The Cleaner

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Christchurch at night. My city. My playground. Where people who hate you will still call you “buddy.” The air is warm, alive with activity, a light breeze coming from the northwest. Not too hot, but muggy. Full of sound as much as moisture. Full of fluorescent light as much as hormones. To the south of the city, on the Port Hills, a million lights twinkle in the distance. In the other directions, just flat landscape with buildings dotted across it. The town itself is full of neon lights-pinks, purples, reds, and greens. All possible colors dazzle the eyes from all possible angles.

The red-light district of Christchurch straddles Manchester and Colombo streets, which run parallel through the heart of the city. On any of these corners you can buy a personal party for twenty, sixty, or a hundred bucks. Circling these streets are two types of people. The first are the boys in their teens and twenties, driving with no destination in mind except to be somewhere else, always on the move like a shark. Modified engines that make more noise than a jumbo jet. Mag wheels shiny and fat. Exhaust pipes wide enough to put your fist into. These are the boy-racers. I couldn’t really say how they came into being, but they just did, one day thousands of teenagers driving expensive-looking Japanese imported cars, some of the cars have subwoofers installed in the backs with bass as loud as cannon fire, some cars have neon strips stuck along the base of them, some cars are painted so bright they could cause an onlooker to suffer a brain embolism, all of the cars are a burden on society. Windows in the nearby shops vibrate with the sound of them passing by. Some peel rubber at every set of lights as their tweaked motors lurch into action. Kids trying their hardest to be cool in an uncool world, they’re winding down their busy week of cashing welfare checks by impressing everybody with their taste in music.

At the other end of the spectrum is the second type of people. There are the guys who used to do the same thing ten years ago, only back then they’d only cruise up and down the same street. Now these guys are still driving the same cars; older bigger cars that don’t get as much mileage. These are guys who wear tight black jeans and black T-shirts with holes in them and the names of heavy metal bands or whisky brands printed across them. They have long hair or shaved heads, nothing in between. Cigarettes or joints hang from their mouths. Their windows are tinted, the side ones wound down so we can all enjoy their presence. They think women who see them will instantly fall in love, and the crazy part is that some of them do. The sluts who wear the tie-dyed dresses and jars of face paint covering their skin-they wear their hearts on their arms along with colorful but cheap tattoos.

The Oxford Terrace line of bars and cafés is known as The Strip. It’s a meat market where skanky girls tease a few dozen men for every one they end up sleeping with. Seven or eight of these bars are packed tightly within this block, all of them with a riverside view. On the other side of the river and on a slight diagonal, a few hundred feet away from the closest bar, is the police station. On a Friday night the urine-water mix in the Avon is about fifty-fifty. Eels float along belly up. Ducks pick at used condoms left on the banks. Small fish flop from the water figuring they have a better chance in the air than they do breathing in the same stuff they’re swimming in. Every ten meters or so somebody has passed out drunk. As I get closer to The Strip, I take the gun from my waistband and zip it inside my jacket pocket, then take off my jacket and carry it. The night isn’t as hot as it’d been over the last week, but sweat still trickles down the sides of my body. I’ve applied enough aftershave and deodorant to hide any smell my body can come up with, though there’s more than enough aftershave and perfume already hanging in the air. Walking down this street has me scented for free within seconds.

It’s after midnight and The Strip is getting livelier. All week long women are heading straight home from work and locking their doors, afraid that what has been happening to their counterparts in the news might happen to them. Any other day of the week, there is a general awareness that things are not as safe as they ought to be. Yet come Friday and Saturday nights, all those fears are pushed aside so that the good times can roll. Here, most of the women are young and underdressed. They try to cram their way into clubs they think must be popular because of the lines of people waiting outside. Bouncers stand with their arms crossed and their muscles bulging. They have attitude problems they like everyone to know about.

The Strip is the highlight of town for most locals. Already the drum ’n’ bass, the techno, and the hip-hop deafen me. The only thing I know about hip-hop is that I hate it, and I figure that’s all anybody knows about it. We may have evolved from something that crawled out of a swamp and continued to evolve as monkeys became men, but boy-racers and hip-hop music are proof we’ve hit our peak and are now heading backward.

