isn’t going to happen here,” said Tronstad, with uncharacteristic resolve. “We’re not leaving until we find him.”
Tronstad was already making his way to the second bedroom. Because of the junk in disorderly rows along both walls, we couldn’t see any of the hallway, or Tronstad, but we knew from past visits that except for the master bedroom, the other bedroom doors were padlocked.
When Sears heard Tronstad forcing the bedroom door, he said, “Hey, Ted. What are you doing?”
“He might be in here.”
“The door’s locked from the outside, isn’t it?”
“Home invasion. They break in and lock him inside. We go away and he turns into a mummy. You going to leave without taking a look?”
The bedroom door burst open and Tronstad disappeared inside as if falling through a trapdoor. Sears followed, while I edged my way through the stacks. We found a neatly made queen bed, a bedside table, and a dressing stand, no disorder whatsoever. Gauging by the layers of undisturbed dust, there’d been no visitors in years. Tronstad opened the closet and pulled out a woman’s dress on a hanger, dangling a brassiere off one finger.
“This is like Miss Havisham’s,” Sears said, peering under the bed.
Tronstad exited the room. “Who’s Miss Havisham? Some patient you had when you worked at Thirty-one’s?”
“The old maid in
Great Expectations,
” I explained. “Charles Dickens. Miss Havisham wore her wedding dress until it was rotting on her.”
Tronstad stuck his head back in the doorway. “Charles fucking Dickens? You need to get a life, Juicy Fruit.”
Within seconds Tronstad had cracked the door frame on the second bedroom and was stepping inside. I followed. Unlike the first bedroom, this one was a total mess. As we looked around, the lieutenant shouted from the other end of the house. “I found him. Code green the search. I found him.”
I followed Sears’s voice to the bathroom, where the tub was stuffed with a large, swollen corpse, his head huge and bulging, as were his limbs and stomach, testicles the size of baseballs. All of his skin was black, and he looked like a blimp. “Where’s Charles Scott?” I asked.
“This
is
Charles Scott.”
“But Charles Scott isn’t black.”
“He’s been dead a few days. This is what they do sometimes. Ted searched in here. How did he miss this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Geez, he’s ripe. I’ll call for a C and C. Tronstad! We found him. Code green the search.”
Lieutenant Sears and I made our way through the junk to the front door and stepped outside into the cool night air. Sears keyed the mike on his portable radio and asked for the police and medical examiner. I took several deep breaths of clean air, but the stench seemed to have permeated my nostrils.
When the neighbor Sears had spoken to came out of a house two doors down, Sears walked over and met him. As they went inside, I climbed into the officer’s seat next to Robert Johnson. “You find him?” Johnson asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Was it bad?”
“No.”
Johnson cradled the steering wheel and stared at the empty street through the windshield, his eyes drowsy. Five minutes later I felt somebody bouncing the rig and turned around to see Tronstad standing on the tailboard with a large black plastic garbage bag in his hands. A moment later Tronstad jogged to Ghanet’s house and disappeared inside and was still in there twenty minutes later when the police car arrived. Then as Sears and the SPD officer went through the front door, Tronstad sneaked out of the back, carrying another plastic bag.
“What do you think he’s doing?” I asked, but Johnson was asleep.
Obviously we weren’t supposed to touch the dead man’s belongings, yet on two previous alarms I’d seen Tronstad remove items from dead people’s homes, in one instance four commercial pornographic tapes. He claimed he was doing the dead man a favor by removing them so his loved ones wouldn’t be shocked. On
Tronstad was already making his way to the second bedroom. Because of the junk in disorderly rows along both walls, we couldn’t see any of the hallway, or Tronstad, but we knew from past visits that except for the master bedroom, the other bedroom doors were padlocked.
When Sears heard Tronstad forcing the bedroom door, he said, “Hey, Ted. What are you doing?”
“He might be in here.”
“The door’s locked from the outside, isn’t it?”
“Home invasion. They break in and lock him inside. We go away and he turns into a mummy. You going to leave without taking a look?”
The bedroom door burst open and Tronstad disappeared inside as if falling through a trapdoor. Sears followed, while I edged my way through the stacks. We found a neatly made queen bed, a bedside table, and a dressing stand, no disorder whatsoever. Gauging by the layers of undisturbed dust, there’d been no visitors in years. Tronstad opened the closet and pulled out a woman’s dress on a hanger, dangling a brassiere off one finger.
“This is like Miss Havisham’s,” Sears said, peering under the bed.
Tronstad exited the room. “Who’s Miss Havisham? Some patient you had when you worked at Thirty-one’s?”
“The old maid in
Great Expectations,
” I explained. “Charles Dickens. Miss Havisham wore her wedding dress until it was rotting on her.”
Tronstad stuck his head back in the doorway. “Charles fucking Dickens? You need to get a life, Juicy Fruit.”
Within seconds Tronstad had cracked the door frame on the second bedroom and was stepping inside. I followed. Unlike the first bedroom, this one was a total mess. As we looked around, the lieutenant shouted from the other end of the house. “I found him. Code green the search. I found him.”
I followed Sears’s voice to the bathroom, where the tub was stuffed with a large, swollen corpse, his head huge and bulging, as were his limbs and stomach, testicles the size of baseballs. All of his skin was black, and he looked like a blimp. “Where’s Charles Scott?” I asked.
“This
is
Charles Scott.”
“But Charles Scott isn’t black.”
“He’s been dead a few days. This is what they do sometimes. Ted searched in here. How did he miss this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Geez, he’s ripe. I’ll call for a C and C. Tronstad! We found him. Code green the search.”
Lieutenant Sears and I made our way through the junk to the front door and stepped outside into the cool night air. Sears keyed the mike on his portable radio and asked for the police and medical examiner. I took several deep breaths of clean air, but the stench seemed to have permeated my nostrils.
When the neighbor Sears had spoken to came out of a house two doors down, Sears walked over and met him. As they went inside, I climbed into the officer’s seat next to Robert Johnson. “You find him?” Johnson asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Was it bad?”
“No.”
Johnson cradled the steering wheel and stared at the empty street through the windshield, his eyes drowsy. Five minutes later I felt somebody bouncing the rig and turned around to see Tronstad standing on the tailboard with a large black plastic garbage bag in his hands. A moment later Tronstad jogged to Ghanet’s house and disappeared inside and was still in there twenty minutes later when the police car arrived. Then as Sears and the SPD officer went through the front door, Tronstad sneaked out of the back, carrying another plastic bag.
“What do you think he’s doing?” I asked, but Johnson was asleep.
Obviously we weren’t supposed to touch the dead man’s belongings, yet on two previous alarms I’d seen Tronstad remove items from dead people’s homes, in one instance four commercial pornographic tapes. He claimed he was doing the dead man a favor by removing them so his loved ones wouldn’t be shocked. On
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