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claim his body or belongings. He was laid to rest in a small cemetery outside of Lyon, a simple stone, with name and dates was all that marked the site. When it came time to release his apartment I couldn’t do it. The paperwork was there to sign off on, a few simple forms to sign and the landlord could have the apartment back, sell everything we had left behind, and rent it to a new tenant.
    Assuming he could find someone to rent the place. It was well-known in the city now and it would’ve taken a certain type of person to rent the place out – either someone with an unhealthy obsession with serial killers, or a person with a vested interest in what may have still laid within those walls.
    I struck a deal with the landlord that day. The apartment was transferred into my name and all of Crawford’s belongings came with it. I had gotten rid of the majority of his furniture - after having checked it over and under, inside and out, for anything he may have stashed away. What I didn’t need or couldn’t use was sold to pay the rent. Everything else I dove into, reading through every book, digging through every box and drawer, closet and cupboard. We’d been through it all before, either myself or other detectives. But there was always the chance we had missed something.
    And so I sat in the apartment at every chance I got, an old futon the only furniture I needed, going through everything I could find again and again and again in hopes something would leap out at me. So far, nothing had. I had been through everything so many times. I had pulled down the mirrors, taken out the lighting fixtures, pulled the fridge and stove from the wall, looked in the toilet tanks, examined plumbing and vents, pulled the carpet up then paid someone to put it back down.
    I had taken care to repair everything I damaged, put back together everything I had taken apart, but I still was pretty certain the security deposit was out the window. The only thing left was the walls… and the urge to tear down every one was becoming too strong. I had scoured every square inch of every surface for any evidence of a repair job. Either Crawford hadn’t hidden anything behind the walls, or he was unbelievably talented at drywall repairs.
    But maybe… maybe there was something there.
    My plotting was interrupted by a knock at the door.
    “Lincoln?”
    The voice was familiar, the accent unmistakable. It was the landlord, Guillaume Tavernier, but I had no idea what he was there for. I’d paid the rent in advance for another three months. The guy was a little odd; he took his job very seriously and spent most of his days watching the security feed from the building’s camera. That must have been how he knew I was at the apartment.
    “Ê tes-vous là ?”
    “ Oui, un moment. ”
    I walked to the door and unlocked the deadbolt then unhooked the chain.
    “ Bonjour, ” he said. “I need show something at you.”
    His English was as bad as my French.
    “Okay, qu’est que c’est? ”
    “Come.”
    He motioned for me to follow him. I took my keys out of my pocket and locked the door behind me. He walked to the elevator and hit the down arrow.
    “ Te rappelles-tu la salle de stockage? ”
    I stopped for a second. “The storage room? Downstairs?” I pointed down at the floor.
    “ Oui.”
    “I don’t need one. Je ne… ”
    “ Non, non ,” he said, shaking his head. “ Monsieur Crawford .” I hated to hear Crawford’s name, and for some reason the accent made it sound worse.
    “He didn’t have any storage.”
    Guillaume just shook his head again. I knew he had more to say, but it was probably easier to just show me. The elevator doors opened and we stepped in for the ride to the basement. When the elevator doors opened again he led the way, taking me to the storage room at the one end of the building.
    It wasn’t a large room, but there were about two dozen lockers neatly arranged against the walls. They were stacked two high, each with a door