It could take at least thirty minutes to get inside any of these places, so I head deeper into the city, walking down Cashel Mall passing shoe shops and clothing stores in search of another club or bar. Perhaps one that’s quieter. I find it eventually-a club with an open front where the music isn’t quite so loud and a lot more bearable and there’s room to sit. The crowd seems to be made up of people from their midtwenties through to their late thirties. Guess that makes me average.

I make my way inside, sidestepping the bouncer with a smile and without a comment from either of us. There’s a sea of people to greet me, but not an ocean. I push my way through, keeping a tight grip on my jacket. At the bar I’m served by a delicious blonde-tight white top, short black skirt, great tits. I order myself a gin and tonic. Expensive, but you can’t go into town on a Friday or Saturday night and not expect to spend a small fortune. I could have stayed at home and had the same drink for a quarter of the price, but there would be nobody to watch. I sit at the bar, nurse my drink, and watch the crowd around me. Mostly men wearing expensive clothing they can’t afford, attempting to look richer and more impressive than they really are. Caretakers, laborers, plumbers, shop assistants-all dressed to look like lawyers. Whereas the lawyers are at other bars, dressed to look like casual guys. The women, even the fat chicks, dress to look like sluts. Not that I’m complaining. It’s here where men flock to get a glance at potential bedtime stories to tell their friends on Monday morning. Women come here to be easy. To be free.

From all corners of the club, lights flicker and dance and throb and pulse at my eyes. I finish my drink, order another. I look up at the roof and check for any surveillance cameras covering the bar. Nothing. The music is getting louder. My ears are humming.

In a place like this, women only speak to you for one of three reasons: you’re either extremely good-looking, you look extremely rich, or they’re telling you to get lost and stop bothering them. Tonight I’m wearing expensive clothing. Money’s no object when it comes to clothes, because a few of my victims have had husbands my size. I’m also wearing a rather expensive wristwatch-a Tag Heuer that cost victim number three’s husband three thousand dollars. It has a sapphire crystal face that can’t be scratched and a metal bracelet strap. Not as costly as a Rolex, but Rolexes don’t retain a high market value; they’re ugly, worn only by old men and Asians.

It takes thirty minutes and three drinks for a woman to come up to me. Out of the overalls, I don’t look like the simple guy the guys at the station think I am. Clothes make all the difference. She forces her way to the bar and stands next to me. She turns and smiles. Acknowledges my existence. A good start. She orders a drink. Just one.

“Hi there.” I have to shout to be heard over the music.

“Hi.”

I peg her to be around twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight years old. Five feet six, slim. Like the chick behind the bar, she has a nice pair. In this light she looks like she has purple skin. Maybe she does. Her hair looks purple too. I can’t tell what color her eyes are.

“How’s it going?” I shout.

“Good,” she says, nodding. “Good. And you?”

“Yeah. Good,” I say, then suddenly realize I don’t know what to say next. That’s always been my problem. Social skills don’t come easy to me. If they did, I wouldn’t have to break into women’s homes; I’d be able to talk my way in. So. . Come here often? No, I’m not going to ask that. “Boy, I wish I could come up with something that made me sound impressive.”

She laughs, and maybe that’s because she’s heard the line before, or knows how quickly our conversation became awkward. “I was hoping you’d be impressive.”

This is a good sign. Funny. Good sense of humor. Great smile. And she’s still here, hasn’t told me to get lost. I study her outfit. A short black skirt. A dark red top that shows the tops of her firm breasts. The back of the top shows most of her back, except where the material strings across to hold it in place. She isn’t wearing a bra. Black leather shoes that have finger-width strands of leather crisscrossing over them. She’s wearing a thin gold necklace, and a gold watch that looks like an expensive Omega.

I shrug. “I was kind of hoping for the same thing.”

The other thing I keep in mind is that even though women who frequent these places may look like sluts, and may in fact be easy, going home with one takes a mighty amount of skill, charm, persuasion, or dumb luck-none of which I have in spades. It’s all about salesmanship. Here you have a good-looking woman, wanting to make a purchase, just looking for the right guy, and knowing that if you’re not it, there’s another one a few feet away.

