Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

A nightmare.

The smell of the sea comes with me from the dream and lingers in the room for a few minutes. I get away from it by climbing into the shower. I wash away the night, the tackiness, and the dregs of the dream. When I come out, the cat’s sitting on the kitchen floor cleaning itself. I find something in the fridge that looks like meat and the cat seems happy enough to believe it.

Before leaving for work, and after making myself some toast, I check through the briefcase and study my assortment of tools. More importantly I check to make sure the Glock I took from Calhoun is fully loaded. It is. All fifteen rounds ready to react to the tip of my finger pulling in the mechanical trigger. The first cartridge ready to be introduced to the chamber, ready to be struck by the firing pin, the powder inside ready to be ignited. The gas, the pressure, the explosion.

The power.

It takes less than a quarter of a second for the trigger finger to obey the command of the shooter. Milliseconds later, the firing pin is hitting. For the whole cycle to progress from nerve impulse to firing of the cartridge, I’m looking at a third of a second. The bullet travels at nearly a thousand feet per second. The target can be dead in less than a second.

I place the gun back in the briefcase. Let the cat out of my apartment. Go to work.

The place is a madhouse.

I step into a flurry of detectives and officers. The buzz is much bigger than any of the previous days. The men have their sleeves rolled up, their ties loosened. Conversations are spilling from every corner, every cubicle, every office. Excitement hangs in the air like a half-deflated balloon. I don’t hear any full conversations as I make my way through the clusters of people to my office, but I pick up on several snippets.

“How long have you known him?”

“I heard his son killed himself.”

“Has anybody checked his hotel?”

“Where else can he be staying?”

“How many do you think he’s killed?”

“And you knew him.”

“And you had dinner with him.”

“And you were working with him.”

They’re looking for Calhoun. Hunting him. I close the door to my office. I’m only alone for ten seconds before Schroder knocks and walks in.

“Morning, Joe.”

“Morning, Detective Schroder.”

“Have you heard?”

I shake my head. “Heard what, Detective Schroder?”

“When was the last time you saw Detective Inspector Calhoun?”

I think about it. “Yesterday at work,” I tell him. “Didn’t you see him, Detective Schroder? He’s the guy with the gray hair.”

“Did he say anything to you yesterday at all? Anything out of character?” I think about our conversation, his description of killing Daniela Walker. “Not that I can think of.”

“You sure?”

“Umm. .” I give my thought process around ten seconds, which is a long time when someone’s staring at you. I’m going for that dramatic effect thing, and then finally I repeat my original answer. “No, Detective Schroder. When was the last time you saw him?” I ask.

“Let me know if you think of anything,” Schroder says, ignoring my question.

Without waiting for an answer, he turns and hurries off, as if he needs to be everywhere else at the same time. He doesn’t tell me why they’re looking for Calhoun.

I start my working day by cleaning the toilets, which is one of those jobs that makes anybody reflect on the decisions they’ve made in life. By the time I finish, over half the people on the crowded fourth floor have gone. The rest are paying no attention to me. Are any of them checking the house where I left him? Apparently not. Why would they? Because he left two victims there?

With plenty of officers out there searching, with plenty of detectives thinking of places for them to go, it’s possible they’ll stumble across him. And if they do, what will Calhoun tell them? Can he risk telling them about me? No, he can’t, because then I’ll tell on him. I take some small relief that the police are thinking he’s in hiding, probably planning on leaving the country, not reminiscing about his crimes by hovering around old scenes.

I lug the vacuum cleaner into the conference room. The room is a mess. Folders, photographs, statements. Cigarette butts squashed into full ashtrays, food wrappers balled on the table, empty take-out containers stuffed into the trash. Files litter the floor, and among them-lying in the center of the huge table-are two murder weapons. The first is mine, which Melissa used. The second is from Calhoun’s hotel room. Both are covered in a thin, white powder.

I look up at the composite drawing Melissa detailed for them a few mornings earlier. Pinned up next to it is the photograph of Calhoun. It’s a stretch to find any real similarity between the two, but that doesn’t matter, because they have fingerprints now, and that’s as good as a confession at this stage in the game. His absence today only helps make him look guiltier. He knew the murder weapon had been found, knew he had to get the hell out of Dodge.

I sit at the table, pick up each of the plastic bags in turn, and study the knives. I don’t take them out, rather just admire them through the bags. Actually, admire is the wrong word. What I do is remember. Mine has a history. Calhoun’s has a story. Short story, perhaps, but oh so important.

After cleaning the room then grabbing my cassette recorder (not just the tape), I go back to my office and have lunch. The rest of the day is hectic for everybody but me. For me, it’s only stressful. I watch every person as though they’re watching me, ready to put me under arrest because they’ve found Calhoun tied and taped to a chair in Daniela Walker’s house.

At four thirty, making sure nobody is looking, I hide the parking ticket with Calhoun’s fresh fingerprints on it behind his desk. I can’t just put it in one of the drawers-the desk will have been searched already. This way it could have been overlooked, and when they search his cubicle again, they’ll find it. If not, I’ll find it when I vacuum and hand it to Schroder. I let it slip out of the evidence bag without touching it.

I’m twenty-five minutes into my stroll to the Walker house, on what is becoming a lovely Friday evening, when my cell phone rings. It plays a small tune that makes me cringe. I slip it from my pocket and flip it open.

“Hello, Melissa.”

“Hello, Joe. Having a nice evening are you?”

“I was.”

“Oh, come now, Joe, that’s not very nice. I’ve been thinking about you, you know. Thinking I’d like to take you back to the park once more and show you the other half of a good time.”

“What do you want?”

“My money. Have you got it?”

“Not all of it.”

“No? Well, that’s not really good enough, Joe, is it? I said a hundred grand. Anything less is wasting my time.”

“I’ve got eighty, and I can get the remaining twenty next week,” I lie, knowing it sounds far more realistic. She goes silent for a minute. That’s okay, she’s paying for the call.

“Eighty grand will do for the weekend, Joe, but since you’ve let me down, it’s going to cost you another forty next week.”

“I can’t get forty.”

“That’s what you said about the hundred, and look how well you’ve done.”

“Fine.”

“Where do you want to meet?” she asks.

“You’re leaving it up to me?”

“Of course not. I just wanted to give you some hope. That’s all.”

“I’m not leaving it up to you. If you want the money, then it’s on my terms.”

“If you don’t want to go to jail, Joe, then the terms are mine.”