Landlord Rents House to Man, Soon Learns That 17 Kids Live There Illegally – Story of the Day

When Martin received too many complaints from his other tenants about noise in one of his properties, he decided to look. The man he had rented the place to didn't seem rowdy at all, but soon enough, Martin was calling the cops on him.

Martin looked at the caller ID that popped on his cell phone and sighed. Mrs. Perkins was one of his tenants, and like most older women, she liked to nag. However, she wasn't as bad as others in his experience and ultimately had good intentions.

She watched out for the neighborhood; sometimes, it was convenient for a landlord to have a busybody who could spot something odd a mile away.

"Hello, Mrs. Perkins," he answered the call.

"Mr. Williamson. I'm glad I caught you," she said sourly, so Martin already knew a complaint was coming.

"What can I do for you, ma'am?" he continued, chuckling internally and rolling his eyes.

"Mr. Williamson! The situation with that new tenant is getting out of hand," she replied and hesitated for a second, which was odd for such an outspoken woman. "I'm concerned."

"What's going on?"

"There's music at all hours of the night," Mrs. Perkins continued. "But there's something else, and I can't put my finger on it."

This wasn't the first time Martin had received such a complaint. As the owner of several properties on a narrow street in his hometown, he often got calls from tenants with several grievances. Music was a common issue, especially if the new renters were young. That's why he had begun to rent only to people in their mid-30s and up.

However, things had gotten strange in the last few months after renting to a quiet man, Mr. Clark. Other tenants had already expressed concerns about music and how the man looked at them strangely and hurried off.

Usually, that was fine with Martin. Not everyone was or wanted to be friendly with their neighbors. But Mrs. Perkins' wording was similar to what her neighbors had expressed. Somehow, it called to Martin's intuition.

"I don't understand, Mrs. Perkins. How loud can one man be? Is he having parties all the time?" he asked the older woman. "And what do you mean by something else?"

"Well, I'm not sure! But he has a huge stereo. His garbage bins are always full. I've only ever seen one or two cars coming at night, so I don't think those are loud parties. Whoever his visitors are, they leave in the morning," Mrs. Perkins continued and hummed. "Actually, those nights are much quieter."

"So, he turns off his music when he has visitors?"

"Not exactly," Mrs. Perkins hesitated. "I don't know how to explain what's happening. The music is still loud and disturbing, but the cars visiting are even worse. I've tried not to be too nosy; frankly, I don't want to visit that place. But it's just this feeling I have. I can't be the only one who has called about this, Mr. Williamson."

"No, Mrs. Perkins. You're not the only one, but," Martin confessed. "None of you have something concrete to complain about except the music. I can only call and ask him to turn it down at night. But I don't think that's really what worries you."

The older woman sighed heavily. "I know. It's not my first time living with a rowdy, partying neighbor, Mr. Williamson. I considered myself pretty nice about letting younger kids have their fun and not being such a complainer," she chuckled for a second. "I've changed in my old age, but this wouldn't be such a problem if I didn't have this odd feeling."

"You think something shady is going on," he stated, trying to probe.

"I guess. I don't want to accuse anyone wrongly. I was thinking drugs at first, but then, I looked at some visitors," Mrs. Perkins continued.

"Go on."

"Well, some come in very nice, dark cars with heavily tinted windows," she started, talking faster as she went on. "But they go inside and stay for a long time. In movies, drug deals are quick. I don't know what happens in real life. Most visitors stay the entire night and leave early as soon as the sun rises."

Martin was listening, but he had no idea what to say or what to think. He couldn't prohibit Mr. Clark from having guests. "Mrs. Perkins, could these visitors be… huh… special friends of Mr. Clark?" he asked.

"Special?"

"Special," Martin repeated, changing his voice.

"Oh," the old woman said.

"Exactly."

"But it's a different one each night," she said, outraged.

"Well, it's his life, ma'am. We can't control or police him like that," Martin said, wanting to laugh. "But let me speak to him about the music, and I'll see why his trash cans are full constantly. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. But I won't dig into his personal or romantic life, Mrs. Perkins."

The older woman sighed once more. "I understand, Mr. Williamson. That's all I can ask again," her voice sounded defeated.