She smiles at me. The biggest tool you can have in your armory, besides being good-looking and rich, is humor. If you can make her laugh right away, then you have a chance. If she really laughs-not one of those stupid, polite laughs because you think you’re funny-then you’re definitely in. At some point in the evening you’re assured of at least a friendly grope in the bathroom out back.

I’m hoping for a friendly something else.

“You look familiar,” she says.

I smile at her, not really sure how to respond.

“You work at the police station, right?”

I nod. “Something like that.”

Now her smile gets a little bigger. “I thought so. I’ve seen you there.”

“You work there?” I ask, hoping she may know something useful, but knowing it’s more likely I need to move on.

She shakes her head. “No. So you’re a cop?”

“Something like that.”

“Name’s Melissa,” she says, sipping at her drink.

The lighting changes from purple to white, and I get to take a fast look at her. Dark brown hair. Nice complexion. Stunning blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Defined nose. No blemishes. Her hair hangs down past her shoulders, both behind and in front. She tilts her head and tucks a few strands behind her right ear. When she pulls the glass away from her mouth I get a good look at her lips. Bright red, full.

The light changes to orange. So does she.

“Joe,” I say.

“So what are you working on at the moment?” She knocks back the rest of her drink, sets the glass on the bar next to mine, and continues to give me the sweetest smile. My drink is empty aside from the ice cubes, which are melting in the heat as I keep my hand gripped around the glass.

“Get you another drink?” I ask.

“A Red Bull and vodka,” she says.

Great. So I order a gin and tonic for me and the most expensive drink in the bar for her.

I sip at my drink and look at her one, thinking it does look pretty good, but I don’t want to mix drinks: headache material for the following morning, memory loss for the night before. It doesn’t happen to me often, but there have been a few times over the last ten years.

“You were about to tell me what you’re working on,” she says.

“You’ve been reading about the serial killer?”

“You’re working on the Burial Killer case?”

I shake my head. “The other one.”

“Oh my God, you’re working on that? The Christchurch Carver case?”

The Christchurch Carver. That’s what they call me. I want to tell her she can call me Carve for short. Look at a paper and read all about me. It’s amazing how quickly the media can come up with a name for a guy committing a string of crimes. It doesn’t have to be accurate. Just catchy.

“That’s the one,” I tell her.

“That’s amazing!” she says, and she really sounds like she means it.

“Well, I do what I can,” I say.

“It’s pretty noisy here,” she says.

I agree. Yes. Damn noisy.

We move away from the bar to a table near the front of the club, but not in view of the street. It’s less noisy, though only just. Darker, though. Fine by me. At least we no longer need to shout. To the right on the dance floor men and women are trying to lose themselves in an attempt at rhythm. They look like marionettes being controlled by puppeteers with a sense of humor.

“So, what can you tell me about the case? You close to catching him?” she asks, leaning forward. She is running her finger around the rim of her glass, playing with the salt.

I start nodding. “Soon.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’m not allowed to say.”

“You know who the guy is?” She licks at the salt, then goes back for more.

“I’m getting a pretty good idea,” I tell her.

“But you can’t tell me,” she says.

“That’s right.”

“So you’ve seen the women he killed, huh?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen them.” I take a sip at my drink. This one has been mixed stronger than the other one.

“What did they look like?”

I’m not prepared for her question, and not so sure she’ll like hearing the answer. “Um, well, it wasn’t pretty, that’s for sure.”

“He really made a mess of them, huh?”

I shrug, but it’s obvious I’m indicating the mess was bad. We talk about the case and I give her a few of my insights. She seems impressed, but doesn’t offer any opinions of her own, though she does tell me she’s been following the case closely.

“So what do you do?” I ask, finally changing the subject. She seems disappointed.

“I’m an architect.”

Wow. I’ve never killed an architect. “How long you been doing that for?”

“Eight years.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Why’s that?”

“I could have sworn you were only twenty-two.”

She gives me a laugh, that clichéd laugh reserved for when you totally fuck their age up in the right direction.

“I’m a bit older than that, Joe.”

I shrug like I can’t believe it. “You come here to wind down?”

“This is about my third time here.”

“This is my first time anywhere.”

“Oh?”

Another shrug. “Couldn’t sleep. Decided to see what fun people do.”

Again the laugh. “What do you think so far?”

I put my glass down on the ring of moisture it had left behind. “So far it isn’t as scary as I’d thought.”

