At the thought of disturbing Brinkman for a third time, my stomach was in knots, and I decided to wait until 5:30 a.m. to make the call. In the meantime, I placed a call to O’Leary and got his voicemail. I didn’t want to give him the news on a recording and decided to try again later.
Brinkman agreed to provide me with a warrant to search Snyder’s last known address, grumbled something inaudible, then abruptly disconnected. With any luck, I could make it to Brinkman’s mansion in Mission Hills and get out of there before the sun came up. When I arrived, he didn’t greet me at the door. Instead, I found an envelope plastered to the storm door with my name scrawled across it in large angry uppercase letters.
Confident I’d find a link between Snyder, Cahill, and Barstow, I shrugged off Brinkman’s insult as adrenaline coursed through my body. Convinced, more than ever, that those three men were involved in the women’s murders, I fought the urge to grind my foot into the accelerator and steered the car toward Snyder’s apartment.
When I curbed the Dodge near the manager’s office within Happy Acres Apartments, I wondered why no one had sued the slumlord for false advertising. Not only did the building occupy less than a city block, but it was also sadder than an alcoholic at a juice bar. The sky intermittently spat abrasive pellets as menacing gray clouds competed with the complex’s dismal exterior. I grabbed a KCPD ball cap from the back seat and ditched the hoodie.
To his credit, the manager answered the door to his office/apartment in record time. He cracked the door ajar and the smell of cat urine wafted through the opening, the scent so strong it stung my nostrils. A sleeveless undershirt revealed the hair that covered his arms and shoulders, which was nearly as dense and unattractive as the shag carpeting inside the doorway.
I produced my shield, and he released the chain lock and swept the door to the wall.
“What can I do for you, Officer?”
“It’s Detective and I have a warrant to search David Snyder’s apartment. And you are?”
He grimaced and I had a feeling he knew Snyder well. “Lou. Lou Randall. Give me a minute, and I’ll get the keys. He’s behind on his rent, but I don’t suppose you can do anything about that.”
I shook my head. “You won’t be getting any more rent from Mr. Snyder. He’s been murdered.”
The manager rolled his eyes. “No surprise there.”
He unlocked the door and tailgated me as I stepped inside.
I whirled around and persuaded him to take a few steps back. “You can go now, Mr. Randall. I’ll lock up when I’m finished.”
“I’m not supposed to—”
“I’m a Kansas City Detective. If you’re concerned I might take something, that legal document I showed you gives me permission to do just that.”
“The door doesn’t lock from the inside.”
I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers. “Then give me the keys, and I’ll drop them by your apartment before I leave.”
I waited for him to shuffle toward his apartment. Once I’d stretched the latex gloves over my hands, I started in the bedroom, uprooting every drawer in the chest of drawers and bedside table, every article of clothing, even the mattress, which had more stains than an auto repair shop. Finding nothing of interest, I took a deep breath and entered the bathroom. Turquoise tiles had succumbed to missing grout and lay scattered here and there across the shower floor. An empty soap dish seesawed, one side clinging helplessly to one of the few tiles that remained intact. The medicine cabinet lay empty aside from the skeletal remains of indeterminate insects. I removed the lid from the toilet tank and looked inside. Then I moved on to the kitchen.
Examining a box of Cap’n Crunch, I first noticed the weight seemed off. I estimated the contents weighed several pounds rather than just under sixteen ounces as the box advertised. The top of the box looked suspicious, as though someone had opened it then reapplied adhesive. I ripped it open and dumped out stacks of bills bound with red rubber bands. I found a second box, then a third. I had a feeling forensics would soon recover Gunner’s DNA.
I pulled open the refrigerator and a pungent odor persuaded me to take a step back. Rescuing a pair of tongs from the floor, I sifted through old takeout containers, produce that turned to jelly upon compression, and several packages containing pinkish-gray disks covered in green fur that may have been moldy lunchmeats. Grabbing it by the tongue, I tugged an orange juice container from the back of the refrigerator. I shook it, expecting it to slosh. When it didn’t, I peeked inside and discovered a large quantity of illicit capsules and pills.
Stored inside the freezer were a mountain of Hungry Man dinners alongside several boxes of fish sticks. None of the boxes appeared corrupted—except one. Like the cereal box, Snyder had opened the package and resealed it. I shook the box, and it seemed empty. Using my fingernails, I separated the thick band of glue from the box, and from the otherwise empty container I plucked a woman’s lace thong. Elsie Hanover immediately came to mind.
Lawn chairs substituted for traditional living room furniture faced a television mounted crookedly on the wall. Disappointed I hadn’t found the murder weapon, I combed the apartment again. Finding nothing, I collected an empty trash bag from under the sink and stuffed the money and drugs inside. I returned the thong to the box and set it on top of the cash before securing the bag with a twist tie. I heaved the bag outside, locked the door, and pitched the evidence into my trunk. Randall was waiting outside, petting a cat and puffing on a cigarette.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Not everything,” I said and surrendered the key. What did Snyder do with the murder weapon?