The Cleaner

CHAPTER 5

Peter had always been a pain in the ass. But he did provide Quinn with consistent work, and seldom argued over fees. Since Quinn was planning an early retirement, that was enough. He’d long ago decided steady work at top dollar offset the annoyance factor that came with working for the Office.

The real problem was Quinn had actually stopped working for anyone else. It wasn’t planned, it just kind of happened that way. Whether Peter was aware of the situation or not, Quinn didn’t know. It was none of Peter’s business, so Quinn never told him. The less Peter knew about Quinn’s life, the better.

The same could also be said about Quinn’s knowledge of Peter and the Office. The only thing Quinn knew for sure was that their main headquarters was located somewhere in D.C., nothing more. If pressed he would have guessed the Office to be some secretly funded agency of the U.S. government — maybe NSA, maybe military intelligence. But he wasn’t sure. And honestly, he didn’t really care.

That wasn’t to say Quinn didn’t have standards. He considered himself a patriot, though a jaded one. If he thought for one moment he was doing anything that would harm his country, he’d drop it. So far that hadn’t happened with the Office. And until it did, he was content to do his job and take his money.

His standard rate was 30K a week, U.S., with a two-week minimum whether he worked all fourteen days or not. He averaged one job a month. It meant that, even without bonuses, Quinn was bringing in almost three quarters of a million a year. With bonuses he easily made double that. Not bad work, if you could get it.

Quinn and Nate left in the Explorer as soon as Nate returned. But instead of heading directly out to the interstate, Quinn turned the SUV toward downtown.

“I thought you wanted to get out of here,” Nate said.

“I need to make a couple stops first.”

As far as Peter was concerned, the Taggert investigation was over. But that wasn’t the way Quinn worked. If there were still leads to be followed, he’d track them down. He would never leave a job half done. If Peter didn’t want to know about it, so be it.

Valley Central Hospital was located about a mile from the police station in Allyson. As far as medical centers went, it was small even for the size of area it served. The building was a gray stone structure, only two stories high, and taking up the length of a short city block.

Quinn parked the Explorer in the sparsely filled visitors’ lot. Immediately, Nate unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for his door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Quinn asked.

“You want me to come with you, don’t you?”

Quinn thought for a moment. “If you come along, you don’t say one word. Understood?”

Nate smiled and nodded.

The receptionist in the main lobby told Quinn that Dr. Horner was in the morgue. As was typical, death had been relegated to the basement. Quinn and Nate took the stairs, and asked a passing nurse for directions. She pointed toward a small office halfway down the hall. There they found a man in his early forties, big but not fat, a college athlete who had started to go to seed, sitting at a desk and talking on the phone. A blue plastic badge on his chest identified him as Dr. Shaun S. Horner.

“I don’t think so,” Horner was saying into a phone as Quinn and Nate entered. The doctor nodded a greeting, and gestured to an empty chair beside the desk, apparently not realizing there was only one place for two people. Quinn sat.

“No, no. Cardiac arrest,” Horner continued. “No, ma’am. No signs of anything else…I’m sorry. That’s all I’ve got. Okay. Thanks.”

Horner hung up the phone. “Insurance investigator,” he said to Quinn. “Looking for something that’ll get them out of paying a claim, I think.”

“Doesn’t sound like she got what she wanted,” Quinn offered.

“I can tell them what I know, but I can’t tell them what I don’t.” The doctor extended his hand. “Shaun Horner.”

Quinn grasped the man’s hand and shook. “Frank Bennett.” Quinn turned toward Nate. “And this is…” He paused, then said, “Agent Driscoll.”

“I thought so,” Horner said. “Chief Johnson called to say you might stop by. What can I do for you, Mr. Bennett?”

“Actually, it’s Special Agent Bennett.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Quinn smiled. “It’s about the Farnham fire.”

The actual morgue was two doors down from Dr. Horner’s office. It was also small, boasting only ten body drawers and a single autopsy table. “Seldom have more than three or four bodies here at one time,” Horner was saying. “I had six once. But that was my record.”

“How many do you have now?” Quinn asked.

“Only two,” the doctor said. “One’s your fire victim. The second’s a woman who lived across the valley. Slipped and fell on her own front porch.”

The doctor led Quinn and Nate to a drawer at the far end of the room.

“You’ve had burn victims here before?” Quinn asked.

“A few,” the doctor said. “And if you ask me, I can wait awhile until the next one. It’s not pretty.”

Without asking if his visitors were ready, the doctor pulled open the drawer. The body, or what was left of it, lay uncovered on the long tray. It was a charred mass of flesh. Quinn didn’t even flinch at the sight of it, but Nate turned away, gagging.

“You okay?” the doctor asked.

“It’s his first time,” Quinn said.

“I’m okay,” Nate said, clearly not looking at it.

“Maybe you want to step outside for a minute,” Horner said.

Nate shook his head and resumed his spot beside the doctor as Quinn took a look at the body.

Taggert was lying on his back, his arms and legs bent upward in the pugilistic posture caused by shrinking tissue common to most burn victims. In some areas the flesh was completely burned away. Elsewhere the skin was sunken where the muscles and organs had cooked and contracted.

