Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

I’ve been working here more than four years now. Before that, I was unemployed. I remember killing somebody, I can’t remember his name, but he was my first. Well, kind of my first-there was that one kid back in high school, but I don’t like to think about that one. This guy I do consider to be my first was Don or Dan or somebody, I think. What’s in a name? I killed him when I was twenty-eight years old. It was a time in my life when the fantasy of wondering how it would feel blended with a desire that became a need to know. The fantasy wasn’t as good as the reality, and the reality was much messier, but it was an experience, and they say practice makes perfect. Ron or Jim or Don or whoever must have been somebody important because two months after they found his body, a fifty-thousand-dollar reward was posted. I’d only found a few hundred dollars in his wallet when I killed him, so I felt cheated. Like God or fate was mocking me.

I began getting nervous. Agitated. I needed to know if the police were close to catching me. I couldn’t help it, the desire to see where the investigation was kept me without sleep for those two months. I could feel myself cracking up. Every morning I would wake up and stare out at my shitty view, wondering if this was the last time I’d get to see it. I started drinking. I ate badly. I became such a desperate wreck that I did the boldest thing I’ve ever done: I came down to the police station to “confess.”

Detective Inspector Schroder dealt with me. It was the first time I met him, and within seconds I wasn’t scared because I was too smart to be scared, and much smarter than any cop. I had left no evidence-burning the body had destroyed any DNA I had left behind, and dumping the burned carcass into a river washed away whatever was left. I was pretty confident I knew what I was doing. Would I do it again? Definitely not.

Two of them sat me inside a small interrogation room. The room had four concrete walls and no view and smelled of chewing gum and sweat. In the center were a wooden table and a couple of chairs. There were no potted plants. No paintings. Just a mirror. The legs on the front of my chair were slightly shorter, and I kept sliding forward, which was pretty uncomfortable. A tape recorder sat on top of the table. I clean that room once a week now.

I started off by saying I’d like to confess to the murder of that woman who was killed a few months back.

What woman, sir?

You know. The dead one with the reward .

That was a man, sir .

Yeah, I killed him. Can I have my money now?

It wasn’t hard for them to doubt my story, and when I pushed for the reward, saying I had earned it by killing him, and then used the word outside to describe where I had stabbed my victim, my Slow Joe act was cemented. As I turned from Hannibal Lecter to Forrest Gump in a matter of seconds, I learned the police had no suspects at all. I didn’t get any reward, but I was given coffee and a sandwich. That night when I got home, I slept like a rock. The following day I felt like a new man. I felt fantastic. When I came back to “confess” again, this time to a murder I knew nothing about, they took pity on me. I was a nice guy-they could see that; I was merely looking for attention in the wrong places. When one of their cleaners “happened” to disappear, I applied for and was given this job. Because of government regulations in a world trying to be as politically correct as possible, departments all over the country have a quota to fill when it comes to hiring people who are fucked either physically or mentally. The police seemed happy to hire me since they figured a cleaner didn’t need to know much more than how to run a vacuum cleaner and dunk a mop in water. It was either me, or go through the employment lottery where they’d have to choose some other disabled guy.

So now I’m the harmless guy who waltzes up their hallways with brooms and mops, a minimum-wage lackey. But at least the sleepless nights are a thing of the past.

It generally takes me an hour to clean the toilets. Today is no different. When I finish I go through to the women’s toilets and do the same, hanging a sign on the door first to say that cleaning is in progress. Women never come in here while I’m cleaning. Maybe they think the red stick figure they see on the sign is a pervert. When I’m done I empty the contents of the bucket, then store it and the mop back in my office. I grab a broom and slide it back and forth down the corridors and around the cubicles, heading toward the conference room. When I get inside I don’t need to make myself invisible because I’m the only one in here. The day’s work has begun. Leads have been found. Evidence to follow. Prayers go unanswered.

I lean my broom against the door. The conference room is pretty big. To my right, a window the width of the room overlooks the city. To my left, a matching window looks into the fourth floor. At the moment the view is only of thin, gray, venetian blinds, which have been pulled closed. In the center sits a long rectangular table with several seats around it. In the past this room has been used to interview suspects because it looks intimidating. What happens is hundreds of photographs are hung up, stacks of paper are piled against the walls, and officers walk past the window carrying files before popping in to whisper something to the detective doing the interview. The murder weapon is nearby so the killer gets a good look at it, and he soon feels they have more than enough information on him. He cracks under the pressure. In the corner, alongside the window, is a huge potted plant. I take special care when watering it.

I step up to the wall of photographs-pictures of victims and crime scenes have been pinned to a long corkboard. Pictures of the latest victims, Angela Durry and Martha Harris, are up there, making a total of seven bodies over the last thirty weeks. Seven unsolved murders. It only took two for the police to make the connection, even with the different MO. Modus operandi. An MO is what’s similar about the way two or more crimes are committed-the same gun, the method of breaking in, the way he confronts his victim. This is different from a signature. A signature is what a killer needs to do for fulfillment-he may need to masturbate over the body, or follow a script, or force his victim to participate. An MO is upgradable. The first time I broke into a house I smashed a window. Then I learned if you put duct tape over the glass, it doesn’t shatter and make as much noise. Then I learned how to pick locks.

A signature isn’t upgradable. A signature is the whole point of the murder. It’s the gratification. I don’t have one because I’m not like those sick perverted bastards who go around killing women out of a sexual need. I do it for fun. And that’s a big difference.

Of the seven unsolved murders, only six are mine. The seventh has been tacked onto my lot because the police are inept. It’s strange how things in this world have a way of balancing themselves out; one woman I killed has never shown up. And where is she?

Long-term parking. I dumped her body inside the trunk of her car, drove into town, grabbed a ticket for a parking building, and left the car on the top floor. It’s very rare that the building is so full that cars reach the top floor. I wrapped her body in plastic, figuring it would stop the smell for maybe a day or two. Three, if I was lucky. If I was really lucky, nobody would go up there for maybe a week.

She was the second of my seven, and she’s still there now, with the wind gusting through the exposed top floor and dissipating the scent. The chances are high that nobody has even been up there.

I would never have thought to look in the trunk, Detective Schroder.