Pretty Girls Dancing(87)
Mark opened the file to take out a scrap of paper with a URL printed on it. Held it up for the man to read. “Recognize this web address? I see that you do.” Mark lowered his hand. It had been included in Janie Willard’s statement the night she’d been arrested for trespassing.
“No.” Whether from the heat in the room or Mark’s visual aid, the man was starting to sweat. “I don’t even know what that is.”
“I figured you’d say that.” Taking his time, Mark put the paper back inside the file folder. “So before we shipped your computer off to the lab, the deputies did a little investigating. And imagine their surprise when they went to that URL and found a whole site with pictures just like yours, all available for download at a price.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A bead of sweat rolled down Newman’s face and was lost in his beard. “You can’t prove that, because it didn’t happen.”
“Oh, but we can.” Mark repositioned his chair so he could stretch his legs out under the table. “See, those guys at the lab are computer geniuses. They can track every site you ever visited, even if you tried to hide your tracks. Uploads, downloads . . . everything’s an open book to them. It’s just a matter of time before they provide me with a detailed day-by-day account of every activity you’ve taken on that laptop.”
“But I’m not the only one who used it,” the man said triumphantly. “I’ve loaned it out a few times to the churches. I do janitorial work for three of them in the area. Sometimes the pastors need an extra laptop if one in the office goes to the shop, or if they have extra help there working on a project.”
“And did you give the ministers the password to your picture files?” Mark asked. “Because it will be easy enough to check the dates your computer was loaned out and match those against the dates of the picture uploads from your laptop. Who were the pastors who had access to it?”
“Pastor Jennings at Hope Springs here in town. Reverend Mikkelsen at Trinity Baptist in West Bend. I don’t know.” The man rubbed his forehead, as if the act of recall pained him. “Maybe Pastor Wills in Blackston.”
Mikkelsen. A thrum of excitement started in Mark’s veins. He considered Newman, weighing how much to hit him with all at once. They were pressed for time. Once the janitor started thinking about what they had on him, he was going to start screaming for a lawyer. It was a wonder he hadn’t already.
“Here’s the thing.” Mark decided to lay it all out. “We have you with a key to a property you don’t own. Your voice on a recording offering illegal drugs to a teenage girl. You’ve admitted to taking nude or partially nude pictures of underage girls for a number of years. There’s your proximity to a large stash of drugs, and as far as we know, you’re the only outsider with access to the property. But the most damning thing is the body we found in the basement. The body of Kelsey Willard, a girl that—by your own admission—you photographed. A girl whose pictures were uploaded to that site.” The sheriff had shown him the photos his deputies had found while combing the site minutes before he’d started the interview. It was one more damning piece of evidence against this man. “A girl who went missing shortly after you met with her.”
The man’s jaw dropped. “No fucking way. Are you kidding me?” His eyes widened. “No. Nuh-uh, you aren’t pinning that on me. I’ve used that place for, like, six months. That girl’s been gone for . . . I don’t know exactly, but a lot of years.”
“Where were you taking pictures before?”
“Three-oh-three Ferguson, on the south edge of town. I had the second floor of a duplex. The place on Fuller Road just fell into my lap, and I figured, hey, bigger space, more privacy . . .”
“Someone else’s property . . .”
Newman acted as if he hadn’t heard Mark’s words. “Who the hell knows how many others have keys? But I’m not going to take a fall for the drugs or a dead body. Josh Ferin gave me a key in exchange for some pictures I took for free. He probably swiped it from his mother. She’s the Realtor for the place.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ferin. Have a good night.” Sloane disconnected the call and set her phone on the edge of the bed beside her, sending Mark a smug look. “Karla Ferin is positively irate about people trespassing at one of the properties in the realty’s portfolio. She’s going to insist on charges being filed. She was quite indignant when I asked about access to the keys for the lake house. According to her, they’re kept in a locked case at the realty office. Although they arrange for a regular cleaning service for the owners, an outside service hasn’t been used in several months, because—get this—her son is being paid to take care of it.”
“Which backs up Newman’s story about how he acquired possession of the key. Unfortunately, he’s also telling the truth about the place he rented up to a few months ago. Sheriff Richards had put in a call to Police Chief Miller. Apparently, the address of the property had been a bane for city law enforcement for some time, so he’s well acquainted with the landlord. I put in a call, and the man verified the approximate dates that Newman had rented from him.” Mark rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. It had been a trying day. But in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t come close to the day experienced by the Willard family.