The Poet (48 page)

“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.”