The Journal article mentioned that Traci Edwards lived in the same neighborhood that the bodies were discovered. Denny headed to a saloon in the vicinity. He ordered a bottle of beer and lit a Marlboro. He made small talk about the murders with the bartender and a few of the lunchtime customers from the block. He didn't learn too much new until a man in uniform at the end of the bar, piped in his two cents worth - the needed information. "I know where the guy lives," said the postman on a break. And, after a few well-placed beers, the mailman agreed to deliver Denny to Edwards's apartment.

The neighborhood was declining ethnic. Bungalows mixed with apartment buildings and the occasional two-flat wood frame house. Traci lived in one of these, a brown two-story in need of repair. Paint was chipped, wood was peeling, and a few broken windows were visible from the street. Paint flaked from the railing as they climbed the deteriorated front stairs of the house and the postman pointed out Edwards's name on the rusty mailbox. He said with a slight slur, "Edwards lives upstairs. Good luck. I deliver your magazines each week to every old lady on my route. We'll be looking forward to your story." He winked. "I usually read them before I deliver them."

Edwards didn't answer when Denny rang his door bell. A quick search up the back stairs of the house and a peek through the rear windows indicated that no one was home in his apartment. The downstairs' neighbor confirmed he hadn't seen Traci in awhile.

Denny parked his rental car out in front of the house, switched the ignition to accessories, tuned the radio to the local news channel - and waited. Sitting the stakeout isn't romantic, it's cruddy. Every time a metro cop passed him by, they eyed him suspiciously. They knew who lived there and they knew Johnson was a reporter. He just looked like one. Denny was hot and hungry. There was no bathroom available, and he was running out of cigarettes. The bad characters in the neighborhood knew he was there in ten minutes. They figured he was a cop. Hours later, Traci still wasn't home. He was obviously lying low somewhere else. But by that time, Denny was familiar with everybody in the neighborhood, hooking, selling drugs, or beating their wives. He noticed over time a middle-aged fellow carrying a bucket who seemed to be the janitor at the building across the street. Denny approached him with a $50 bill outstretched.