murmured as Kaczynski took position outside of the door. “No heroics this mornin’, ’kay?”
The young officer’s face was taut as he lifted the ram. Tyrell aimed at the door, Lopez covering his shoulder and flank. He checked everything one last time and raised the barrel of his pistol once, twice, and then with a final jerking third movement.
The police officer lunged forward and slammed the ram into the door with all of his impressive physical strength. A dull crash echoed across the projects, the door splintering but holding firm. A chorus of whoops and obscenities drifted down from the balconies behind them. The officer swung again and the door smashed open, hanging from one twisted hinge.
Tyrell rushed forward into the darkened maw of the house.
“Police! Stay where you are!”
Tyrell’s voice was muted by the narrow hallway ahead, lost in deep shadows. He crept forward into the darkness, Lopez close behind. An intense blanket of heat cloaked the inside of the house, sweat drenching his skin and trickling beneath his shirt.
“Police! Stay still, face down on the floor!”
The silence taunted him as he caught the sickly sweet aroma of putrefaction drifting on the air. The walls of the hall were bare but for a few tattered scraps of paper hanging entombed in gossamer webs, the carpet thin and caked in the filth of ages. Tyrell advanced toward a passage at the end of the hall that opened left and right.
He gestured to the left, and Lopez silently shifted position against the left wall as Tyrell moved to the right, crouching down as she remained upright. The drill was ingrained into their respective psyche with the same intensity as the will to breathe. Without words, their weapons whipped simultaneously into the open corridors, each covering the other.
“Clear,” Tyrell whispered.
He covered Lopez as she moved left to the edge of a kitchen littered with spilled pans, tubs, and cutlery. The odor of congealing mold mingled with the musty, stale air. He watched as Lopez took a breath and then whirled into the kitchen, sweeping the boxlike room with her weapon.
“Clear.”
Tyrell turned and moved back down the hall. Another open door ahead led into what he presumed was the living room, while one to the left led into a bedroom. The sickly stench of decay became stronger, and a dull humming sound sent a spasm of disgust rippling down his throat.
He turned, sweeping the bedroom with his pistol. A bare mattress lay upon the rusting springs of a double bed. Shredded curtains dangled limply from a small window, accompanied by the bodies of several dead rodents on the floor, tiny white teeth gaping from mortified bodies.
“Clear.”
The smell was overpowering now, and Tyrell already knew that his weapon was unlikely to be discharged. Still, he kept it trained ahead of him as he moved to the edge of the doorway, Lopez covering his back.
With a final breath that felt as though it coated the back of his throat with something slimy, Tyrell lunged into the living room and stared into the half darkness.
The room was dominated by two sagging couches. Plates of half-eaten food littered a table amid a crumpled sea of crushed beer cans and empty packets of potato chips. A handful of cockroaches scampered over rotten morsels of food. The hum of blowflies filled the room, a chorus of life flourishing in the presence of death.
Three bodies sprawled naked across the couches. A handful of syringes lay discarded around them, while others dangled awkwardly from the blackened veins of bare arms or were wedged between lifeless toes. Crack pipes lay scattered on the thin carpet. Tyrell’s voice was raspy with repulsion as he called out.
“Property clear, three dead.”
He holstered his pistol before gingerly stepping across the grisly scene, donning latex gloves, and opening the curtains. The pale morning light filtered reluctantly into the room, illuminating the corpses and their attendant swarms of flies.
“Jesus,” Lopez murmured, clearly struggling to prevent her breakfast from making a dramatic reappearance as she put on her own gloves.
“You’ll get used to it,” Tyrell said quietly, surveying the scene.
Kaczynski appeared in the doorway and winced. He was followed by a tall, portly man with mousy hair and a pockmarked face whose frame filled the doorway. He stood there, his jaw chomping loudly on a piece of gum until he saw the corpses and caught a whiff of their scent.
“Christ’s sake,” he muttered in disgust, covering his nose and mouth with one hand.