The CluesI jumped back. “Ugh!”
Garments of a working-man’s fashion perhaps thirty years past lay in tatters upon dried skin and bones, covered by crumbling newspaper. What remained of his right hand clutched an empty bottle of whiskey.
“Been there for decades,” Tony said.
Moretti shook his head. “Some poor sot using this closet as his bedroom who fell dead in their drink. You find these often, this close to the Pot.”
Tony drew back, staring at Moretti in horror.
I marveled at how unaware Tony was of the realities of life.
Tony said, “Shouldn’t we have him buried?”
I clicked the panel shut. It was unlikely anyone still searched for him. And we didn’t need to spend the day dealing with the police. “That resting place is as good as any.”
We turned to inspect the rest. No further bodie
