Body of Evidence ccsi-4

by Max Allan Collins

  A pretty green-eyed brunette with high cheekbones and luminous model's skin, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, Erin Conroy wore a light gray suit over a darker gray silk blouse, the jacket bulging on her right hip where her pistol rode. As she approached, she held her shield out in front of her, Van Helsing warding off Dracula with a crucifix.

  And, at the sight of the badge, the maid stepped meekly aside and-Detective Conroy now in the lead-they all swept in.

  Immediately Warrick noticed how immaculate the place was, adding further to a sterile aura-there was something almost institutional about it.

  This time Sara was the one to ask: "Is Mrs. Harrison here?"

  "Si," the maid said. "She is upstairs."

  And the maid just stood there.

  With a roll of his eyes, and a sigh, Warrick asked, "Well, could you let her know we're here?"

  Maria was still thinking about that when they heard a voice from the wide oaken stairway at their left.

  "Is that the police, Maria?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Harrison," the maid said over her shoulder.

  Warrick and Sara traded looks over the odd formality of that; neither seemed quite sure whether or not to be amused.

  Footfalls on the steps further announced a middle-aged blonde woman, electric blue eyes in a face that was both haggard and strikingly, even delicately beautiful.

  Conroy displayed her badge and introduced the three of them.

  "I'm Jeanne Harrison," the woman said, shaking hands with all of them. "I'll do my best to help in any way I can, but I do have a tennis date I was on my way to…. Will that be a problem? Should I postpone it?"

  Warrick answered that by handing Mrs. Harrison the search warrant.

  "What's this?" She began to read it, and immediately knew. "No one said anything to me about this. Searching my home!" A hint of red appeared on her cheeks and near her ears, but otherwise she showed no reaction.

  "That's the procedure?" Sara said, falling into the up-talking Valley Girl lilt that came upon her occasionally, particularly when she was nervous. "Just letting you know we were coming was a courtesy most people don't receive."

  "Well, I thank you for that, Ms. Sidle."

  Warrick tried to find sarcasm in the reply, but couldn't.

  Turning to the maid, Mrs. Harrison said, "Maria, give these officers whatever they require."

  "Yes, Mrs. Harrison."

  "If you don't need me here," Mrs. Harrison said, her voice just a trifle icy, "I'd like to keep that tennis date."

  "Please go ahead, ma'am," Conroy said. "We may still be here when you get back. If we have any questions, we can ask you at that time."

  "Fine." She went over briskly and picked up a purse from a small, round table at the bottom of the stairs, and disappeared into another part of the house-most likely, Warrick thought, headed for the garage to escape from this embarrassment.

  They split up-Sara taking the upstairs and basement, Warrick the first floor and garage. Conroy split her time between the two CSIs, observing and helping out.

  The living room seemed white at first, too, but on closer examination was a pale, pale yellow; the oak trim continued and the floors were polished hard-wood. The furnishings were contemporary, tasteful and sparing; frankly, "living" room or not, it didn't look like anybody lived here.

  Warrick didn't know what he was looking for, much less what he expected to find in a room that had been cleaned like a surgeon's operating room. From there he moved on to the den, which also served as Harrison's home office. He found some long black hairs that might be Candace's (the maid was another possibility), but nothing else of interest.

  It was the same for the whole house. They went through every drain looking for hair or blood, took out every trap and cleaned them out; used alternate light sources on the walls, baseboards and floors searching for blood stains; but, after three grueling hours, the two CSIs and the detective met up in the foyer with nothing but a few stray hairs to show for their time.

  "Find anything?" Sara asked.

  He shook his head. "Not to write home about. You?"

  "Plenty of nothing. If Mayor Harrison's involved in this crime, he didn't commit it here."

  Mrs. Harrison appeared from the kitchen, her tennis dress still immaculate, not so much as a drop of perspiration on it. "Hello. Are you finished?"

  Conroy met her, saying, "Yes, ma'am-thank you for your cooperation."

  How the hell,Warrick asked himself, do you play tennis and not sweat?

