Things dumped haphazardly into boxes, it was like digging through a trash bin.
“You couldn’t have been a little more considerate of a dead man’s things?” Beck looked to Mr. Freese where he hovered nearby.
“It’s junk,” he said. “I shouldn’t have had to clean up his mess at all.”
“I’m sure Mr. Figueroa is terribly sorry he couldn’t stay alive to clean up after himself,” Williams uttered, and Beck felt a fleeting smirk pass over her face as she returned to the same box.
Most of it junk, like the super said, discount store clothing and knickknacks, Beck knew it was unfair to make such an assessment. All their beloved things would be junk to somebody. These were things that meant something to the victim, and they had ended up jammed in the cheapest form of storage available in a dark, dank place. Just as the man himself would likely end up. Because, the last time she’d checked with Baxton, no one had come to claim Anthony Figueroa’s body.
“Nash.”
Looking up, Beck read the words on the hand-drawn sign Williams held up -
One Day at a Time
“This guy was committed to the twelve steps,” he said, flipping through the stack of the same sign recreated over and over. Tape still clinging to their corners, they were obviously what had been fastened to all those empty spots around Mr. Figueroa’s apartment, and Beck wasn’t sure if it backed up, or worked against, her theory. On one hand, the man clearly wanted to stay clean. On the other, it remained a day-to-day struggle for him, even twenty years later.
“You’re not going to get any reception down here,” Mr. Freese said as Beck pulled out her cell.
“I won’t need it.”
Flipping through the case file she downloaded before they left the office, Beck made it to the photos. Pictures of the apartment taken by CSU at the time Mr. Figueroa was recovered from the scene sliding past, they revealed several things the boxes didn’t, and Mr. Freese flinched slightly as Beck looked his way.
“Dammit!” Williams jerked his hand out of a box. “You couldn’t even be careful with glass?”
“That’s not my fault,” Mr. Freese declared as the blood appeared on Williams’ finger. “You’re the ones who wanted to dig through stuff.”
Watching the red liquid curve down Williams’ hand, it felt, to Beck, like divine intervention. Though, it probably didn’t feel that way for Williams.
“Do you have any bandages?” Beck looked to Mr. Freese.
“Yeah. In my apartment,” he responded.
“Let’s go.” Beck motioned to the stairs, and, face sinking into a frown, the super grumbled their way back across the basement.
“We have a first-aid kit in the car,” Williams reminded Beck when she reached his side.