The Cleaner

by Paul Cleave

  The sun is shining through my office window, so I sit in front of it and pretend I’m getting a tan. I’d have to pretend really hard for other people to see it. Sally knocks on my door, then steps in and hands me a small parcel of food. I give her a small thank you in return. She asks me again if I want to join her outside, and I make the mistake of saying maybe next time. She positively beams at this before she leaves. I stare out the window on the chance I might see her out there, but my view doesn’t overlook the river so the only people I see are strangers. On the horizon I see something I haven’t seen in weeks-rain clouds. They’re too far away to tell which direction they’re moving.

  I eat my sandwiches while looking at the list. With over ninety names on it, ninety-four to be exact, it’s pretty big. I don’t know what I expected-maybe half a dozen or so-but ninety-four suggests a lot of people running around not knowing what’s going on. Dozens more officers took statements, but it’s only the detectives who work the scene. Only the detectives who see the body.

  I begin to panic: this could take me forever. The feeling that this is going to be a big waste of time is creeping deep into my thoughts. But not all of the people on this list would have been to each of the crime scenes, right? Maybe half of them at each one, maybe not even that. The trick is to figure out which of these ninety-four people went to Daniela Walker’s house.

  Call sheets.

  Daniela was discovered late on a Friday night. Therefore, several phone calls had to have been made to the people who are on this list. None of the detectives would have been working that late. They were off eating with their wives or girlfriends and were interrupted with the news that dinner was over. Only one of them already knew, because one of them had built up an appetite by strangling Daniela and throwing her pen across the wall. Lunch isn’t over yet, but I’m too excited to keep eating. I head into the records room and give it a good spring cleaning. I take extra time near the hard copy of the phone records, giving the area around it an extremely thorough polishing.

  On the night Daniela Walker was killed, fifteen phone calls out of twenty were successfully made. These are the people who showed up. Fifteen people, plus however many officers showed up on the scene to report it.

  The original phone call made from the victim’s husband to police dispatch is here too. I start reading, but find it has little interest.

  Dispatch sent the nearest car to the scene to begin controlling things before the cavalry arrived. Two officers. Their names are on my list. I circle them. I also circle the fifteen called that night-including the pathologist, the photographer, and Detective Superintendent Stevens with the jet-black eyes.

  This means I’ve just cut nearly eighty people off my suspect list. The fear I have of this being a waste of time creeps away. I’m down to seventeen people. I doubt the two officers who first responded to the husband’s call have anything to do with her death. First of all, they were together for the previous six hours on their shift, and the body was discovered only an hour after she was killed. Second, what are the chances that the person who killed her was the very officer called to the scene? Pretty low, that’s what. I cross their names off the list.

  Fifteen people.

  I think about the pathologist. He found several differences between this body and the others. Because he works alone, he could have easily manufactured evidence to make the residues and fibers on this victim identical to the others, but he didn’t. Who was going to check his work? Nobody. That’s who. If he had killed her, the results would be identical to the others. But they’re not.

  So it isn’t him.

  Fourteen people.

  Could this be any easier?

  I glance at my watch. It is nearly four o’clock. I have been in here all afternoon, cleaning the room for most of that. The smell of furniture polish is close to making me gag, and I’m getting concerned about how my lungs are looking after breathing in a couple of cans. I head back to my office, grabbing a coffee on the way and pausing in the conference room to switch audiotapes.

  Back in my office the sun is no longer streaming in, instead one of the rain clouds is covering it, but the cloud is still holding onto its payload. I can’t remember the last time I saw rain. When I sit and look at the list again, I see something obvious I missed while in the records room. Of the fourteen left, four are women. I cross them off the list. I could have narrowed down the original ninety-four the same way, but it doesn’t matter now. Ten people. I write their names onto a fresh piece of paper, then sit there staring at them until four thirty comes along and says hello. I say good-bye to everybody who crosses my path on the way out of the building. Sally isn’t among them. On the way to the bus stop I remember the feeling I had this morning that something was wrong with my mother, and I chide myself for being foolish. If something had happened I would have got the bad news by now.