  Mrs. Harrison gave them a friendly if cool smile, as if she'd come to terms with their intrusion while she was gone. "Anything Darryl and I can do, just let us know. No one wants this cleared up more than we."

  Unable to restrain himself, Warrick asked, "How was tennis?"

  Her smile turned faintly mocking. "I won…. I almost always do, Mr. Brown."

  "Cool," Warrick said, but found himself wondering what sort of game she had been playing at the tennis club.

  As they approached their vehicles out front, Conroy asked, "Should I interview her, do you think?"

  "What about?" Warrick said, with a humorless half-smirk. "We didn't find a damn thing. You could ask her if she knows her husband was running around on her with Candace Lewis, which we already know she knows, and which'll only serve to irritate her. Then she complains to her husband and we get less cooperation from the Mayor's office, so yeah, sure, interview her, if you want."

  Conroy gave him a look. "You could've just said 'no.' "

  "Better check in," Sara said. She looked a little tired, and glum.

  "Better." Warrick used his cell to call Grissom.

  "And you found?" Gris asked.

  "Nothing," he said. "Couple of Candace Lewis hairs, maybe."

  "And His Honor already admits she was in his house, from time to time. Any DNA in the bedrooms?"

  "None…. It's not a loving household."

  Warrick could hear Grissom thinking over the line.

  Then Gris said, "Well, we had to check it out. No stone unturned…. Hold on."

  Grissom was gone for a few seconds and, as Warrick held, Sara asked, "Anything new on his end?"

  "Not that he said," Warrick said, and then Gris was back on the line.

  "That was Brass. He said the NLVPD patrol car says there's still no sign of life at Cotton Gum Court."

  "Maybe the guy signed a full confession and then hung himself."

  " 'Hanged' himself, Warrick. And I doubt we'll have any such luck…. Come on back and call it a day."

  "But, Gris-"

  "No buts, Warrick. Let's eat up the overtime when we're actually accomplishing something…. Start over tonight."

  "…Okay, Gris. I could use a meal. I could use some sleep."

  "Go wild," Grissom advised dryly, and clicked off.

  Alone in his office, Gil Grissom contemplated how this important case was shaping up, and was not overjoyed.

  The CSI supervisor had hoped for better news from either Warrick or Brass; and they did have a possible suspect located. That was a start. What was there left to do, today?

  And he knew.

  Grissom knew the time had come to place the phone call he'd been avoiding, even dreading, since his meeting with Mobley and the showdown with Ed Anthony.

  After digging out the number from his old-fashioned Rolodex-this particular number was too distasteful to carry around in a palm pilot-Grissom punched it in and waited, hoping that he might reach voice mail and not have to actually speak to a human being.

  He wasn't that lucky: the familiar oily voice came on the third ring: "Special Agent Rick Culpepper."

  "Agent Culpepper, Grissom."

  A stunned silence crackled over the line for an endless five seconds.

  "Hey, buddy. Something I can do for you?" The caution in the special agent's voice seemed tempered with suspicion.

  Grissom worked at casualness as he said, "Just making sure you're in the loop on the Candace Lewis case, Agent Culpepper."
<
br />   " 'Rick.' Call me Rick."

  Grissom flinched. "Rick-did you get the crime scene report from Candace Lewis's apartment?"

  "Hard copy, Gil, or electronic?"

  Hearing Culpepper call him "Gil" made Grissom shudder. "Hard copy."

  "Just a second…"

  Grissom could hear the FBI agent riffling through some papers.

  "I've got the prelim from the day after the search, but I don't see the final report."

  "Thought you might not have that," Grissom said, lightly. "I'm messengering over a copy today. Some sensitive data, there. You suffering any press leaks?"

  "No. We're a tight ship. We use the media, they don't use us."

  "Good to hear. I'll have an officer drop it off right away."

  Culpepper hesitantly said, "Thanks. Anything of mine you need?"

  "Copies of your case files would be appreciated."

  "Want to get together for a powwow?"

  Shuddering again, Grissom said, "We may need to do that. At some point. I don't have any new major developments, yet."

  "Why so amenable…Gil?"

  The scientist kept it nonchalant. "Just sharing information…Rick. You said you wanted to be kept in the loop."

