Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

“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?”