The Cleaner Read online

Joe.

  Time dribbles. I look for, but can’t find, any active life in this well-kept suburb, and I wonder where everybody is. Maybe they’re all dead. I polish off a few crosswords before the lights finally come on upstairs in the house and the ones downstairs disappear. I wait another ten minutes until the upstairs lights twinkle off. A smaller and dimmer version replaces them. A bedside lamp is my guess. Travers is still inside.

  I open my briefcase. Take out the Glock. I stuff the gun into the pocket of my overalls. Ideally I would like to scale a nearby tree to see, unfortunately, what needs seeing. I’ve seen some pretty strange things in my time, but never this. I suck in a deep breath. Focus on the job at hand. I only have to see it.

  You don’t need to do it. It’s my mother’s voice, coming from nowhere.

  Fumble with the lock. My hands are shaking. Fifteen seconds.

  The house is so neat it looks like a show home. I walk softly through the downstairs living area, pausing at the big-screen TV, wishing there was a way I could take it home. I’d like to take the lounge suite too, if I could fit the damn thing in my apartment. The large rug in the middle of the room ties everything together and would tie everything together back at my place too. Everything in here is colorful: the sofas are bright red, the carpet tan brown, the walls a sunburst orange. I realize I’m stalling for time.

  Gun pointing ahead, I make my way to the stairs and slowly start climbing. I keep my feet near the carpeted edges to minimize any sound and it works well. When I get to the top the grunting I hear means any sound I would have made would have gone unnoticed. I stand still and think of the list. Five names. A simple peek into the bedroom will make it four. The grunting gets louder.

  The hallway branches into maybe four rooms up here, but it’s the closest one I’m concerned with. I reach the master bedroom where the sounds are coming from. It sounds like somebody is having a pillow stuffed down their throat. The door is slightly ajar. Doesn’t matter. If it had been closed I could have opened it undetected. If not, I still have my gun. I poke my head forward and try to see through the small gap. All I need to do is take a glimpse, and then I’m out of here. Downstairs and into the night, and my list will be smaller. But I can’t see much. The bed isn’t in sight. I lean further around until things come into view.

  Suddenly I feel sick. Nauseous. I pull away, nearly dropping to my knees. I suck in a deep breath and try to control the urge to vomit, but I’m not sure I can. My legs become jelly, and my mind is spinning. I saw what I expected to see, but I didn’t count on feeling this way. My stomach is trying to escape up through my throat. I push a hand against it and lean against the wall. More deep breaths, then I hold it for half a minute. The urge to throw up on the carpet slowly fades.

  I’m down to four suspects, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

  I hobble to the stairs and grab hold of the banister to keep myself from tumbling to the ground floor. I pause to think about what I’ve just seen. I think of my mother and how she keeps asking me if I’m gay. Is this why I feel sick? Because she thinks that what I just saw is the sort of thing I do?

  Something else is banging around in my thoughts too. Something I can’t quite get a firm grip on. I can see the edges of it floating back there, but when I try to haul the damn thing in, I lose my grip on it and it falls completely away. Will it come back if I take another peek? No way in hell am I going to find out.

  I raise my hand to my mouth and bite my knuckle. I can hardly feel a damn thing. My hand tastes of sweat. I wonder if Dad ever thought I was gay.

  Should I go back and shoot these two men for making me feel this way? I look up at the ceiling and nearly lose balance. My knuckle is still in my mouth. What would Jesus do? It would be rather Christian of me to go in there and shoot them. Abnormal acts like that only mock Him.

  What would Dad want me to do?

  I have no idea why I even consider his outlook on this. So now I’m standing here with another dilemma. I’m sure God won’t mind if I shoot them, but Dad will. In fact, God’s probably urging me to. I’ll be doing both Him and humanity a favor. But do I feel like doing God a favor? I try to think of one favor He’s done me, but all He’s ever done is take away my father and give me my mother. No, I owe Him nothing.