“Asphyxiation?” Quinn asked.

The doctor hesitated. “Actually, no.”

Quinn looked over at Horner. “No?”

“There appeared to be very little smoke damage to his lungs. I’ve sent some tissue off to the lab in Denver to be sure.”

Quinn made a mental note. That was one sample that needed to get lost. “If he didn’t die of the smoke, then what?”

The coroner shrugged. “My best guess is that when he realized there was a fire, he panicked, tripped, and hit his head on something. Maybe a bedpost or a nightstand.”

“Was there damage to his skull?” Nate asked.

Quinn shot his apprentice a quick look, but said nothing.

“Some,” the doctor said. “Which could have happened after the house collapsed. But that’s doubtful.”

“Why?” Quinn asked.

“There was a lot of blood loss that occurred around the wound,” Horner said. “Since his lungs seemed clean, I’m pretty sure by the time the house fell apart, Mr. Taggert here was already dead.”

“You don’t find that unusual?”

“Not really,” the doctor said. “Given the circumstances, I mean. He was probably terrified. The house was burning up around him. Most people make mistakes under that kind of pressure.” Horner looked at Quinn for a moment. “If you’re really asking if someone else did this to him, I guess it’s possible, but unlikely. Frankly, Agent Bennett, that kind of thing doesn’t happen here in Allyson. You’ve been spending too much time in big cities.”

“Sorry,” Nate said, once they were back in the Explorer driving away. “I just couldn’t help myself. I mean, it’s obvious he was murdered.”

Quinn pulled the SUV to the curb and turned to Nate. “Why?” he asked.

“The wound. That’s what killed him. Someone hit him over the head.”

“So the wound tells us conclusively that he was murdered?”

“Well, sure,” Nate said, only now he didn’t sound so confident.

“It couldn’t have happened the way Dr. Horner said? Taggert panicked and hit his head?”

“Sure, it’s possible. But it doesn’t seem likely.”

Quinn stared at Nate for a moment, then looked back out the front window and put the Explorer back in gear.

“What?” Nate asked.

Quinn said nothing. Taggert had indeed been murdered, and the evidence had been right there in front of them at the morgue. But it wasn’t the blow to the head that had led Quinn to this conclusion.

Quinn had known what happened the moment he’d seen the body. Taking the contractions in the arms and legs caused by the heat into account, the fire had frozen Taggert in the position he’d been in when the flames consumed him. If he’d died of smoke inhalation, the body would have been curled up in an obvious defensive posture. Even if he died from a head trauma, it was unlikely that his body would have landed so neatly laid out.

No, Quinn knew someone had posed him like this. Someone had wanted the Office to know this was a murder.

They drove across town, eventually parking in a lot just off Lake Avenue. Quinn was relieved to see the “Open” sign hanging in the window.

He looked over at Nate. “You stay here.”

There was no protest. Quinn zipped up his jacket and got out.

The building was an old, one-story house that had been converted into an office. Hanging on the wall near the front door was a sign that read, “Goose Valley Vacation Rentals Realty.” There was a covered porch where Quinn dusted the snow off his jacket. He then opened the door and went inside.

The front room had at one time probably made for a comfortable parlor, but now it was crowded with three desks, several bookcases, and a row of black metal filing cabinets. A radio was playing an old Neil Diamond song softly in the background. Against the far wall, a fire burned in a brick fireplace.

Only the desk closest to the fireplace was occupied. Behind it sat a woman Quinn judged to be in her mid-forties. Her blonde, frosted hair fell to just above her shoulders. She was wearing a smart-looking blue business suit. She smiled broadly as Quinn entered.

“Good afternoon,” she said, standing. “Didn’t expect anybody else today.”

Quinn offered a friendly chuckle as he approached her desk. “Yeah, weather’s getting a little crazy out there. Don’t worry. I won’t keep you long.”

“I heard we’re in for almost two feet of snow by tomorrow.” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Ann Henderson.”

Quinn shook her hand. “Miss Henderson, I’m Frank Bennett.”

“Please, just Ann.” She indicated the guest chair, and they both sat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bennett?”

He pulled out his ID and showed it to her.

“FBI?” She looked perplexed. “Is something wrong?”

Quinn smiled again and shook his head. “I was just hoping you could help me with something.”

“Of course. Whatever I can do.”

“I’m looking into the fire at the Farnham house.”

Her face turned somber. “A tragedy. It’s such a shame.” A question formed in her eyes. “I heard it was an accident.”

“It looks that way.”

“Then why would the FBI be interested?”

“Truthfully, my involvement is totally off the record. Mr. Taggert was a relative of someone in the Bureau. I’m just here checking things out for him.”

She relaxed visibly. “I’m sorry to hear that. Mr. Taggert seemed like a nice guy.”

“Did you know him?”

“Not really. I only spoke with him twice. Once when he called to set up the rental, and then again when he came by to sign the agreement and pick up the key.”

“That’s why I stopped by. My colleague was hoping I might be able to get a copy of the rental agreement.”

She eased back. “Why would he want that?”

“Just trying to be thorough, that’s all.”