  I catch the bus home. The trash outside my house has been collected. I lie down on my bed. Stare at the ceiling. I’ve narrowed down the suspects to ten people. The police have narrowed theirs down to about ten phone directories. I glance at my watch. I can’t lie down on the bed forever. Ceiling isn’t interesting enough for that. I get to my feet and grab my briefcase. There’s still plenty of work to do.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The smile has been with her all day. From the moment the elevator doors closed on Joe’s smile, she’s been able to think of little else. She’s always thought his big, expressionistic smiles were so natural, so pure, because they were the same as Martin’s. But this morning’s smile was something different. Pure? She thinks so. Joe has a pure soul, but there is something about it, something she is struggling to recognize. In those few seconds Joe was more of a man than a boy, more sophisticated than clumsy. There was a spark there that suggested Joe is more of everything else than she had thought.

  But what, exactly?

  She likes to think that it means Joe likes her, that their friendship is moving along the way she wants. Of course, it might have been a fluke. Joe might have been staring off into space as he is apt to do when she is around him.

  Yet there is no denying that it didn’t only make him look grown-up, it made him more. . more. . attractive?

  Sadly, the answer is yes. Joe is attractive, and she had never noticed it before. She doesn’t want to think about it now, either, because she finds it confusing.

  She spends the day at work fixing a section of faulty air-conditioning. It’s a job that has taken the last few weeks of her time. It breaks down every year or two, and the government isn’t prepared to budget more money for police, let alone make their surroundings slightly more comfortable. So she does what she can-stopgap measures that will keep it working until the day those measures fall short.

  Yet her mind keeps returning to Joe. She’s sure he doesn’t know that he’s not the only cleaner employed here. After six o’clock every night, well after Joe has gone home, a team of cleaners come through and do their thing. They vacuum, wipe, dust, sanitize the bathrooms, refill the paper towel dispensers, clean and put away the dishes in the coffee rooms, replace dirty towels with clean ones, and empty the trash cans. Some of these things Joe will do once a week, or once every few weeks, but he doesn’t know other people are taking care of them every single day. Joe is here during the day to keep things tidy and, she suspects, to keep people happy. Special people like Joe can struggle to find work, and in a world where they must contribute, where they must fend for themselves, sometimes the government must step in and create positions for them. She knows nobody has told Joe he’s not alone in his profession here because it might shatter the image he has of his importance. Sweet, sweet Joe.

  She doesn’t see Joe when she leaves work. Only a few people finish at four thirty, and because of her father’s illness, she’s one of them. She heads down Cashel Mall, a shopping street that runs through the center of town that’s a few blocks from the Christchurch Cathedral, the city’s most iconic church that’s made of stone and was built we
ll over a hundred years ago. She tried once to go inside and sit in the silence, only there wasn’t any-too many tourists for that. She doesn’t make it as far as the church today, instead she pauses outside shop windows and occasionally goes inside, searching, hunting, trying to find a gift for her dad that he will appreciate. She needs a card too. Something funny. Something that for the briefest of moments will take his mind off his failing body and her late brother. Just what do you buy for the parent who’s losing everything?

  The answer is a DVD player. With the salesman’s advice, she finds the simplest-to-use player in her price range, and she chooses four classic westerns she’s confident her father will love. All have Clint Eastwood in them. Could there be anything better?

  She carries her purchases back to her car, pausing only to give Henry another small bag of sandwiches. She wonders if a guy like Henry ever tries to save for anything. How hard it must be to have goals in life when you have nothing. It’s not like the poor guy can buy a suit and go to a job interview. It’s not like he can show up to one dressed the way he is. She thinks she ought to try and help him out there.

  “Jesus loves you,” he reminds her, opening the bag. “Remember that, Sally, and everything will be okay.”

  By the time she reaches her car, she feels like crying. Not even thinking about Joe’s smile can cheer her back up.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I pull out the latest cassette tape from the conference room and listen to the private words falling from the small speaker of my recorder as I pace back and forth. Not just hear, but really listen. I’ve heard all of the other tapes over the months, but I was only ever listening to see how the investigation was going. Now I have something new to listen for.

  Detective Taylor is for the theory that they’re looking for more than one killer.

