Body of Evidence

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.'