Page 28 of The Burning

“Painters Mill Police Department!” I call out. “Is anyone home? Show yourself! Come out and talk to me!”

No answer.

I walk into the small living room, leaving the door open for not only light, but fresh air. Gold carpet beneath my boots. A peninsula-type bar of sorts to my right separates the living room from the kitchen. A good-size TV sits atop an entertainment center. Floor lamp next to a recliner. Coffee table covered with what looks like more mail, a can of Budweiser lying on its side. A brown sofa sits beneath the window, a wadded-up blanket on the center cushion.

I take it all in and find myself looking for signs of a struggle. At this point, I don’t know if Swanz was killed at the scene or elsewhere, his body moved. I don’t know how much time has passed since he was last here.

Resting my hand on my .38, I cross the living room and start down the hallway that I’m assuming leads to the bedrooms and bathroom. I spot the switch on the wall, flip it on. Nothing.

“Police department!” The last thing I want to do is surprise some sound sleeper who just happens to have a shotgun next to his bed. But there’s no response and I’m pretty sure I’m alone.

My senses hum as I pass by a small bedroom. One window. A ratty-looking mattress on the floor. No sheets. I enter, go to the closet, open the door. Nothing of interest. Backing from the room, I continue down the hall, my boots muted against the carpet. Bathroom to my left. The smells of mildew and dirty towels offend my nose as I cross to the cabinet, open it. Shave cream. Box of condoms. Disposable razor. Bottle of Tylenol.

Back in the hall, I pass by an exterior door to my right and enter a larger bedroom at the rear of the trailer. The bed is a tangle of mismatched sheets and blankets. The smells of unwashed linens and dirty hair poke at me as I go to the closet. A few shirts. Sneakers. A pair of boots. Jeans wadded up on the floor.

More relaxed now that I know I’m alone, I go back to the living room and look around. There’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing broken or tipped over or out of place. Just a messy house kept by an unmarried guy. Pulling on my duty gloves, I go back to the kitchen. There’s a small dining table. A vintage toaster on the counter. I pick up the mail, page through, notice the post date from two days ago. Most look like bills, a few marked “Past Due” and left unopened. I open the nearest drawer, find an array of mismatched flatware and utensils. Below that, a stack of kitchen towels. In the next drawer I find two well-used beer koozies from McNarie’s bar. I stare at them a moment, wondering if Swanz was a regular, and I make a mental note to check.

In the cabinets, I find a dozen or so thrift-store dishes. Canned goods. Boxed pasta meals. Before I open the fridge, I glance out the window. No sign of Mona.

In the living room, I check the coffee table first. More unopened mail. State Bank of Painters Mill. Past-due bill from the local gas company. A few advertisements. Classified section of a newspaper. Nothing.

Pounding on the door draws my attention. I look over to see Mona standing in the doorway. “Did you find the body in the freezer yet?” she calls out.

“Striking out, mostly.” Straightening, I go to her. “I thought you were going to go home and get some sleep.”

“Too much going on.” She gives me a sheepish grin. “Didn’t want to miss any action.”

“I’m glad you decided to stay.”

I recap what I’ve found so far. “I’m getting the impression Swanz was here recently—say twenty-four to forty-eight hours ago.” I motion toward the living room. “I’m going to finish up here. There’s a shed outside. I could use a hand.”

“No problem,” she says. “I’ll take the shed. Want me to check under the trailer, too?”

“Sure.”

Her brows pull together. “We looking for anything in particular?”

I shake my head. “Hopefully, we’ll know it when we see it.”

“Gotcha.”

Turning, she crosses the deck and trots down the steps.

I go back to the sofa, remove the cushions, run my hands into the creases. Crumbs and specks of dried grass. A lone dollar bill. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Sighing, I look around, take the hall back to the main bedroom. In the closet, I pick up the boots, but there’s nothing tucked away inside. I pull a shoebox off the overhead shelf. Empty. I see an Amish-type hat. Two baseball caps. A belt dangles from a wire hanger.

I go to the bed, lift the mattress, but there’s nothing there. There are built-in drawers next to the closet, so I check them next. Empty. Frustrated, glad that I’m nearly finished, I go to the nightstand, kneel, open the top drawer. A deck of cards. A wrinkled edition of Sports Illustrated. Box of tissues. Eyeglasses.

I tug open the next drawer. A spiral-bound notebook. A pen. A lightbulb. I pick up the pad, page through—and my hand freezes. Most of the pages are blank, but toward the middle, I come upon half a dozen addresses scrawled in blue ink. I skim the addresses. The final one at the bottom of the page stops me cold.

14652 TOWNSHIP ROAD 16

PAINTERS MILL

I stare at the address, my brain trying to make sense of it. It’s the address of the farm where I grew up. My brother, Jacob, inherited it when our parents passed away. Why would Milan Swanz have my brother’s address written in a notebook? Who do the other five addresses belong to? What is the connection to Swanz?

Chances are, this is nothing more than some benign list. Maybe these people bought cabinets from the shop where Swanz worked. Maybe Swanz did some casual labor for them.