drive and printer.

  “Let’s get crackin’ on the others,” Nunez said to Catherine. “I’ll unhook hers, afterwards.” He looked at Leary. “You got the idea now?”

  Leary nodded. “No sweat.”

  “Not in this air conditioning,” Nunez said. “Like Gary Gilmore said, let’s do it.”

  Leary,
Nunez and Catherine walked into the warren of cubicles, filled with workers now, and Nunez put his fingers in his mouth and whistled long and loud. Heads popped up from almost every station and, when he had their attention, Nunez raised his voice loud enough that Catherine figured they could probably hear him out in the parking lot.

  “Las Vegas Metro P.D.,” he called. “This building is now officially a crime scene. Please file out of the room and into the lobby without touching your computers. If I see so much as a keystroke, I’m breaking fingers.”

  Although several of the workers tried to ask what was going on, Nunez shushed them and herded them all into the lobby. Catherine watched carefully and no one had ducked back into a cubicle before marching out.

  “That’s it,” Nunez said, in the lobby. “Thank you for your cooperation. Mr. Newcombe will be out shortly to explain to you what’s going on.”

  When the last of the employees was in the hallway, Nunez turned to Catherine.

  “Shall we get to work?”

  “Tomas, my boss would admire your people skills.”

  Catherine joined Nick, who was still shooting photos in Gold’s office.

  “How are you doing, Nicky?”

  He looked at her and forced a little smile. “Good. Good.”

  She touched his shoulder. “It’s not easy for me, either…. Think I’ll take a rain check on breakfast.”

  He nodded, his mouth twitched, and he got back to work.

  2

  EARLIER THAT SAME MORNING, THE THREE OTHER MEMBERS of the CSI graveyard shift had responded to a 419, i.e., a Dead Body call—representing another unpleasant discovery by a Las Vegas citizen.

  From his usual spot in the front passenger seat, CSI supervisor Gil Grissom let out a small prayer-like sigh of relief as Warrick Brown heeled the black Tahoe onto the east shoulder of Las Vegas Boulevard. Grissom rarely drove, either to or from a crime scene; he was distracted, preoccupied, and while he was probably a perfectly fine driver, it disturbed him that he could arrive at a destination with no memory of ever having looked out the windshield along the way.

  But at least as disturbing was Warrick’s expeditious approach to driving. The young CSI had a low-key, even laidback manner at odds with a driving style that strongly suggested a manic streak lurked not far beneath the calm.

  The dash-mounted blue strobe mixed in with the flashing red lights of two parked prowl cars to paint the deathscape an eerie purple; it would still be a good three hours before the crack of dawn would do the same. This far north on the Strip, there were no wind-breaks and the drafts roared down off the mountains like angry spirits, perhaps heading over to haunt the sprawling ghost town across the road—the Las Vegas Motor Speedway, sitting as dark and dormant as a forgotten mining town a century after the gold petered out. Mere weeks ago, tens of thousands of avid NASCAR fans had poured in and filled the place to the rafters for the Busch and Winston Cup races; now, however, the sprawling ghost town was inhabited, fittingly enough, by a skeleton crew, not due to come in for another five hours.

  On this side of the road, almost due east, the federal prison camp, attached to Nellis Air Force base, could be made out by way of its illuminated perimeter, lights snaking a trail up and down the foothills almost a mile away from where Grissom stood. To the south of that, the Air Force base slept on, or at least no sign had presented itself yet to indicate anyone on those premises had noticed the cop parade taking place just beyond their backyard.

  That didn’t mean the Fibbies wouldn’t be poking their noses into a death so close to their doorstep—but for now, Grissom and his team had the scene to themselves.

  Jumping down from the back seat on shaky legs, a pale Sara Sidle glared at Grissom in the darkness. Though this was supposedly spring, a cold snap had steam pluming from their lips. Not saying a word, Sara turned toward the rear of the SUV where their gear was stowed.

  “Up for driving on the way back?” Grissom asked, conversationally.

  “Oooh yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  Two prowl cars blocked the road on either side of the crime scene. The CSIs had already passed another patrol car at Craig Road, the first major intersection south of here, where an officer was diverting all northbound traffic west onto Craig. Grissom knew another officer would be stationed to the north at the mile-marker 58 interchange on Interstate 15, an officer whose job would be to divert the few cars heading toward Las Vegas Boulevard back onto the freeway and to the Craig Road exit to the south.

  Besides the diagonally parked patrol cars, two more vehicles sat on the shoulder (Warrick had pulled the Tahoe in behind them). Immediately in front of the CSI vehicle was Captain Jim Brass’s tired Taurus; beyond that was a dark-colored Toyota Corolla, which Grissom—tugging on latex gloves—couldn’t see very well in the gloom. Bathed in purple light, Brass, a uniformed office and another man stood in the middle of the road near the front of the Corolla and Grissom strode toward them, as Sara and Warrick—crime-scene kits in hand—moved on up ahead.

