seething darkness. The shadows scuttled away, as if the presence of light was caustic.
"Hello?" she called out, heart hammering behind her sternum.
The shadows flitted away. Anya's grip on the flashlight was slick with sweat. Perhaps coming here alone had not been a good idea.
The police report had said that the bum's body had been found in one of the old ticket offices. Anya resolutely put one foot in front of the other to peer inside the cracked remains of the box office. Her light swept the dented counter, through the scarred mouth of the ticket window. There had not been glass here for decades.
Sparky hopped through the window onto the counter. Anya clumsily followed, sticking one leg and then the other through the frame. She scooted down the counter until she could set her feet on the floor... in what smelled like human excrement.
"Ugh," she groaned, wiping her shoe on the wall.
She shone her light around the litter-strewn office, which smelled like a sewer. A rat scuttled across the cracked floor into a nest of newspaper, startling her. The light picked out a scorch mark on the floor underneath the counter. Anya bent to get a better look.
This must have been where the homeless man was found. Though no usable evidence remained today, weeks later, Anya had wanted to see it for herself. The perfunctory photos taken of the scene by DPD had shown much the same scene of refuse, with a pair of feet extending from the bottom of the counter. Anya's light picked out the scorch mark on the floor, and a matching one on the filthy underside of the counter where a roach zipped past. If the fire had started while the man was on the floor, smoke surely would have burned up the entire counter... and the intense heat required to do that would certainly have spread to the nearby trash. Yet, as in Bernie's house, there was only a black mark remaining, very little evidence to suggest such a dramatic end.
Anya straightened, chewing her lip. There were glass bottles strewn around, some of them liquor bottles. Perhaps there was something to the theory about heavy drinking creating a stupor that would make the victim impervious to a cigarette burn. But that felt like too much of a reach. Wouldn't the homeless man have woken up at some point, regardless of how much Two Buck Chuck he'd managed to down?
Anya slithered back through the ticket window. Shadows wildly chased one another in the flashlight glare as she found her footing.
She squinted into the half-darkness. Someone was here. And someone had seen something.
"Hello?" she called out. Her voice scraped the roof of the waiting room. "I'm looking for anyone who knew George. I'm not a cop. I just want to talk."
Shadows seethed. A voice squeaked from behind a Doric column: "You ain't no cop? You a social worker?"
"No. I'm a firefighter."
A silhouette slipped around the edge of the column. Anya shone her light before her, picking out a bearded man wearing an olive green military jacket and a ball cap. A backpack was slung over his right shoulder, and his left hand held a brightly colored bag of donations from a local supermarket known for charitable works. The man looked her up and down, and Anya's skin crawled. Sparky parked himself between Anya and the man, hackles raised.
"You don't look like no fireman. You look like a social worker. And you've got shit on your shoes."
"I'm not a social worker. And yeah, I've got shit on my shoes. I'm pretty sure it's not mine."
The man cracked a toothless smile. "You got money?"
"I've got money if you've got information." Anya didn't step closer; she didn't want to spook him. Nor did she want to get much closer to this man who smelled like he hadn't showered in a year. "Did you know George?"
"Yeah. He's dead."
"I know. Did he usually sleep back there, in the ticket office?"
"Yeah. That was his favorite hidey-hole."
"Did you ever see any signs of a fire?"
"The night before he disappeared, he damn near caused a fight. He was cookin'
"Hello?" she called out, heart hammering behind her sternum.
The shadows flitted away. Anya's grip on the flashlight was slick with sweat. Perhaps coming here alone had not been a good idea.
The police report had said that the bum's body had been found in one of the old ticket offices. Anya resolutely put one foot in front of the other to peer inside the cracked remains of the box office. Her light swept the dented counter, through the scarred mouth of the ticket window. There had not been glass here for decades.
Sparky hopped through the window onto the counter. Anya clumsily followed, sticking one leg and then the other through the frame. She scooted down the counter until she could set her feet on the floor... in what smelled like human excrement.
"Ugh," she groaned, wiping her shoe on the wall.
She shone her light around the litter-strewn office, which smelled like a sewer. A rat scuttled across the cracked floor into a nest of newspaper, startling her. The light picked out a scorch mark on the floor underneath the counter. Anya bent to get a better look.
This must have been where the homeless man was found. Though no usable evidence remained today, weeks later, Anya had wanted to see it for herself. The perfunctory photos taken of the scene by DPD had shown much the same scene of refuse, with a pair of feet extending from the bottom of the counter. Anya's light picked out the scorch mark on the floor, and a matching one on the filthy underside of the counter where a roach zipped past. If the fire had started while the man was on the floor, smoke surely would have burned up the entire counter... and the intense heat required to do that would certainly have spread to the nearby trash. Yet, as in Bernie's house, there was only a black mark remaining, very little evidence to suggest such a dramatic end.
Anya straightened, chewing her lip. There were glass bottles strewn around, some of them liquor bottles. Perhaps there was something to the theory about heavy drinking creating a stupor that would make the victim impervious to a cigarette burn. But that felt like too much of a reach. Wouldn't the homeless man have woken up at some point, regardless of how much Two Buck Chuck he'd managed to down?
Anya slithered back through the ticket window. Shadows wildly chased one another in the flashlight glare as she found her footing.
She squinted into the half-darkness. Someone was here. And someone had seen something.
"Hello?" she called out. Her voice scraped the roof of the waiting room. "I'm looking for anyone who knew George. I'm not a cop. I just want to talk."
Shadows seethed. A voice squeaked from behind a Doric column: "You ain't no cop? You a social worker?"
"No. I'm a firefighter."
A silhouette slipped around the edge of the column. Anya shone her light before her, picking out a bearded man wearing an olive green military jacket and a ball cap. A backpack was slung over his right shoulder, and his left hand held a brightly colored bag of donations from a local supermarket known for charitable works. The man looked her up and down, and Anya's skin crawled. Sparky parked himself between Anya and the man, hackles raised.
"You don't look like no fireman. You look like a social worker. And you've got shit on your shoes."
"I'm not a social worker. And yeah, I've got shit on my shoes. I'm pretty sure it's not mine."
The man cracked a toothless smile. "You got money?"
"I've got money if you've got information." Anya didn't step closer; she didn't want to spook him. Nor did she want to get much closer to this man who smelled like he hadn't showered in a year. "Did you know George?"
"Yeah. He's dead."
"I know. Did he usually sleep back there, in the ticket office?"
"Yeah. That was his favorite hidey-hole."
"Did you ever see any signs of a fire?"
"The night before he disappeared, he damn near caused a fight. He was cookin'
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