“Like I said before, the bathroom was the crime scene for sure and it’s been gone over thoroughly. Techs found additional serious blood in the tub plus more blood and tissue in the drain all the way down to the trap. That’s what’s over there in those boxes. The other place they swabbed thoroughly was the space Martha used for a kitchen, but that produced nothing. Now they’re working on the one bedroom set aside for sleeping. The rest of the house is unbelievably filled with crap.”
Milo said, “Cheryl, if we did bring everything back, how long would it take to go through it?”
Najarian frowned. “If I’ve got ample staff—which is a big if—two weeks minimum. You want us to get all OCD? Months.”
“Okay, how about this. Take random swabs throughout the house and if nothing shows up, I can’t see trucking tons of old paper over.”
“Not going to argue with that, Lieutenant. We’ve got serious storage issues.”
“Ever been in a situation like this?”
“I haven’t but one of my instructors worked the Oklahoma federal bombing. Total nightmare.”
“I’ll bet,” he said. “Now that I think about it, maybe the swabbing shouldn’t be random. First off let’s see if any more money shows up. Is most of the hoard paper?”
“All of it is,” said Alicia. “Newspapers, magazines, random receipts—I found some going back twenty-plus years.”
“Crazy,” said Najarian.
Milo said, “How about this: If we find money, we sample paper close to the stash—say, a three-foot radius. The same goes for personal documents—letters, wills, insurance policies, photos. And obviously anything with blood or body fluids.”
“If I was smart, I wouldn’t bring this up,” said Cheryl Najarian,“but fluids aren’t always visible early on. So how’re we going to be sure we’re not missing something? I mean I’m not thrilled about schlepping tons of garbage, but…”
Milo closed his eyes, opened them, tapped his foot. “Let’s take a look inside and see what makes sense.”
Chapter
12
Najarian’s phone rang and she stayed back to answer it as Alicia led us into the house via the rear door and continued through an aisle that sliced through ceiling-high walls of old newspapers and magazines.
A stripe of grubby gray linoleum sectioned the products of dead trees. A broth of must and mold tempered by a strange yeasty heaviness made its way through my mask.
Milo’s big shoe tapped the floor. “Did we clear it or did you find it this way?”
Alicia said, “It’s just like we found it, L.T. There’s something similar up front so I guess she wanted two ways in and out.”
The passageway continued a couple of yards before coming up against a perpendicular wall of paper detritus then hooked right and continued into a tiny dim space.
About a third of an already stingy kitchen. Dim because two small windows were so far past maintenance that their panes were brown.
A crime lab tech kneeling to inspect the interior of a refrigerator dimensioned for a college dorm stopped and said, “Cool but not super cold, probably just needs Freon. But no weird stuff seems to be growing anywhere. So far.”
Alicia said, “Anything interesting in the fridge, Mark?”
“If you think juice, milk, stale bread, eggs that are stinking pretty bad is interesting. Who could live like this? Gross.”
Mark stood and his glove slapped a chipped tile counter topping flimsy wood cabinets with warped doors. Both probably original to the house. No stove, just a toaster oven and a microwave, along with an old black plastic Mr. Coffee, a month’s worth of paper plates and plastic utensils.
“People,” he said.
—
The aisle continued to a ten-by-ten room where another tech worked. The floor was filthy rose-pink carpet, the walls grayed past whatever their original color was. Another pair of dusty windows ambered the meager contents: single bed, pecan-finish nightstand, dresser. The dresser drawers were open, revealing unidentifiable wadded-up clothing. A closet door advertised empty space.
Rolled in a corner was a navy blue futon bound by crime scene tape.
Alicia said, “Anything, Lucy?”