“Is he planning to sue or something?”

Quinn laughed good-naturedly. “Not at all. The family just wants to put this behind them. I’m just helping wrap up the details so they can move on. I can guarantee you there will be no lawsuit.”

Once again her relief was visible. “Well, I guess it’s not a problem.”

She got up and walked over to one of the filing cabinets. She pulled open the third drawer from the top and started flipping through the files. After a moment of searching, she removed a thin manila folder. “Just give me a minute,” she said. “The copier’s in the back.”

“Could I take a look first? To make sure it’s worth you making the effort?”

“Sure.”

She handed Quinn the file. There were only two sheets of paper inside. The first was a standard, boilerplate rental agreement. According to the information Taggert provided, he lived in Campobello, Nevada. Quinn had never heard of Campobello, but he was far from familiar with every city in Nevada. It was undoubtedly a false address anyway. Under emergency contact was written “G. Taggert, sister” and the same phone number Chief Johnson had given Quinn.

“So you were the one who provided Mr. Taggert’s sister’s number to the police.”

“That’s right. Mr. Taggert almost didn’t give it to me, though. I had to promise not to call his sister unless it was an absolute emergency.”

Quinn nodded, understanding, then looked back at the file. There was other basic information, but nothing that would be of use. Quinn flipped to the second sheet. It was a photocopy of a Nevada driver’s license. Robert William Taggert. Due to expire on November 22 of the following year. The photograph was grainy, but the image was discernible. A man in his late fifties, with short-cropped hair, and a thin, weathered face.

“This is Mr. Taggert?” Quinn asked.

She peeked around the edge of the folder. “That’s him.”

“Can I also get a copy of this?” he asked.

“Don’t you have a picture of him?”

Quinn shook his head. “Nobody thought to give me one,” he said truthfully.

Ann shrugged. “Just take that one. If I make a copy the picture will only be a black smudge.”

“Thanks,” he said. He folded the paper, careful not to crease the photo, and slipped it into his pocket.

Quinn and Nate were able to make it to Denver just in time to catch a 7:00 p.m. flight home to Los Angeles. While Nate was shoehorned into the cattle section in back, Quinn relaxed with a glass of Chablis in the comfort of his first-class seat. After they’d been in the air for an hour, Quinn pulled out his computer and wrote his report.

By the time he finished, it was only a page long. He liked to keep things brief. “Overload with facts,” Durrie, his mentor, had once told him. “They can never fault you for that. Leave out all the cream puff stuff and opinions. Nobody wants that shit. And if you find somebody that does, they’re not worth working for.”

Good advice, but it had taken a while for it to sink in with Quinn. When he’d first started working clean-and-gathers, he knew his task was to just hand over whatever he found out and move on. Curiosity was discouraged. But it had been frustrating. There were always so many unanswered questions.

“What the fuck do you want to know more for?” Durrie had asked him one time when Quinn wanted to keep probing after a particular assignment was nearly completed.

“It just seems so unfinished,” Quinn said. “Just once, I’d like to know what it’s all about.”

“What it’s all about?” Durrie asked. “Fine. That I can answer. You see this guy here?”

They were in an unpaved alleyway on the south side of Tijuana, Mexico. It was well after midnight. On the ground only a couple feet in front of them was the body of a man in his late twenties. “I see him,” Quinn said.

“This guy’s a runner. You know, a messenger boy? But he could’ve just as easily been a cleaner.”

“Like us, you mean?”

“Like me. You’re just an apprentice. You’ll be lucky to live through this year the way you’re going.”

“I’m careful,” Quinn said defensively.

“You’re not. Worse, you don’t even realize it.”

Quinn’s face hardened, but he said nothing.

“You want to know what it’s all about, Johnny boy?” Durrie continued. He pointed at the corpse on the ground. “That’s what it’s all about. The more you know, the more likely you’ll end up like him. We come in, gather whatever information’s been requested. Maybe do a little cleanup if necessary. Then get out. That’s the job.” Durrie’s eyes locked with Quinn’s. “Kill your curiosity, kid. For your own sake. Hell, for mine, too. Because until you’re working on your own, I’ll be responsible for your fuckups.”

It took nearly getting shot six months later before the lesson sank in. Still, Quinn was never able to completely dampen his thirst to know more. He later realized that despite what Durrie said, curiosity was an important part of the job. He just had to learn how to control it. As he reread his report about Taggert, he knew there was a lot that remained unanswered. Who had started the fire? Why had Jills been there? And who the hell was Taggert anyway? Questions that nagged at him, but ones he probably would never know the answers to.

Otherwise, the information Quinn had been able to gather wasn’t much more than what he’d already told Peter over the phone. The only omissions were his stops at the coroner’s office and Goose Valley Vacation Rentals. And the most those stops had done was to confirm what little Quinn already knew. The exception being the lung tissue sample, which Quinn had added into his report as something Chief Johnson had mentioned.

It wasn’t until he’d put away his computer that he remembered there was one other thing he had neglected to include in the report, the silver-colored bracelet Nate had found at the house. At first Quinn thought it had meant nothing, but in light of finding Jills, maybe he’d been wrong.