Apologies for failing to get a proper shot of the tastefully furnished apartment where Wiggins opened up on teen wifey with his .38; you can see the window peeking out at the far left. Mrs. Blattenberg is long gone — locals eyed me suspiciously as I snapped from my idling vehicle. Their nods and glances indicated that they were intending to question me intimately as to my purpose, so I waved like Roosevelt and ambled away.
Another shingled Craftsman home sprayed with pink stucco, its double-hung windows replaced with aluminum sliders. Purty gate, too. Special level of hell for all of them.