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.
'No problem, Tomas.'
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