“It may get scarier.”

She’s got that part right.

“You live in Christchurch, Joe?”

“Yeah. All my life. What about you?”

“I was born and raised here,” she says. “Even started going to university here, but moved away a couple of years ago. I just got back and not sure how long I’ll stay. It’s a cliché, but I’m just trying to decide what to do with life. You know what I mean? In the two years I’ve gone, everybody has moved on. I don’t know anybody here anymore.”

Perfect. It also means she isn’t a regular at this bar, so not too many people will be keeping an eye on her to see where she goes. I don’t normally pick up women at bars. Only once before have I done it. It’s all about the challenge. Picking up a woman at a bar is difficult enough, but breaking her afterward is reward enough for the effort. Getting killed is the last thing they expect-though it’s always at the front of their mind as their biggest fear. It’s one of life’s biggest ironies, and they probably see that just before they die.

Like Angela-I could have just broken into her house. Like Candy-I could have simply hired her out. But work is a routine. Life is a routine. Taking the time to enjoy what we love in life isn’t a routine, it’s a commandment. If you have little to live for, then you need to enjoy it. You need to savor it.

“So you here with friends?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Sitting at home alone on a Friday night was killing me.”

I don’t say anything about her choice of words. Don’t mention that coming out is what will end up killing her.

“Can I get you another drink?”

“Sure. Another one of these,” she says, holding up her empty glass.

“You want me to order you an empty glass?”

She laughs. “You really are funny,” she says.

I shrug on my jacket casually as if I’m cold, even though it’s at least eighty-five degrees in here with all these people around. I’m hoping Melissa isn’t thinking I’m taking it because I don’t trust her or not coming back.

I bounce between a hundred other people. My mind is relaxed. It has this weird soft feeling. I order tonic water. No vodka. I can’t risk my mind growing any fuzzier. I buy her another Red Bull and vodka, not sure what the weird mix will do to her senses.

Back at the table she turns the conversation toward the case. Toward crime and punishment. We pause to buy new drinks when we need them. Every glance at my watch informs me time is slipping away quite nicely. The atmosphere is loud yet relaxed. I actually feel as though I could stay here all night, just drinking tonic water and making conversation with this beautiful woman.

Until four o’clock rolls around, that is, because then I decide that although I could stay all night, I won’t. It’s time to wrap things up. Other than confessing what my hobbies are, I can’t think of a single thing I could say right now to stop her wanting to come home with me.

“I’d better be going. Way past my bedtime.” I push away from the table. So does she.

The music is a little quieter now and the bar has turned more lights on. They want us to leave too.

“You want to share a taxi?” she suggests.

I was about to suggest a similar thing. “Sure.”

The night is still warm on account of the breeze. The night-clubbing population has dropped by around half. Others are floating up and down the streets, looking stoned and drunk. Several of them are coagulating in fast-food stores that make thousands at this time of night. A few are looking for fights. Some are just looking for something to do. The taxi stands have long lines.

“Shall we walk?” I ask.

She takes my arm to steady herself. She’s drunk far more than me, and that was the plan. “I don’t see why not, Joe.”

I carry my jacket over my arm so she isn’t leaning against the gun or knife. Then I ask the all-important question. “Which way?” I ask.

“Where do you live, Joe?” she says, giving the all-important answer.

“Not too far away. An hour or so if we walk.”

“Let’s start walking.”

I keep my arm around Melissa, and we’re walking, but the distance to my house doesn’t seem to be closing. I’m thinking about where I’m going to dump her body. Maybe at the faggot’s house. I can imagine his face. One morning he wakes up to crumbs and an empty Coke can, the next he wakes up to a corpse. We keep moving at an even pace, but for every step we take, our destination takes another pace away. After a while Melissa takes off her shoes and starts carrying them. She must be one of those women who chooses style over comfort. I’m nowhere near drunk, but there’s still a small amount of gin floating around my brain because things aren’t as sharp as they ought to be. Melissa is way beyond it. I feel like we’ve been walking forever, but she’s probably thinking five minutes have gone by.

