The Cleaner

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 will 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.

I mop floors. Wipe windows. Get talked to like I’m a moron. Throughout the course of the morning, I eavesdrop enough to learn the footprints at the scene are identical to those at the other scenes. Residue from my gloves. Carpet fibers. Hair. Daniela Walker’s husband had come home to get his electric shaver-my electric shaver now-and had found her.

Because of the several differences between Lisa the Hooker’s death and Daniela the Battered Housewife’s death, more detectives have changed over to the theory that they are hunting two killers and not one. Each victim has been killed differently (though I’m repetitious in my day job, I don’t like to be with after-hours activities), but at each scene I’m leaving behind similar evidence, be it clothes, fibers, or saliva.

Two killers. It is the general assumption. Nobody who thinks otherwise has any theories as to why the killer returned to the scene with a hooker.

Just before lunch I run into the local gay cop and say hello to him. He isn’t in a talkative mood and dismisses me with a quick greeting. He looks distracted. He also looks tired.

I’m left with four men to study. Lunch comes and goes without a visit from Sally, and more importantly, without any of her sandwiches. I make do with the food I have. After lunch, using the computer and personnel files in one of the records rooms upstairs, I reproduce department records for each of the remaining four men for later reading. I’m getting excited at how my list keeps narrowing itself down. What I can’t figure out is why I have to eliminate all but one name until I find the killer. Why can’t the next person I investigate be the man I want?

Why must luck be against me? I decide to start with the two I don’t know as well, the two out-of-towners.

I’m in the records room running the vacuum over a toner-stained piece of carpet when Sally opens the door and steps in. She doesn’t look surprised to find me here, which means she must have been keeping an eye on me. Maybe I ought to be keeping more of an eye on her. I turn off the vacuum cleaner.

“How’s your day going, Joe?” she asks, always asking me the same thing, as if one day I’m going to have an answer different from Fine or Okay.

I decide to liven up her day and mix up the conversation.

“It’s going real good, Sally. Just like all the other yesterdays. I like my job.”

“I like my job too,” she says, and then she lowers her voice even though there is nobody else here to overhear her, “but I must admit I find it a little boring. Don’t you ever feel like you want to do something else?” She walks over to the photocopier and leans against it. The records I printed off are safely in my overalls, and the originals back where they belong. “I mean, don’t you think there ought to be more to life?”

“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious. I can learn from this woman. If she has low-end goals in this world, I can say I have those same goals if it will help my act. This is what Method actors do.

“Anything. Everything,” she says, and maybe it’s the smell of the vacuum cleaner, or the window-cleaner fumes getting to me, but for the first time Sally sounds as though she’s thinking outside the box, beyond her limitations.

“I don’t understand,” I tell her, and I really don’t.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not making any sense. Don’t you have dreams, Joe? If you could be anything in the world, what would you want to be?”

The answer is simple. “Joe.”

“No, I mean a job. Any job in the world.”

“A cleaner.”

“Besides that?”

“I’m not quer. . qual. . fied for anything else.”

“Do you like the idea of being a fireman? Or a policeman? Or an artist?”

“I drew a house, once. It had no windows.”

She sighs, and for a moment I think about documentaries on TV where some retarded guy will marry his female equal. Surely these are the conversations they must have during foreplay before trying to make mentally disabled babies. I decide to put an end to it and help her out.

“I would like to be an astronaut.”

Her face beams at my answer. “Really?”

“Yeah. Ever since I was a boy,” I say, winging it now because even though it isn’t my fantasy, it sounds like the kind of thing any man-regardless of IQ-would like to do. “I looked up at the moon and wanted to walk there. I know you can’t live there, but I could at least fly there and make snow angels in the moon dirt.”

“That sounds nice, Joe.”

I’m sure it does. I decide to go another step further into this romantic notion. “I’d be alone up there. I’d not worry about what people think about me. It would be peaceful.”

Her smile starts to waver. “You worry about what other people think about you?”

“Sometimes,” I say, though that isn’t necessarily true. I only worry about what other people think I’m capable of. “It’s not easy being retarted,” I say, putting emphasis on the second t.

“Retarded.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “What about God?”

“God?” I ask, as if I’ve never heard of the guy. “Do you think he’s retarted?”

“Of course not. But do you ever worry about what He thinks?”

It’s a good question. And if I really believed in all those God-loves-you and God-will-smite-you fairy tales, then sure, I’d be worried. I look at the crucifix hanging from her neck. It’s an icon that introduces her to the world as somebody who believes in Heaven and Hell and all the good and bad things in between.

“I always worry, because God is always watching,” I say, and her face lights up again and I realize that if Sally doubled her IQ and halved her weight, she could be the kind of person I’d find myself following home.

“Do you ever go to church, Joe?”

“Church? No. Never.”

“You should.”