  I turn back toward the bedroom. I can hear Dad telling me that they’re just people doing what people do, and I should leave them be. People are allowed to be happy. Nobody has the right to judge people who fall in love with the same gender. That’s what he’d say. Only I’m not listening to him, because he’s dead, and dead people’s opinions don’t really account for much, and even so Dad is wrong because this isn’t what people do.

  That’s enough for the night. It’s time to focus on the positives. It’s time to be Optimistic Joe. When I call in Candy’s body tomorrow there will only be four people to watch closely. It’s getting late. If I don’t get home soon, I might sleep in again tomorrow. I should have been out the damn door by now.

  But this is an opportunity. I’m already inside the house. I already have a gun. And neither of them is aware of my presence. They’re both too wrapped up in each other. Does that mean they deserve to die? The only thing I know for sure is they’ve brought this confusion over me, this nausea, and for that I should get even. Nobody does this to me. Nobody.

  Yet is it really their fault?

  My God! How can I even question this? What sort of person am I becoming?

  I’m Joe. J is for Joe. J is for judge. I’m strong and I’m in control, and what I decide is my decision-not God’s. Not Dad’s. I don’t care what either of them thinks.

  I make my way to the bedroom. Stop at the door. Point my gun directly ahead. But I’m not pulling the trigger. Instead I’m thinking about the technical side. The ballistics of the bullets will match against one of the victims I shot. The serial killer strikes again, and this will confuse them. It will blind them to any real motive. Why has the killer targeted a gay policeman? But how ideal is it if the other detectives become conscious that somebody is after them? How easily could I go through their houses if I needed to? Or their motel rooms?

  I take a step back just as the grunting from the bedroom gets louder, as if I’ve given the sound waves more room to travel and amplify. The creaking bedsprings sound like they’re screaming in fear. I push my hands against the sides of my head, but it isn’t working. I jam the barrel of my Glock into my right ear, and stuff my middle finger into my left, but it doesn’t help me think. The sound is still there. And the only way to get rid of it is to either shoot myself, or to shoot them. But I don’t have to shoot them. I’m not an animal. I have the ability to think this out. I know right from wrong. I’m not insane. An insane person would jump in there and start firing because they wouldn’t be able to control themselves. The interesting thing about insanity is that Insanity is strictly a legal term, not a medical one. Patients like me are not insane-we just plead it if we’re caught. The reality is if we really were insane, we wouldn’t be trying to evade conviction-we’d be caught at the scene smeared in blood and peanut butter and singing Barry Manilow tunes.

  I lower my gun. I could kill them just for the hell of it, just because I’m here. In life you take what comes along in this crazy mixed-up world. Other times you need to let it pass you by in case something better comes your way. Life is like a highway with many dirt roads veering off it.

  I’m at a junction right now, standing in the hallway of some guy I have never met. A memory in my mind that I can’t reach. A headache coming on. Pounding. Sweat running down the sides of my body. Trickling. Grunting filling my ears. Pounding. Do I kill them? Throw a few of those red herrings into the investigation? Or does it only make things worse?

  I make my way downstairs. The kitchen is full of stainless-steel appliances that cost more than I make in a year. I sit at the breakfast bar on a bar stool and rest the Glock in front of me. Tagging Travers for gay was simple-it was the calendars. Overcompensation was the key word there. Kno
wing I’ll think better on a stomach that isn’t so empty, I open up the fridge and rummage around inside for some food. I end up making myself a corned beef sandwich-Travers’s boyfriend is an excellent cook. I grab a can of Coke-it’s on special after all-to wash it down. The fizz burns away any fantasy I hold that what I am listening to could be anything other than two men having the time of their lives.

  Upstairs, the bed is slamming the bedroom wall, like it too wants to have bolted out the front door half an hour ago. I sit down at the bar and start tracing my finger along the edge of it, flicking some of the crumbs from the sandwich while doing my best to dismiss the thought that because I ate from the same food these people ate from that I’m gay now, but of course that’s silly, it’s silly, but the thought stays with me as I consider what to do next.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The restaurant is full of conversation, nice smells, good people, decent music, and a warm atmosphere. The waitresses all have perfect hair and trim bodies, shown off by tight clothing. Everybody else has gone to a lot of effort to look casual-jeans, tidy T-shirts, smart shoes.

