Catherine held up the framed photo in a latex-gloved hand. "Who's this?"
Denard, who'd been hovering nervously in the nearby hallway, glanced around surreptitiously, then said, sotto voce, "Ben's wife, Laura. They've only been married a few months. That's part of why I can't believe it was him."
"Ms. Denard," Catherine said, "we do not assume it's Ben. Please-no jumping to conclusions."
When Nunez and crew, with the help of uniformed officers, removed the computer towers, the monitors and keyboards had been left behind. But Nunez had prepared a list of serial numbers with the names of the Newcombe-Gold employees at a given work station. Right now Catherine was checking the keyboard's serial number, making sure this was indeed Jackson's keyboard-which could have been switched, after all.
"This is Jackson's keyboard," she said, bumping into Nick for the third time.
"There's not room for two of us in here," Nick said. "While you do this, why don't I go with Ms. Denard, to copy the sign-in book page?"
"Why don't you?" Catherine said. She was poised at the computer keyboard like a starving person about to sit down to a big, fine meal.
Field kit in hand, Nick followed Denard back to her office, where she photocopied the document and handed it toward Nick, who asked, "Would you mind if you kept the copy, and I took the original?"
"Well…I suppose. But why do you need the original?"
"We might have to have a handwriting expert look at it, and it'll be easier to work with the original."
Her expression was astounded. "A handwriting expert? You really think so?"
He shrugged, and gave her a little smile. "Just covering the bases."
She returned the smile, almost shyly, and handed over the original. He gave it a quick scan, then tucked it into an evidence envelope and slipped it inside his kit.
"Thanks," Nick said. "Now, shall we try to find Ben Jackson?"
"All right," Janice said. "Better start back at his work station."
But when they got there, Jackson still wasn't there. Catherine was just finishing up, packing her silver case.
"Anything?" Nick asked.
"Got some prints," she said, pulling off her latex gloves. "From the keyboard, desk, and even the edge of the cubicle itself; not much more. Tomas may be able to tell us something after he goes through the computer. You didn't happen to run into the elusive Mr. Jackson, on your journey, did ya?"
"Nope. But I have the original from the sign-in book. Ms. Denard kept the copy. We were kind of hoping he'd be back in his roost by now."
Catherine shook her head, red-blonde arcs of hair cutting the air. "Haven't seen him or anyone else."
Nick turned to Denard. "When we do locate Ben, is there somewhere we can talk to him alone?"
Denard made a vague gesture. "Break room is right around the corner, when you leave my office."
Nick nodded. "I know we've been imposing, but would you mind tracking Ben down for us? Asking him to meet us there?"
She nodded curtly, professionally; Denard was clearly happier when given a task. "I'll take care of it."
"And if you run into our wandering boy, Sergeant O'Riley, would you guide him to the break room, as well?"
"No problem."
When the office manager was gone, Catherine and Nick-field kits in hand-went the opposite direction through the covey of cubicles. Shortly, he was pushing open a door holding it open for Catherine as she stepped into the break room. Which was was larger than Nick would have expected for this facility, with round, dark-wood-topped tables and conference-room-style padded chairs positioned around the twenty-by-twenty-five-foot room. Against one wall was a big-screen TV, and along another a long counter with microwave, an espresso machine, a stainless steel sink and an assortment of condiments. At the far end of the counter a full-size refrigerator and a Coke machine stood guard. A smoked-glass window ran the length of the far wall and let in just enough sun and a nice view of a back-parking-lot basketball court.
"So this is what it's like to have perks," Nick said, setting his case on one of the tables.
"No kidding," Catherine said, doing the same with her kit. "If our break room was set up like this, I'd pitch a tent and move in."
Janice Denard didn't keep them waiting long. Barely five minutes after she had left them, she entered and held the door open for the young man they'd waited for.
The individual Nick took to be Ben Jackson stood well over six feet tall, carried over two hundred seventy pounds on a wide frame, yet moved with a grace a man half his size might envy. The artist's brown crewcut above an ample forehead gave him a collegiate look; his brown eyes were bright, alert.