“I get confused,” I say, looking down while I say it, as if I’m admitting something that makes me feel ashamed of being a God-loving, God-fearing Christian. “I wish I could, but I can never make it all the way through the. .” The what? The lesson? The sermon? The boredom? I’m not sure of the answer. “You know. The three hours of sitting still and listening. Plus I find some of the things hard to understand. It seems to me that the Bible doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense.” Which I’m sure is true. I look back up and I smile away the ashamed look I had put on my face. The big-boy grin gives her smile a new lease on life.

“I go to church every Sunday,” she says, reaching up and touching the crucifix.

“That’s good.”

“You’re welcome to come along. I promise it won’t be boring.”

I have no idea how she can promise something like that unless the priest is planning on breaking at least half the commandments. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do your parents go to church?”

“No.”

“It’s good that you have faith, Joe.”

“The world needs faith,” I say, and then Sally prattles on for five minutes, telling me things she has been able to learn from the Bible. I figure that to absorb all that Christian bullshit she must have forgotten other things along the way, which is why she’s so incredibly dim.

At the end of it all she asks me what I have planned for my weekend. I tell her I have lots of plans, like watching TV and sleeping. I’m worried she might suddenly suggest we do either one of those things together at her place.

But she lets me off the hook. “Have I ever told you about my brother?” she asks.

“No.”

“You remind me of him.”

Her brother must have been awesome, but I find it a little sick that she must have wanted to fuck him, too. “That’s nice,” I guess.

“Anyway, I wanted to let you know that if you ever wanted help with anything, or wanted to just do something, like talk or have coffee or something, well, I’m always available.”

I’m sure she is. “Thanks.”

She reaches into a pocket and pulls out a business card. Her phone number is written on it-she has that same cute, happy handwriting that normal women have. Seeing it there makes me realize she had this whole speech planned out. She hands it over. I turn the card over and see it’s one of Detective Schroder’s cards. There’s also a coffee-colored ring stain on it-she’s recycled the card rather than stealing a new one.

“You ever need anything, Joe, I’m only a phone call away.”

“A phone call away,” I say, giving her my big-boy grin and tucking the number into my pocket while the back of my neck breaks out in goose bumps.

“Well, I guess I’d better get back to work,” she says.

“Me too,” I say, looking down at the vacuum cleaner.

She heads out of the room, closing the door behind her. I take her phone number out of my pocket and am about to tear it up, but she might come back through the door. Best to dispose of it after work. Maybe at home.

Four thirty rolls around. Time to stop working. It’s also Friday, so time to stop thinking. Putting in too many extra hours will only stress me out. A stressed cleaner is a sloppy cleaner. Therefore, when I climb off the bus near home, I decide not to continue investigating into the weekend. A stressed detective is a sloppy detective.

I will use this weekend to unwind. Try to enjoy myself. Spend some quality time with Joe. Perhaps watch my fish for a while. Perhaps visit Mom. Maybe read another romance novel. I walk up the stairs to my apartment, unlock the door, and push my way inside. A moment later I pull the folders from my briefcase. I’m telling myself not to open them up, not to start reading, but perhaps I’ll have a quick browse. .

No. Must. Not. Work.

I sit down on the sofa. Put down the files. Feed Pickle and Jehovah. While they’re eating, I check my answering machine. Mom hasn’t called. Odd.

I move back to the sofa and look at the files I don’t want to read. This must be how some cops become dedicated to solving a crime. Unfortunately, you only let yourself down, not for working so hard, but for working so hard and getting nowhere. You can’t stop working, because suddenly nothing else really matters anymore. You become obsessed.

I am at that point now. It’s like a need, I guess, or a craving. I’ve opened this investigation. I’m experiencing the exact reason for so many divorces in the police department. Unless I put the folder down right now, I’m going to end up spending my entire weekend sitting on my bed and reading. Working. Stressing. But it is a challenge. .

I walk over to the sink and splash cold water on my face. Do I want to be this dedicated? Who am I to spend my weekend solving a crime I’ve no real interest in?

Ah, and that’s the problem. I am interested. Have been for the entire week. How can I not be? Is this a product of my lack of a life? Must I solve a murder to enjoy myself?

And here’s the killer blow-I actually am enjoying myself. Sure, all along I’ve been enjoying narrowing down my suspects, but I’ve also enjoyed everything about the entire investigation. I like the espionage-the way I feel like James Bond, sneaking into Mr. and Mr. Gay’s house, darting into the cubicles and offices at the station. The long hours. The continuous mind drain. The logic and the reality. It’s all been a buzz.

The problems are the late nights. The dreams. Not waking on time in the mornings. The disrupted routine. But I don’t want my life to be a routine. After this, I might take on another case. The satisfaction of knowing I am better than anybody else at the police department satisfies my ego, but is that enough of a reason to keep doing this?

I think it just might be. Sometimes killing is all about ego, especially for other people, but I remain comfortable with the knowledge that I’m not like other killers. I know what I do is wrong, but I won’t attempt to justify it. I won’t say God or Satan made me do it. I won’t say they had it coming. Nor will I pretend an abusive childhood sent me spiraling onto this dirt road from the main highway of life. My childhood was normal, at least as normal as it could have been with my crazy mother. She never abused me, never neglected me-though it would have been easier growing up if she had. The abuse would have given me a reason to hate her. The neglect would have given me a reason to love her.

