Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

“Who?”

“The Christchurch Carver.”

I shake my head. “No,” I say. Mom’s advice about lying hasn’t been forgotten, it’s just been relegated to the bottom of my priorities.

She gives a small giggle, the type a schoolgirl would give when confronting her rock idol. She points the gun at me. “Pow!”

I flinch and the handcuffs dig into my wrists and ankles. She laughs. “You’re him all right. I know it. I was going to be your next victim.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not flattering myself, Joe. I’m nobody special. Just a girl who likes the night. Just a girl who knows the police don’t use Glock twenty-sixes. They use the seventeen.”

“You’re basing it on that?”

She smiles. “You’re just too smart, Joe, aren’t you? Would you like to know more?”

“Not really.”

“It wasn’t pure luck I stood next to you, Joe. I recognized you. I’ve seen you come and go from the police department because sometimes I like to follow cops home. I’ve seen you coming and going in your overalls. What are you, a janitor? I still thought you might be interesting to talk to, that maybe you could amuse me for a few moments. Then you said you were a cop and I was curious as to where you were going with it. Then we talked about the case. Your case. You had too many insights, knew too much about the murders, way too much for a guy who shows up and leaves work in a pair of overalls and catches the bus. I hadn’t even finished my second drink when I started to suspect who you were. I’m good at reading people, Joe, really good. I didn’t used to be, and it’s gotten me into trouble in the past, but people learn faster when the mistakes and consequences are bigger, which makes me an expert these days. I just needed to test you. And that was easy. All I had to do was tell you I wasn’t from around here, and right away you saw me as a perfect victim. Someone nobody would miss right away. And this,” she says, shaking the gun a little, “this just confirms everything I thought about you.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong, Joe.”

“You don’t know enough about police work to make these assumptions. You don’t know enough about serial killers.”

“Don’t I? You know, Joe, I love cops. I love things that cops do. I also like going through houses. Call it a fetish, call it whatever you want, but I like being inside a place when people are sleeping. Especially a cop’s place. Like I said, that’s why I recognize you.”

“So?”

She raises one leg at a time and pulls off her shoes. I try to get a glimpse of her panties but can’t see anything.

“I think it’s the control. You know all about control, don’t you, Joe? That’s part of who you are. Don’t you love the way cops can order you around? When they tell you to jump, you jump. The police are the ultimate in control, Joe, the ultimate. We know it. They know it. I like to collect police things. I’ve got all these books at home on cops, both New Zealand police and overseas. I’ve got posters, documentaries, movies. I’ve even got one of these,” she shakes the Glock, “but mine’s made from plastic. Different model too, but this will replace it nicely. I even have a Ford Falcon. Same model as the police use. I’ve got the uniforms, the badges, the batons, and the handcuffs, but you already know about the handcuffs.”

“So you’re a buff. Fine. Some people collect shells. You collect police stuff. Big deal. You want recognition? Write in to the Woman’s Weekly. ”

She puts the gun and the knife down and uses both hands to pull her underwear from beneath her skirt. She lifts one leg up at a time. A G-string, I note, with definite approval. She turns her back, bends down to pick up the knife and gun, then walks over to me.

“I’m more than a buff, Joe. I know everything about police procedure and law. I even had a German shepherd for a few months. Named her Tracy. She’s this big dog that loved me and hated everybody else.”

Loved? Hated? Did she handcuff the dog and kill it too? “Dogs will do that.”

“At night I like to walk around in my house wearing the uniform, but with no underwear. I like the way the shirt feels against my skin, Joe.” She rubs her hands slightly over herself. “You have no idea how good it makes me feel.”

Oh God. I swallow. Hard. What’s she doing to me? Now she laughs again. I mean, really laughs. She steps over me, one leg on each side, then slowly lowers herself down to straddle my waist.

“Open your mouth.”

“Why?”

She puts the barrel of the gun into my eye, pushing it hard enough to make both of them water. I open my mouth. A second later the barrel of the gun is in there. It’s like sucking on a metal lollipop that can destroy the back of your skull.

She lifts her body up, then, with her other hand, slips my erection inside her. She slides down onto it, tight at first, and painful, but only for a second. She takes me as far into her as I can get. I don’t know whether to be my usual optimistic self, afraid, or thankful, and if I’m thankful, I can’t be sure what for. I try to move my pelvis upward.

She leans forward and whispers. “You know what else I like about the police, Joe?”

“Ugh,” I say softly, whispering the word around the gun.

She slowly begins rocking back and forth, moaning. I keep my eyes on the gun, and it hurts them to focus on something so close. Her finger is locked around the trigger. If she becomes too excited, she may squeeze it. Maybe she’s planning to anyway. This has to be the most surreal moment of my life. Am I really here? It seems so.

What’s that Latin saying? Carpe diem? Seize the day ? That’s what I need to do now: seize the day-or, more specifically, the moment. Why miss the enjoyment of now, if this is going to be my last moment? I’m no martyr. I’m the condemned man. Melissa is my last meal. As she rocks back and forth, I’m getting hungrier.

“I like sneaking into their houses, Joe. I like to walk around inside, while they’re asleep with their families, and sometimes I like to take things away from their homes as mementos.”

I do what I can to join her momentum. She speeds up. Her moaning gets louder. The gun rattles against my teeth. Her lack of a condom is both arousing and scary. For all she knows I could have syphilis. Or she could.

Have to concentrate. Carpe diem. It’s my new motto.

“I have a lot of books about serial killers too,” she says, keeping her eyes locked on mine. “About what they do. About what makes them tick. Tell me, Joe, do you have a dominating mother, or an aunt? Are your victims surrogates for her?”

I shake my head. An image of my aunt flashes into my mind but just as quickly I push it aside, a memory showing up that I don’t want to think about.

“Enjoying it so far?” she pants, looking down at me.

The gun is restricting my freedom of speech.

Suddenly she stops, and stands up, as if she’s suddenly become bored with me. My penis slaps against my stomach.

“You’re a killer, Joe, and I really wanted you to be a cop. I really wanted to have sex inside your house, in your yard, in your car. I wanted you to take me every way you could imagine. Not here, though. Not in a park. And now I’m not going to fuck you at all.”

The gun is no longer in my mouth, but I can only think of one thing to say. “Huh?”

She screws her face up into a ball and spits on my chest.

“You’re just a murderer, and now I’ve wasted my time.” She bends down and strokes the knife where knives shouldn’t be stroked.

This can’t be good.

She puts her hand around me where hands should be put, but grips me in a way I shouldn’t be gripped. She places the edge of the blade against my shaft. I feel like crying when I’m hit with the thought she might be getting ready to take a memento. I go completely still.