“A phone. A telephone.”
Thorson slapped an open hand against Krasner’s briefcase, a move that made the little man jump as if shocked with a cattle prod.
“Yes, yes, I have a phone. You don’t have to—”
“Good. Get it out, call your receptionist and tell her to pull the wire transfer records from your file. Tell her I’ll be there in fifteen minutes for a copy of it.”
“You can’t take—I have an attorney/client relationship with this individual that I must protect no matter what he’s done. I—”
Thorson slapped a backhand off the briefcase again, which shut Krasner up in mid-sentence. I could see Thorson received a genuine sense of accomplishment from pushing the little lawyer around.
“Make the call, Krasner, and I’ll tell the locals you helped out. Make the call or the next person to die is on you. Because now you do know who and what we’re talking about here.”
Krasner slowly nodded and began opening his briefcase.
“That’s it, Counselor,” Thorson said. “Now you see the light.”
As Krasner called his receptionist and issued the order in a shaky voice, Thorson stood silently watching. I had never seen or heard of anyone using the bad cop routine without the good cop counterpart and still so expertly finesse the information needed from a source. I wasn’t sure if I admired Thorson’s skill or was appalled by it. But he had turned the posturing bluff artist into a shaking mess. As Krasner was folding the phone closed, Thorson asked what the amount of the wire transfer had been.
“Six thousand dollars even.”
“Five for bail and one for you. How come you didn’t squeeze him?”
“He said it was all he could afford. I believed him. May I go now?”
There was a resigned and defeated look on Krasner’s face. Before Thorson answered his question the door to the courtroom opened and a bailiff leaned out.
“Artie, you’re up.”
“Okay, Jerry.”
Without waiting for further comment from Thorson, Krasner began moving toward the door again. And once again Thorson stopped him with a hand on the chest. This time Krasner made no protest about being touched. He simply stopped, leaving his eyes staring dead ahead.
“Artie—can I call you Artie?—you better do some soul-searching. That is if you have one. You know more than you’ve said here. A lot more. And the more time you waste, the more there’s a chance that a life will be wasted. Think about that and give me a call.”
He reached over and slid a business card into the handkerchief pocket of Krasner’s suit coat, then patted it gently.
“My local number is written on the back. Call me. If I get what I need from somewhere else and find out you had the same information, I will be merciless, Counselor. Fucking merciless.”
Thorson then stepped back so the lawyer could slowly make his way back into the courtroom.
We were back out on the sidewalk before Thorson spoke to me.
“Think he got the message?”
“Yeah, he got it. I’d stay by the phone. He’s gonna call.”
“We’ll see.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Did you really check him out with the locals?”
Thorson smiled by way of an answer.
“The part about him being a pedophile. How do you know that?”
“Just takin’ a shot. Pedophiles are networkers. They like to surround themselves with their own kind. They have phone nets, computer nets, a whole support system. They view it as them against society. The misunderstood minority, that kind of bullshit. So I figured maybe he got Krasner’s name on a referral list somewhere. It was worth the shot. The way I read Krasner, I think it hit him. He wouldn’t have given up the wire records if it didn’t.”
“Maybe. Maybe he was telling the truth about not knowing who Gladden was. Maybe he just has a conscience and doesn’t want to see anybody else hurt.”
“I take it you don’t know that many lawyers.”
Ten minutes later we were waiting for the elevator outside the Krasner & Peacock law offices, Thorson looking at the wire transfer receipt for the sum of $6,000.
“It’s a bank out of Jacksonville,” he said without looking up. “We’ll have to get Rach on it.”
I noticed his use of the diminutive of her name. There was something intimate about it.
“Why her?” I asked.
“ ’Cause she’s in Florida.”
He looked up from the receipt at me. He was smiling.
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“No, you didn’t tell me.”
“Yeah, Backus sent her out this morning. She went to see Horace the Hypnotist and work with the Florida team. Tell you what, let’s stop in the lobby and use the phone, see if I can get somebody to get this account number to her.”
38
Very little was said between us on the way out from downtown to Santa Monica. I was thinking about Rachel in Florida. I couldn’t understand why Backus would send her when the front line seemed to be out here. There were two possibilities, I decided. One was that Rachel was being disciplined for some reason, possibly me, and taken off the front line. The other was that there was some new break in the case I didn’t know about and was purposely not being told. Either choice was a bad one, but I found myself secretly choosing the first.
Thorson seemed lost in thought during most of the drive, or perhaps just tired of being around me. But when we parked out front of the Santa Monica Police Department, he answered the question I had before I even asked it.
“We just need to pick up the property they took from Gladden when he was arrested. We want to consolidate it all.”
“And they’re going to let you do that?”
I knew how small departments, in fact, all departments, tended to react to being bigfooted by the Big G.
“We’ll see.”