"Detectives Willows and Stokes," Denard said, "this is Ben Jackson…. No sign of your sergeant."
"Thanks," Nick said to Denard, not bothering to correct the "detective" designation. But to Jackson, Nick said, "I'm Stokes, she's Willows. From the crime lab."
Jackson nodded at Catherine and seemed to want to shake hands, but thought better of it.
"Thank you again, Ms. Denard," Catherine said.
Denard took the hint and backed out of the room, pulling the door closed as she went.
"Have a seat," Catherine said to Jackson in a pleasant but not particularly friendly fashion. The man headed to a table, walking with the slightest hint of a limp.
Nick and Catherine sat on either side of the young man at one of the round tables. Still pleasant, Catherine said, "You're pretty casual." She gestured around the room. "I would've taken this for a shirt-and-tie kind of place."
Jackson shook his head. "Only if a client's coming in."
"Don't have to be a detective," Nick said, affably, "to figure you played some football."
Jackson smiled a little. "Second-string guard at Iowa State." His voice soft, his words measured. "You?"
Nick gave him half a grin. "Texas A&M, fourth-string tight end."
Jackson nodded, and seemed a little more at ease. Which had been the purpose of Nick letting the guy know they were both ex-jocks; further, their glory days had been more in high school than in college. Nick's football career, he was well aware, ground to a halt because he was too short and too slow. Jackson certainly wasn't too short and Nick-reflecting on the man's limp-wondered if that's what had kept him from moving on; hell, the guy had size enough for the pros.
Catherine-obviously seeing the rapport between the two ex-jocks-caught Nick's eyes and tightened hers, in a signal for him to take the lead. He responded with a nod so tiny Jackson surely didn't notice it.
"If you'll excuse me," Catherine said, and she went to her crime scene case on a nearby table and opened the lid.
"How long have you been with Newcombe-Gold?" Nick asked, drawing Jackson's eyes away from what Catherine was up to.
"Not quite a year."
"Like it here?"
Jackson nodded. "Very cool people, and the work is challenging."
Casually, Catherine asked, "Were you here over the weekend?"
"No." Jackson sat up. "Look, is that what the investigation's about? Something that happened this weekend?"
Ignoring the question, Nick insisted, "Tell us where you were this weekend."
Jackson looked hard at Nick, and then did the same with Catherine, before answering. "What exactly am I suspected of?"
Nick glanced at Catherine, who lifted an eyebrow. Looking back at Jackson, Nick said, "We didn't say we suspected you of anything, Mr. Jackson. Maybe Ms. Denard mentioned, we talked to everyone at Newcombe-Gold, yesterday, except for the handful of you who were away for whatever reason."
"Yes. She did mention that."
Nick smiled blandly. "Good. Now. We just want to know why you didn't work this weekend…. I understand you usually come in at least part of Saturday."
His expression skeptical, Jackson said, "My wife and I flew back to Iowa-Des Moines to be exact, to visit her mother."
Catherine wheeled, arcs of hair swinging. "I thought you were in Idaho."
J
ackson frowned. "Who told you that?"
"Ms. Denard."
"Oh, well. That's a common mistake. They make it around here all the time."
Catherine gave Jackson that beautiful smile of hers that she reserved for suspects who were making her suspicious. "What mistake is that, Mr. Jackson?"
"I'm from Idaho. But I went to Iowa. I met my wife at Ames-at college. Her family's from Des Moines. Idaho, Iowa, they mix it up."
"Ah," Catherine said, as if he'd just told her an enormous whopper.
Nick said, "You left when?"
Thrown a little by Catherine's attitude, Jackson said, "Friday night after work…and we just got back, late last night."
Catherine tossed the question casually over her shoulder: "Anybody in Iowa besides your in-laws see you in Iowa?"
"About half the staff of Mercy Medical Center," Jackson said, a hard edge in his soft voice. "My mother-in-law went in for a mastectomy-that's why we went back to Iowa."
