Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

He stops talking. We both listen to the silent room. Peaceful, but still warmer than I’d like. I believe most of his story, but he’s left something out.

“Next thing you knew,” I repeat.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“A touching story, Bob,” I say, reaching to my eyes with an imitation hanky, wiping away pretend tears. “It seems you’ve gone for a classic defense strategy. Do they teach you that at training college, or did you pick it up being a cop? See, Bob, what you’ve done here is extremely common. You’ve shifted all the blame onto the victim. She’s the one who disagreed, she’s the one being unreasonable, and she’s the one who hit you. If she’d refrained from doing any of those things, then she’d still be alive today. Am I right?”

No answer.

“Am I right, Bob?”

Again the shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, Bob, you do know. It’s the whole domestic abuse scenario over again. She deserved to be punished, didn’t she, because she stepped out of line. If she’d done what she was told, if she’d simply obeyed, then she’d be living the contented and happy life. But she didn’t, so you killed her-not that you remember doing so. That’s the second common phase here, Bob. How many killers have you put away who’ve told you they don’t remember anything? How many have told you that if it weren’t for the crazy way this or that particular female acted, then none of this or that would have happened? Now tell me what really happened.”

“That is what happened.”

“Yeah, most of it probably did, but I’d bet my life on it. .” I pause, create dramatic effect, then change my mind. “No, I’d bet your life on it that you do remember killing her, and were aware of every second of it.”

“I can’t remember.”

He sounds like a whining child. “There’s no such word as can’t, Bob.” I lift the gardening shears to prove my point.

He says nothing until I start to rise.

“Okay, okay.” He’d have his hands out in a defensive gesture if he could, waving them in the air like a maniac. “I do remember.”

“Oh? And what do you remember?” I don’t need to know this for my plan to work. I’m just interested, as a fellow participant in this game of life and death.

“We argued, like I told you, and she picked up the phone and threatened to call the police. So I hit her, and once I did that, I knew there’d be no way to shut her up.”

“Come now, Bob. She’s a domestic-abuse victim. She’s used to keeping her trap shut when a man hits her.”

“Not this time. She told me I was going to lose my job for what I’d done, and she was right too, so I hit her again, this time harder. Then I shoved her onto the bed and. .” He stops, either to think of what to say next, or to invent it. “Well, I needed to make it look like she was one of your victims, Joe.”

“And you knew just how to do it. You screwed that prostitute I killed the other night. You did to her what your wife won’t let you even think about. And you take that experience from Becky the Whore to Little Miss Domestic Abuse.”

“I had to make it look real,” he says, and he says it in a defeated tone, not the kind of tone somebody who stands by their work would use.

“Is that all, Bob? Or did you want to enjoy yourself as well? Come on, you can tell me. I’m not here to judge you. I just want to hear how you’re no better than me.” He stares right at me. His face, tight with rage, spits the answer at me. “Sure, I enjoyed it. Like, I mean, what wasn’t to enjoy? Pure power.”

“Pure power. Isn’t that the answer, Bob? Isn’t that what we all look for?”

“What do you want from me?”

“That’s a question, Bob.”

“I don’t give a shit, Joe. Just tell me what you want, or fuck off. You’re wasting my time, you little asshole.” I’m not shocked at his sudden outburst. Over the last hour, I’ve touched several nerves. Before all of this is over, a knife is going to touch several more.

“The requirement is simple. All you need to do is listen.”

“That simple, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “What do I have to listen to?”

“A confession.”

“Yours?”

“Funnily enough, no. But it’s your job to be my security, my insurance if you like. You knew from the moment you saw my face I was either going to kill you or make a deal. Well, here’s the deal, Bob. I will give you twenty thousand dollars, in cash, tomorrow night, to listen to a confession. That’s all you have to do. Just sit and listen and remember. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Then what? You let me go, is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

“My freedom. Yours too.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’ll kill you. Right now.”

“I want half the money now.”

“You’re not really in a situation to ask for anything, Bob.” I stand and walk over to him.

“What are you doing?” I tilt the chair back and start dragging it across the carpet. It’s damn heavy, and my testicle starts to throb.

“Joe? What the hell are you up to?”

“Shut up, Bob.” I continue pulling on the chair, and it makes scuff marks across the carpet, but finally I manage to get Calhoun into the bathroom. “I’m afraid you’ll have to spend the night here.”

“Why?”

“Safer that way.”

“For who?”

“For me.”

I pull out some duct tape. “Anything else before I seal you up for the night?”

“You’re a real psycho, Joe, do you know that?”

“I know lots of things, Detective Inspector.”

I run the tape across his mouth. Then I head back into the bedroom and take the parking ticket from my briefcase. I squat down behind Bob, grab the skin on the back of his hand, and start twisting until he unclenches it, then I push his fingertips against the ticket.

“No going anywhere, Bob. Oh, and the toilet’s there if you need it.” I grin at him, then walk back into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I put the ticket into an evidence bag, then into my briefcase.

I lock the house before leaving. It’s dark when I get outside. I feel like I’m suffering from heat exhaustion, but after a minute in the cool air that problem disappears. The streetlights throw a pale glow into the black night. I drive Calhoun’s car into town and grab the ticket from the machine at the entrance to the parking building. I head up the ramps-the number of cars getting fewer the higher I drive-until I reach the very top, where there is only one. I don’t turn the car sharply enough, and end up scraping the corner of the front bumper all along the side of the other car, leaving a deep graze and a line of small dents. I notice that the tires on the other car have half deflated over time. I climb out. The smell coming from the trunk of the abandoned car is barely noticeable.

With nothing else to do, I head toward home and toward the end of another long night.

Another phase completed.

She doesn’t know this is where she is driving to until she pulls up the long, twisting driveway lined with beautiful trees, which is ironic because she wanted to come here earlier and found herself driving in a different direction. She can’t park in her usual spot because the church has become a crime scene, so she parks out on the street and uses a smaller entrance to walk through.

Sally makes her way to her brother’s grave and crouches down next to it, not over it. She’s always careful about that. She has a whirlwind of scenarios racing through her head, but she can’t comprehend any of them, and the ones she can almost grasp keep floating away from her.