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I looked around and saw stray cats gathered in the grass next to us. Plates of food had been left out for them.
"Could have been a cat or a raccoon," I said, looking up toward the ceiling. "One might have gotten in here, maybe through those big vents up there, then tipped the barrel over, and the formaldehyde started leaking out underneath the door."
"When we got here, the body was lying on the ground,” the officer said. "The tarp was half covering it, the barrel tipped over. The body was half in the barrel, half on the concrete floor."
As I stepped closer, I could see the outline of the body inside the barrel. It was twisted and contorted like it was trying to escape. But it was too late for that. The formaldehyde had done its job, preserving the body like a macabre work of art. I couldn't help but wonder who could have done something like this and why. But I did know who she was—the woman in the barrel, and it broke my heart.
"Her name is Rachel Baker," I said with an exhale, pushing back tears. "We've been looking for her. I'll notify next of kin."
A sudden noise made me turn around. A woman was yelling at one of the officers, demanding to know what was going on. She looked like a bum or a vagabond or maybe a drug addict. The officer tried to calm her down, but she kept shouting, getting more and more agitated.
"You're disturbing the cats," she yelled.
"Who is that?" I asked the officer next to me.
"Oh, her. That's Janet from another planet. She's harmless. They call her that because she talks like she’s from another planet. She lives here on the storage unit grounds. The owner lets her stay in the back in her old, broken minivan. It's all overgrown with weeds, but she sleeps in there. She feeds the cats. We know her but have always just let her be. We check up on her from time to time, and the church brings her food. She's mad as a bat, they say. Lost her child in an accident and hasn't been quite normal since."
I watched Janet's wild eyes as she continued to scream, her voice hoarse and ragged. She was pointing at the officers, accusing them of disturbing the cats she cared for. I couldn't help but feel a sense of empathy toward her. She was alone, living in poverty, and experiencing a world of pain that I couldn't even imagine.
"Janet, calm down," I said softly, approaching her. "I'm FBI Agent Thomas. Can you tell me what you know about this area? Have you seen anything suspicious?"
Janet's eyes darted toward me, and for a moment, I saw a glimmer of recognition in them. She seemed to trust me, or at least her anger subsided for a moment.
"I've seen things—things I shouldn't have," she whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. "But no one listens to me. They all think I'm crazy."
"Tell me what you've seen," I said, trying to keep her calm. If she lived on the grounds, she could very well have witnessed something important.
"People always come here at odd hours, waking up me and my cats," she said. “Always pick-up trucks coming and going, coming and going. It never ends, I tell ya’, it never ends. The ones who play loud music are the ones having sex in the cars.”
"Have you seen anything strange within the past week or so?” I asked, wondering if I would get any information I could use from this strange woman. “Did you see who came to this unit, number 203?"
That made her break into deep laughter. It was a manic and maddening sound. "203?" Janet cackled, pointing a bony finger toward the unit. "That one there? "
"Yes. Has anyone been around it recently?"
"I've seen shadows moving around it, but I can't tell you who," Janet said, her eyes widening. "I don't get too close to it, not with the smell and all."
"Do you think you could take me to where you saw those shadows?" I asked, trying to keep my voice soft. "It might be important for the investigation."
Janet hesitated, her eyes darting around as if weighing her options. Finally, she nodded and gestured for me to follow her.
We walked through the rows of storage units, our footsteps echoing through the empty aisles. Janet led me to the back of the lot, where an old minivan was parked, overgrown with weeds and vines. She pulled open the door and gestured for me to climb in.
I hesitated for a moment, wondering what I was getting myself into. But I couldn't shake the feeling that Janet knew something important, and I needed to find out what it was.
As I climbed into the minivan, the stench of cigarettes and urine hit me like a punch. Janet climbed in after me, and we settled in the darkness, surrounded by the musty smell of old clothes and trash. I tried not to gag as Janet shuffled through a pile of garbage, searching for something.
Finally, she pulled out an old flashlight and switched it on, casting a dim yellow glow around the tight space. She pointed the flashlight at the storage unit wall next to us and whispered, "I saw them there, moving around."
I leaned in closer, but all I could see was a row of metal doors lined up like soldiers in formation. "Which one?" I whispered.
"That one," Janet said, pointing to the middle door. "I saw shadows moving around it, in and out. Sometimes they'd stay there for hours, and sometimes they'd just come and go."
"Did you see who it was?" I asked.
"No, too dark," Janet said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But they weren't regular people. They moved differently, like they were hiding something."
Then, she began hitting herself. “No, no, no, Janet, why are you saying this stuff… uuhhh… what was it again?” she stopped and stared at me intensely. “How does the song go again?”
