The apartment is no longer a crime scene. The investigation is over. He can start to clean up and clean out for the third time in his life. Sunday afternoon is bright, clear, sunny. Hurricane Hanna had cleared the smog from the air and it felt like a day in early October instead of early September. The day is too cheerful, especially for the task at hand.
Bobby has very few motivators for cleaning out Frank's apartment, but he feels like he owes his brother at least that much. Maybe he'd donate to a homeless shelter whatever was usable. Except last time Bobby had been here, there hadn't been much of anything besides a mess. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor as the landlord unlocked the door for him. The landlord was short, no more than 5'5", and at least in his late 60's. His gray hair was thinning on top and he smelled like clove cigarettes, prompting Bobby to make a note to buy a pack on his way home. Andy would kill him but it wasn't like he really cared.
The landlord cast a glance up at Bobby, one that was mixed of curiosity and sympathy. He knew Bobby was the brother of the junkie that had been pushed out a window. It's probably a lot like staring at a car accident. Bobby ignored the landlord's look and cast his own eyes on the floor as the short little man opened the door.
"Thanks," Bobby muttered, stepping into Frank's apartment. He continued to ignore the landlord hovering in the doorway, closing the door on him. He wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, let alone nosy old men. He just wanted to get this done so it wouldn't be hanging over his head anymore. Where he'd go when he was done was still undecided. He didn't want to stay here any longer than necessary, but he didn't want to go home, either. All that was waiting for him at home was a fight with one of two people he was expecting to leave him like everyone else had.
Looking around Frank's apartment, Bobby sighed. The place was a dump using the nicest of terms. But the mess was still what Frank had called home every night for the last nine months. Just standing in the entryway was enough to bring back memories of throwing his older brother against the wall. That was the last time they'd spoken. His last words to Frank were cold, uncaring. And he regretted them fiercely, no matter how much he'd meant them at the time.
It was Frank's fault he'd gone through hell nine months ago. Wasn't it? Bobby started to gather some of the garbage scattered around into a trash bag. The act of picking up started to drive home how real this all was. Frank was never coming back. Bobby had lost his chance at reconciling. Picking up a glass bowl from the coffee table, Bobby tested the weight of it in his hand. Anger--at Nicole Wallace, at Declan, at Frank, at himself--all came bubbling up to the surface and he pitched the bowl at the wall with all the strength he had, taking his anger out on the object as if it had wronged him. The bowl collided with the wall, denting the already marked up surface, and exploded into lots of little bits.
Bobby stared at the broken shards on the floor, flicking his gaze up to the ding in the drywall. The landlord would probably make him pay to have it fixed. He sighed and sat on the couch, surrounding himself with his memories and his demons.