"Mrs. Perkins," Martin said. "Don't ever stop being who you are. You can tell me any concerns about the neighborhood. I own most of the houses, so I have to keep an eye out. If there's any shady business, I could get in trouble."

"Will do, Mr. Williamson," the old woman responded perkily. They hung up, and Martin called Mr. Clark.

He couldn't accuse him of anything. He wasn't stupid, but he could try to probe a little.

"Mr. Clark," he began after the man answered, and they exchanged some pleasantries. "I'm calling because I've received several complaints about the music in your house."

"Oh, I didn't realize," Mr. Clark said. "I'm so sorry. I do some woodwork at the house, and the sanding machine is loud. I always turn up the music, but that was careless of me."

"I see," Martin muttered, unsure how he felt about woodwork and sanding in his rental property. But he moved on. "I've also been told that your trash bins are always filled to the brim. Sir, there are city regulations about recycling, and if you don't follow them, I could get in trouble."

"Ah, right. Yes," Mr. Clark said. "I'm sorry. I'll keep down the music and check how the recycling is done again."

"Great. Thank you," Martin said and tried to lighten the conversation by asking how he liked the property. Mr. Clark's voice became cheery, praising the rental and the area.

"All the neighbors have been so nice to me," the man continued. "It's been great having good people around."

For some reason, those words resonated again with Martin. He always thought that intuition was something women came up with to justify their suspicions and that only sometimes, they were right. But suddenly, he understood that this feeling was something more.

Mrs. Perkins had already stated that Mr. Clark was a recluse and barely interacted with anybody, so going out of his way to tell him that people had been friendly to him was… more than odd. Still, it wasn't enough to keep this phone call going.

"That's great, Mr. Clark. I won't take any more of your time," Martin finished. "Thank you for understanding."

"Yes, sir. Goodbye." There was a click, and the phone ended. He recalled Mrs. Perkins' words again, "I can't put my finger on it…"

Martin shook his head and smiled, dispelling the thoughts. "Let's just hope Mrs. Perkins was overreacting. This is nothing. Some people are different, and I can't judge them for that," he told himself while walking to his kitchen.

Being a landlord wasn't hard. Dealing with tenants was alright as long as you were fair but strict. Some people liked to take advantage and delay payments as much as possible, but he would warn them, and things would straighten up. It was the same for other issues, like music.

He only had to kick one couple out, and that had been years ago. Since then, all his tenants have been good. Having visitors at night was not a crime, so he couldn't tell Mr. Clark to stop that. Hopefully, the issue would be over, and all their suspicions were wrong.

***

Unfortunately, the issue didn't end. When his phone rang two weeks later, Martin fully expected it to be Mrs. Perkins again. His eyebrows lowered, and his lips pursed when the phone displayed Mr. Salazar's name instead. He was another tenant who lived a couple of houses from Mrs. Perkins.

"I'm concerned about Mr. Clark," Mr. Salazar said. "I've seen different men each night, coming and going. It's odd."

"Hmm," Martin began. "I can't stop my tenants from having people over, Mr. Salazar. I talked with Mrs. Perkins already about this."

"No, sir," Mr. Salazar expressed, clearing his throat. "These are not… ehh… romantic things."

"How do you know?"

"Sir, I'm gay," the man revealed, making Martin's eyebrows pop.

"Oh, I see. Still, everyone can do as they please."

"But that's why I don't believe it's his romantic life, sir," Mr. Salazar continued. "These men are not gay. I have excellent gaydar."

"Gaydar?" Martin asked, confused.

"Yes," the man continued. "Most gays can tell each other out. We know who is gay and who is not."

"OK..."

"But I also come from a very different neighborhood than this," Mr. Salazar added. "I know what I'm seeing. These men are clients."

"Like Johns?" Martin said, worrying about prostitution in his rental.

"Well, no. I don't think so," Mr. Salazar said. "At least, not for Mr. Clark. I was thinking drugs."

"Mrs. Perkins already suspects that," Martin admitted.

"Several of us have talked about it, Mr. Williamson," he continued. "This is a small but good neighborhood. We don't want to live in fear. Sir, you are a great landlord and must not want your property values to go down. Mr. Clark needs to be investigated somehow."

"Mr. Salazar, your complaints have not gone unheard. But so far, all we have is suspicions," Martin began carefully. "But I promise you I'll try to do something."

