Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

She reaches into her first-aid kit, where the copy of Joe’s key has been since the day she had it cut. She stands up and inserts it into the lock. She realizes the chances are higher that she’s looking for an excuse to enter rather than Joe being in trouble inside. This realization doesn’t stop her from turning the handle and pushing the door open.

“Joe?”

Joe doesn’t answer, because Joe isn’t home. She closes the door behind her. The cat sits down on the table next to the goldfish bowl. The bowl is empty. Did Joe not feed them? Has he bought a cat to replace them? His clothes are scattered across the floor again, though this time there aren’t any patches of blood on any of them. The pile of latex gloves she had made has become smaller. There are dishes in the sink, exposed food on the table. The bed is unmade, and has possibly been that way since the attack. Would Martin have lived like this?

Sally starts to walk around the apartment. This isn’t right, being here, but whatever’s happening to Joe isn’t right either.

Happening to Joe?

She looks through the folders he has brought home from the police station-there are extra ones now. The photos are disgusting, and she can bear only to look at them for a few seconds. She replaces them. Why would Joe have these here?

Perhaps a more important question would be what he’d say if he came home and found her looking around his apartment. Yes, it’s best that she goes. She is about to pick up the cat when it races under the bed.

“Come on, little one, come on. You can’t stay under there.”

But the cat thinks that it can. When she gets onto her hands and knees and looks under the bed, the cat is right in the middle. Next to it is a small piece of paper. Curious, Sally reaches under and grabs it.

It’s a ticket from a parking building. The time and date printed across it are several months old. It doesn’t make sense to still have the ticket, because the ticket gets handed back on the way out of the parking building so the guy in the booth knows how much to charge you. She reaches under the bed and puts the ticket back on the floor.

She clicks her fingers for the cat, which a moment later is purring in her arms. She carries it into the hallway, sets it down, then heads back outside.

I try putting myself into Calhoun’s head. He’s seeing a chance not only to apprehend the Christchurch Carver, but also to eliminate the only person who knows about his secret life. I’m sure he’s also weighing up the fact that he can’t take any credit for it. He wants to be a hero, but if he takes me alive, he knows I’ll talk. So he needs to catch me in a way in which he can have an excuse for killing me. It’ll be difficult to do. Difficult to explain.

His easiest option is to kill me and hide my body. His glory will be lost, and the file I opened months ago with my first victim will remain open. Nothing will be added to it, but it will never close. There will be no glory to be had. The Christchurch Carver will vanish. While everybody is investigating the case, he can be off somewhere playing golf.

I slip my jacket on, adjust my gloves, and leave my room. I keep my hands thrust in my pockets, but it doesn’t matter, since I don’t pass anybody. I make my way to the top floor and head along to Calhoun’s room. The number was in his file. Problem is, the only way I can get in is with a key card.

I get in the elevator. Just as the doors are closing, a maid comes out from a nearby room, almost like fate intended it. I slap at the open door button on the inside panel, and step back into the hallway. The maid smiles at me as we cross paths. She looks in her fifties, has the worn-out look of a mother who has maybe six kids and has to clean up after hundreds of adults forty hours a week. Her black hair is dyed, and she looks so thin that if I picked her up and threw her into the wall, she would land in a thousand pieces. I smile and nod back, then turn and watch as she comes to a stop a few doors down.

I wait for her to go inside, then, looking around to make sure we are still alone, I go in after her, knowing there has to be something I can say to convince her to give me the key card I need.

I reach my arm over her shoulder before she even knows I’m there, and pull it tightly across her throat, using my other hand to support the back of her head. I tighten both arms slightly to slow down her breathing. She, of course, is starting to struggle, but quickly stops when I suggest it isn’t in her best interest. She stops fighting, and I’m wondering if she’s gone through this before. Maybe that’s why she’s got six kids.

I don’t want to do anything to her. Not sexually, anyway, because she’s old enough to be my mother. Here she is, just doing her job-a low-paying, demeaning job like my own-and suddenly it could cost her her life. Well, I’m going to give her a chance to hang on to it. For now.

I tell her to shut up or she’s going to die. Then I tell her to keep facing ahead, that if she turns, if she tries to see me, she will die. From my voice she knows I’m not bluffing.

I ask for her key card. She lowers her hand to her waist and unclips it from her waist, and hands it to me. She knows it isn’t worth dying for. She’s thinking I can steal all the towels and free soap I want from any room I want. With my arm still around her throat, I tuck the key card into my pocket, lead her forward, and push her onto the bed. When I straddle her back, she doesn’t complain, doesn’t cry out. She’s a quick learner. Then again, I also threatened to kill her husband and her kids.

I use a sheet to bind her arms and legs, another to cover her eyes.

I tell her to keep still for twenty minutes, because I’m going to be back. Perhaps even sooner. If she’s gone, I’ll find her and kill her. If she’s still here, I’ll let her go. I don’t want to create a crime scene. I can’t afford any attention coming this way. Satisfied she isn’t going anywhere in a hurry, I head into the corridor, wheel the cart into the bedroom so nobody will see it, then close the door.

I put the key card into the lock of Detective Robert Calhoun’s room. He’ll be waiting for me, probably getting pretty impatient by now. I figure he’ll give me maybe another ten minutes. Even if he’s leaving now, he still has to drive into town. I’ve plenty of time to go through his room.

I close the door behind me, shutting myself into complete darkness, then reach into my pocket and pull out the small flashlight I’ve brought along, then realize there’s no point in sneaking around, and turn on the lights. The kitchen’s bigger than mine, and Calhoun has a larger range of utensils, pots, and cutlery. I see he made himself a sandwich before leaving for work.

In order for the police to get cheap rates, they need to do their own housecleaning, which includes dishes. Calhoun is a man in his fifties away from his wife, which means the dishes at the moment are stacked high and haven’t been washed in about a week. He’ll probably live off junk food for a few days before he’ll wash them.

I pull out my knife and set it on the bench next to its twin, making sure they’re indeed identical. Satisfied, I wrap them into separate plastic bags, careful not to smudge Calhoun’s fingerprints. I slide the bags into my pockets-mine in the left, Calhoun’s in the right.

Perfect.

I look through his drawers, his suitcases. Even though he’s been here more than a month, he’s hardly unpacked. I find a collection of pornographic magazines, a pair of handcuffs (standard issue-though not for police), and a leather gag with a rubber ball in the center to keep people quiet. I consider taking it with me, but it’s probably not wise. Anyway, I’m happy with my own technique. There are other sex toys, many of which I’ve never seen. The man’s a real deviant, and I begin to admire him.