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Detectives Cantin and Northcutt found out the internet service provider was local. They now had the name of their killer: Virgil Wentzel of 262 Caulfield Lane, New Orleans, Louisiana.
Four uniformed officers were immediately dispatched to Caulfield, a short dead-end road. Wentzel’s house stood stark and foreboding. Bordered on three sides by trees and overgrown brush separated it from other houses in the area. They were told to remain out of sight until the detectives arrived with a search warrant.
Spanish moss draped live oaks. From their hiding places behind the broad tree trunks the officers observed shutters, soffits, and guttering in a serious state of disrepair. The clapboard siding and stuccowork had long since lost their original colors. Bermuda grass had been choked to death by weeds. The windows were covered on the inside with loosely hung black or dark blue bed sheets. Both of the dormer windows on top of the one-story house had either been used for target practice or had been hit by large hailstones.
Busting down the door, so to speak, with a search warrant in hand, Northcutt and Cantin halted. The living room was empty except for a white plastic folding table, covered with a clear sheet of plastic, holding computer equipment and a printer, a landline telephone, and a lamp.
A wood floor was stained and rotted with water damage and termite infestation. Sections of wallpaper were curled under from the ceiling to the center of the wall, the colors and patterns no longer discernible. The popcorn ceiling was discolored and cracked, here and there, because of a leaky roof and broken dormer windows. Large, medium, and small cockroaches, dead and alive.
The linoleum on the kitchen floor had become peeled back in spots, and had turned a disgusting yellowish-gray. The refrigerator interior was dotted with mold and mildew, and smelled like something bigger than a bug had crawled in there and died. Roaches ran undisturbed over the counters, stove, and sink speckled with black droppings of feces. Nothing in the cabinets other than more bugs milling about with nowhere to go.
Cantin flipped up a switch on the kitchen wall. The light in the ceiling fixture barely shined through the dusty glass cover holding a few dead bugs. “The electricity’s definitely on.”
One bathroom. The once-white porcelain of the tub and sink was now the blackish-green color of mold. Bugs crawled in and out of the drains. The toilet bowl was a disgusting shade of orange. A decomposing mouse was stretched out on the floor behind the toilet. Almost invisible against a brown baseboard, a two and a half inch long scorpion readied its stinger.
Three bedrooms. No doubt each as filthy as the other. Dark green carpeting stretched up the hallway to the four corners of the bedrooms and appeared coated with a thin fuzzy white layer of mold, possibly caused by high humidity and no air conditioning. No human footprints.
Cobwebs infested every corner, crack, and crevice. Toxic mold, everywhere else.
The only thing out of the ordinary was the garbage. Rather, the lack thereof. No empty packages, bottles, jars, or cans. Not one single scrap of food. Perhaps even a serial killer couldn’t manage eating in such a nasty environment?
Northcutt read one of the sheets of paper clutched in his fist. Copies of the records he requested at the deed office showed an attorney named Richard Gravois was the executor of the house at 262 Caulfield Lane.
He made a mental note to contact the attorney.
Headed outside for some fresh air.
“Wentzel.”
When and where have I heard that name?