At the front counter of the detective bureau, we were told that Constance Delpy was in court but her partner, Ron Sweetzer, would be with us shortly. Shortly to Sweetzer turned out to be ten minutes. A period of time that didn’t sit well with Thorson. I got the idea that the FBI, in the embodiment of Gordon Thorson at least, didn’t appreciate having to wait for anybody, especially a small-town gold badge.
When Sweetzer finally appeared, he stood behind the counter and asked how he could help us. He gave me a second glance, probably computing how my beard and clothes did not jibe with his image of the FBI. He said nothing and made no movement that could have been translated as an invitation back to his office. Thorson responded in kind with short sentences and his own brand of rudeness. He took a folded white page from his inside pocket and spread it on the counter.
“That’s the property inventory from the arrest of William Gladden, AKA Harold Brisbane. I’m here to accept custody of the property.”
“What are you talking about?” Sweetzer said.
“I’m talking about what I just said. The FBI has entered the case and is heading the nationwide investigation of William Gladden. We need to have some experts look over what you’ve got here.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Agent. We’ve got our own experts and we’ve got a case against this guy. We’re not turning over the evidence to anybody. Not without a court order or the DA’s approval.”
Thorson took a deep breath but he seemed to me to be going through an act he had performed countless times before. The bully who comes into town and picks on the little guy.
“First of all,” he said, “you know and I know your case is for shit. And secondly, we’re not talking about evidence, anyway. You’ve got a camera, a bag of candy. That’s not evidence of anything. He’s charged with fleeing an officer, vandalism and polluting a waterway. Where’s the camera come into it?”
Sweetzer started to say something, then stopped, apparently stymied for a reply.
“Just wait here, please?”
Sweetzer started away from the computer.
 
; “I don’t have all day, Detective,” Thorson said after him. “I’m trying to catch this guy. Too bad he’s still on the loose.”
Sweetzer angrily swung around.
“What’s that supposed to mean? What the fuck does that mean?”
Thorson held his hands up in a no-harm gesture.
“Means exactly what you think it means. Now go ahead, get your CO. I’ll talk to him now.”
Sweetzer left and in two minutes returned with a man ten years older, thirty pounds heavier and twice as angry.
“What’s the problem here?” he said in a short, clipped voice.
“There’s no problem, Captain.”
“It’s Lieutenant.”
“Oh, well, Lieutenant, your man here seems confused. I’ve explained that the FBI has stepped into the investigation of William Gladden and is working hand in hand with the Los Angeles police and other departments across the country. The bureau also extends that hand to Santa Monica. But Detective Sweetzer seems to think that by holding on to the property seized from Mr. Gladden, he is helping the investigation and eventual capture of Mr. Gladden. In reality, he is impeding our efforts. I’m surprised, frankly, to be treated this way. I’ve got a member of the national media with me and I didn’t expect that he’d see something like this.”
Thorson gestured toward me and Sweetzer and his lieutenant studied me. I felt myself getting angry at being used. The lieutenant looked from me back to Thorson.
“What we don’t understand is why you need to take this property. I’ve looked at the inventory. It’s a camera, a pair of sunglasses, a duffel bag and a bag of candy, that’s it. No film, no pictures. Why does the FBI have to take this from us?”
“Have you submitted candy samples to a chemical analysis lab?”
The lieutenant looked at Sweetzer, who shook his head slightly as if it were some kind of secret signal.
“We will do that, Lieutenant,” Thorson said. “To determine if the candy was in any way doctored. And the camera. You are not aware of this but there have been some photos recovered in our investigation. I cannot go into the content of these photos but suffice it to say they are of a highly illegal nature. But the point is, analysis of these photos shows an imperfection in the lens of the camera with which these photos were taken. It’s like a fingerprint on every photo. We can match those photos to a camera. But we need the camera to do it. If you allow us to take it and we make a match, we will be able to prove this man took the photos. There will then be additional charges when we catch him. It will also help us determine exactly what this man has been up to. This is why we request that you turn this property over. Really, gentlemen, we want the same thing.”
The lieutenant didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he turned and started away from the counter. To Sweetzer, he said, “Make sure you get a chain-of-evidence receipt.”
Sweetzer’s face fell and he followed the lieutenant away from the counter, not protesting but whispering something about not getting the explanation Thorson had just made before dragging the lieutenant into it. After both of them had turned a corner back into the bureau, I moved up next to Thorson at the counter so I could whisper.
“Next time you’re going to use me like that, give me some warning,” I said. “I don’t appreciate it at all.”
Thorson smirked.
“The good investigator uses any and all tools available to him. You were available.”
“Is that true about photos being recovered and camera analysis?”
“Sounded good, didn’t it?”
The only way Sweetzer could salvage any kind of pride from the transaction was to leave us waiting at the counter for another ten minutes. Finally, he came out with a cardboard box and slid it across the counter. He then told Thorson to sign a property receipt. Thorson started to open the box first. Sweetzer put his hand on the lid to stop him.
“It’s all there,” Sweetzer said. “Just sign the receipt so I can get back to work. I’m busy.”
