Milo sighed and rose. “We’re going upstairs now, Mrs. Krohnfeld.”
“When can I put the place up for rent?”
“Soon.”
“Sooner the better—idjits.”
The steps to Mate’s unit were on the right side of the duplex, and before I climbed I had a look at the rear yard. Not much more than a strip of concrete, barely space for the double carport. An old Chevy that Milo identified as Mate’s was parked next to an even older Chrysler New Yorker. Unused laundry lines sketched crosshatch shadows across the cement. Low block fencing revealed neighbors on all sides, mostly multiple-unit apartment buildings, higher than the duplex. Throw a barbecue down here and lots of people would know the menu.
Mate had chased headlines, desired no privacy in his off-hours.
An exhibitionist, or had Alice Zoghbie been right? Not cued into his surroundings.
Either way, easy victim.
I mentioned that to Milo. He sucked his teeth and took me back to the entrance.
Mate’s front door was capped by a small overhang. Ads from fast-food joints littered the floor. Milo picked them up, glanced at a few, dropped them. Yellow tape banded the plain wood door. Milo yanked it loose. One key twist and we were in. A single lock, not a dead bolt. Anyone could’ve kicked it in.
Mold, must, rot, the nose-tweaking snap of decaying paper. Air so heavy with dust it felt granular.
Milo opened the ancient Venetian blinds. Where light penetrated the apartment it highlighted the particulate storms that we set off as we moved through tight, shadowed spaces.
Tight because virtually the entire front of the flat was filled with bookshelves. Plywood cases, separated by narrow aisles. Unfinished wood, warped shelves suffering under the weight of scholarship.
Life of the mind. Eldon Mate had turned his entire domicile into a library.
Even the kitchen counters were piled high with books. Inside the fridge were bottles of water, a moldering slab of hoop cheese, a few softening vegetables.
I walked around reading titles as dust settled on my shoulders. Chemistry, physics, mathematics, biology, toxicology. Two entire cases of pathology, forensics, another wall of law—civil liability, jurisprudence, the criminal codes of what appeared to be every state of the union.
Mostly crumbling paperbacks and cold shabby texts with torn spines and flaking pages, the kind of treasures that can be found at any thrift shop.
No fiction.
I moved to the tiny back room where Mate had slept. Ten feet square, low-ceilinged, lit by a bare bulb screwed to a white porcelain ceiling fixture. Bare gray walls jaundiced by western light seeping through parchment-colored window shades. The cheap cot and nightstand took up most of the space, leaving barely enough room for a raw-looking three-drawer pine dresser. Ten-inch Zenith TV atop the dresser—as if Mate had had to make up for Mrs. Krohnfeld’s video excess.
A door led to the adjoining bathroom, and I went in there because bathrooms can sometimes tell you more about a person than any other space. This one didn’t. Razor, shaving cream, laxatives, antigas tablets, and aspirin in the medicine cabinet. Amber ring around the tub. Bar of green soap bottomed by slime, sitting like a dead frog in a brown plastic dish.
The closet was skinny and crammed full, sharp with the reek of camphor. A dozen wash-and-wear white shirts, half that many pairs of gray twill slacks, all Sears label; one heavy charcoal suit from Zachary All, wide lapels testifying to a long-ago fashion cycle; three pairs of black cap-toe oxfords stretched by cedar shoe trees; two beige windbreakers, also Sears; a pair of narrow black ties hanging from a hook—polyester, made in Korea.
“What was his financial situation?” I said. “Doesn’t look like he spent much on clothes.”
“He spent on food, gas, car repairs, books, phone and utilities. I haven’t gotten his tax forms yet, but there were some bankbooks in there.” Indicating the dresser. “His basic income seems to have been his U.S. Public Health Service pension. Two and a half grand a month deposited directly into the savings account, plus occasional cash payments, two hundred to a thou each, irregularly spaced. Those I figure were donations. They add up to another fifteen a year.”