Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

I crash my head forward, connecting with his forehead and hurting myself as much as him, but at least his hand falls away from the gun. Lights flare behind my eyes-a hundred, no, a thousand of them-all at once and all in the same shade of white, but then the reds start to filter through, but compared to the pain I’ve known lately, this is nothing, and I’m quickly able to recover. I wobble back and the room spins only a little. I know Calhoun must be feeling the same way, just as I know I can’t give him a second chance. I’m still holding the frying pan, and I quickly decide to use it.

When I look at him, there are two Detective Calhouns, two bedroom doors, two of everything. I shake my head and the room keeps spinning, but the images begin to form into one. I roll my body, raise my heavy arms, and swing the pan against the side of his head. It connects with his cheekbone and jaw, possibly breaking the former and maybe dislocating the latter. He falls back to the ground and doesn’t move. Exhausted, I let the pan fall to the floor.

I roll him onto his front and bind his hands behind him, then tie his legs. When I try to open his mouth, I discover I’ve dislocated his jaw. Since I need to make conversation with him later, I grip hold of his mouth and try to move it back. Nothing happens. I tap it with the hammer-softly at first, then harder-and after a few blows it clicks back into place. I open his mouth and place the egg inside, then change my mind. I won’t risk the egg slipping to the back of his throat while he’s unconscious and killing him. I use a pair of the husband’s underwear to gag him instead.

By the time Calhoun wakes up I have him sitting in a chair I’ve brought up from the dining room. I’ve used rope to secure him to it and, because the chair has metal legs, even if he can somehow tip it over it won’t break. I wrap duct tape around his legs and reinforce them to the chair, and run more tape around his arms. Unless he’s Harry Houdini, he won’t be going anywhere.

I crouch in front of him. He’s staring at me, as if the face he saw before being knocked out couldn’t possibly be the one he’s seeing now. How is it possible that Joe-Joe the cleaner, Joe the fucked-up retard-is doing this to him? Can it be that the man they’ve been looking for has been working for them all this time?

I nod, confirming that yes, it is not only possible, but better than possible.

He grunts, either to confirm his surprise, or to ask me why, or perhaps to test the gag in his mouth. Whatever the reason, he can’t sustain much of a noise. The pain in his jaw must be killing him. Blood hangs off his bottom lip. I want to tell him it’s nothing compared to having a testicle torn off, but I don’t want anybody else knowing about that.

“You killed her, didn’t you?”

“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t ki’ any’ody.”

“Yes, you did.”

This time, shaking his head, he repeats himself. Almost. “No. No, I didn’t, you cwasy fasdid.”

I think he has just called me a crazy bastard. Perhaps I am. Perhaps that’s my problem. I test his theory by standing up and punching him in the stomach.

Will you look at that? He was right. Only I’m a bastard who needs to make a deal.

“I’m going to take off your gag,” I say, leaning forward once more. “You know the drill. If you don’t, then assume it. Any sound,” I say, raising the knife to his mouth, “has an unpleasant ending for you. Nod if you understand.”

I’m still being a bastard, because I’m holding the tip of the blade directly beneath his chin, so as he nods, he keeps pricking himself. I ensure this by raising the knife higher every time his head rises. In the end, he nods with his eyes. I use the knife to cut his gag. It falls away and hangs around his neck like a collar.

“Better?”

He nods. In fact, his whole body is nearly nodding.

“You can talk, you know. That’s the point of removing the gag.”

“Listen, Joe, do you know who I am?”

It’s a stupid question, but I answer it anyway. “Of course I do.”

“Now, do you understand that it’s bad to do this? It’s bad to tie people up. Especially policemen.”

“I’m not a moron.”

“No. No of course you’re not. I understand life is difficult for. . for, well, for special people like yourself. I understand. .”

I hold my hand up. “Listen, Bob, let me stop you right there. Just because I’m a cleaner doesn’t mean I’m a Goddamn moron, okay? You need to start realizing I’m not the same idiot you’ve seen every day since you’ve been in this city.”

He tilts his head slightly as he takes this information in, and slowly he starts to do the realizing he needs to do. He comes to the conclusion that I’m not Slow Joe, but Angry Joe. I’m Superintelligent Joe.

“Look, Joe, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that, well, it was one hell of an act. You can’t blame me for being fooled,” he says, which sounds like an attempt at flattery.

“No, I can’t blame you, but you can stop sucking up, Bob.”

“You haven’t crossed the line here yet. If you let me go, I can forget this ever happened. We can both carry on with our normal lives. Once you do something, though, once you hurt me, there’s nothing I can do to help you out. You understand that, right? If I’m dead, I’m useless, right? Okay? You’re obviously an intelligent guy, I’m sure you understand. And I’m sure you know a useless dead cop means trouble for you, Joe, and neither of us wants any trouble, right?” he says, which is his way of assuming that neither of us wants a dead cop. “We both know that. It’s just too much hassle. So how about you untie me, huh? Untie me and we can discuss any concerns you have. We can talk about what you want.”

“Don’t you want to know what we’re going to be talking about?”

“Sure I do, Joe, sure I do, but you’ve got to untie me first, okay? Untie me and give me back my gun, and we’ll go downstairs, or wherever you want to go because it’s up to you, I promise. This is your ball game and you’re calling all the shots here, so we’ll go where you want to go and we can discuss whatever it is you have in mind, no matter how long it takes.”

“No guesses as to who I am? Other than Joe the Janitor?”

“You’re just the cleaner. Joe the cleaner. Nobody else. I don’t care if you’re anybody else, and if you are, then it’s none of my business. You can be anybody for all I care. But to me you’re just the cleaner. Just Joe. Joe who hasn’t committed any crimes other than making us all think you were slow. How about it, Joe? How about you untie me?”

He’s sweating so much I’m starting to worry that he might be able to slip out of the knots and that the duct tape will just run off him in long, silver streaks.

“Do you know who I am?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Come on, you do know. I’m the Carver.”

“I don’t know who you are, and after you’ve let me go, I won’t even think about it. Okay, Joe?”

This, of course, is all bullshit. Bullshit that is taught to these guys when they become cops. He’s trying to negotiate with me, but he has nothing to bargain with. He knows that, but what else can he do? He keeps using my name, trying to relate to me, trying to make me see him as a real person.

“Let’s make a few assumptions. First of all, let’s assume I’m telling the truth. Secondly, let’s assume I’m not about to let you go. Thirdly, let’s assume you don’t cooperate with what I want. Do you know what happens then?”

He nods. Assumptions are something that cops aren’t supposed to make. They’re supposed to use facts, not maybes. However, Calhoun has been to some of the crime scenes. He can safely assume what will happen to him without needing any further evidence. All he has to do is swap, inside his mind, his own body for that of one of the women.