"I'm sorry," Nick said, genuinely.
If Catherine felt sorry, she didn't show it; she was pulling no punches: she tossed one of the evidence bags containing the child porn pictures onto the table.
"Ever seen anything like this before?" she asked. She did not sit, hovering ominously. "In Iowa? Idaho? Vegas?"
Jackson's face drained of blood as he looked down at the photo. "Oh, my God. Take that away. Please!"
Neither Catherine nor Nick complied.
He swallowed thickly. "Is that what this is about? This isn't me. What does it have to do with the agency, anyway?"
Nick and Catherine exchanged glances.
Then Nick said, "Can we trust you to not talk about this to anybody?"
Jackson looked from one to the other. "Of course you can. This kind of thing is a crime. I know that. Jeez!"
Nick nodded, then gestured to the photo. "Several of these were found in a printer here yesterday."
"Here? Damn! What kind of perv would-"
"According to the log," Nick said, "the print order originated from your work station."
His eyes bulged. "My-"
Catherine said, "On Saturday."
Jackson pressed a hand to his forehead and rubbed it down his face as if he were trying to wipe the features off. "Oh, man…. I was in Iowa, there are fifty, a hundred people who either saw me at the hospital, or in one of the airports, or for that matter on the plane!"
Nick asked, "Anybody else ever use your work station?"
"No. Not that I know of, anyway."
"Could they use it without your knowledge?"
Shrugging, Jackson said, "Sure, I suppose-if they had my password. Which they don't."
Catherine cocked her head, smiled, more to herself than to the others. Then she asked, "So-nobody knows your password?"
Jackson shrugged. "Well, maybe-I mean, the passwords are assigned to us."
Nick asked, "Do they ever change?"
"Sure-every month, sometimes even less. Last time was three weeks ago." Catherine said, "Your current password…is it SOL20DAC?"
Jackson's mouth fell open. "Well, I…God. I think that's it."
"And was it 2DEC47 before that?"
Jackson leaned forward. "How the hell could you know that?"
Catherine held up a small evidence bag in which a pink post-it resided, with SOL20DAC written above a crossed-out 2DEC47 and two other crossed-out numbers. "This was on the underside of your gel wrist protector. It is hard to remember a password when they change it on you all the time."
"What the hell did you do?" Jackson said, too stunned to be angry. "Go through my cubicle?"
Catherine beamed at him. "That's right, Mr. Jackson."
"But that's my personal space…"
"Actually," Catherine said, "it's not. Your cubicle is the property of Newcombe-Gold."
"But don't you need a search warrant?"
"We presented the agency with a warrant yesterday…. You said it yourself, Mr. Jackson." Catherine snatched away the offensive photo. "This is a crime. And we're investigating it."
Jackson's forehead had gathered into a frown of thought, but something in the flummoxed man's eyes said no thought was forming.
Finally Catherine sat down beside Jackson, and her manner softened, her tone, too. "That's why I'm reasonably certain you're not responsible," she said.
His expression brightened. "Really?"
She nodded. "Somebody knew where you kept your password, and they used that information to use your work station to print off these pictures."
"So, I'm in the clear?"
"I'm afraid I can't go quite that far. We'll check your story, Mr. Jackson…but you can rest easy, I think. You seem to be telling the truth."
A slow, relieved sigh preceded the man's next question: "If I might ask, why are you so sure I'm innocent?"
Nick said, "The airline'll have a record of you. It won't take any time at all to check that. The hospital staff in Des Moines will back up your story, too…if it's true."
"It's true!"
Nick smiled gently. "I believe it is. Relax, buddy."
Jackson nodded and seemed to relax for the first time since he entered the room. "You can ask my wife, but…go easy, would you?"
"About the pornography?" Catherine asked.
"I wasn't thinking of that. She'd know that's not me. She'd never believe that of me. I meant, take it easy in general…. She's a wreck, after this weekend."
Finally genuine concern colored Catherine's voice as she asked, "And how is your mother-in-law doing?"