  Culpepper's suspicion seemed to fade. "Well, buddy, I'm glad to hear that. I'm glad we had that little come-to-Jesus meeting the other day. Relieves me you're finally seeing the light of cooperation."

  Grissom tried to find something positive to say, but all he could muster was, "The report will be over there yet today."

  "Thanks, Gil."

  Grissom hung up, looking at the phone as if it were the devil's friend.

  He was by nature honest, too honest if some opinions were to be believed; overly frank, perhaps. Having to pose with the likes of Rick Culpepper was singularly distasteful to Gil Grissom.

  Sighing, he picked up the receiver and punched in another number. Mrs. Mathis put him quickly through to Sheriff Mobley.

  "Yes, Gil?" the sheriff asked, his voice as dry and indifferent as Culpepper's had been oily and patronizing.

  "I think it's time to bring charges against Ed Anthony."

  Mobley seemed to consider that for a moment, if the silence on the line was any indication, then he said, "I don't think he stepped over that line. He's been fired. He's paid for his misconduct."

  "I just spoke to FBI agent Rick Culpepper."

  "Lucky you."

  "You're not the only one Ed Anthony kept that file from-he didn't forward it to the FBI, either."

  "…Christ."

  "That's obstruction of justice, Brian. Possibly aiding and abetting. Federal charges, perhaps."

  His voice colder now, Mobley said, "Gil, I think Ed's suffered enough. His firing was his punishment. I've refused to write him a letter of recommendation."

  "You are strict."

  "Save me your sarcasm. I don't think there's any reason to embarrass him further."

  "Or the department? Or yourself?"

  "Grissom-take your own advice: stay out of politics."

  "You don't want this played out in the media. I understand that. But-"

  "There's nothing more to discuss, Grissom."

  "All right. But I'm putting what I know in writing to you, as a memo."

  "Now who's political?"

  "Just practical. Be advised that I'm sending the crime scene file to the FBI."

  "That's the correct thing to do, of course. But you needn't point out-"

  "If Special Agent Culpepper catches the discrepancy in the date, I'm not going to lie, Brian. If the FBI charges Anthony, your mayoral run will be over before it begins. You might want to face this head on, and bring the charges yourself…before the FBI does."

  Dryly Mobley said, "Thanks for your advice, Gil."

  "Well, you will get it in writing-so you can ponder it at your leisure."

  "Is that all?"

  "It's enough."

  "For once we agree," Mobley said, and hung up.

  9

  SITTING IN THE LOCKER ROOM, RELISHING THE SILENCE, lulled by the absence of activity, Nick Stokes was about to call it a night-or, more accurately, a morning. Overtime had been piling up for him and Catherine, not only on this case but over the last couple of weeks, which put the CSIs seriously at odds with department budget directives. And the hours and energy they'd invested in their investigation-they were four mornings into it-had left them both approaching burnout level.

  Earlier this very shift, however, the same two CSIs had been lolling in the euphoria of a case that was coming together, and a suspect who looked to be on the fast-track to going down.

  That was before they struck out on the fingerprint front: Gary Randle's prints were on neither the zip disk from his office nor the laptop in his home. This was consistent with the suspect's claim that he'd seen neither the disk nor the laptop before.

  This didn't really surprise either criminalist: child pornographers were, after all, notoriously careful criminals. Though many of their ilk asserted that their particular desire wasn't a crime at all, the vast majority went to extreme lengths to keep from getting caught-of this Nick was well aware. Two stories, in particular, had stayed with him. Both involved elaborate plans to destroy hard drives in the event computers were seized. One predator he'd heard about from a buddy in Los Angeles had rigged a small bottle of acid to his hard drive prompting, when a particular series of keys was inputted, an acid bottle falling over to spill its contents all over the hard drive. An even more aggressive variant on this protection plan-told him by a CSI from out east-utilized a small dot of C-4 in place of the acid.

  So the notion of Randle wearing gloves, or wiping the disk clean, to keep from leaving fingerprints seemed pretty mild by comparison.

