Jenkins’ place was a mess. McGrew had to clear away stacks of newspapers just to sit. Dirty clothes littered the living room floor; dust and cigarette ash covered the coffee table before him. Walls were dingy white, with the only decoration being a mirror with the Budweiser logo. But this guy had said on the phone that he thought he might have been one of the last people to have seen Beth Walsh.
Jenkins sat across from him. Everything on the man looked hard, lean. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was creased with wrinkles that told tales of too many late nights, too many rough times, and too much abuse.
The man cracked open a beer and lit a cigarette. McGrew could tell he was waiting for him to begin.
“Mr. Jenkins, maybe we could start by having you take a look at this picture.” He
