“What else have you got?”

“Plenny. Got hits from the VA. He was in the DOD file. That’s not Low, that’s Mulgrave.”

“What about date of birth, place of birth? Father’s name?”

“Got,” Stickney said. “All that.” He pushed the papers aside. “Too much to process. Look like he born somewhere on mainland.” He tapped a line with his fingertip. “Kansas.”

“Arkansas,” Olive said. “Even I know that.”

“Look the same to me.”

“Different state,” Olive said, lifting the document. “Floristan.”

“Got waves there?”

“No waves,” Olive said.

“And this,” Stickney said. He opened a folder and removed another document—photocopied, they could tell from the way the signature was printed, and the signature was Mulgrave.

“Looks like a property deed,” Olive said. “He owns a house?”

“Used to own a house—this is a transfer of ownership. Look at the purchase price.”

“Three million and change.”

“Ten years ago, in San Fran. What you suppose it worth now?” Stickney said, seeming to gloat.

“He was homeless,” Sharkey said.

“Not then,” Stickney said, and flicked the document. “He riding high then.”

“So what happened?”

“Something heavy. And there’s more.”

“Can we have copies?”

“Some of it classified, like military records and police stuff. Or get limited info, for family only. But the rest—okay.” He stood, as though for the dramatic effect of showing his big body. “Some amazing stuff here—like stuff I never see before. But there’s something more amazing.”

He leaned and planted his hands on the papers, breathing hard, seeming to believe that he was creating suspense out of his clumsy delay.

“Please go on,” Olive said.

But instead of replying, Stickney carried the sheaf of loose documents to the photocopier and began to feed papers into it.

“All these numbers, all these names, all these hits,” Stickney said, teasing a document into the slot. “We send out bulletins and emails to the next of kin, even letters.” He bent over and sniffed at a copy sliding from the chute into the tray. “And what do we get back?” He was still feeding papers into the slot. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

“No one to claim the body?”

“Nobody reply!” He turned and widened his eyes. “We cremate him. We send him over to the morgue. Now it up to them to find out next of kin. And they have the rest of the paperwork. The protocol stuff, not the personal.”

“Aren’t you still looking?” Olive asked.

“Out of our hands now. We ID’d him. We got prints. We got identifying marks and scars. The tattoo.”

“I have a photo of it.”

“Good, ’cause we burned the body.”

“I thought you kept it downstairs.”

“Got to make room for more human remains. We kept some DNA in the file. Dental records and that. That’s the policy. Once we ID someone, the case sent to the morgue, where they store the ashes.”

“How long do they store them?”