I pulled up to the address, engine running long enough for the radiator to tick in protest.

The building stood four stories high, concrete worn down to a grey so lifeless it blended with the sky.

Cracks ran up the facade and narrow diagonal patterns.

Someone had patched over the large ones with

foam sealant, but the rest looked untouched. A handful of rusted window units buzzed on

the upper floors and thin faces hovered behind curtains, peering out to the street. Some

disappeared when they saw me in plain clothes.

Others didn't bother hiding.

Yellow tapes stretched across the entrance.

Two uniforms stood beside it,

looking like they hadn't slept in days.

One of them nodded when he saw me approach and lifted the tape.

Detective Hanley, I said, flashed my badge before he could ask.

Yeah, upstairs, third floor, Unit 3C, you'll want to see it yourself.

I didn't say anything back.

He looked relieved by that.

The stairwell reaped of mildew and detergent, cheap industrial cleaner from the smell of it.

Someone had made a half-baked effort to mop the blood trail that leaked from under the victim's door and ran down

to the base of the steps. Rats scurried and ran deeper into the building as I made my way through.

Unit 3C was open, held that way by a folding wedge jammed under the hinge. Two more officers stood inside.

They didn't bother with pleasantries. One was busy writing in a small flip notepad. The other

looked pale, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. I stepped in and scanned the room without touching anything.

...