  Sally’s father is working away at a chicken dish, her mother tackling a salad, while Sally pushes a fork back and forth in her tortellini. The day has gone well. For the first time in ages, her father, fifty-five now, looks close to his age rather than several years beyond it. The DVD player went down well; it was no problem for her to install it, and her father spent ten minutes playing with the remote, learning how to drive it. The buttons were difficult to push with his shuddery hands, yet his frustration stayed at a minimum. Whether that will still be the case in another year, or even another few weeks, is anybody’s guess.

  She stabs a few pieces of pasta and puts them into her mouth. She loves pasta. She could live on it quite happily, yet tonight her appetite isn’t allowing her to enjoy it. Her mother and father are laughing. She is happy for them, happy that for an hour or two they don’t look so empty.

  When she finishes her meal, the friendly waitress who has been helping them all night comes over and sweeps away their plates, then just as quickly replaces them with dessert menus. She scans through the choices. She doesn’t really feel like any of them, and looking at the waitresses, she doubts any of them have touched any type of dessert in their entire lives. She looks up at her dad and identifies the strain in his features as he tries to keep his body under control. He won’t be able to hold on much longer, she thinks.

  Sally is a few bites into a chocolate sundae when she starts to feel guilty about Joe. She hopes he wasn’t relying on her for his lunch today. Of course what makes her feel really bad is what he said this morning. Somebody like me. She hadn’t been aware till then that Joe knew people were treating him differently, and she was doing so too. Nobody else was making him lunch. Nobody else was pestering him to sit outside on the banks of the Avon River and throw stale bread at the ducks.

  Two things occur to her then. The first is there’s a reason why Joe always has turned down her offer to have lunch together, or to be given a lift home. She has been treating him differently.

  The second thing is that this sundae isn’t going to help her waistline. Anyway, it’s starting to taste plain. Just chilled soggy cream. She pushes her spoon around it, making it even more runny. What she needs to do, she realizes, is to make an effort to get to know Joe while pretending she isn’t making an effort. She smiles at her parents, glad they are having a good time. Her mother’s metal crucifix is hanging outside her blouse, the light from the candles glinting off it. Through everything, her parents still have their faith. Again she thinks that she can use faith to bring herself closer to Joe.

  She looks back down at her sundae. Today is day one to become a better person, a more caring person, a thinner person. She pushes her dessert aside and promises herself never to touch one again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The bed is no longer banging. It could be broken. The mattress might have worn out. Maybe they’ve moved to the floor. Maybe they’re spent. Thinking about it makes the corned beef sandwich threaten to come back up, and I’m threatening to let it. Problem is, it won’t just be the sandwich. It’ll be everything I’ve eaten for the week.

  I’ve made my decision. I’m going to let God down by allowing them to live. Hey, I don’t owe Him any favors.

  I leave the empty can on the table and the leftover makings of my sandwich on the bench. I’ve never been that domesticated. I’m wearing gloves. When Travers finds the can in the morning, I wonder if he will have it tested for a link with the bottles found at Angela’s house. It’s a big parallel to draw-too big for a policeman, anyway.

  I don’t bother locking the front door behind me. If somebody else happens to break in and kill them, then who am I to interfere with God? I start to laugh at the thought of their faces in the morning when they see they’ve had a visitor. Laughter is the best medicine for what I’ve just been through. What will they do? Report it? No. Travers wants his secret kept. I can’t imagine him going to work tomorrow and telling everybody what happened. For a while he’s going to live in fear. As will his buddy. And so they should-mocking the Bible and humanity with their actions.

  Mocking me with them.

  I part company with the car a half mile from home and build up a sweat while walking the rest of the way. My briefcase feels heavy in the wet heat. Maybe one day I’ll buy a car.