"Thank you, sir," Mr. Salazar said, releasing a breath. They hung up, and Martin scratched his forehead, deep in thought.

After some minutes of consideration, he called Mr. Clark and explained that he had plans to visit the property with an electrician because the house needed maintenance. It wasn't exactly a lie and would give him the perfect excuse to see the house and check things out.

Based on his previous interactions with Mr. Clark, Martin thought this wouldn't be a problem. However, the man's reaction raised his alarm bells for good.

"I won't be around, Mr. Williamson, and I'm uncomfortable with you being in my home with all my things alone," Mr. Clark said after Martin explained. "The electricity is perfect. It doesn't need any maintenance."

"Sir, it's just a check-up. We all think everything is fine until a fire or something else happens, and there's a disaster," Martin said, chuckling a bit to sound less serious. "I would be the one liable if that happens, so this is necessary. As a landlord, I have the right to do it."

"No, "I know my rights as a tenant, so you can't just come without my permission."

"Mr. Clark, that's why I'm asking politely," Martin began, trying to hide his irritation. "I'm still the owner and I'm doing things right by notifying you. I can still enter the property if I wish."

"You can't, and if you try, I'll call the cops," Mr. Clark said, his tone quickly turning accusatory and threatening. Despite all the complaints, he hoped the neighbors were just paranoid, prejudiced, or anything else.

But this attitude was different.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Martin asked menacingly. The dial tone was the only response. Mr. Clark had hung up on him. He wasn't sure what to do, but his instincts told him something was wrong.

He checked his landlord rights and asked some friends about it online. They were in the same business and always had great advice. Everyone told him to break the lease, which would cost him money. But it was better than having him around.

Mr. Clark's attitude had been off, and considering the complaints from his other tenants, Martin was in his right to evict his newest renter. However, he didn't want any trouble, so he drafted the notice and asked his friend, Charles, also known as Officer Buddy, to accompany him.

Officer Buddy, his partner, and Martin arrived at the house the following day. To their shock, someone else answered the door. It was a 15-year-old boy. "Who are you? Where's Mr. Clark?" Martin asked, confused.

He had no idea other people lived in that house. Mr. Clark said he was renting it alone. It was a one-bedroom house, although he supposed the basement could be turned into a second bedroom.

"I don't know where he is," the boy responded, avoiding all the men's eyes. Martin looked beyond him into the disaster that had been his pristine rental. Shoes, broken bottles, dirty plates, and papers were strewn everywhere. The carpet was stained. But worst of all, another head peaked from behind a wall.

"Is there someone else here?" Officer Buddy asked, his intuition rising. "Martin, I think we should check the place ourselves."

Martin was still confused and surprised. But he nodded. "Kid, let them in."

The cops entered, carefully avoiding the glass on the floor. Martin stayed, attempting to get the kid to talk while dialing Mr. Clark's cell phone. No one answered.

"Hey, kid. Don't worry. You'll be OK," he began, trying to sound reassuring. "We're just going to check things out. We want to talk to Mr. Clark. Do you know where he may have gone?"

The boy just looked down and shook his head.

"Do you live here?"

He nodded.

"Are you his son?"

The boy shook his head.

"Family?"

Another shake.

"Is he hurting you?" Martin whispered, dreading the answer.

The boy hesitated. It wasn't a no or a yes. But it looked like he wanted to say something to Martin. Maybe the other kid they had seen could tell them more about the situation. Martin walked a little further into the living room, cringing at the sound of broken glass crinkling beneath his shoes.

The other kid had disappeared into the apartment, so he turned to the boy again.

"What's your name?"

The boy opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Martin heard a loud crash and several screams.

"MARTIN! Come down here!" his cop friend, Charles, yelled, and he ran further into the rental. Officer Buddy and his partner had already entered the basement, so he followed.

He could've never imagined the scene before him.

The basement, which had initially consisted of a washing and drying machine, now looked even more disastrous than the upstairs. There were also several thin, dirty mattresses on the floor. The smell that drifted into Martin's nostrils was overwhelming, urging him to step back.

However, he couldn't because he was facing the stuff of nightmares, the kinds of things you see in newspapers and then in documentaries on streaming sites. It's not what you see in an average neighborhood, especially not in a property he owned.

