Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

“Morning, Joe. How are you this morning?”

I look at the man I’ve positioned myself next to. Schroder is a big guy with more muscle than brain. He has those rugged good looks of an action-movie hero, but I doubt he has any heroism left. He hates this city as much as anybody else. He has buzz-cut graying hair that would look better on a sixty-year-old drill sergeant than on him, an almost forty-year-old homicide detective. His forehead and face are covered in stress lines, which I no doubt put there. He has bags under his eyes, no doubt put there by the new baby he has at home. At the moment he’s going for the hard-worked-detective look, and with his cheap shirtsleeves rolled up and his thrift-store tie loosened, he has certainly achieved it. He has a pencil jammed up behind his ear, and another one in his hand, which he was chewing on before he spoke. He is standing with one foot forward, slightly ahead of the other, as if ready to pounce at the wall and start pounding on it.

“Morning, Detective Schroder.” I nod slowly toward the photographs like I’m agreeing with what I just said. “Any new leads?”

Detective Inspector Schroder is the lead detective on this case, has been since the second murder. He shakes his head like he’s disagreeing with himself, straightens his back and massages out a crick by pushing his palms against it, then gets back to looking at the photographs.

“Nothing yet, Joe. Only new victims.”

I let his statement hang in the air. Pretend I’m thinking about what he’s saying. Thinking and processing. Has to take me longer when I’m standing in front of a cop.

“Oh? Did this happen last night, Detective Schroder?”

He nods. “Sick bastard broke into her house.”

His fists are shaking. The pencil he’s holding breaks. He tosses it onto the table, where a small graveyard of other broken pencils lies, and then grabs hold of the one from behind his ear. He must keep a supply just for these occasions. He chews on it for a few seconds before turning toward me and snapping it in half.

“I’m sorry, Joe. You’ll have to excuse my language.”

“That’s okay. You said victims. Does that mean there was more than one?”

“Another woman was found in the trunk of her car, parked up the victim’s driveway.”

I exhale loudly. “Gosh, Detective Schroder, I guess that’s why you’re the detective and I’m not. I would never have looked in the trunk. Even now, she’d still be in there, alone and everything.” Like the detective, I’m shaking my fists now too, but unlike the detective I don’t have a supply of pencils to start breaking. “Gee, I would have let everybody down,” I add under my breath but loud enough for him to hear.

“Hey, Joe, don’t beat yourself up. Even I didn’t look in the car. We didn’t even notice the second victim until this morning.”

He’s lying. His rugged face is looking at me with pity.

“Really?”

He nods. “Sure.”

“Can I get you some coffee, Detective Schroder?”

“Well, okay, Joe, but only if it isn’t any hassle.”

“No hassle. Black, one sugar, right?”

“Two sugars, Joe.”

“Right.” I make him remind me every time I offer. “Can I leave my briefcase on the table here, Detective Schroder?”

“Go ahead. What do you carry in that thing anyway?”

I shrug and look away. “You know, Detective Schroder, documents and stuff.”

“Thought so.”

Bullshit. The bastard figures I have lunch in there, and maybe a comic book. Nonetheless, I walk from the room and into the corridor, where I move among dozens of offices and officers and detectives. I head past several cubicles, and straight to the coffee machine. It’s easy to use, but I make it look more complicated than it is. I’m thirsty, so I make myself one first and quickly drink it since it’s not that hot and because it tastes like dirt. Most of the other cops nod at me. It’s that dumb silent greeting that’s in fashion at the moment-the one where you nod abruptly and raise your eyebrows-and starts to get uncomfortable when you keep passing the same people. Then you have to make idle chitchat. Mondays are okay, because they ask how your weekend was. Fridays are okay too, because they ask what you have planned for the weekend. But the days in between really are a bastard.

I pour Schroder his coffee. Black. Two sugars.

For the last few months, the police station has been alive with the hustle and bustle of stressed and anxious detectives. The immediate day of a homicide and the day after are when that hustling and bustling are at their greatest. Meetings are held every hour of the day. Statements are pored over by eager eyes, looking for vital clues or discrepancies from anybody who knew one of the victims. Information is gathered only to become forgotten evidence the moment another killing takes place. After all these killings, they still have nothing. I actually feel bad for them in some ways-all this never-ending work that produces nothing. During the day, reporters keep showing up every time they hear a new piece of evidence has been uncovered, a new witness spoken to, or-their personal favorite-when a new victim has been found. The latter ensures them more sales of newspapers and of revenue from ads as the bulletins go to air. Reporters armed with microphones fire questions at anybody who looks like a policeman as they come and go. Cameras are rolling. All this and they ignore the one man who can give them the inside scoop.

I carry the coffee back into the conference room. By now, a few other detectives are milling around inside. I can feel the anguish in the air-the desperation to catch the man doing this to them and their city. The room smells like sweat and cheap aftershave. I hand Schroder his coffee with a smile. He thanks me. I pick up my briefcase to leave and the knives don’t jingle.

My office is on the same floor. Unlike the cubicles, mine is actually an office. It’s at the end of the corridor, just past the toilets. The door has my name on it. It’s one of those little gold plaques with black lettering. Joe. No second name. No other initial. Just Joe. Like an everyday average Joe. Well, that’s me. Everyday and average.

I have my hand on the handle and am about to turn it when she comes up behind me and taps me on the shoulder.

“How are you doing today, Joe?” Her voice is a little loud and a little slow, as if she’s trying to break through a language barrier with somebody from Mars.

I force the smile onto my face, the one that Detective Schroder sees every time he shares a pleasantry with me. I give her a big-kid smile, the type with all teeth, spreading my lips as far apart as possible in every direction.

“Good morning, Sally. I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

Sally grins back at me. She is dressed in a pair of black overalls that are slightly too big for her, but don’t hide the fact that she is slightly too big herself. Not fat, but somewhere between solid and chubby. She has a pretty face when she smiles, but it isn’t pretty enough for somebody to ignore the few extra pounds and slip a ring on her finger. At the age of twenty-five, it’s her chances that are getting slimmer, not her weight. Smudges of dust on her forehead look like the remnants of a fading bruise. Her blond hair is tied into a ponytail, but it doesn’t look like it’s been washed in weeks. She doesn’t look slow-it isn’t until she speaks that you know you’re talking to somebody whose parents kept dropping her on her head for fun.

“Can I get you a coffee, Joe? Or an orange juice?”

“I’m fine, Sally. That was nice of you to ask, though.”

I open my door and get half a step inside before she taps me on the shoulder again.

“Are you sure? It really wouldn’t be a problem. Not really.”