Tyler stepped forward and clicked on a small desk lamp. It tossed a cone of light across the room, angling over a bed abutting the desk. My breath caught. Addison’s body was stretched across the mattress.
“You moved him from the shower?” Tyler had not mentioned this. He nodded, eyes cast toward the floor. I pictured him struggling with the heft and shook off the image. There would be traces of Addison’s skin across the carpet, but that was fine. He lived in the room, there was nothing out of the ordinary about that. There was no external wound, so no bleeding, so no trail of blood. There might be carpet fibers in his skin, down the length of him, but it shouldn’t be a problem.
“It’s cold in here.”
“They cut the heat to the whole building during the break. Addison was using this little space heater. But I didn’t want, you know—”
“You did the right thing.”
Tyler said nothing, just a snuffling sound.
“Are you going to be okay?” No response. “This is why you came to me. For help. So let me help.”
He looked up. “Okay.”
“Good. We need to dress him.”
“What do you mean?”
“We need him in clothes. Pick something out. Something he’d normally wear. Actually—no. Where are his clothes from last night?”
“In the bathroom, I think.”
“Get those.” While I hoped for no trace evidence, any signs of how Addison had spent his last hours—drinking, smoking weed—could be helpful. “But cover your hands first.” I had grabbed a box of sandwich baggies from my kitchen; they would have to do.
Tyler left for the bathroom and I pinched my eyes shut. No more thinking. I just had to follow the steps of the plan. Thinking could come later.
Tyler returned, Addison’s clothes carefully folded. He held them in a stack away from his body. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Dress him. I don’t know, I just don’t think I can.” He shook his head.
“I can do it.” I took the clothes. “You’ll be able to get into the basement?”
“It’s open. I went down there when I got back. I thought maybe Addison was doing laundry.”
“Okay. Go now.”
He left and I looked around. I had often wondered about this room. I had even looked up the dorms on the college website. For photos, so I could better picture Tyler’s life. His side was perfectly ordered, everything on his desk just so, a neat line of shoes at the closet. There was one poster, some soccer player suspended in air. And that was it; no other sign of who he was. It could have been anyone’s room.
I crossed the narrow gap between their beds. Tyler had arranged Addison neatly along the mattress. He’d closed his eyelids and folded Addison’s hands over his bare chest. A dark oval around the body marked the blanket; it had gotten wet and was still damp. Even in death, Addison was a thing of beauty. Perhaps more beautiful. The stillness brought out the sharp nose and straight brow. A small bruise bloomed on his cheek, marbled violet against the white skin. He must have hit something on his way down, a spigot or a knob. The light from the desk lamp traced the tight round curves of muscle. Under his hands, across the arc of his chest, a light patch of hair. It narrowed to a line down his torso, leading to a darker, thicker patch. Tucked beneath it, his penis and balls curled into one another, like soft pieces of candy. I bent in close. A powdery smell wafted off him, soap from the shower perhaps. It would still be some time before he started to reek, his insides breaking down. I noticed then, beside him, a pillow and a creased fold down the length of the blanket, and I understood immediately: This is where Tyler had spent the night.
I grabbed the plastic baggies, slipping one onto each of my hands. Addison’s body had passed the peak of rigor mortis; the muscles were softening again, releasing the calcium that had started building up at death. I looped a foot through each openingof the underwear and then lifted his legs. Purple splotches like exploded flowers ran up and down the back of his calves and thighs. Gravity’s pull on the blood cells. I got his jeans on and cupped his head. It was a heavy, somber thing. I slid my hand down to balance him and I felt the push of a bone against my fingers. A snapped vertebra. I shuddered at the thought that something so small could end a life. I pulled his sweatshirt around his face. I raised one arm then the other into the sleeves. A pair of shoes sat at the foot of the bed. I picked one up, turning it over, and brought it slowly to my face. I held it there, warm with his loamy scent. Imperceptible remnants of Addison—flakes of shed skin he’d never miss—flowed into me. I knelt on the floor at his feet and pulled on his socks and then the shoes. I tied the laces, two small, neat bows.
I was still on the floor when Tyler returned from the laundry room with a deep bin on wheels. He had explained they had them for move-in days, for carting things up from cars and into their rooms.
I stood. “Where’s the sleeping bag?”
He pointed to a closet. “It should be on the top shelf. He never used it.”
“Okay. Pack your change of clothes and I’ll get it ready.”
Across Addison’s desk were the scattered remains of their day. Two plastic cups and a half-finished bottle of vodka. An open pizza box, a pile of crusts, abandoned slices congealing in their own grease.
“When Addison ordered the pizza, did the delivery guy come up?”
“No, he met him downstairs, outside.”
