The Poet

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."

"What was the second thing?"

"What?"

"You said there were two things significant about-"

"It's a break. It's a big fucking break. That is, if we're not too late because Santa Monica's been sitting on the goddamn camera. If Gladden's income, his traveling money, comes from selling photos to other pedophiles, shipping them through the Internet or some private bulletin board, then he lost his main tool last week when the cops took this away."

He tapped the top of the cardboard box on the seat between us.

"He's got to replace it," I said.

"You got it."

"You're going to go to the digiTime dealers."

"You're a smart guy, sport. How come you became a reporter?"

This time I didn't protest the use of his name for me. There wasn't the same malice as when he had called me by it before.

"I called the digiTime 800 number and I got eight dealers who sell the digiShot 200 in L.A. I figure he's got to go for the same model. He'd already have all the other equipment. I've got to make that call to split these up. You got a quarter, Jack? I'm out."

I gave him the quarter and he jumped out of the car and went back to the phone. I imagined he was calling Backus, gleefully telling him about the break and splitting up the list. I sat there thinking that Rachel should have been the one standing there on the phone. In a few minutes, Thorson was back.

"We're checking out three of them. All over here on the west side. Bob's giving the other five to Carter and some guys from the FO."

"Do you have to order these cameras or do they keep them in stock?"

Thorson pulled back into the traffic and headed east on Pico. He referred to one of the addresses he had written down in his notebook as he talked and drove.

"Some places keep them in stock," he said. "If they don't they can get 'em pretty quick. That's what the digiTime operator said."

"Then what are we doing? It's been a week. He would've got one by now."

"Maybe, maybe not. We're playing a hunch. This is not a cheap piece of equipment. You buy it in a kit with the downloading and editing software and the serial cable to connect it to your computer, the leather case and flash and all the extras, you're getting up well over a grand. Probably fifteen hundred. But…"

He raised his finger to make the point.

"What if you already have all the extras and all you want is the camera? No cable. No software. None of that stuff. What if you just shelled out six grand for bail and a lawyer and you're hurting for cash and not only don't need all those extras but can't afford them?"

"You special order just a camera and save a lot of money."

"That's right. That's my hunch. I think that if making bail came close to busting our friend Gladden just like that shyster lawyer said it did, then he'd be looking to save a dollar here and there. If he replaced the camera, I'm betting he made the special order."

He was juiced and it was contagious. I had caught his excitement and was beginning to look at Thorson in perhaps a truer light. I knew these were the moments he lived for. Moments of understanding and clarity. Of knowing he was close.

"McEvoy, we are on a roll," he suddenly said. "I think you might be good luck after all. Just make it good enough that we're not too late."

I nodded my agreement.

We drove for a few minutes in silence before I questioned him again.

"How do you know so much about digital cameras?"

"It's come up before and it's becoming more prevalent. At Quantico we have a unit now that does nothing but computer crime. Internet crime. A lot of what they do bleeds over into pornography, child crimes. They put out bureau-wide briefings to keep people current. I try to keep current."

I nodded.

"There was this old lady-a schoolteacher, no less-up near Cornell in New York checks the download file in her home computer one day and sees a new entry she doesn't recognize. She prints it out and what she gets is a murky black-and-white but clearly identifiable picture of a boy of about ten copping some old guy's joint. She calls the locals and they figure out it got into her computer by mistake. Her Internet address is just a number and they figure the sender transposed a couple digits or something. Anyway, the routing history of the file is right there and they trace it back to some gimp, a pedophile with a nice long record. Out here in fact, he was from L.A. Anyway, they do the search-and-bust and take him down pretty neat. The first digital bust. The guy had something like five hundred different photos in his computer. Christ, he needed a double hard drive. I'm talking about kids of every age, persuasion, doing things normal grownups don't even do… Anyway, good case. He got life, no parole. He had a digiShot, though that might've been a 100 model. They put the story out last year in the FBI Bulletin."

"How come the picture the teacher got was so murky?"

"She didn't have the printer for it. You know, you need a nice color-graphics printer and high-gloss paper. She had neither."