We stumble west. Follow the roads. The ratio of hookers per corner slowly decreases until there are no hookers at all. We make clever conversation on the way, but it’s mostly me telling her about the case. An occasional taxi passes us, but we don’t bother trying to wave it down. The scenery starts to change, from new town houses painted funky colors to run-down homes with broken windows and doors covered in some kind of funky mold. Unkempt lawns and pieces of abandoned cars killing off patches of grass. Newspapers and advertising circulars litter the front yards.

After half an hour Melissa starts to complain that she’s getting cold, so I give her my jacket. It’s like getting Candy to carry my briefcase. It’s exciting to watch them carrying the weapon about to kill them. I imagine it’d be like getting somebody to dig their own grave.

“There’s a gun in there,” I say. The alcohol has dulled my mind, but it hasn’t taken the edge off the excitement.

“You’re kidding me.”

I shake my head. “It’s a Glock nine-millimeter automatic.”

“You carry a gun?”

“Standard law enforcement issue.”

“Wow.”

Nothing about my automatic is standard. The Glock 17 was issued to the New Zealand police, but isn’t carried by many officers. It fires seventeen rounds and weighs over a pound and a half. It’s made from a synthetic that’s stronger than steel and nearly ninety percent lighter. The gun itself contains a mere thirty-three parts.

“Can I see it?”

Mine, however, is the Glock 26. The basics are the same, but it’s lighter and far more compact. Much easier to conceal.

“I shouldn’t take it out.”

“I would really like to see it, Joe. And touch it.”

I’d like her to see it and touch it.

“Plus there’s nobody else around,” she says.

She’s right. We’re all alone out here. Well, if she wants to see it, who am I to object?

As I reach around her waist, she nuzzles her face into the side of my neck. Her breath is hot on my skin. Her lips flick against me. I unzip the pocket, take hold of Mr. Glock, and bring him out.

She leans away, looks at it, and repeats a previous sentiment. “Wow.”

I hand it to her. She studies the handle, the stainless-steel slide, the dark blue steel frame. It’s a nice gun. Some would say a ladies’ gun.

Well, sure. I’ve only ever used it on ladies.

“You ever shot anybody?”

I shrug. Look at the uncocking safety lever on the side. “A couple of times.”

“My God. I bet you killed them, huh?”

She’s looking the most excited she’s been all night. Some women love the element of danger. Some live for it. Some die. “It’s part of the job,” I tell her.

She puts her small hand around the handle, points it ahead, into the street. “Pow!”

“Pow indeed.”

It’s time to get the pistol back.

“Is it loaded?”

“Uh huh.”

The Glock, as I said, cost me a lot of money. That makes it difficult for me to be parted from it. I’m sober enough to identify that.

“German made, huh? Germans have the highest quality.”

I shake my head and lean my hand out to grab it. They do have the highest quality.

“Austrian,” I say. “Made guns for the Austrian army. They first started supplying them to Norway and Sweden, until the United States came into the picture. Then things really took off. Law enforcement agencies all over the world use Glocks.”

“You know your stuff.”

Sure, I know something about guns. I know if you use jacketed hollow-point bullets, you can make a real mess. The bullet has an opening in the jacket and, on impact, the bullet expands. Small penetration. Huge exit. Yep. I sure know that. Bonded hollow-point bullets can go through the person and carry on, sometimes hitting the next person down the line. The bullets in my Glock are fairly standard. They don’t do a lot of damage, and many law enforcement places don’t use them for that reason. They have a low stopping power.

I take the gun from her. Fold my fingers around the handle. Feels good.

“Feel safer now?” I ask.

“It feels so good holding the gun. Like there’s so much power in my hands. I like holding on to powerful things, Joe. I like touching things that go bang.”

I don’t know what to say.

“How much further, Joe? I’m anxious to start doing other things instead of walking.”

I’m anxious too. “Not far.”

I tuck the gun into the waistband of my jeans and pull my shirttail out to cover it. A few minutes later we come across a park only a half mile or so from home.

“It’s quicker if we go through here,” I say, indicating the park with a sweeping gesture of my arm.

“You sure?”

I nod. Of course I’m sure. Nothing here except us and a whole lot of grass and a few dozen trees. Dawn is on its way. There won’t be any traffic for a few hours yet. Saturday is sleep-in morning for most. Only a few poor bastards have to work.

I’m not one of them.