Body of Evidence

Jonathan Austin. Using the phone on Randle's desk, he dialed the number, waited for the ring, then handed the receiver to Randle.

The adman waited a moment, then into the phone, he said, 'Mr. Austin, please.'

He listened.

'Yes-Gary Randle.'

Another beat passed.

'Jonathan? Gary Randle.' He went on to explain the situation, then listened for a while. 'I can't stop them? …Fine, fine, please, just get here as fast as you can. These officers are less than sympathetic…. I'm at the office.' He hung up the phone and announced, 'My attorney will be here in fifteen minutes.'

Catherine was in the process of sealing an evidence bag in which Randle's cell phone now resided.

Randle had a whipped look. 'You're keeping my phone?'

She said, 'Until we know it's not part of the case, yes.'

The adman heaved a weight-of-the-world sigh, but said nothing.

'Mr. Randle, why don't we step into the hall?' O'Riley suggested.

Shaking his head, Randle said, 'No, I prefer to wait here.'

'That may be,' O'Riley said, and held out a hand in a 'this way' gesture. 'But we need to let the crime scene investigators do their job.'

'It's my office! It's not a crime scene….'

Catherine flashed a smile that had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling. 'We'll let you know.'

Shaking his head bitterly, Randle followed the detective into the hall, where the two men stood and watched through the glass as the CSIs worked. She could feel other eyes, from cubicles and offices, more discreet-she never caught anyone looking directly-but very much there.

Catherine took a good look around Randle's office as she and Nick pulled on their latex gloves. Only slightly smaller than those of Newcombe and Gold themselves, Randle's office had a distinctive starkness. The glassed front wall had a curtain, open now; but the other three walls had no windows and no hanging pictures. Bookshelves lined the right wall and the back wall was bare but for a small section of awards-arrayed shelves. Near the left wall stood a large, tilted drawing table with comfy wheeled chair, and beyond that, near the front, was a stand with a television and DVD/VCR combo machine.

Odd so visual a person would leave his office so spartan, Catherine reflected; perhaps the man preferred to keep his mind clear of other people's images to make way for his own. On the other hand, Catherine wasn't sure she even wanted to know what kind of images might be found in this man's mind….

She eyed the thick wall-to-wall carpeting, thinking she might have Nick hand-vac the major traffic areas, though footprints in here were probably useless, especially after they'd all tromped in on top of any others.

Two wing chairs faced the huge mahogany desk and behind them, pushed up against the front wall, stretched a green leather sofa. The desk top had some files open on it, a phone, banker's lamp and a framed picture.

Catherine got behind the desk to see a photo of a curly-haired blonde girl about twelve, standing beamingly with Randle, an arm around her-his daughter, she supposed. Considering the nature of this case, she decided to confirm that. She picked up the photo, turned it toward Randle and O'Riley, visible through the window out in the corridor; the open doorway carried her voice to them: 'Your daughter?'

Randle nodded. 'Heather.'

Putting the photo back, she asked her partner, 'You want the desk or the bookshelves?'

Nick took one look at the shelves crammed with books and magazines-the lone sign of mess or disorganization in the whole room-and said, 'Mind if I take the desk?'

'Nicky, you're such a wimp,' Catherine said good-naturedly.

'When you say 'wimp,' ' Nick said innocently, 'are you trying to make me feel old?'

The exchanged small smiles and got to work. The shelves looked to be mahogany, as well-five high, spread to different heights, the top two housing books with titles including Error-Free Writing and Strunk and White's Elements of Style, plus a dictionary, thesaurus, desk atlas and numerous art books, some of which were oversize and even massive. She pulled one down and absently thumbed through the pages. One picture-a nude-caught her eye. At first she thought it might be evidence, then she realized it was an image that could be found in her own home: one of the Helga pictures, by artist Andrew Wyeth.

After returning the book to its place, Catherine went through the rest of the volumes methodically; she moved down to the third shelf and sorted through seven three-ring binders, filled with drawings and other artwork from different ad campaigns, a number of which she recognized. The man had talent. As she prepared to go through the magazines in three piles on each of two bottom shelves, she sensed something, turned and saw Randle glowering out in the corridor.

Nick called, 'Any luck, Cath?'

She looked Nick's way and saw him bent over the center drawer of Randle's desk. 'Nothing so far. You?'

He shook his head. 'Nada.'

Glancing back at Randle, Catherine said, 'Keep at it-I got a feeling he's watching us just to see what we'll find.'

'That's natural, Cath.'

'Maybe.'

Her eyes were still on Randle as a tall, silver-haired gent strode into view and shook hands with the ad man, placing a hand of concern on his client's shoulder-this was his attorney, no doubt. Concentrating on the job before her, Catherine returned to the shelves.

She was riffling through the second pile on the fourth shelf when she froze….

In the midst of all the copies of Advertising Age, Mediaweek and Brandweek, the CSI caught a glimpse of gray crammed between two pages of a copy of an Adweek.

'Nick.'

'What?'

'Get the camera-take a picture of this.'

In a few seconds he was next to her, the thirty-five millimeter poised. 'Whatcha got?'

She allowed the magazine to fall open and-tucked there, between a full-page picture of a woman holding a beer bottle and a story of the ad company that created the campaign-was a cobalt-gray zip disk with no label. As Catherine held her position, Nick took several shots of the disk and magazine.

Then Randle was standing beside them, his eyes wild.

'That's not mine!' His voice was as loud as it was angry, as angry as it was defensive. 'I don't know what it is, or how it got there!'

His attorney came quickly up behind him. An impeccable, distinguished man in his early sixties, the attorney said, 'Gary, be quiet. Not another word.'

Randle turned to the lawyer, immediately ignoring his advice. 'Jonathan, I don't know how that got there-I've never seen it before.'

Austin-his eyes a washed-out blue though bright with intelligence, his handsome features marked by a narrow nose and thin lips-gritted his teeth, his words cold and measured. 'In other words, that disk may be nothing at all.'

Not quite getting what his lawyer was reaching for, Randle said, 'I suppose, but-'

Cutting him off with both words and a chopping gesture, Austin said, 'If it's nothing, we don't want to get all worked up about it-do we, Gary?'

Finally getting it, Randle clammed and allowed Austin to usher him back out into the hallway, where a whispered conference consisted mostly of the attorney talking. As they'd gone out, O'Riley had come in.

The detective said, 'But is that something?'

'Our boy sure behaved like it is,' Catherine said. 'But until we get it to Tomas in the lab, we won't know… that is, if Tomas can work us into the sheriff's busy schedule.'

O'Riley made a face. 'Guy gives me a pain,' he said, meaning Mobley.

Catherine and Nick searched for another twenty minutes, thoroughly going over every square inch of the office, even bringing in step ladders and looking above ceiling tiles; but, beyond the mysterious zip disk, they found