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