“Sorry to bug you,” I said, but the door was already closed.

From there I tracked down the manager. He lived on the ground level in a unit that resembled a dirt cave. The windows were covered with dark blankets and the TV was like a primitive fire casting blue illuminations on the wall. I almost expected to see bones scattered on the floor.

“I wonder if you remember Benny Reger?” I said. “He lived up in 206 a few years ago?”

The manager, a plain, forehead-heavy dude with greasy eyes, remembered Benny well.

“He left a real fucking mess,” he said. “I had to call in movers. It was like an electronics store. But everything busted. What was the point?”

“You haven’t seen him lately though?” I said.

“He’s long gone. He had a roommate at the end. He might know something.”

“What was the roommate’s name?” I said. I had never heard of a roommate before.

“Blue,” the manager said. “I guess that’s not helpful. Blue was a black guy. For what that’s worth.”

“Any idea where Benny went?” I said. “Did he leave a forwarding address or anything?” It was a long shot, but I had promised an honest effort. And anyway, I was kind of enjoying the detective work.

The manager rubbed his chin and pinched the flesh of his neck. He leaned from his dark doorway into the daylight and squinted skyward. I had the feeling he might be on the verge of plucking some helpful tidbit from the air, like a gnat, but then he retreated, stepping back inside the mouth of his living room.

“No idea,” he said. “He never said a word. He was just gone one day. That was it.”

My knowledge of searching for people came almost exclusively from old Law and Order episodes, and so I knew that after checking Benny’s former address, I should probably track down his last workplace for clues.

I knew Benny had worked construction in the past, and I’m a carpenter myself, so it wasn’t hard to ask around at the Local for any leads. Benny wasn’t a union guy, but it was a small town. There were only so many contractors out there, and Benny got around. Bill Sandstrom had a dim memory of hiring him once. At least the name sounded familiar. And after I described Benny—his black, tightly curling hair, his stick arms, that crazy laugh—he was pretty certain we were talking about the same guy.

“That was at least a couple years ago,” he said. “He’d just quit the Plaid Pantry.”

“Three, more likely,” I said. Benny had been out of work for a while the last time I’d seen him. If it had been two years, it had been three since he’d worked with Bill.

“Shit.” He whistled under his breath. “Time flies. I guess you’re right.”