Several children were cowering on those ragged beds. They were all just as dirty, skinny, and terrified as the boy who had answered the door. It took a while before Martin realized that he was hyperventilating.

Officer Buddy grabbed his arms. "Did you have anything to do with this?" he demanded, his eyes wild with fury.

"I swear to God, no," Martin gulped, horrified. He explained the complaints from Mrs. Perkins and Mr. Salazar, which went beyond the music and the trash bags.

"They were suspicious of his visitors and his attitude, but without anything concrete, I couldn't exactly say anything," he continued, hearing the cop calling for backup, CPS, and ambulances. "But they both said something was fishy. Something they couldn't understand or define. It was all I had."

Officer Buddy covered his mouth and rubbed his entire chin. "This is… I can't even… Martin, this is a big deal. You're the landlord," his friend composed and said. "I mean, we have to focus on the kids right now. But you have to understand what's coming."

"I understand," Martin said grimly. He didn't care. He stared at the terrified faces of the kids in this place and understood everything, even the things no one wanted to think about or admit. Mr. Clark wasn't just a tenant. He also didn't seem to be selling drugs.

He was selling something else, but Martin had no idea how he had done it, how he had sneaked these kids into the rental without detection from other neighbors. But it explained everything, including the visitors at night, and he felt his face turning green at the thought. He resisted the urge to vomit.

Officer Buddy knelt before some kids and reassured them they would all be safe now that they had been discovered. Martin couldn't deal with it anymore and went upstairs. He saw the other cop talking to the boy who answered the door.

He was the oldest of the group and still shy, but he was answering the officer's questions. Martin already knew the boy wasn't related to Mr. Clark, but the cop asked him if he was related to all the other kids.

"No, we're not," he answered. "They just bring a new one whenever."

Martin gulped again.

"What's your name?"

"Jason," the boy breathed, hugging himself.

"Did they kidnap you from your family?"

"No, I don't have a family."

"Why were you allowed upstairs and not locked down there with the kids?" the officer continued. Martin thought that was an odd question as if he was blaming the boy.

But he knew nothing of cop procedure and how to get important information, so he didn't interrupt.

"I had to clean today."

"Why is this house such a mess?"

"He gets angry sometimes," Jason answered, shrugging. "And others get angry and throw stuff. The music was really loud last night. I have to pick up everything."

"And the other girl?" the cop pointed to a girl sitting in a corner. It was the same one that had peeked at them from the hallway. She had her arms wrapped around her thin legs. Her eyes were big and sad, sitting on a dirty.

Martin closed his eyes for a second, realizing what had probably happened to all of them — countless times.

"Martha helps, too. We behave. We don't run," Jason added.

Jesus, Martin thought.

At last, the sounds of several sirens echoed in the background. Jason ran to Martha, wrapping his arms around her.

"Hey," Martin finally spoke to them again. "It's OK. You're safe. The people who are coming are good guys."

"That's right, kids," the officer said, nodding and smiling. "You're getting out of here, and that man who held you won't ever be able to harm you again. I promise."

Martha started crying into Jason's shoulder. The boy tried to be strong, but Martin saw the tears forming. He wished he had anything to comfort them, but there was nothing. Only professionals could help them.

He went outside just in time to see other police cruisers, an ambulance, and a few regular cars parked outside. The sirens were loud and glaring despite being daylight. All Martin wanted was to escape, to return to a few days ago when he thought Mr. Clark was just a noisy and loner tenant.

Now, his whole world had changed. His rental home, which he had worked hard to own, was being used for the worst crime he could imagine aside from murder. It was all happening under his nose and in the quietest neighborhood in the area.

What else is happening there? Who else is being hurt right at this moment without our knowledge? And by people who we would never realize?

Martin despaired, and his body couldn't take anymore. He plopped on the porch and placed his hands on his face as the tears came. The landlord tried to keep his body from rocking, but it was almost impossible. He felt others passing him but couldn't look up.

A hand landed on his knee. "Mr. Williamson?" It was Mrs. Perkins. Martin pulled his hands off his face, blinked several times, wiped his nose with the back of his arm, and stared up at the older woman, who was curious and concerned about the situation.

"Mrs. Perkins," he said hoarsely and sighed. "You were right."

"Right about what?" Mrs. Perkins breathed, craning her neck to look inside the house. But she had probably been told to stay outside.

