"Either when I catch the bank hacker, or when Mobley decides to let me get back to it."
"Before the interruption, did you find out anything?"
Nunez nodded. "The hard drive in Ruben Gold's computer was negative for any child-porn pics."
"Okay-that's a start."
"I couldn't find any pictures on any of the client computers, either."
"Client computers?" she asked.
"The other machines in the network."
"So how did our pictures get there?"
A shrug. "Lots of possible ways-I just don't know which one yet."
Not liking the sound of this, Catherine made sure she was following Nunez, asking, "So there's no porn on any of the computers?"
"Not even a casual hit on an adult site. And just to make sure, I ran an E-Script to carve all the jpegs out of each hard drive-and none of those resembled the ones from the printer."
She knew jpegs-that is, .jpg files-were the common photo format for pornographers to use. "But did the print order come from work station eighteen or not?"
His answer didn't really sound like an answer to the CSI: "I searched the network server hard drives."
Striving for patience, Catherine nodded as if she followed this. The truth was, her daughter Lindsey probably knew more about the actual workings of the machines. Embarrassing as it might be to a scientist like Catherine, the guts of the things were completely foreign to her. Nunez, however, was babbling on: "I found print files showing pictures angel1.jpg through angel12.jpg were sent to Ruben Gold's computer."
"Which led to?"
"Me looking in the network logs and finding that the pictures came from a client computer using an IP address of 1.160.10.240."
"Okay-I can't even pretend you haven't lost me…."
"An IP address is an identifier for a computer or a device on a TCP/IP network. These networks route messages based on the IP address of the destination."
"The destination," she said, "not the sender?"
He nodded. "Don't panic just yet-there's more. Date and time stamps on the print file showed that it was created early Saturday morning. Then the IP address found in the server log showed that it came from client computer number eighteen."
Relief flooded through her. "So-we were right; and everything you've done has cemented that."
"That would be a great big si."
"But on the other hand, we really haven't gotten any further."
Nunez's face fell, a little. "No, we really haven't…and as long as Mobley's got me on this bank hacker, we're stalled."
"If you can steal a little time for me…"
"I will. You know I will.
"Thanks, Tomas."
Exasperated, Catherine strode off.
She found Nick hunkered in front of the AFIS computer.
Without waiting for him to look up, much less report, she launched into her tirade: "Mobley took Tomas away from us to track down some bank hacker!"
Nick shrugged. "Grand larceny trumps kiddie porn, I guess."
"Trumps kiddie porn?" she fumed. "Are you serious?"
He gave her a sideways look, then turned to face her. "No. I wasn't."
But she was already off the runway, and there was no coming back: "Just because this isn't a murder or a crime involving money, Mobley's willing to stick these abused kids on the back burner! Well I sure as hell am not!"
Nick patted the air in front of him until she lapsed into silence. "Why-do you think I am?"
"No, but…"
Reasonable as Nicky was being, Catherine could not stop the white-hot anger coursing through her. An urge to tear the lab apart caused her to tremble and she fought to stay in control. She fell into the chair beside Nick and she sensed his hand on her shoulder.
Her frustration was palpable now, a heaviness in her body, a rage in her brain, and a thickening of her tongue. She felt tears flowing. "Shit! Shitshitshit!…If you tell Grissom I broke down, I'll…"
"Hey, dude," Nick said gently. "Your secret's safe with me."
She laughed a little, though still crying, and Nick got her some Kleenex. She said, "It…it's jus…just…I'd like to track down that bastard Mobley and curse him into next week…."
"I hear you."
"Nicky, those girls in those photos-they're barely older than Lindsey!"
"I know."
"And the department just doesn't seem to care."
"I know that, too."
And she fell into his arms, she in her chair, he in his, and patted his back, as if he were the one crying.
He pushed her away, and smiled at her, providing more Kleenex. He reserved one for himself, but his voice was strong as he said, "We'll solve this. We will solve it. Now-how about some good news?"
Her trembling had subsided a little. "Yeah. Yeah, some good news…I could use it, I could really use it…."
Nick's grin was almost pixie-ish. "Gary Randle's prints…are a match."
"Oh, Nicky. That's great. I told you he was a good suspect."
"No, you said he was a great suspect."
She drew in a deep breath-she felt as though she'd been held under water for too long, and only now was just bursting through the surface.
Nick said, "Those were his prints on the keyboard in Ben Jackson's cubicle."
"How about AFIS?" she asked, meaning the national fingerprint database.
"I put him through," Nick said, "but he's got no priors."
"It's enough for a search warrant. We can get inside that house now!"
"Yes we can," he said, nodding. "Make the call, Cath. And I'll get O'Riley up to speed."
An hour later, the CSIs were back at Newcombe-Gold, moving single-file down the corridor toward Randle's office with Nick in the lead, holding a wad of papers in one hand and his CS case in the other. Catherine, carrying her own case and more papers, tagged right behind him with O'Riley trailing her. As the procession approached the conference room, Janice Denard stepped out in their path.
"Did you find out anything?" she asked.
"Still digging," Nick said, with a nod of hello, and then walked on.
The blonde office manager fell in beside Catherine, who said, "Getting closer," then handed the woman a copy of the new search warrant.
Denard dropped out to read the document, while the others kept going. The half-glass front wall of his office warned Randle of their approach and he was out of his chair even before they were completely through the door.
"Now, goddamnit, this is harassment!" He was coming around the desk as he spoke. "Didn't you already get your damned fingerprints?"
Nick stood and faced the ad man. "And I do appreciate your cooperation, earlier; and you don't even have to answer our questions, about whether or not you were here this weekend-we already know you were."
O'Riley stepped up, taking a referee's position, as the two men continued the tense exchange.
"So I was here! Damn it, I work here!" Today, the adman wore an expensive charcoal suit, white shirt and a red and blue diagonally striped power tie.
"You know," Catherine said from the sidelines, in a tone that pretended to be light, "you might want to ease up on the attitude…. It's not going to reflect very well."
Randle glared over at her. "What are you talking about?"
But it was Nick who spoke next: "It's not just that you were here this weekend, Mr. Randle-but that you also used Ben Jackson's work station." The CSI held up the sheaf of papers. "We matched your fingerprints."
Randle's anger evaporated and he laughed out loud, as he took a step back, as if reappraising not just the situation but these law enforcement officers.
"You're kidding, right? Is that what this is about? Me using some poor schlub's computer, while he was out of town for the weekend? Is this some weird crackdown Gold or Newcombe instigated?"
Catherine stepped forward. "Actually, it is about you using some poor schlub's computer over the weekend. And it is police business."