Perpendicular to the screen, a bookcase pretending to be wood was stacked with one shelf of spy thrillers, the rest given over to textbooks on math, physics, and chemistry. College and high school levels.
A single bathroom was situated midway between two bedrooms. In the medicine cabinet were OTC cold remedies, decongestants, antacids. In the cabinet below, a twelve-pack of toilet paper shared space with two large bottles of mint-flavored mouthwash. The same green liquid had been poured into a small apothecary jar that sat atop the counter. A drinking glass held toothpaste and floss.
The smaller bedroom didn’t take long to search. Nothing but a recumbent bike and a treadmill, both facing another big screen. In the closet, an old, deflated soccer ball, a portable rotary fan, and VHS tapes neatly stacked.
Nothing with which to play the tapes. Milo examined them. More spy stuff, action blockbusters, comedies.
Milo said, “Probably lives by himself but so far, no porn. Maybe he keeps it where he sleeps.”
The larger bedroom—generous relatively but not actually—was set up with a single closet and king-sized bed that left scant passage on one side, barely enough room for a pecan-finish rococo nightstand on the other. On the stand was a plaster-based lamp—off-white,corrugated, resembling an oversized larva—sunglasses, reading glasses, a set of keys, and a tissue box.
In a top drawer a laptop and a cellphone. Milo removed them and set them on the bed.
A six-drawer dresser facing the bed matched the stand in style and color. In the center, an identical lamp. Flanking the lamp on both sides were four photos in standing frames.
Emmanuel Rosales, at least a decade ago, his lush hair black and longer, his mustache a drooping Zapata, standing next to an older couple, each no taller than five-three.
Then Rosales, in his twenties, bearded and grinning, wearing a cap and gown. UC Berkeley insignia on the bottom of the frame.
The third shot featured a broadly smiling Rosales already graying, with a slightly younger couple and five children. Two boys, three girls, my guess, eight to fourteen.
Clear resemblance between Rosales and the man. The woman was petite and blond.
I said, “Bachelor uncle.”
Milo said, “I know the drill.”
Photo four was a full-color shot of gorgeous mountains and sky. Probably the Grand Tetons in Wyoming. Likely clipped from a calendar.
Milo went through the dresser drawers. Boxer shorts folded neatly, socks rolled meticulously, T-shirts, sweats, and polo shirts arrayed precisely.
Under the shirts, a framed Cal diploma proclaimed that Emmanuel Garcia Rosales had graduated thirty-three years ago cum laude with a bachelor’s degree in physics. Below that, in a legal-sized manila envelope, was a California state teacher’s certificate issued two years after the diploma.
The closet was small, with a single aluminum rack from which hung a blue suit and a gray suit, both from Men’s Wearhouse, a couple of pairs of slacks, and three pairs of jeans pressed with precise creases.A folding ironing board was propped against a wall; a steam iron sat on the floor, its cord coiled into a meticulous circle.
On a shelf above the hanging garments were two boxes. Milo opened them eagerly.
Unused pairs of white New Balance walking shoes.
He felt around the shelf, said, “Not even dust,” and turned to me. “What are we talking about, Nowhere Man?”
We left and just reached the back door as Sean approached.
“He doesn’t seem to ever have been married, Loot, and he’s got no record, not even a parking ticket. I was able to access the basics of his employment records. He began teaching in some tough schools—Dorsey, Fremont, Jefferson—transferred to Hamilton three years ago, retired last year. On his pension docs, he lists a contact number in North Hollywood. Francisco and Laura Rosales.”
Milo said, “Brother and sister-in-law, there’s a photo of them inside.”
Sean said, “Anything interesting inside?”
“Feel free to check it out yourself, kid, but unless he’s got something stashed under the floorboards,nadissimo.We’re talking someone who lived averyspare life. I left his phone and his laptop on the bed for you to take.”
I said, “Maybe an outwardly spare life. But an honors degree in physics plus science and math books on the shelf say he could’ve been someone whose headspace was taken up by abstractions. Which wouldn’t necessarily go over with a class full of teens.”
Milo said, “Mr. Brain trying to convince the savages the beauty of ergs and joules? Yeah, I can see that leading to problems. So maybe ol’ Buck was actually onto something and he gave the wrong kid an F.”
Sean said, “He hasn’t worked for a year, Loot. Don’t see someone waiting around that long.”
Milo said, “Someone sure didn’t like him. Let’s see if any teacher ratings are still online—you know the web, infinite dirt.”
