Thankfully, nobody locked up Chest's junk shop after the police finished their work. Choosing instead to board up the main entrance haphazardly, it wasn't difficult for John and Robert to get inside. Using his wooden baton as a pry bar, John easily moved the flimsy boards aside to push open the door. It was the middle of the day, and with John still in uniform, the pair figured no one would raise an eyebrow as the two men slipped inside.

The air in the shop was still thick with the earthy stink from the dead man's body. John lit his lantern and bathed the cave-like interior in amber light.  "Let's make this quick."

Robert wandered over to the nearby shelves and peered at the stacks of trinkets and books in wonder. He marveled at the sheer volume of stuff the old man crammed into the building. It would take a lifetime to sort and organize everything.

"What will they do with all of his things?" Robert asked.

"I imagine they'll probably throw it out or burn in," John replied.

"Pity," Robert said. "Who knows what these walls contain?"

"A lifetime wasted, if you ask me. Let's keep going."

Earlier that day, Robert arrived unannounced at the precinct. When John was alerted that Mr. Glass was there to speak with him, he assumed Henry  had stopped in with news. He was more than a little surprised to find Robert anxiously pacing in the main hall.

"I need you to take me back to the shop," Robert insisted. "We missed something."

John balked at first, but Robert was relentless. Henry brought Robert the small collection of bugs and rocks retrieved from Chester Dolin's corpse, but none of them were as biologically distinct as the crayfish: they could have come from anywhere on the coastal United States. 

Despite all the effort and mess, the mud was a dead end. But Robert could not stop thinking about the case. They had to have missed something. 

While Robert tossed and turned that night, he realized that he was wrong. It was the mud that revealed a clue, but not the mud inside the dead body.

After much pestering, John eventually relented and brought Robert down to the junk shop.

John lingered with arms crossed while Robert lead the way to the back of the shop. Robert knew he would be reluctant to admit he and his men overlooked a key piece of evidence, but Robert wasn't normally bothered by hurting another person's feelings. Especially their pride. Growing up, his parents told him that the cause for truth was always just and right. It was a lesson that stuck with him.

"Did your men ever question any witnesses?" Robert asked.

"Not too surprising for this neighborhood, no one saw anything. Seems Mr. Dolin kept to himself and wasn't a terribly friendly chap," John replied.

Keeping his eyes on the ground, Robert walked to the back of the shop and then circled to the front near the window. John watched on in curious silence. Robert was following the muddy smudges on the floor. After circling a second time, Robert realized they didn't make any sense. Though they started near the entryway, it did not appear they ever actually left the shop.

"Don't you think it's odd that whoever left these muddy tracks never left the shop?"

John rolled his eyes. "Perhaps the assailant took off their shoes."

Robert shot John a quizzical look. "Did they leave barefoot then?

"I haven't the faintest clue, Robert," John sighed. "We're dealing with a murderer who chokes a man to death with mud, I can't believe that they would do many things that make sense."

Robert knew that not every man acts with logic, but they always reacted with reason. What was the reason the muddy footprints would only be in the shop?

He decided to turn his attention elsewhere for clues. Returning to the rear of the shop, he looked all around the disheveled bed. The police had pulled off the blankets and tore open the mattress in search of clues. Robert got down on all fours and pressed his face to the ground, searching for anything that may have gone unnoticed. 

He was rewarded with the edge of something shoved under the edge of a shelf. As he crept closer, he realized it was a small book. When he pulled out the pocket-sized, leather-bound book, he eagerly thumbed through the pages.

"What you got there?" John asked, looking over Robert's shoulder.

"I'm not sure," Robert replied, his mind trying to reconcile what appeared to be page after page of random dates and items. Thick, black linework cataloged a nonsensical collection of words: BOTTLE, LAMB'S BONE, LIT CANDLE, SPOON. Each item listed included a date, starting back several weeks. 

"I wonder if it's some kind of code?" Robert said after flipping through all of the pages.

"Looks like the scribblings of a drunk if you ask me."

Robert tried to make sense of the random words and dates. Again, even a drunkard would find a reason to catalog such things. Robert ran his finger down the page. 

"The dates start here in March and the last one was the day before he died. Seems a bit ominous, does it not?"

"It's be stranger if someone continued after the man died," John mused. Robert did not laugh at the small joke, his mind still reviewing the odd list and dates. There had to be some connection.

"Are we done here?" John sighed.

"May I take this with me?" Robert asked. John rolled his eyes. 

"I don't care. Not like anyone will notice," he replied, surveying the endless piles of junk around them.

"Good. I know that there's something we're missing and this book is the key to it," Robert said, tucking the book into his jacket pocket. The answer was there, he just had to find the right question to ask.