She held one of the pornographic printouts out, just inches from his face.
Tightly she said, "Specifically, it's about you using Ben Jackson's computer to print this out, and a dozen more like it…. Why, Mr. Randle!…You're not laughing anymore."
And he wasn't. His laugh had died in his throat as his eyes focused on the photo. He swallowed thickly and stumbled backward, till his desk stopped him.
"You…you think I did what?"
And his anger returned, the man recovering quickly, stepping forward, eyes flaring.
"You think I printed this filth-off company property? And that I did it with, with…sick shit like this? I have a daughter, a young daughter! You people are sick. You can't honestly believe…"
The man's eyes traveled from the photo to Catherine's and locked-she did her best to tell him, with her eyes, that that's exactly what she did believe. And he appeared to get the message.
He half-sat on the edge of the desk, clearly staggered.
Nick stepped forward. "You want to tell us what you printed out on Saturday? If it wasn't these photos?"
Randle's eyes, not so confident now, went to Nick's stony face. "You can't believe that I…" Then he shook his head. "I can tell trying to get through to you people is useless. You've already made up your minds."
Nick frowned. "Mr. Randle…"
"I'm not saying another word till I've spoken to my attorney."
O'Riley, still standing nearby like a ref, said, "That's your right, sir," but the respect of the words took on a chill, thanks to the detective's cold eyes.
Catherine said, "Give Mr. Randle the warrant, Nicky."
Nick did, saying, "As the true owners of this office, Newcombe-Gold's representative, Janice Denard, has already been served with this warrant; but out of consideration to your rights, this is a copy for you."
"Thank you very much," Randle said, oozing sarcasm as he took the piece of paper; but the voice was edged with anxiety now.
Then Nick handed the man a second warrant. "And this one is for your home."
Randle didn't accept this warrant, at first, looking at the paper as if Nick were offering a glass of poison. Still half-sitting on the desk's front edge, the adman fell into an uneasy silence. Nick held out the paper; Randle stared at it. Nick said nothing; Randle said nothing.
After seconds that seemed like minutes, Randle took the paper, reluctantly, and said, "I'll have to call my lawyer. Any objection?"
"Of course not," Nick said.
The man removed his cell phone from his suitcoat pocket.
Moving quickly, Catherine snatched the device from his hand. "But not with this!"
"What the hell?" Randle exploded. He was on his feet now, glaring at Catherine, his eyes wild. "Are you crazy? You can't stop me from calling my attorney!"
"Wouldn't dream of it," she said sweetly. "But we're going to place that call for you."
He looked baffled. "Why in hell?"
Catherine's eyebrows lifted. "Perhaps because we didn't just fall off a turnip truck. We're aware that you may set things up to wipe your hard drive, at home, clean-with just a phone call."
His eyes rolled. "You're insane-why in hell would I destroy my own computer? Why would I have it set up to do so with…a phone call?"
"Mr. Randle, if you're a trafficker in child pornography," Catherine said blandly, "you'll know the answer to that. If not, I suggest you allow us to do our job, which if you're innocent will include clearing you."
"Oh, I can see you're on my side!"
Nick stepped up. "Your lawyer's name, Mr. Randle?"
"Jonathan Austin."
"You have a phone book?"
"Bottom right hand drawer of the desk."
"Would you get it out for us, please?"
Shaking his head, sighing, Randle said, "Christ, I know the number!"
Nick's voice turned hard. "The phone book, Mr. Randle."
Randle walked behind the desk, with O'Riley following, watching him carefully. The ad man fished the thick Yellow Pages directory out of the drawer and handed it over. Nick thumbed to ATTORNEYS and found the listing for 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?"