With horror, he realized all the other neighbors were watching and trying to discern what was happening. Finally, Mr. Salazar joined her. "Mr. Williamson. Why… wh-what's going on?"

"Mr. Clark," he replied as if that were enough of an answer.

"What did he do? Was he selling drugs?" Mrs. Perkins asked, horrified.

"Mrs. Perkins, if it was drugs, our landlord wouldn't be crying, and there wouldn't be an ambulance outside and so many other cars," Mr. Salazar said, mildly exasperated.

"Well, I don't know about these things," the older woman said, offended. "What is happening, Martin?"

"You'll see," he answered, unable to utter the real explanation to anyone just yet. Finally, the professionals began escorting the children out. Martin couldn't look to confirm, but he saw Mrs. Perkins' jaw falling to the floor.

Her hands were moving frantically as if she wanted to help the children herself, and Mr. Salazar covered his mouth to hide his surprise. But his eyes were feral as the cops, first responders, and social workers brought out each kid.

"Excuse me," Martin heard Officer Buddy's voice and still couldn't look up. "I'm gonna need you folks to step back. We're going to block this entire property."

"Officer," Mr. Salazar choked. "What is this?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't say anything more," his cop friend responded but coughed and lowered his voice. "But it's what you think."

"No!" Martin's male tenant whispered in horror.

Mrs. Perkins was crying, and suddenly, the neighbors' murmurs got louder despite being ushered away from the property. Idly, he wondered why he wasn't asked to step back. But suddenly, Officer Buddy's colleague, Officer Preston, touched his shoulder.

"Mr. Williamson," he said. "We're going need you down at the station."

"For?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Well, we're going to talk to you...hmmm… officially," he replied carefully.

"Am I being arrested?" Martin finally looked up.

"Not right now, but it'll be much better if you cooperate, sir," Officer Preston insisted, and Martin nodded. "You can grab your car, and I suggest a lawyer."

"Thank you," he said, but his fingers wouldn't reach for his phone.

His eyes wandered through the terrible scene that took place outside his property. Somehow, it felt like he wasn't watching things with his own eyes but through a strange lens. The colors were wrong, and the sounds of chatter, sirens, and horror echoed in his ears.

It seemed like hours had passed. The neighbors wouldn't budge even when police officers were done speaking to them and taking notes. They were taking statements. Other officials came. They looked like detectives as they wore fancier and better-looking suits. His cop friend was explaining everything.

Each kid was treated. Some had IVs attached already. More ambulances came. Still, Martin couldn't process the scene hard enough to understand that he was a person of interest in the case because he owned the house. Officer Buddy tried to warn him earlier, and Officer Preston told him to call someone. But he couldn't… just yet. It was too much.

He was a good person. He had worked hard, and his whole life was falling apart. But he didn't care about that. Kids were hurt… and worse… on his property. It really is my fault. How didn't I notice?

"Martin, do you want to come down to the station with me?" Officer Buddy finally returned and brought everything back into focus. The scene cleared, and Martin realized most of the ambulances were gone.

The neighbors were still watching. Mrs. Perkins wouldn't take her eye off him while Mr. Salazar held her back.

"Martin, snap out of it," his friend snapped his fingers. "Did you call a lawyer?"

"No," he choked.

"Come on, man," the cop lifted him from the porch stairs and walked him to his police cruiser.

"Wait! You can't arrest him! This isn't Mr. Williamson's fault! He had nothing to do with this!" Mrs. Perkins's voice got closer and closer. Other neighbors were also protesting.

"Everyone!" Officer Preston joined the commotion. "Mr. Williamson is not being arrested. But as the owner, he has to give his statement downtown. Please, move back. We've all heard you defend him. But this is the procedure for the investigation. After all, we all want the perpetrators to be caught, right?"

"Yes," most people echoed.

"OK! Let Mr. Williamson get in the car. You'll hear from him soon, and please discourage anyone from getting close to the house. Call us immediately if you see anything strange. Lock your doors at night…" Officer Preston started warning the neighbors, but Martin and Officer Buddy got in the cruiser and left.

***

"What kind of background checks do you run with your tenants?" Detective Santino asked gruffly.

"Mostly credit backgrounds," Martin responded in his dead tone. "Any evictions and that stuff."

