was my daddy. Caution was the one good lesson he taught me.”
Otto walked across the hallway to Santiago’s apartment. He knocked several times and announced himself but heard no noise from inside. A dirty overhead fixture barely gave off enough light for Otto to see the keyhole above the doorknob of Santiago’s apartment. He pulled a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and jiggled the key until he finally gained entrance.
He pushed the door open with a shove of his foot and was blasted with sweltering heat and the smell of rotting garbage, a sure sign Santiago had been gone several days. Stepping into the apartment, Otto’s first impression was that it was a place used to eat, sleep, and not much else. Otherwise Colt Goff’s apartment had been a mirror image of the space: murphy bed on one wall, kitchenette on another, small bathroom framed into a corner. Her space had been filled with furniture, pillows, pictures on the walls. It made Santiago’s apartment look all the more depressing.
The murphy bed was down, the covers neatly pulled up and covering two pillows. At the end of the bed sat a small TV on top of a footstool. A card table littered with newspapers and other papers was centered in the kitchenette area. Two folding chairs sat on either side of the table. The only other furniture was a bookshelf that served as a night stand cobbled together out of pallet wood at the side of the bed. A wind-up alarm clock sat amid several coffee cups on the top shelf. The second shelf held photographs, a few in frames, most of them propped up against the wood, the photos curling around the edges. They were the only visible sign that a person called the place home.
Otto’s shoulders slumped. Walking into a deceased person’s home gave him an uneasy feeling, especially when the death was unexpected or suspicious. Poking around someone’s personal space with no chance for them to clean up the messes or to hide the secrets left untended bothered him in ways he had difficulty explaining, even to himself. Otto had always made sure Delores knew where all of the insurance and important papers were located, and that she knew how much money was in the savings and checking account each month. The idea of strangers rooting through his things, trying to make sense of his life, kept him awake some nights. But this man’s meager surroundings felt especially depressing; dead, almost a week, with not so much as a phone call to the police from a relative or friend wondering where he was or why he hadn’t called.
Before walking any farther into the apartment he used his gloved hand to turn on a light switch to the left of the door, then opened his evidence kit to remove the fingerprinting materials. Once prints were taken throughout the apartment he began a methodical search.
On the kitchen table he found a pile of mail, all addressed to Juan Santiago. Otto opened an electric bill that was current, no late charges, as well as a water bill. Hoping for a phone bill that might show a list of recent calls, he came up empty. Glancing around the room, he found no landline, nor cell phone. There were no letters, nothing more personal than junk mail and bills. He flipped through four days’ worth of newspapers, the most recent dated last Thursday, the day after Santiago went missing from work.
Otto pulled Santiago’s absence record out of his shirt pocket to check his memory. His last day of work had been Tuesday. That meant he wore his boots home from work that evening. And was wearing them again when he was killed. Otto thought about his own uniform boots. He never wore them off duty. They were ugly, heavy, and he had more comfortable shoes to wear. He walked over to the small closet and opened it. He found one pair of running shoes, a pair of loafers, and a pair of casual cowboy boots. Why would Santiago have chosen to wear his heavy work boots with a pair of jeans and a nice shirt? It didn’t add up.
After searching through Santiago’s clothing in his closet and drawers, he searched the bathroom cabinet and vanity, finding nothing unusual there, nor in the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, looking for anything amiss, and winced at the smell of sour milk and moldy food.
The most promising area was saved for last. Otto pulled