Chapter 12
Chapter
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?”
“Plenty of latents but so far they’re all the same. So likely the deceased.”
“Even on the futon?”
“No prints at all on that. We’ll take it back, along with the mattress. But so far this is yielding nothing creepy. Unlike you-know-where.”
Next stop: you-know-where.
The bathroom, tiled mustard yellow from floor to ceiling, was blocked by crime scene tape and splotched by purplish stains. Luminol had pulled up splotches of blood on the yellow linoleum floor and the sink, a huge wash of it inside the bathtub. The tub’s drain cap had been removed.
Alicia said, “The trap’s boxed for removal. Mark had to go underneath the house. Lots of rat shit and what he says is raccoon shit.”
Lucy said, “Mark hunts, he knows his critters.”
Milo said, “Is this the only john?”
Alicia said, “Unless one of the guys has uncovered another up front. Limited floor plan, huh? Imagine how much she could’ve crammed into a palace.”
She walked a couple of feet up the aisle and pointed to a spot where the boxes ended midway to the ceiling. “This gap is from where I found the ten thousand. Where it found me.”
We followed her toward the front of the house. Now the aisle was different. Wider, the linoleum cleaner, as if it hadn’t been exposed in a long time.
Milo said, “We cleared this area?”
“Moe and Sean did in order to fit in,” she said. “Mostly Moe, I knew all that gym time would come in handy. Everything that got moved is also in those boxes outside but there was nothing sexy that I saw.”
Two suited figures worked fifteen feet away at the end of the hall.
Windows were blocked by towers of junk, and light came by way of four battery-op fixtures.
One figure stood on the floor, inspecting waist-high material.
The other was perched on a step stool probing upper layers of tightly packed flotsam.
The one on the ladder, so muscle-bound his body strained the forensic suit, said, “Do I get a bonus, L.T.?”
The other, taller, lanky, said, “You deserve it, man. You were like a turbine, I was feeling kind of extraneous.”
To Milo: “You should’ve seen him, Loot. Moving stuff around like a forklift.”
He lowered his mask on a long, freckled face. Rusty strands of hair had escaped his hood. Detective Sean Binchy, cheerful as ever. Except when not. A few years ago, I’d saved his life. It had taken some time but we’d resolved that.
“Doc,” he said, “this is right up your alley.”
The bulky man got off the ladder, came over, and unmasked, exposing a pink baby face.
Milo said, “Getting a workout, Moses?”
Detective Moe Reed flexed arms as thick as thighs. “Nah, not even a warm-up.”
Milo said, “I’m assuming you haven’t found anything interesting.”
“Just historical insight, Loot,” said Sean. “Looking at all these newspaper headlines from way back. Turns out everything they said back then was wrong.”
Moe said, “Back then and now.”
I said, “What’s the earliest date you’ve found?”
“Twenty years or so, give or take. But it’s not just the Times, it’s the Daily News, the Evening Outlook, and tons of throwaway papers and magazines. Plus subscription stuff and unbelievable amounts of junk brochures. Cruises, real estate brokers, what have you.”
I said, “Martha Matthias was widowed twice, the first time when she was a newlywed and young. Her second husband died twenty-two years ago. I can see that being traumatic. Maybe that’s what started her hoarding.”
All four detectives stared at me.
Milo said, “Only you would think that way. Thank God. Okay, guys, I’ll stick around and help. Thanks for coming, Alex, I’ll walk you out.”
—
We’d made it to the curb when Cheryl Najarian ran out, waving her hands. “We found more.”
Milo said, “Money?”
“Whole new level, Lieutenant, Alicia’s counting.”
We returned to the backyard, where Alicia stood near the stack of boxes examining hundred-dollar bills that filled a rumpled manila envelope. Four other envelopes sat atop the stack.
Milo said, “The guys just found it?”
Najarian said, “Nope, my girl Lucy did. In the mattress.”
“In,” he said.
“A slit was cut and all this was slipped into it. Maybe it helped her sleep at night—sorry, don’t want to be mean but this whole thing is wack lunacy.” She shook her head.
Alicia said, “Ten thou in the first. If they’re all like that, we’re talking fifty K.”
They all were.
Milo said, “Fifty grand inside a mattress. Guess whoever killed her wasn’t privy to that.”
Alicia said, “If I had a daughter with issues, I wouldn’t exactly discuss finances.”
Milo turned to Najarian. “How’s this measuring up against dope dough?”
“Pretty well, actually.” She smiled. “Maybe I should get an armed escort back to Hertzberg.”
“It can be arranged.”
“No, just kidding. Let’s film everything and I’ll narrate like with the first batch. Then I’ll get going and make sure everything’s registered to a T.”
—
Once she’d left with the money, Milo said, “Sixty grand plus that small amount—which was probably petty cash for groceries and the like. But no idea how much was actually taken. If anything was.”
I said, “If no will shows up, it’ll go to probate along with the house. Unless another relative shows up, the daughter’s claim should go smoothly.”
Alicia said, “Butcher Mommy in the tub and profit? If we can prove it.”
Milo said, “We need to find her.”