The first two stops were dead ends. One store hadn't sold a digiShot in two weeks and the other had sold two in the last week. However, those two cameras had gone to a well-known Los Angeles artist whose collage portraits made of Polaroid photos were celebrated and displayed in museums around the world. He now wanted to dabble in a newer photographic medium and was going digital. Thorson didn't even bother writing down notes for further follow-up.

The last stop on our list was a street-front shop called Data Imaging Answers on Pico, two blocks from the Westwood Pavilion shopping center. After pulling to the curb in a no-parking zone out front, Thorson smiled and said, "This is it. This is the one."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Walk-in store on a busy street. The other two were more like mail-order offices, not storefronts. Gladden would have wanted the storefront. More visual stimulation. People passing outside, people coming in and out, more distractions. It would be better for him. He doesn't want to be remembered."

It was a small store with two desks in the showroom and several unopened boxes stacked about. There were two circular counters with computer terminals and video equipment on display along with stacks of computer equipment catalogs. A balding man wearing thick glasses with black frames was sitting at one of the desks and looked up as we entered. There was no one at the other desk and it looked unused.

"Are you the manager?" Thorson inquired.

"Not only that, I'm the owner." The man stood up with proprietary pride and smiled as we approached his desk. "Not only that, I am the number one employee."

When we didn't join in his guffaw he asked what he could do for us.

Thorson showed him the inside of his badge wallet.

"FBI?"

It seemed incomprehensible to him.

"Yes. You sell the digiShot 200, correct?"

"Yes, we do. Top-of-the-line digital camera. But I'm out of stock at the moment. Sold my last one last week."

I felt my guts seize. We were too late.

"I can have one in three or four days. In fact, seein' that it's the FBI I might get them to ship two-day. No charge extra, of course."

He smiled and nodded but his eyes had a quizzical look behind the thick glasses. He was nervous dealing with the FBI, especially not knowing what it was all about.

"And your name is?"

"Olin Coombs. I'm the owner."

"Yes, you said that. Okay, Mr. Coombs, I'm not interested in buying anything. Do you have the name of the person who bought your last digiShot?"

"Uh…" He creased his brow, probably wondering if he should ask if it was legal for the FBI to ask for such information. "Of course I keep records. I can get that for you."

Coombs sat down and opened a drawer in his desk. He looked through a hanging file until he found what he was looking for, pulled out a sheet of paper and laid it flat on the desk. He then turned it around so Thorson didn't have to read it upside down. Thorson leaned over, studied the document and I saw his head make a slight turn to the right and then back. Looking at the receipt, it looked to me as if numerous pieces of equipment had been purchased along with the digiShot camera.

"This isn't what I'm looking for," Thorson said. "I'm looking for a man that we believe wanted to purchase a digiShot camera only. This is the only one you've sold in the last week?"

"Yes-uh, no. It's the only one with delivery. We've sold two others but they had to be ordered."

"And they haven't been delivered yet?"

"No. Tomorrow. I'm expecting a truck in the morning."

"Either of those two just order the camera?"

"The camera?"

"You know, none of the other stuff. The software, the cable, the whole kit."

"Oh, yes. Uh, as a matter of fact, there is…"

His words trailed off as he opened the drawer again and pulled out a clipboard with several pink forms on it. He started peeling them back and reading.

"I have a Mr. Childs. Just wanted the camera, nothing else. Paid cash in advance. Nine ninety-five plus California sales tax. Came to-"

"Did he leave a number or address?"

I stopped breathing. We had him. This had to be Gladden. The irony of the name he had given was not lost on me. I felt a chill roll across my back.

"No, no number or address," Coombs said. "I wrote a note to myself. It says Mr. Wilton Childs will call to check on the equipment's arrival. I told him to call tomorrow."

"Then he'll come pick it up?"

"Yes, if it's here by then he'll come pick it up. Like I said, we don't have an address so we can't deliver it."

"Do you remember what he looked like, Mr. Coombs?"

"Looked like? Uh, well, yes I suppose so."

"Can you describe him?"

"He was a white fellow, I remember that. He…"

"Blond hair?"

"Uh, no. It was dark. And he was growing a beard, I remember that."

"How old?"

"About twenty-five or perhaps thirty."

That was good enough for Thorson. It was in the ballpark and the rest of the information fit. He pointed at the empty desk.

"Anybody using that desk?"

"Not at the moment. Business is not so good."

"Then is it all right if we do?"