  The detective nodded to a citizen whose back was to Grissom—apparently the driver of the Corolla. Grissom was still out of earshot when the driver spoke again as Brass quietly listened, though his sad eyes spoke volumes.

  As the CSI broke the circle and exchanged nods with a uniformed officer, the detective was jotting something in his notebook.

  When Brass looked up and saw the CSI boss, he said, “Mr. Benson, this is crime lab supervisor Grissom. Gil, this is David Benson.”

  The man extended his hand, but Grissom already had his latex gloves on, and shook his head while raising ghostly hands as if in surrender.

  The witness looked innocuous enough—tall and thin with a reddish blond brush cut; he was nervous but not anxious. His ears stuck out a little, leaving plenty of room for the stems of his black plastic glasses, the lenses thin and possibly tinted a little, hard for Grissom to tell in the lights of the patrol cars and headlights.

  Grissom dragged out the preliminary smile he bestowed on witnesses—it was generally as far as he’d go toward loosening them up—and said, “Mr. Benson, could you tell me what happened here?”

  Benson, with an expression that said he’d just finished doing that with Brass, looked toward the detective for relief.

  But Brass only said, “Please tell Dr. Grissom what you told me.”

  “All of it?”

  Grissom flinched another smile, mildly impatient. “Just the highlights won’t do, Mr. Benson. All of it, please.”

  Sighing, Benson looked down at the road for a moment, gathered himself, then his eyes met Grissom’s in the swirling purple smear of lights from the vehicles. He pointed up the road, his hand trembling a little. “It started with me noticing a car, up there.” Grissom remained silent, but offered a nod of encouragement.

  “Tell him what kind of car,” Brass said.

  Benson frowned in a mild mix of confusion and irritation. “Well, I already told you. Couldn’t you have told him, as easy as asking me to, again?”

  Brass sighed a small cloud, and said, “But I’m not the witness, Mr. Benson. You’re the witness.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I just…nothing like this ever happened to me, before.”

  “Nothing like this happened to the victim before, either,” Grissom said with an insincere smile. “So why don’t you continue?”

  “It was a white Chevy…Monte Carlo, I think.”

  “What was the car doing?”

  “Doing?”

  “What was it doing that attracted your attention? Was it weaving, was it speeding, was it going unusually slow…”

  “Unusually slow! It’s like I told Captain Brass, I wouldn’t have noticed a thing, except the guy was kind of creeping along, hugging the shoulder…. Made me think maybe he was having car trouble, and might need help. But he could’ve been looking for something…like a turnoff, or something on the side of the road.”

  “Was he maintaining a steady slow speed?”

  “I don’t unde
rstand…”

  “Did he slow down, then pick it back up again, then slow again, or—”

  “Yes! Like that. And then, finally, he slowed all the way to a stop, and got out of his car.”

  “Were you right behind him?”

  “No! He was way up ahead, and I slowed down myself, when I was trying to tell if he needed help…but I kind of kept my distance, figuring I oughta do that for a while—I mean, there’s all kinds of weirdos around. Somebody can seem to be in trouble, then you stop and get robbed or killed or something. It’s a dangerous world to be a Good Samaritan in, don’t you think?”

  “It is indeed,” Grissom granted. “So when he stopped, what did you do?”

  “I stopped, too. I cut my lights. I…I can’t exactly explain it, but I got a…creepy feeling. Like something was wrong. I was just trying to get a handle on what was going on, you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, anyway, like I said, I stopped too, killed my lights, and stayed back where he couldn’t see me. I watched him get out, open the trunk, and pull out that…that thing.”

  With a shudder, the witness pointed up the road again, this time at something on the shoulder, a dark wrapped-up apparent corpse, near where Warrick and Sara were already at work, Sara snapping photos, the flash making tiny lightning in the night. Almost out of sight, beyond the parked cars, Warrick was bent down, probably searching for footprints. It all comes down to shoe prints was Warrick’s byword, and Grissom could not disagree.

  “And then?” Brass prompted.

  Benson tucked his shaking hands into his pockets. “Then I watched him dump the…package, dump it on the side of the road, and I just knew right away that it was a body. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared—it was like all the blood left my body.”

  “What did you see that made you think it was a body?” Grissom asked.

  “It wasn’t the…the package itself, though the shape kinda suggested as much, but more how he acted. The guy moved kind of…funny, you know, on the way back to the car, like he was trying to wipe out his footprints or something…with the side of his shoe? Then the guy slammed the trunk lid, hustled back in the car and split. He wasn’t goin’ slow then!”