"And he told you he would be living alone," the man continued.

"Yes. That property isn't big enough for more people. The basement wasn't even that big."

"I see," the detective sighed. They had only been talking for a few minutes in the interrogation room. Martin wasn't exactly scared. He knew he had nothing to do with this and wanted to cooperate fully to catch Mr. Clark.

"I'll give you anything I have about him. It's all on my computer at home," Martin said. "I don't have security cameras on the properties, but I installed a couple at both ends of the streets after getting permission from the city. We can get that CCTV footage."

"Yes. Yes, sir," the detective raised his hand to stop him. "We'll do that. Officially, you're not being accused of anything, Mr. Williamson. We just need to know your involvement."

"I would never…," Martin stated, but his breath choked. "I should've listened to the neighbors."

"Right, the neighbors said they mostly complained to you about the noise. What did they say?"

Martin explained what most of his tenants had mentioned about Mr. Clark. The detective was shaking his head the entire time.

"You don't believe me?" Martin asked, feeling relieved that his voice was a little calmer.

"It's not that. It's just all the statements we got are the same. It's hard to believe no one noticed a man sneaking 17 kids into that house," Detective Santino sighed.

"17?" he asked, horrified once more. He hadn't counted before. It was too painful. "Jesus Christ!"

"Why did you go to the house today in the first place?" the detective moved on, and Martin answered honestly, including why he had called his cop friend and colleague to help.

Two hours later, he told Martin to go home. But the investigation was pending, and the cops would probably stop by with a search warrant of his home. He met his friend outside.

"Martin," Officer Buddy whispered.

"Charles," he nodded. "Can you drive me home?"

"Let's go," his friend nodded.

As promised, the cops searched his house and took his documents, laptop, and cell phone for the investigation. Martin relinquished everything and answered even more questions. He even gave him the footage from his home security cameras, hoping that could help clear his name.

Of course, the story made the local news; fortunately, Martin wasn't mentioned. They showed a detailed forensic drawing of Mr. Clark as the main suspect in the crime and hoped people would report him. But Charles told him that Mr. Clark had probably disappeared into the wind if that was his real name.

A few months after the incident, Martin was cleared of any suspicions. They hadn't charged him because they couldn't find any connection, and his emails, texts, and conversations with Mr. Clark had confirmed that. He hadn't been to the rental since Mr. Clark moved in, and his other tenants defended him.

It was nice to be so well-liked and respected in the community. But being cleared didn't ease his soul. It only made things worse.

"The investigation is moving up," Charles told him during a rare outing at the local bar.

"What does that mean?"

"The FBI is taking it over. We can't do anything now that Mr. Clark is gone," his friend continued. "But…"

"What?" Martin frowned at the look on his friend's face.

The policeman looked around the bar, lowered his voice, and got close to Martin's ears. "I think one of the clients was identified in the CCTV."

"OK…," Martin nodded.

"It's a big client," Charles continued, lifting his eyebrows.

"You mean one of the… hmm…," he solved thickly.

"Yeah," his cop friend added, whispering. "A big government guy."

"Jesus."

"So, this was taken off our hands and passed to someone else."

"Does that mean it's over?" Martin asked, lifting his eyebrows.

"Yeah, pretty much," Charles said. "They'll let things go cold, and I'm sure you'll get access to your property soon."

"No way," Martin shook his head and lifted the cup to chug down whatever was left of his drink.

"It's what happens in these cases," his cop continued, and for a second, it seemed like Charles would burst into tears. "That's why it doesn't stop. Kids keep getting hurt. Women. It keeps happening again and again because the most depraved people always seek more power. So they can then hide all their crimes."

As Charles mentioned, the police contacted Martin a week later to tell him he could finally have his property back because they were done investigating the house. He tried to ask more, but they wouldn't answer.

Martin went to the rental the following day, noting that all the police tape was gone, but the ominous feeling of the place remained. His house had also been in the news often over the past few months. No one is going to rent this place from me. What should I do?

"Mr. Williamson! Oh my God! I'm so glad to see you!" Martin turned and spotted Mrs. Perkins briskly walking toward him with a bright smile.

"Mrs. Perkins, I think it's time you start calling me Martin," he said, smiling slightly.

