“I know my rights.” Herb Newman was decidedly less talkative this time around. He glared at Mark balefully. “You gotta charge me, or let me go.”
“You’ve been charged, Mr. Newman.” How had the man missed that? “For trespassing and two counts of possession of an illegal substance. You’ll be arraigned tomorrow. Which makes it imperative that you be more forthcoming this time around. Because a large quantity of drugs was found in the room next to the one you used in the lake house. And under the circumstances, you’re the first we’re looking at as the owner.” There were far more serious charges pending. But that was a conversation for later.
“No way.” Newman shook his head violently. “You can’t pin that on me. I’m not the only one with a key to the place. There’s nothing to tie me to the stash. I know that much.”
“You don’t seem surprised to hear about it, though.” Mark set the file he carried on the table while he unzipped his coat. Unlike most interview rooms he’d been in, this one wasn’t freezing. He was already starting to perspire, and he’d just gotten there. “Maybe you know who it belongs to. Could be one of the other people who has a key.”
The man’s mouth twisted. “The cops had one.”
“Given to them by the Realtor so they could check on the place from time to time. Seems that it’s a magnet for parties. And apparently illegal activities.”
“I don’t know who else has keys.”
“Where did you get yours?”
The big man studied his fingernails. “Don’t recall.”
“You seem to have a problem with your memory.” Damn, it was hot in here. Mark shrugged out of his coat. Newman seemed comfortable enough, but he was dressed in a short-sleeved orange jumpsuit provided by the county. One that was a size too small. The fabric strained over the man’s girth. “You forgot to tell us that some of the pictures you took of teenage girls violated child-pornography laws.”
“Bullshit. Those pictures are artistic. And they were taken at the girls’ request.”
It was easy to lose faith in the intelligence of humanity when faced with people this dumb. “Yeah? In the recording I heard, you were the one suggesting a girl take off her clothes. We’ve got your computer, Newman. We’ve seen the pictures.” Thousands of digital files uploaded over the years. The cyber team would be able to match the most recent uploads to the SD card in the camera. Their findings had been enough to receive a warrant broadened in scope to include his car and the school, in case he’d hidden more evidence there.
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.”