A/N Hello there my lovelies! This is something I have been working on for a while but just haven't had the chance to put up here yet. I wanted to write something like an episode, and this is how it turned out. Sorry for the ending, I just needed to get that extra bit of information in but at the same time I didn't want to give to much away, if you what I'm saying...But anyway, reviews as always are welcomed!
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Apartment 15a
96 W. 242nd Street
Bronx, NY
9.17 AM
"How did he live like this? This place is a pig sty."
"He probably died of some kind of infection – look at this! It's probably been about ten years since this dish saw the sink."
Jimmy Roberts and Richardo Day were used to this kind of situation. It was their job to sort through a lifetime's worth of junk, and sometimes they had to deal with an apartment like this – the kind where the moment that you step inside, you feel like you need to take a shower. To the rest of the Department of Health and Sanitation they were referred to as trumped up garbage men, just because they didn't have to wade around in piles of trash outside. But really, their job was worse sometimes. It was heartbreaking to see how some people were living, even in this day and age. The elderly gentleman who had lived here had done so for about fifty years, and even so, most of his neighbours didn't even know his name, let alone if he happened to have any distant family.
"I don't think he's gonna have any cash just laying around here. He don't even got a TV."
"Then he goes to the Field with the rest of 'em." Jimmy said, with the harshness that came with so many years on the job, whilst rifling through drawers in the kitchen but just not finding what he needed.
That was the worst part of their jobs. The trash, insects, and decaying food they could deal with (that's what their motto was for – 'thank God for gloves...'), but when some unfortunate old guy ended up in an unmarked pauper's grave, it was sort of heartbreaking. Richardo just imagined his own grandmother in Ecuador, dying all alone and then being thrown into a hole in the ground on Hart Island with about twenty other people, then finally being buried by convicts from Riker's Island. It was hardly a dignified way to leave the planet, but the only thing they could do about it was either find enough cash here to pay for a proper funeral, or to find the poor bastard's family so they could pay it themselves.
"Rick, go check the closet in the bedroom, if it were me that's where I'd keep my valuables."
10.24 AM
About an hour later, Jimmy was finished in the main area of the apartment, and went to join his partner in the adjoining room. All of the boxes that had been stacked on the shelf in the closet on the far wall had now been turned out on the floor, their contents unceremoniously deposited in various heaps.
"Anything yet?"
"No. Help me get that suitcase there, would ya?"
The two men stepped forward and grabbed hold of the suitcase at either end. They pulled it out into the middle of the small room, furnished only with a bed and a side table with a Bible on top of it, and dropped it down. It settled with a light thud, and they heard the contents shift inside.
"Let's hope we get lucky." Jimmy said, pulling the zip all the way around the edge until they could open it fully.
"Holy crap..."
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Apartment 15a
96 W. 242nd Street
Bronx, NY
2.41 PM
Mac Taylor walked into the apartment, just as Jimmy and Richardo had done five hours earlier, carrying his kit in one hand and his suit jacket in the other. The smell hit him immediately – a decomp in an enclosed space was one of the worst cases to get, and in the summer heat it was doubly unbearable. His presence was acknowledged by Detective Flack, who informed him of what had happened.
"These two guys from DOHS were going through some old guy's apartment – his name's Anthony Bridges, I think – and they come across a skeleton, in a suitcase, in his closet. I'll leave the jokes to you."
"It's a shame we can't talk to Mr Bridges. We could all be home before dinner that way." Mac was meant to be meeting Peyton for dinner, but he had the feeling that, yet again, he would be cancelling and attempting to make it up to her tomorrow.
"As far as I can gather from the building manager, no one complained of any nasty smells coming from in here before now, except for the normal 'old man' smell. Bridges had been housebound for about twenty years prior to his death, so I really don't see him going out and killing some random person on the street. Had to be someone he knew."
"Any relatives we can talk to?"
"That's what these guys were here for," Flack replied, pointing to where they were standing, telling the other officers everything that they had found. "All they got was a photo of some kid that looks like it was taken in the seventies, with 'Ronny, 1972' written on the back – could be his son, could be whoever's in the suitcase. This probably isn't something they're gonna forget in a hurry"
"They have the same job as us, really. We're all just trying to find out a bit more about each person, because we know the tiniest detail can make all the difference." Mac said, and he bent down to get a better look at the skeleton. He pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket, put them on, and reached into the suitcase.
