Milo let him stand there for a while, getting an eyeful of the bodies. Sweat beaded Bryczinski’s hairline. His back curved in an unhealthy way. Forty but he looked fifty, with wispy sandy hair gone mostly gray and a narrow face sunken in all the wrong places. Five seven, one thirty soaking wet. Small, cheap flashlight hanging from a belt drawn to the last hole. No one was serious about keeping this site secure.

“Anyway,” he said.

“You’re sure you don’t know them.”

Bryczinski’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I?”

“Now that you can see their faces, I mean.”

“I see ’em but I sure don’t know ’em.” Backing away toward the wall. Just before he made contact, Milo took hold of his arm.

Bryczinski tensed. “Hey.”

“Sorry, Doyle. We need to print everything. I’m sure you know the drill.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Milo said, “This kind of situation, I have to ask all kinds of questions. You’re up here more than anyone. Meaning if anyone comes by, messes the place up, you’d be in the best position to know.”

“I’m here but I ain’t up here much.” The guard stamped his foot lightly. Plywood thrummed. “Once I check up here, I don’t come back.”

“Don’t like the view.”

“I’m working, got no time for views.”

“So no one ever messes around up here.”

“Like who?”

“Anyone,” said Milo.

“Like some homeless guy? You’re thinking it was one of those idiots, they surprised him, he went nuts?”

“Anything’s possible, Doyle.”

“Well, that hasn’t happened for a long time,” said Bryczinski, chancing another look at the bodies. “A homeless, I mean.”

“You’ve had problems with squatters?”

“Nah, not really. About a year ago—maybe longer, year and a half, I come in one morning and find dirt. Not up here, on the second floor.”

“Someone tracked in soil.”

“Person dirt. You know what I mean.”

“Someone used the place for a toilet?”

“Right in the middle of floor two, foot of the stairs. Gross. Also there was food wrappers—Taco Bell, wax cups, greasy paper. Beans and sauce stains on the floor. Someone was eating Mexican, then crapping all over.”

“What a mess,” said Milo.

“I called the company, they said clean it up. With what? There’s no water, one broken hose bib out back but no pressure. I said screw that. Why bother, anyway? What’s to stop the idiot from coming back the next day and doing the same thing?”

“Did he?”

“Nope. But a little later, maybe a month later, some Mexicans came in and ate again. Thank God they didn’t dump.”

“How do you know they were Mexicans?”

“Taco Bell wrappers. And too much for one person.”

“All kinds of people eat at Taco Bell.”