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sure this is the right place?” David asks as we walk up the stairs in the apartment building.
    The apartment building is in contrast to Mrs. Jackson’s home.  Her residence was a dustless home but this apartment block is almost a garbage site.  Bags of rubbish sit on the stairwell and the stench is overpowering. 
    I’ve seen plenty of buildings like this, but it makes me sad to hear children in the background.  Children shouldn’t have to grow up like this. 
    Nobody should have to live like this.
    I stop near one apartment door where I can hear a young child crying in the background.
    “You can’t save them all, Sarah,” David remarks as he indicates for me to keep walking up the stairs.
    He’s right.
    As much as I want to, I can’t save everyone.   Reluctantly, I keep walking up the stairs.
    We arrive at the third floor, and David knocks heavily on the apartment door of Robert Jackson, the grandson of the victim.
    “Robert Jackson?” I call out when there is no answer, “My name is Detective Sarah Morrison.  I would like to have a word with you.”
    But there is no answer.
    David lands two more heavy knocks on the door and we await the answer.
    But there is no response.
    We nod to each other and our hands rest on our holsters as I turn the door handle.  The door opens easily and it is clear that this is a door that has been broken into many times.
    Inside the apartment is a mess of many different things – clothes lying about, empty pizza boxes, a damaged television and an old, worn-out couch.  I’ve come to expect that drug users own apartments like this, but that still doesn’t prepare you for the squalor.
    The stench in the room is strong and it smells like it hasn’t been cleaned in months.
    “Drug addicts aren’t known for clean houses,” David whispers when he sees the look on my face.
    We move through the lounge room, looking for any sign of movement. 
    “Robert Jackson?” I call out.
    There is no response and no sign of movement.
    “Robert Jackson, my name is Detective Sarah Morrison and I am from the New York City Police Department.  I want to ask you a few questions.”
    I slowly creep into the apartment, past the worn-out couch.
    David follows closely behind me, his hand resting on the gun in his holster.
    “Robert Jackson?” David calls out.
    When we find no movement in the lounge room, I move to the kitchen.
    The kitchen is just as bad.  There are dirty pots festering on the sink, mold on the walls and leftover food on the benches. 
    How can anyone live like this?
    I spot the rusted kettle sitting on the stove and I place my hand around it. 
    Instantly, I draw my gun.
    David questions me with his look.
    “The kettle is still warm,” I whisper to him, and David draws his gun as well.
    “You check the cupboards, I’ve got your back,” David whispers and stands at the entrance to the kitchen, his gun drawn and pointing into the lounge room.
    I gently, but swiftly, open each cupboard door to check for any movement.
    “Clear,” I state softly to David.
    “We just want to talk, Robert.  You’re not in trouble and we only want to have a chat.  We know you’re here Robert,” David calls out before he begins to move down the hallway.
    I follow him with my gun still drawn.
    We quietly sneak around the hallway of the apartment, looking for any sign of movement. 
    David cautiously enters the first bedroom, and I stand at the door watching the rest of the dwelling.
    “Clear,” he whispers after checking the room.
    He steps back out into the hallway and indicates that he will check the next room.  I move to the side to check the bathroom opposite.
    The stench only gets stronger as I approach the bathroom.
    My heart is beating hard as I know Robert is here somewhere. 
    He is hiding for a reason.
    Cautiously, we creep to the next rooms.
    My hand reaches out to the bathroom door. 
    Whack!
    I see David fall to the floor, and I swing my gun around in that direction but