Thorson, having won the war, gave him the last battle and signed the receipt. “I trust you. It’s all in here.”
“You know, I used to want to be an FBI agent.”
“Well, don’t feel bad about it. Lot of people fail the test.”
Sweetzer’s face flushed pink.
“It wasn’t that,” he said. “I just decided that I liked being a human too much.”
Thorson raised his hand and pointed a finger like a gun.
“Good one,” he said. “Have a nice day, Detective Sweetzer.”
“Hey,” Sweetzer said, “if you fellows over there at the bureau need anything else, and I mean anything at all, be sure to hesitate to call.”
On the way back to the car I couldn’t resist.
“I guess you never heard that you supposedly can catch more flies with sugar than with lemon.”
“Why waste the sugar on flies?” he replied.
He didn’t open the property box until we were in the car. After he removed the lid I saw there were the items already discussed wrapped in plastic bags and a sealed envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL: FBI EYES ONLY. Thorson ripped open the envelope and from it took out a photograph. It was a Polaroid, probably taken with a jail booking camera. It was a close-up shot of a man’s buttocks, hands grasping and spreading them to afford a clear, deep view of the anus. Thorson studied it a moment and then tossed it over the seat into the back.
“That’s strange,” he said. “I wonder why Sweetzer included a picture of his mother?”
I gave a short laugh and said, “There’s the most telling example of interagency cooperation I’ve ever seen.”
But Thorson ignored the comment or didn’t hear it. His face turned somber and from the box he pulled a plastic bag containing the camera. I watched him stare at it intently. He turned it in his hands, studying it. I saw his face grow dark.
“Those fucking assholes,” he said slowly. “They’ve been sitting on this all this time.”
I looked at the camera. There was something odd about its bulky shape. It looked like a Polaroid but had a standard-looking 35mm lens on it.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Know what this is?”
“No, what?”
Thorson didn’t answer. He pressed a button to turn the camera on. Then he studied the computerized display on the back.
“No pictures,” he said.
“What is it?”
He didn’t answer. He put the camera back in the box, closed it and started the car.
Thorson drove the car down the street from the police station like a fire engine heading to a four-alarm. He pulled into a gas station on Pico Boulevard and jumped out while the car was still jerking in response to his skidding stop. He ran to the phone and punched in a long distance number without putting in any coins. While he waited for a response he took out a pen and a small notebook. I saw him write something down after saying a few words into the phone. When he keyed in another long distance number without putting in coins, I guessed he had gotten directory assistance for a toll-free 800 number.
I was tempted to get out of the car and go up to him so that I could hear his conversation but decided to wait. In a minute or so I saw him writing information into his notebook. While he did that I looked at the evidence box Sweetzer had given him. I wanted to open it and look at the camera again but thought this might anger Thorson.
“You mind telling me what’s going on?” I asked as soon as he was behind the wheel again.
“Sure I mind, but you’re going to find out anyway.” He opened the box and lifted out the camera again. “Know what this is?”
“You asked that. A camera.”
“Right, but what kind of camera is what’s important.”
As he turned it in his hands I saw the manufacturer’s symbol imprinted on the front. A large lowercase d in pale blue. I knew it was the symbol of the computer manufacturer called digiTime. Printed beneath the corporate symbol was DIGISHOT 200.
“This is a digital camera, Jack. That hillbilly Sweetzer didn’t know what the fuck he had. We just have to hope we’re not too late.”
“You’re losing me. I guess I’m just a hillbilly, too, but can you—”
“You know what a digital camera is?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t use film. They’ve been experimenting with them at the paper.”
“Right, no film. The image the camera shoots is captured on a microchip instead. The image can then be put into a computer, edited, blown up, whatever, then printed. Depending on your equipment—and this is top-of-the-line equipment, comes with a Nikon lens—you can come up with high-resolution photographs. As good as the real thing.”
I had seen prints taken on digital at the Rocky. Thorson was correct in his assessment.
“So what’s it mean?”
“Two things. Remember what I told you about pedophiles? The networking they do?”
“Right.”
“Okay, we pretty much know Gladden has a computer because of the fax, right?”
“Right.”
“And now we know he had a digital camera. With the digital camera, his computer and the same modem he used to send the fax, he could send a photo anywhere he wanted to in the world, to anybody who had a phone and a computer and the software to receive it.”
It hit me then in a split second.
“He’s sending people pictures of kids?”
“No, he’s selling them pictures of kids. That’s my guess. The questions we had about how he lives and gets money? About this account in Jacksonville he wired money from? This is the answer. The Poet makes his money selling pictures of kids, maybe even the kids he killed. Who knows, maybe even the cops he killed.”
“There are people who would . . .”
I didn’t finish. I knew the question was stupid.
“If there is one thing I know from this job it’s that there is an appetite and therefore a market for anything and everything,” Thorson said. “Your darkest thought is not unique. The worst thing you can possibly imagine, whatever it is, no matter how bad, there is a market for it . . . I gotta make another call, get this list of dealers split up.”