  When I get inside, I see two messages waiting for me, both from my mother. I erase them without listening to them, wondering two things at the same time. First, why I love my mom so much, and second, why she can’t be deleted just as easily.

  I sit in front of Pickle and Jehovah and watch them as they swim in their endless cycle of memory loss. They see me, suspect I am about to feed them, so they race over. I haven’t fed them all day, so I don’t waste any time. I glance at my answering machine. Maybe Mom will call tomorrow. Ask me around for meatloaf. Show me her newest jigsaw puzzle. Give me some Coke. I look forward to it. I feel bad for not having listened to her messages.

  Before going to bed I dig out an old alarm clock from the bottom of my small closet. Set it to seven thirty-five. This way I give myself a chance to wake up at seven thirty. It’s like a test. A test with a backup.

  I wish my fish good night before going to bed. I close my eyes and try not to think about my mother as I wait for sleep to come and take me away from the pain of what I’ve seen tonight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Late night, Detective Schroder?”

  “We found another body.”

  What? I start scanning the corkboard. “Was she dead, Detective Schroder?”

  Christchurch is overcast and gray. No sun. Lots of heat. Wet heat like yesterday. My sleeves are already rolled up. Schroder gives me a look as though I never cease to amaze him with my well of knowledge. I look back at him as if the characters from a Doctor Seuss story are dancing back and forth in my mind, singing songs and holding hands and doing what they can to keep me permanently entertained.

  “Yeah. She is, Joe.”

  I look up at the wall and it takes all my control to keep in the role of Slow Joe when I see her photograph. I point to it. The picture of Candy. “Is that her?”

  He nods. “Name’s Lisa Houston. She was a prostitute.”

  “Dangerous job, Detective Schroder. Being a cleaner is better.”

  The photograph of Candy is one of those after shots that make people’s passport pictures look good in comparison, especially in this case because it was taken after two days spent in an upstairs bedroom in sweltering heat. Decomposition has not been kind to her. The skin slippage around her hair and face is extensive. Her skin is blotchy purple. Another day or so, it would be blotchy black. Her eyes are milky. Her arm is crooked and bruised. The skin on her hands looks like wet gloves.

  “Did she die last night, Detective Schroder?”

  “Longer than that, Joe. We’ll know exactly when later on this morning.”

  The pathologist wil
l figure out the day by examining the insect larvae growing around her battered face and torn vagina, and from the compound fracture in her broken arm, where the bone peeped through and said hello.

  “You know, Joe, you really shouldn’t be seeing these sorts of pictures.”

  “They’re okay,” I tell him. “I just pretend they’re not real people.”

  “I guess that must be a luxury.”

  “Coffee, Detective Schroder?”

  “Not this morning, Joe. Thanks.”

  I wander off to my office. I’m desperately curious about how the body was found, who found it, and who showed up at the scene. Detective Travers certainly hadn’t. He was tied up.

  It was probably the husband, coming home to get his life back on track. Wondered what the smell was coming from upstairs. Déjà vu. Whether you breathe through your nose or your mouth, or even if you don’t breathe at all, the smell of decaying death will always get to you. It takes on a life in the same way fire does, looking for oxygen to burn to keep it alive, and, like fire, it has a hunger to be fed. A purpose for its survival. I wonder if the husband will ever walk up those stairs again.

  I’ve heard of cases where old people have lived with their dead spouse for months because they didn’t want to part with their loved one. They lay them down in bed or set them in front of the TV watching game shows with their favorite cushion in their lap. Hold conversations with them. Hold their hand, even though the skin is slipping from it in rotted abrasions. For a while after Dad died, I kept checking on Mom to make sure she was home alone-I thought she might break out the superglue to try and piece Dad’s ashes together so she could nag the poor bastard to death one last time.

  I remember a story I once read in a newspaper. Some guy in Germany had died, and although his rotting body stank, none of the neighbors wanted to disturb him. He was there for a couple of months and wasn’t found until the landlord wanted his rent. He’d been eaten by his flock of cats, and was mostly bone by that point. Guy probably got more pussy in death than he did in life.