They left family photos scattered across a bed, next to a Bible and a toddler's floppy-eared hat. Their marriage license rests on a dresser. And a diploma from Duluth High is tucked unceremoniously into a closet still stocked with clothes.

Scott Johnson tries not to wonder what went wrong inside this three-bedroom home near Lawrenceville. His job is to landfill everything, from the leather couches to the "What Color Is It?" baby book.

Louie Favorite/lfavorite@ajc.com (ENLARGE)

Cedric Shannon, of VTG Development Corp., lugs furniture past a soiled mattress left by the previous owner of a foreclosed home in Lawrenceville.

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He's the "trash out" man.

That's the common term — banks use the more polite "property preservation" — for clearing out and cleaning up foreclosed homes. And it's a booming business. Like locksmiths and board-up specialists, trash-out firms have benefited from the foreclosure crisis. Only they can't put plywood over what families leave behind.

"This whole table is full of bad news," Johnson says, rifling through mail from the IRS, mortgage companies and collection agencies. "We prefer not to look because it's negative energy."

Johnson, owner of Atlanta-based VTG Development Corporation, managed about 125 foreclosed homes two years ago. Now, at any one time, he has nearly 300. So each moment spent pondering what might have gone awry for one family, he says, is a moment wasted on getting it ready for the next.

Even so, as he moves deeper into this clapboard home, Johnson can't help but connect a few dots. The occupants were probably burned by the downturn in building. Construction company records litter the office. And there's a cement mixer in the garage, along with work boots and a yellow hardhat.

Bills have settled like dust onto nearly every surface, from the floors to the desks to the granite counter top in the kitchen. Most are unopened. "That's typical," Johnson says. "They know it's bad news inside."

The husband was a Romanian immigrant, judging from the expired passport on the garage floor and the currency floating in the living room fish tank. And his photographs hint at happy times. In one, he and a woman, presumably his wife, are smiling in front of palm trees. In another, he hugs a dog. There are no pictures, however, of newest family member, the one who filled those tiny sneakers in the living room and that Lightning McQueen racecar hat on the bed. Some things are too valuable to leave behind.

Johnson watches as his workers scoop the photos and mail into garbage bags, then toss them off the front porch and into a growing pile in the front yard. There, pots and pans join furniture and fake plants, rotten lumber and worn-out clothes. There's a baby's bouncy seat, an old computer monitor and a couple soccer jerseys.

Johnson speaks over the sound of a sledgehammer smashing office furniture upstairs. "They'll be laughter again in this house," he says. "This is just the first step to getting it that way."

Some of the stuff looks in pretty good shape, but Johnson says liability concerns force him to err on the side of the dump. There's enough here to fill his 16-foot trash trailer seven times.

Some may wonder how a family could walk away from so much, says David Ali, an upstart trash-out man from Stone Mountain. Many, he says, are in denial or grappling with bigger issues than where to move their belongings. "If you don't have the money to pay the mortgage," he says, "you probably can't pay for the moving truck."

And Ali should know. Six years ago, he was on the other side of foreclosure. "It's not pretty," he says. "I lost the job, the 401(k), the respect of my spouse."

Now Ali and his business partner, Terry Moorer, are trying to make peace with their new company: Mr. Foreclosed Cleaner. The two walk onto the front porch of a boarded-up home in Atlanta's West End neighborhood, unsure what awaits inside. "It's like a guilty pleasure," Moorer says, unlocking the front door. "But the reality is this house can't be sold or rented until it's cleaned out."

Inside, Moorer flicks on his flashlight and is pleasantly surprised. "The carpet doesn't look so bad," the Lawrenceville resident says, moving the beam across the living room. "There are no holes in the wall."

The junk is minimal, too — a couple mattresses, a few odds and ends piled in a hallway and a mystery dish in the refrigerator. "You might want to hold your breath," Moore says, opening the fridge. "Looks like a pot roast. Maybe a casserole."

Glass covers the carpet in front of a window shattered before the plywood went up. Squatters likely broke in and lived here for a few weeks, Moorer says. Amazingly, he says, they didn't do any other damage.

Moorer and Ali write up an $860 estimate for a trash-out and lawn trimming. Then, before leaving, they notice a Virgin Mary figurine on the mantel. "I'm surprised they didn't take that," Ali says. "I know I did a lot of praying."

Back in Lawrenceville, Johnson stands in a master bedroom emptied of everything but a framed collage of photos, the marriage certificate and the high school diploma.

"If we see somebody like a neighbor, we'll ask if they knew them and give them this stuff," Johnson says. "Otherwise, by the end of the day, it gets thrown out."

Johnson is reminded of the time he emptied out a boy's bedroom – trophies and all. Later that afternoon, gawking neighbors turned to a youngster in the front lawn. "They said 'Isn't that your house?' He said 'It used to be.' I felt bad because I couldn't give that stuff back."

But even here, where personal artifacts turn to junk, Johnson finds a sign of hope. He picks up an award from the National Republican Committee and smiles. The "2003 National Leadership Award" is signed by former party leader Rep. Tom DeLay. "This is somebody who can accomplish things," Johnson says. "He'll be back on his feet again."

Then Johnson sets the plaque down. It's bound for the landfill.