"Well, in that case, you need to call me Lydia," she smiled and hugged him tightly. Then, she held him at arm's length. "How have you been?"

"It's been tough, Lydia," Martin said. "But I'm clear and can have my property back."

"Oh! So, the case has advanced. Have they arrested anyone? The news had not reported anything in weeks," Lydia continued, curious.

"No," he shook his head sadly. "There's nothing for now. But they can't keep my things from me any longer. So, I have to do something with this place."

"Are you putting it up for rent again?"

"I'm sure. I have no idea if anyone would even want to live here. After what's been on the news," Martin gesticulated with his hands. "But I can't leave it like that longer. I wouldn't be able to afford the mortgage."

The older woman breathed deeply and crossed her arms. "And you don't think that horrible man is coming back?"

"Probably not," he shrugged. "The drawing of him was good. People would recognize him. I can't imagine he left anything important here to risk coming back."

"What if he did?" a new voice joined them. They turned and saw Mr. Salazar. They greeted him, and he told them to call him Seth now that they were all using first names.

"What would you suggest then, Seth?" Martin asked.

"I think you should install a camera outside and in the living room. One of those new things that send notifications to your phone when there's movement," Seth explained. "Give it a few days. I just saw a report that the case has been passed to the FBI, so he might get cocky and try to sneak in."

"Why?" Lydia asked, frowning. "Why would he come back?"

"I don't know. This would probably be the safest place for him for a while. The cops are unlikely to return now," Seth shrugged.

Martin thought about it. It wasn't the craziest idea. He could keep the house empty for a while longer if it helped. Still, he called Charles, who was initially skeptical, but he couldn't stop them in the end.

"Just tell your neighbors not to approach anyone strange at night," Charles said. "They should call you or me directly if they see something or someone trying to get inside."

"Thank you, man," he responded.

He ordered a few cameras and installed discreetly in several parts of the house, focusing on the exterior. After warning Mrs. Perkins and Mr. Salazar, Martin went home, not expecting anything to happen. But he kept his phone by his bedside every night.

It was 3 a.m. on a Wednesday, and his phone woke him with the most annoying ring in the world. Martin groaned, not wanting his sleep disturbed, but quickly realized what it was. He pulled up the app, and just as Mr. Salazar had predicted, he saw Mr. Clark's face. He didn't look at the camera.

The man rattled the doorknob and started looking through the windows. Another noise made him jump, and he sighed as Mrs. Perkins' name appeared on his screen.

"Did you see something?" he asked her without preamble.

"Yes, someone is there. I think it's him. I already called Officer Buddy. He said he's on his way," Mrs. Perkins responded, sounding eager.

"Thank you, but stay put, Lydia," he warned just in case as he got up from the bed and started lacing his boots.

"Sure thing, Martin," the older woman said and hung up.

Martin arrived a few minutes later but was pleased to see the flashing red and blue lights from Charles' police cruiser. He was shocked and delighted to see they were escorting Mr. Clark from the house.

He almost leaped out of his car. Mrs. Perkins, Mr. Salazar, and other neighbors were gathered again, but their pleasure was evident this time. They were happy the criminal that used to live among them was gone. But Martin saw the look Charles gave him as they put Mr. Clark in the back seat.

Arresting one man wouldn't stop the pain all those kids went through and were still going through. It wouldn't stop the criminal ring that was still probably operating right under their noses. It wouldn't end the fact that corrupt people used their power to halt critical police investigations.

Trafficking would still happen all over the world. This arrest only brought peace of mind to the neighbors in that area, as Martin heard them cheer when the cruiser left their street. Mrs. Perkins gave him a huge, happy hug.

He didn't have the heart to tell her the truth. He just smiled. "It's over, Lydia. You can go to sleep," he assured her, and all the neighbors dispersed. Martin stayed put outside his rental until the sun rose from the horizon.

"I can't keep this place," he whispered, returning to his car.

Over the next week, he hired people to clean, scrub, and remodel the rental. He put it up for sale, and fortunately, a lovely young couple bought it.

Martin kept his other places and was still a landlord, but any new tenants underwent a rigorous background check and needed several references to be accepted. He was not taking any more chances.

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If you enjoyed this story, you might like this one about a landlord who kicked out a girl who rescued dogs and later had to beg her for a job.

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