"Whatcha got there?"
"Looks like little scraps of fabric. I'll know more once we get everything back to the lab."
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Crime Lab – Lay Out Room
157 E. 34th Street
Manhattan, NY
4.07 PM
Stella swept a brown curl out of her eyes, and continued to process the items from the suitcase. So far she had removed a 1977 quarter, a blue and purple patterned scarf, some pieces of sparkly fabric, and a few strands of red hair. She would have to stop soon, anyway, so she could meet Mac at the Medical Examiner's office, but she needed to go down there with as much information as she could so they could narrow down the time line. If they couldn't identify whoever's remains it was from the body itself, then they would need all the information from elsewhere. It was quite frustrating at this stage, before they really knew anything that could lead to a name. She began drumming her fingers on the counter where all of the evidence was spread out in front of her, and stared straight ahead, as if the answer she was looking for was written there.
"Hey! Danny!"
He had been walking past the lay out room where she was working, folder in hand, and when she called out to him he stopped and gaped at her from the other side of the glass wall. She sighed and motioned for him to come in to where she was.
"What's up, stell?"
"Did you get the DNA results?"
"Yeah, there is no relation to Mr Bridges and no matches in CODIS. There's a detective from Missing Persons coming over to help us out with a reconstruction. They might be able to match the reconstruction with a photo from a Missing Persons report."
"Good, I don't really have anything probative from the suitcase."
"Give it time. Once we get this guy a face, we can get it in all the newspapers and on TV. Someone will know something."
"In the meantime, why don't you see if you can get anything off these hairs," she said handing them to him. "See if they belong to someone else, or maybe if there's a hair product on them. Anything we can use."
"Will do." His pager beeped, he excused himself, and then he left in the direction of the elevators. Stella sighed again, and continued to absent-mindedly drum her fingers on the counter.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Crime Lab – Trace Lab
157 E. 34th Street
Manhattan, NY
4.14 PM
"Adam, have you got those results from the sparkly fabric for me?" Lindsey asked, closing the door to the lab behind her and stepping in the room.
"They're still pending." he replied bluntly, looking up from his microscope briefly before lowering his head again, and going back to what he was doing.
"Well how about prints from the quarter?"
"Nothing, any prints inside the suitcase would have been removed or degraded when the body decomposed. I did tell you it was a long shot."
"I know, but we had to give it a shot, right? At least we tried. What's up with you, today?"
"Why do you think the old guy kept the body?" Adam asked, after a few moments of silence.
"I have no idea. I've heard of killers keeping a souvenir from the crime scene, or even taking a lock of hair or a vial of blood from the victim, but this is a little extreme." She thought for a moment. "Or maybe it wasn't his suitcase."
"Well then whose was it?"
"I don't know, I'm just speculating. It's unlikely that he didn't know the whole suitcase was in there, because he hadn't left the house in twenty years, so no one could have just hidden it in there while he was out. But maybe he was just looking after the suitcase for someone he knew."
"And he didn't think to look inside?"
"Who knows, Adam." she sighed, opened the door, and called back over her shoulder, "Page me when you get those results, OK?"
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Hot Dog Stand
Corner of E. 48th Street and Fifth Avenue
Manhattan, NY
4.37 PM
"Taylor."
"It's Flack. I found out a little something about Anthony Bridges' apartment building."
"Go ahead."
"Turns out in the late seventies it was a pretty seedy area, and was mainly frequented by prostitutes and crack addicts. So I'm thinking our guy could be a pimp or a junky."
"Whoever was in the suitcase could have only died a year ago. The quarter doesn't necessarily mean anything, except maybe either the victim or the killer had a coin collection. It could have been thirty years ago, but we don't really know when the murder took place."
"It's a start. A lot of residents from that period still live there, so I'm going to do some more asking around once we get a face for the vic. See if someone remembers anything useful."
"OK, I'll talk to you later."
Flack hung up, paid for his hot dog and continued walking down the street towards the lab.