Kent and Sanj had a look.

“That’s why you’re the doc, Doc.”

“Anyone would have found it on autopsy,” Livia said.

“Yeah,” Sanj said. “But this makes us look smart.”

“I bet he dropped his soda when he started to choke.”

Sanj made sure to photograph the spilled soda can, then zipped up the bag and they pushed the gurney out of the apartment. Outside, the residents watched with morbid expressions as Sanj and Kent loaded their neighbor into the van. While the investigators talked with the police and finished their report, Livia found the building’s owner.

“You’re the landlord, is that correct?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m the one who found him.”

“Neighbors called to report a smell, is that right?”

“That’s right, Doc.”

“That ever happen before? Neighbors call with a complaint and you had to check on a tenant?”

“Tenants complain all the time. But I usually make a phone call and settle things that way. I called Tony for two days, and he obviously never answered. So I came over to see what was going on.”

“How did you get into the apartment?”

“I’ve got a master to all the units. It’s in the rental agreement that I can enter any apartment so long as I identify myself and give a reasonable lead time.”

Livia nodded as she thought.

“Cops asked me about this stuff earlier this morning.”

“Of course,” Livia said. “You did the right thing. I’m curious for a different reason.” Livia pointed to the parking lot, where Sanj and Kent were finished with the police and climbing into the van. “That’s my ride. Sorry about Tony.”

“Yeah,” the landlord said. “You sure that smell goes away?”

“Give it a day or two,” Livia said as she walked down the stairs.

*

They gathered two bodies on the first day of ride-alongs, and arrived back at the morgue just as another crew of investigators went out on an evening call. It was four p.m. Calls that came in this late in the day were dished off to the night-crew investigators. Livia thanked Sanj and Kent for their hospitality before she left, promising to see them in the morning. In her car, she plugged an address into her GPS. Anthony Davis’s case and her discussion with the landlord had got her thinking. During the forty-minute ride back to the morgue, with the body lying behind her, she used her phone to get the information she needed. Casey Delevan had been reported missing not by friends or family, but by his landlord, much like Anthony Davis.

Livia jumped onto the highway and headed west toward Emerson Bay. When she took the off-ramp in West Bay ninety minutes later, the GPS spit out directions until Livia was in front of Casey Delevan’s former residence, a long single-story building shaped in a blocked U that held eighteen units. She found the number to the management and dialed.

“Old Town Apartments,” the voice said.

“This is Dr. Cutty from the medical examiner’s office. We talked earlier.”

“You here already?”

“I’m parked out front.”

“I’ll be right out.”

A minute later, Livia saw the front door to the office open and a balding man walk out onto the patio. She stood from her car and approached him with a smile and an extended hand.

“Livia Cutty.”

He took her hand. “Art Munson.”

“You own the apartments?”

“The whole building. I’m only seventy percent full. You’re not looking for a place to stay, are you, Dr. Cutty?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Didn’t figure a doctor would want one of my little units. So which tenant are you interested in?”

“An old one named Casey Delevan.”

“Guy they just pulled out of the bay?”

Livia nodded. “That’s him. You’re listed as the person who reported him missing, is that correct?”

“I called the cops, if that’s what you’re asking. Didn’t know I was listed as anything.”

“Why’d you call the cops?”

“He used to pay his rent three months at a time. I require it of some of my clients, especially the ones with bad or no credit. This prevents them from leaving me high and dry. He paid three months, missed his next installment. I sent two notices with no replies. So I went to check on things when he wouldn’t answer his phone. Lot of these guys, they don’t pick up the phone when I call. They forget I know where they live. Came by a couple of times, he never answered the door. Finally had to use my key to enter the unit. Knew right away he was gone.”

“Why was that?”

“Place was dusty as hell. Rotten food in the fridge. Nobody had stepped foot in there for some time. I get it from time to time with this clientele. Something comes up and they split in a hurry. So, when I knew he was gone, I called the cops.”

“When was that?”

“Just after Halloween. I went through all this with the cops. He prepaid for the summer, July through September. Never got anything from him for October. I chased him with phone calls for a couple of weeks before I discovered the apartment had been abandoned.”

“And you called the police because you thought something had happened to him?”

“No. I called because I’m required to file a report with the police before I can clear the unit. I was already out a month’s rent, so I wanted to move fast to find a new tenant. He didn’t have any family listed on his documents, so I stored all his stuff—required by law—for three months. Then I started hocking it. Almost forgot about him until I heard he jumped from that bridge. Wish he’d written me a check before he jumped.” Art Munson let out a small laugh that he quickly stifled.

“And you say the apartment looked unlived in for some time?”

“That’s for sure.”

Livia created a timeline in her head. Casey could have disappeared anytime from July to November, confirming the OCME’s suggestion that his body was twelve to sixteen months old when it came to the morgue.

“What did you do with his belongings?” Livia asked.

“Sold some of them to a few tenants. Tossed a bunch. Think a few things are still here in storage.”

“Yeah? Think I could have a look?”

“Suppose so. What’s the interest?”

“I did the autopsy on him. We’re tying up some loose ends.”

“Sounds like something the cops should be doing.”

“My sentiments exactly. But here I am at the end of a workday, doing this stuff myself.”

“C’mon in,” Art said. “Storage is in the basement.”

Livia followed Art Munson into the apartment building and through a door in the back, down a dark stairwell and into a large, cluttered basement. Fluorescent lights blinked to life and cast the space in a migrainous glow. It was a hoarder’s paradise. Livia counted eight wooden desks at first glance before noticing another three under stacks of couch cushions and dusty plastic plants. A few old televisions were stacked in the corner along with two ancient refrigerators from when they were termed ice boxes, and dozens of framed pictures and hanging mirrors.

“Looks like a mess,” Art said. “But it’s more organized than you’d guess. Got everything separated by year. Delevan was last year, so that stuff’s over here. He was my only AWOL tenant last year.”

Art Munson pointed at a desk that held a stack of hardcover books, a microwave, and a computer.

“Most of his furniture sold. He had some halfway decent stuff, so it was easy to move. This is all that’s left.”

Livia walked to the desk and surveyed the stack of books. She saw a biography on Jeffrey Dahmer and an encyclopedia of serial killers. She paged through them to find they were heavily outlined and dog-eared. Livia pulled open the top drawer to a mess of pens and paper clips and unremarkable office supplies jostled and scattered during the desk’s journey to Art Munson’s storage space. She pulled open the other drawers and rooted around unimpressed. When she pulled on the bottom drawer, it was locked. She went back to the books and paged more carefully through them.

“You gonna be a while, Doc?”

“Maybe a few minutes.”

“I’ll be outside. Let me know if you need anything.”