He let out another sigh. "Well, she's still got some chemo to get through, but they say she's through the worst of it."
Silence hung in the air; having a little normal real life, even tinged with tragedy, interrupt the case seemed to provide a grounding influence, somehow.
Finally Nick said, "Mr. Jackson-Ben. You may still be able to help with our case."
His eyes grew alert. "Sure. Name it."
"Think for a second. Got any idea who would…or could…have used your work station?"
Glumly, Jackson shook his head. "Nobody and anybody. They don't put locks on cubicles."
Nick's eyes narrowed. "This may sound funny, but…you have any enemies here?"
"Enemies? No-hell, I don't think I've been here long enough to get anyone pissed at me, yet. Besides, all I do is grunt work. They won't let me near anything important until I've got more experience…. Doesn't bother me. I mean, that's the business. That's any business."
Catherine asked, "Anybody been hanging around your cubicle lately?"
Jackson considered that, but shook his head. "No more than usual."
"I'm thinking," she said, "somebody who wasn't all that interested in you, but suddenly starts dropping by, to shoot the breeze."
"I see where you're coming from, Ms. Willows-but no."
"What about somebody who happened to be around when you were checking your password? Either refreshing your memory with that post-it, or just keying it in…?"
"It may not seem like it, but I tried to be discreet and not check it when anybody was around. After the first couple days with a new password, I generally have it down."
"You weren't sure when I first asked you."
"I know, but…it's different, typing it in. My fingers remember, you know?"
Nick took another tack. "Who knew you were leaving town for the weekend?"
Another head shake. "I don't have any idea."
"Well, who did you tell?"
"Janice and Roxanne and maybe a dozen or more friends here. And Janice got it wrong, right? But on the other hand, a lot of people knew my mother-in-law was sick and they asked about her. I might have mentioned it to as many as twenty people. Newcombe-Gold has been like an extended family for Laura and me. Everybody here is like family. Sounds like a cliché, but here it happens to be true."
"One more question."
"Shoot."
"Can you tell us why something printed on your computer would print on Mr
. Gold's printer, instead of the one in your cubicle?"
The young man thought about that, but for only a moment. "The last thing I did Friday was a drawing that Mr. Gold was taking to Los Angeles with him. It was a mockup for a client there, sort of a rush job…but really not important enough for any of the senior artists to do."
"Okay, but that doesn't answer the question."
"Actually, it does. I was late to pick up Laura to getto the airport. So, instead of printing it off in my cubicle, and hunting down Mr. Gold, I just sent the drawing to his printer so he'd have it before he left. I didn't bother to change my printer selection back to mine before I left. Slipped my mind, actually."
Nick nodded. "Makes sense."
"All right, Mr. Jackson," Catherine said, on her feet again. "May we fingerprint you?"
"I guess. But why?"
"We're going to end up fingerprinting everybody, but you're important, because your work station was used. We have to be able to separate your fingerprints from whoever did this."
"Sure, I understand. Go ahead."
Catherine fingerprinted Jackson efficiently, then handed him a paper towel. "We're going to ask you to not talk about this investigation with anyone."
"Sure, but why?" Jackson used the paper towel on his fingertips, only the ink wasn't coming off easily.
"Publicity for one," Catherine said. "How would Newcombe-Gold's clients feel about this kind of investigation centering on the agency?"
"Oh. Yeah…"
"But there's another concern," Nick said. "Your co-workers."
"What about them?"
"You're the first person we've interviewed privately. That was in part because you weren't here yesterday, when the other interviews were conducted out in the lobby; but it might not look that way to your co-workers."
He gave them a blank stare.
Catherine asked, "How do you think they would feel about you, if they believed our investigation had focused on you and your work station?"
Jackson stopped working on cleaning his fingers for a moment. "Shit."
"Well put," Nick said.
Studying his blue fingers, Jackson seemed strangely lost.
"Come on," Catherine said, taking pity, withdrawing a small bottle out of her case and leading the big man over to the sink. "Put your hands in the sink."
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