  Nick already had his shirt off, was just unlacing his shoes when his cell phone rang.

  "Nick Stokes."

  "Hey," Catherine said.

  "Hey. I was just getting ready to head home. Something up?"

  "Nunez just called and gave me an update."

  Nick groaned. "I don't think I can take any more 'good' news."

  "Then you better hang up."

  "What is it, Cath? What now?"

  "Nunez finished his preliminary read on the zip disk and it's blank."

  "Blank. Like what we've been shooting on this thing."

  "Actually, it's not as bad as it sounds-despite somebody's best efforts, Nicky, we do have twelve 'bullets.' "

  Nick perked up; that was the number of pornographic images found in the ad agency printer. "But you said the disk was blank."

  "I'm starting to learn that you can't erase anything from a computer…. Meet me at the break room and I'll fill you in."

  She had a cup of coffee waiting for him. Accepting it gratefully, he sat next to her and sipped the steaming brew and said, "Just like I like my women…"

  Catherine arched an eyebrow.

  Nick gave her his patented boyish grin. "…strong and bitter."

  That drew a chuckle from her. "Our computer guru used that Encase thing of his to scan the disk-he's still working on it in fact-and he found all twelve 'deleted' jpegs. At one time they were on that disk."

  The weariness evaporated from Nick's body; energy spiked through him, and it wasn't the caffeine. "We got enough to make the arrest?"

  She nodded. "I ran it past O'Riley-he's picking up the arrest warrant. He'll meet us over there."

  Grinning, Nick swung a fist at the air in "yes" fashion. Then he looked at his watch. "You suppose Randle is at work yet?"

  "Probably, or on his way. Wanna meet him there?"

  "Why don't we?"

  As Nick navigated the morning rush hour, Catherine called O'Riley on her cell to confirm the CSIs were on their way to Newcombe-Gold. O'Riley had the warrant and would meet them there, which he did, the Tahoe and Taurus rendezvousing in the ad agency parking lot just before nine.

  Getting out of the Tahoe, Catherine said, "Get a load of the Sarge, Nicky-looks like we're not t
he only ones putting in too much overtime."

  O'Riley was lumbering out of his car, expression chipper, though his suit was even more rumpled than the norm and the bags under his eyes would've set off an airport security alarm.

  Nick said, "I think he wants this one as bad as we do."

  They had been inside the ad agency so much in the last three days, Nick felt like he ought to go in and pick up a paycheck at the receptionist's desk. Nick was holding the door open for Catherine and O'Riley, who were inside when Nick heard a car door slam and glanced behind him.

  Randle was climbing out of a black Lincoln Navigator, about halfway down on the other side.

  "Guys," Nick said. "He's out here…."

  O'Riley and Catherine stepped back into the morning sun and the glass door whooshed shut behind them. Randle strode toward the entry, briefcase in one hand, a folded USA Today in the other, his head down as he had a look at the headline.

  The ad man was almost on top of them before he looked up and caught startled sight of them. He did a deer-in-the-headlights freeze, which quickly shifted into the fight-or-flight reflex Nick had seen on the faces of so many about-to-be-collared perps.

  Please break and run,Nick thought, please.

  But instead Randle just stood there, looking from official face to face with open defiance. "Now what do you fine public servants want with me?"

  O'Riley stepped forward. "Gary Thomas Randle, you're under arrest," and went into the standard recitation of Miranda rights, even as he withdrew the handcuffs.

  At the sight of which, Randle whitened. "You can't be serious." His wild gaze went to Nick and Catherine, back and forth. "That laptop isn't mine-the zip disk either! I told you that."

  "Turn around, sir," O'Riley said. "Hands behind you."

  "That's not necessary. I'll go with you. I'll answer your questions. Haven't I been cooperative?"

  "You've been a dream," Nick said.

  O'Riley said, "Do I have to give you the 'hard or easy' speech?"

  "This is false arrest. This is going to mean one hell of a big law suit."

  "Hard, then?"

  A huge sigh left Randle and much of the life seemed to exit him, as well. Zombie-like, he handed the newspaper to Catherine. She took it, then Randle gave her the briefcase.