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ST. CHARLES — Two deputies pulled into an apartment complex here on the edge of a sprawling subdivision. It was their last eviction of the day. They parked and stepped into the building’s lobby. A dog barked inside one of the units. A woman yelled: “Shut the (expletive) up!�

The officers walked past, climbed the stairs, and knocked on a door.

St. Charles County sheriff deputies Lt. Eric Grenninger and Cpl. Sasha McDonald don’t enjoy kicking people out of their homes. And for a year, they were doing a lot less of it. But in August, the federal moratorium ended. Deputies from Jefferson to St. Clair counties have begun again to post notices on the doors of residents who didn’t pay their rent.

Across the U.S., more than half-a-million evictions have been filed since March of last year in the cities and counties counted by Princeton University’s Eviction Lab, including more than 11,000 in St. Louis and St. Louis County, which are tracked by the project. Most of those haven’t been carried out: Federal and local moratoriums paused many, rental aid has helped some, and time has allowed other tenants and landlords to work out a plan.

But now the numbers are starting to tick up. In St. Louis, deputies evicted 122 households on average per month in 2019. Last year, that number dropped to 33. This October: 127.

St. Louis County averaged 213 a month in 2019. Last year it was 44 per month, and in September this year — the most recent full month available — 166.

St. Charles deputies averaged about 30 evictions a month two years ago, 15 last year, and, then, 23 in August.

Housing advocates are frustrated. ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ worry about tenants put out on the street and wish rental aid could have come faster, or rent could have been forgiven. Public health experts say the virus is still a threat; some worry about evictions leading to crowded housing. Landlords and property managers are exhausted. Some have been waiting months for federal aid that hasn’t arrived, and they don’t see how they can keep people who haven’t paid rent in apartments any longer.

“I stopped dealing with it, and told my attorney, ‘We’re going to have to start putting people out,’� said Edward O’Daniel, property manager at St. Louis Property Management. He plays the middle man in landlord-tenant issues. “I can’t keep going back to my clients and saying, ‘Please wait for this money. Please wait for this money.’�

A slow uptick

Since the pandemic began, lawmakers have worried that evictions could lead to overcrowded homes and encourage the spread of the virus. St. Louis, St. Louis County and Illinois all banned evictions as early as March, 2020. Six months later, in September, a federal eviction moratorium began and lasted for nearly a year.

Rental aid, slow to come, still left many landlords and tenants alike in dire straits.

Then, by August of this year, all the suspensions had lifted.

Sheriffs’ offices across the region are now seeing a slow restart of evictions:

The St. Louis Sheriff’s Office performed about 1,450 evictions in 2019. The number fell to about 400 last year — sheriffs generally continued to evict tenants for criminal or destructive behavior. On Nov. 18, Sheriff Vernon Betts froze evictions through the holidays. Still, by then, the count had crested 570 for the year.

The St. Clair County sheriff does not keep details on eviction data because of an antiquated system, said Sgt. James Hendricks. But landlords have sued to evict only a fraction of the number of tenants this year and last year as they had pre-pandemic, when filings averaged about 2,000 annually.

The sheriff has executed just 41 this year, Hendricks said.

“We thought when evictions started back up,� he said, “we’d have tons waiting in the queue.�

The St. Charles County sheriff received 400 to 500 eviction orders pre-pandemic, and executed 200 to 300, according to county records.

Sometimes, a sheriff’s office will receive an eviction order and then a tenant will pay, said St. Charles County Sheriff Scott Lewis. Other times, the tenant moves out before the eviction, he said. Lewis and his deputies worked to connect people with resources. “We’ve tried as much as possible,� Lewis said. “Obviously, we wanted people to be able to stay in their homes.�

A barking dog

On Thursday morning this week, Grenninger and McDonald had four evictions on their list.

Both wore bulletproof vests and black disposable gloves, with hazmat suits in their cars.

Grenninger, 55, an Air Force veteran, has served the St. Charles County Sheriff’s Department for 32 years. McDonald, 33, has spent most of her four years with the department executing evictions.

At 8:30 a.m., the deputies began their morning at Country Club Place apartments — a collection of bright yellow buildings with peaked roofs and stone chimneys situated south of Interstate 70. McDonald knocked on the door and, after no reply, the property manager let her in. McDonald determined the apartment was safe — no guns, drugs or other immediate threats present — and the complex’s employees began removing everything left by the prior residents: An elegant mirror. A painting of a town square, hung above the fireplace. Fake houseplants. Mattresses and box springs, tables and chairs. A Dell computer monitor. A wine glass. A bottle of hair conditioner still in the shower.

Belongings are moved to the curb for 24 hours, the deputies said, then thrown away.

Just after 9 a.m., the deputies rolled into Sunnydale Mobile Home Community, north of I-70 at the Zumbehl Road exit. The clean, winding streets led to a mobile home that had been abandoned for six months, said Mary Johnson, community manager for the park. A rickety porch was attached to the empty, sour-smelling trailer. Inside: trash, empty liquor bottles, kids’ furniture and an old dog crate surrounded by feces. McDonald, with Grenninger behind her, knocked. No one answered.

The tenants, who owned the trailer but rented the lot, stopped paying rent and left without a trace, Johnson said.

Cliff Leve, 52, the park’s owner, was exasperated. He had to pay for the removal of the trailer and for the lot to be cleaned up. That, plus hiring an attorney and getting the eviction processed in court, sent the total past $10,000, he said.

“When people think about landlords and evictions they think we just pull the trigger and the tenant goes away and there’s no repercussions for landlords,� Leve said.

When the pandemic hit, Leve and his partners realized people might not be able to pay. They granted extensions. They entered payment plans with tenants. Of the evictions they’ve had, Leve said, few were because of nonpayment of rent.

Near 9:30 a.m., the deputies arrived at Parkridge Apartments, a public housing complex just south of Blanchette Park. Inside a first-floor unit, three full boxes of Crayola colored pencils stood neatly together on the kitchen counter near a Beverly Cleary book and several jars of baby food. A child-size Superwoman costume hung in one of the closets, not far from a child’s pink makeup table and a Darth Vader pillow on the floor. An old math workbook sat on top of a mattress.

Finally, just past 10 a.m., Grenninger and McDonald entered one of the buildings at the edge of a subdivision just south of Highway 370. McDonald, followed by Grenninger, climbed the single set of steps to the second floor and knocked for the final time that morning. Nobody answered, but a dog barked inside. She tried to call the landlord and to find a property manager in the leasing office.

Grenninger waited, a concerned look on his face. He put his hands on his equipment belt and took a step to the side of the staircase he’d just descended. He cast his eyes skyward, and sighed.

“I really hope they worked something out,� Grenninger said. “Because I really don’t want to take that dog.