Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

When she looks over at me, she is smiling. “You want to try it?”

“You promise not to slap me?”

“No, you idiot. Do you want to see how he feels?”

“He feels dead.”

“If you can get the money that quickly, Joe, we’ve still got a deal.”

“Where and when?”

She drops the arm and takes a look at her watch, mentally studying her schedule. “Ten o’clock. Our park. Don’t be late.”

Our park. Sure, I won’t be late. “I’ll be there.”

“No tricks, Joe.”

“No tricks.”

With that, she turns to leave and I’m left alone with a useless corpse.

Be prepared. That’s the Boy Scout motto. It applies to anything in life. It’s like doing your homework. I simply can’t stress enough how important that is.

I stand at the window for a few more minutes watching in case Melissa comes back. It’s a clear evening, a few stars are out already, a faded moon growing in strength. Melissa disappears between streetlights and reappears at the following one until she reappears no more. When I’m satisfied she’s gone, I point the remote control at the wardrobe. With the push of one button I turn off the video camera that’s running in there. The crippled chick’s video camera.

I rewind the tape, then sit on the edge of the bed to watch tonight’s footage through the small viewfinder. I hadn’t started the unit recording until I moved over into the corner of the bedroom. The lens was zoomed out to capture most of the room, which included the bed. I continue watching the tape. I can see Melissa stroking the covers, then, soon after, opening the bathroom door and murdering the policeman. Because of the angle of the lens I’ve managed to stay out of the footage. If I was in it, I would have edited it out. Seems I don’t need to.

I take the dead detective’s gun out of the waistband of my pants and set it on the bed for easy access. The gun’s ready to fire, has been the entire night. It was my protection against Melissa in case anything went wrong.

As it turned out, everything went perfectly.

Melissa didn’t cut all the bindings away from the policeman, so I grab a knife and finish the job. He smells of piss and death as I drag his heavy corpse into the bedroom, careful not to get any blood on me. When I dump him on the bed, he bounces once before becoming still.

I look around the room for something I can use to wrap the body. The blood will just soak through the sheets, so I go back into the bathroom and rip down the shower curtain, scattering the plastic rings to all four corners. I roll it around him. The end result is an odd-looking cocoon, which looks ready to hatch a being from some 1950s B-grade sci-fi movie. His blood smears across the inside of it, painted on the curtain of this womb. I use duct tape and his shoelaces to secure the curtain. Back in the bathroom I wash down the knife Melissa used to kill him, dry it, and put it back into my briefcase.

I drag the cocoon downstairs by the feet, its head thudding on every step, then across the floor and into the adjoining garage. He leaks from the shower curtain where I haven’t done the best of wrapping jobs (men can’t wrap-simple fact) and stains the carpet. I dump him on the garage floor, turn on a light, and look around. The tools of my trade are here. I pick up a plastic can of gas from next to the lawn mower and shake it. Seems mostly full. Perhaps around three gallons. I carry it back into the house.

The idea is simple. Fire isn’t a foolproof way of destroying all evidence, but it sure is a hell of a lot better than cleaning the house from top to bottom. Even then, if anything was suspected, chemicals can be used to show washed-away blood, and from there a link to Calhoun could easily be made. Fire is a far greater guarantee that nothing will be found.

Naturally, burning the corpse here isn’t such a good idea. It takes extreme heat to burn through bone, and depending on how quickly the neighbors contact the fire department, the chances of the body burning into dust before they arrive or of the house burning down completely are about as great as my testicle growing back. The pathologist will study the body, the damage to the severed throat, the bruised jaw. He may even find tape residue on the face and rope burn on the ankles and hands. Even if it’s burned to a skeleton he’ll find serrated edges in the sternum from the knife. They’ll know Calhoun was murdered and framed.

I take the lid from the gas can and begin splashing it across the carpet and bed. The smell of gas quickly fills my nostrils. At first, maybe for a few seconds, I like it, but then it quickly becomes nauseating and I want to throw up. When the room’s wet enough to burn quickly, I make my way through the other upstairs rooms, leaving a trail of gas as I go. Downstairs I do the same, leaving a trail on the stairs. I save some for the trip.

I grab my briefcase and head outside. I suck in a few deep breaths of air to clear my lungs, then spit the taste of gas from my mouth.

I go for a walk. The car I stole yesterday after work is still where I left it a few blocks away. I drive it to the house, back it into the garage, close the door, then stuff the body in the trunk. I didn’t want to risk driving a stolen car tonight, but now I can’t risk not to. Carrying a limp body draped in a shower curtain over my shoulder and walking through town with it would look suspicious, even for this city.

I look for a match and can’t find one. Again the cigarette lighter from the car comes in handy. Thirty seconds later it’s glowing red. I hold it onto a rag in the garage, then throw the burning rag into the house. Fire spreads across the floor and climbs the walls, racing quickly up the stairs. Born from nowhere and now it’s alive everywhere. Alive and hungry. I don’t need to supervise it. The rest should be child’s play.

I open the garage door and drive out into the street. I glance back at the house through the mirrors but can’t see any signs of fire. I don’t bother to wait around. It’ll happen.

As I drive away from the city, I turn the stereo on to hear the same song that was playing in Angela’s bedroom the day I killed her. It seems so long ago. It must be an omen, and I take it to be a good one. I can’t help but sing along as I head north. My spirits are high, the evening is warm, and things are going well. Life is good.

Tonight I’m looking for an ideal place to dump a body. I can’t afford for this one to be found. I drive through the plains that make up Canterbury, searching for one of those crazy dirt roads that take you approximately nowhere. After an hour, I find one. A wire fence closes it off from the public. I fumble with the lock.

When I’ve eventually driven far enough, I stop the car, open the trunk, and drag the cocoon through the trees. I spend half an hour digging a pit knee-deep with a shovel I borrowed from the garage. I am still wearing gloves. My fingers are wet-rubber damp again. When the hole’s deep enough, I kick the side of the corpse and it rolls into the grave with a thud.

This is option country. If I leave the pit open, the body will rot quickly beneath the sun, and the small animals that live out here will make sure any evidence is quickly gnawed away. However, this is risky. Should some hick farmer wander by, he’ll be making the most exciting discovery of his life. Plus there probably won’t be a lot of sun over the following days and weeks.

I climb into the pit and, using a knife, I slice the cocoon open. With the gardening shears, some pliers, and the hammer, I start removing his teeth and his fingertips. A grisly job, but I whistle as I work and the mess isn’t as bad as I would have thought. I keep things pointed away from me to lessen the chances of getting blood on myself, but I still fail. After a while I get into the swing of things and the time goes quickly.