Body of Evidence

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 the 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.