If I could point to my childhood and choose one thing that made me the man I am today, it would be the exact opposite of neglect. It would be the constant talking, the constant explaining, the always being there. So no deep-seated reason why I grew up to enjoy killing people, no inner turmoil or conflicts or resentment at the world or at my parents. Neither of them was an alcoholic. Neither of them molested me. I never burned down the school, never set fire to the dog. I was a normal kid.

I turn away from the sink and look out my small window onto the city. It’s still gray out there. I run some more water over my face, then towel myself down.

Just how dedicated do I want to be?

Dedication is willpower. I squeeze my eyes shut. To work or not to work? That is the question.

The phone rings. It startles me and I look at it expecting to see it rattling on the hook. My first thought is Mom. Has something happened to her? I’m not sure what the statute of limitations on premonitions is, but the one I had yesterday morning must have expired by now. Mom’s okay. Mom’s always going to be okay. I snatch it up before the answering machine kicks in.

“Joe? Is that you?” she asks before I even get the chance to say anything.

“Mom?”

“Hello, Joe. This is your mother.”

“Mom. . why. . why are you ringing me?”

“What’s this? Do I need an excuse to ring my only child who I thought loved me?”

“I do love you, Mom.”

“You have an odd way of showing it,” she says.

“You know I love you, Mom,” I say, wanting to add that I wish that for once she could say something positive toward or about me, because if she could it’d make loving her a whole lot easier to do.

“That’s great, Joe.”

“Thanks.”

“You misunderstand,” she says. “I’m being sarcastical.”

“Sarcastic.”

“What, Joe?”

“What?”

“What did you say?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“It sounded like something.”

“I think I have a bad line,” I tell her. “What were you saying?”

“I said I was being sarcastical. I’m saying that it’s great that you now think I’m only imagining you love me. Are you saying I’m supposed to assume that you love your mother? I don’t see how I can assume such a thing. You never visit me, and when I call, you complain! Sometimes I just don’t know what to do. Your father would be ashamed to see how you treat me, Joe. Ashamed!”

Part of me wants to cry. Another part wants to scream. I do neither. I sit down and let my head and chest sag down slightly. I wonder what life would be like if Mom had died instead of Dad. “I’m sorry,” I say, knowing I can only apologize rather than try to correct her way of thinking. “I promise to be better, Mom. I really do.”

“Really? That’s the Joe I know. The loving, caring son who I knew I could only have had. You truly can be an angel at times, Joe. You make me so proud.”

“Really?” I start to smile. “Thanks,” I say, praying she isn’t being sarcastical.

“I went to the doctor today,” she says, changing the subject-or more accurately, getting around to the reason she actually called.

The doctor? Oh Jesus. “What’s wrong?”

“I must have been sleepwalking last night, Joe. I woke up this morning with my bedroom door open, and I was lying on the floor.”

“The floor? Oh my God. Are you okay?”

“What do you think?”

“What did the doctor say?”

“He said I had an episode. Do you know what an episode is, Joe?”

I feel closer to crying than screaming. I think about Fay, Edgar, Karen, and Stewart from Mom’s favorite program. Yeah, I know what an episode is.

“What kind of episode?”

“Doctor Costello says it’s nothing to be worried about. He has given me some tablets.”

“What sort of tablets?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll tell you more when you come over. I’ll cook meatloaf. It’s your favorite, Joe.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Doctor Costello seems to think so. So what time will you be coming over?”

Suddenly I’m not so sure there was an episode. In fact I’m almost positive Mom is making all of this up to make me feel guilty. “Do you have to go for more tests?”

“No. Around six? Six thirty?”

“No tests? Why? What more are they going to do?”

“I have my pills.”

“I’m just worried, that’s all.”

“I’ll be better when you get here.”

I suck in a deep breath. Here we go. “I can’t come over, Mom. I’m kind of busy.”

“You’re always busy, no time to spend with your mother. I’m all you have, you know. All you have since your father died. Where will you be when I’m gone?”

In paradise. “I’ll come by on Monday, like normal.”

“I guess we’ll find out on Monday.” The line suddenly goes dead.

I stand back up and hang up the phone. Hearing it ring reminds me that I never called the vet back, but being reminded doesn’t make me want to do it now. I walk over to my battered sofa. I sit down and throw my feet up onto the scarred coffee table. In the silence of my room I can hear the pump circulating the water around in the fishbowl. I wonder what kind of peace I could find if I was a goldfish with a memory that spanned only the last five seconds of my mother’s conversation.

I look over at the folders containing the printouts of the four men left on my suspect list. If I start looking through them, I’ll at least stop thinking about my mother. Meatloaf on Monday. It’s a prelude to having her nagging me for not living there, for not having a life, for not owning a BMW. Will reading the files put her out of my mind?

I figure it’s worth a shot.

I pick them up and begin looking through them.