  So is Detective McCoy, who suspects the killers are working together.

  Detective Hutton is still of the opinion that it’s one person.

  Other theories. Mixed theories. Confused theories.

  A confused investigation is a messy investigation. Nobody can agree. Nothing gets done. This makes people hard to catch. Makes things good for me.

  I make some dinner. Nothing exciting. Instant pasta that cooks quickly in the microwave, and some coffee. Then I change into something more casual-jeans and a shirt. I’m looking pretty good, better than good. I put on a dark jacket. Even better.

  I’m just about to go out when the phone rings. My first thought is that it’s Mom, and then I remember the bad feeling I had this morning, so my next thought is it may not be Mom, but somebody calling about Mom. I have no idea where it comes from, but an image of making funeral arrangements and sausage rolls for the after-funeral party flashes through my mind. I sit to prepare for the shock that will put both my investigation and my life on hold. My heart races as I put my hand out to the receiver. Please, God, don’t let it be so. Don’t let anything bad happen to my mother.

  I pick it up and do my best to sound calm. “Hello?”

  “Joe? Is that you?”

  “Mom, boy, am I glad to hear from you,” I say, the words coming out in one long clump.

  “It’s your mother. I’ve been trying to ring you all day.”

  I look at my answering machine. The little light isn’t flashing. “You didn’t leave any messages.”

  “You know I don’t like talking to a machine.” This, of course, is a fallacy. Mom will talk to anything if the opportunity is there. “Are you coming to see me tonight, Joe?”

  “It’s Wednesday.”

  “I know what day it is, Joe. You don’t need to tell me what day it is. I just thought you might want to come around and visit your mother.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got plans.”

  “A girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, I wish you weren’t-”

  “I’m not gay, Mom.”

  “You’re not? I thought that maybe-”

  “What do you want, Mom?”

  “I thought you might want to come and see me after I was sick all night.”

  “Sick?”

  “More than sick, Joe. I’ve been up all night sitting on the toilet,” she says, and already that’s more information than I needed. Before I can stop her or shoot myself she carries on. “I had stomach pains. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I was squirting water.” I look around my room for a security blanket, something to keep me in reality, to stop me from fainting. To kill the imagery. Luckily I’m sitting down. Luckily I was expecting a shock. “The diarrhea was so bad, Joe, I spent an hour running back and forth soiling my nightgown before deciding to spend the whole night in there. I ended up taking a blanket because it was cold, and I took my jigsaw puzzle in with me to stop the boredom. I actually got the other corner done. It’s looking good. You should come around and see it.”

  “Good thinking,” I hear myself say.

  “I didn’t even need to push, Joe. It was just falling out of me like, well, like water out of a garden hose.”

  “Uh huh. Uh huh.” To me my words sound like they’re coming from a mile away.

  “I felt so sick.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom, I’ll come over one night soon and help, okay?”

  “Okay, Joe, but-”

  “I’ve really got to go, Mom. Taxi’s waiting. Love you.”

  “Well, okay, Joe, I love-”

  “Bye, Mom.” I hang up.

  I go to the sink. Gulp down a glass of water. Rinse out my mouth and pour a second glass thinking I need something stronger, then remembering the beers I transferred from the Walker fridge. I grab one and pop it open with the Walker bottle opener. Pictures of my mother sitting on the toilet with a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle on a board on a stool in front of her and soiled underwear around her ankles are hard to shake. Cottage. . blue sky. . flowers. . trees. I walk over to the sofa and sit down with my fish. I feed them, and a second later, the phone rings. What does she want now? To tell me how many sheets of toilet paper she used? I let the machine get it.

  It’s the woman from the veterinary clinic. She identifies herself as Jennifer, and tells me the cat is doing fine. She tells me they’ve had no luck in finding the cat’s owner. She asks me to call her, and adds that she’ll be at work until two in the morning.

  I finish the beer and say good-bye to my fish and am just heading out the door when I suddenly remember I have done nothing about Candy-haven’t made the anonymous call I was supposed to make. I’ll wait now until I narrow down my list. It will be easier to watch for Daniela’s killer when there are only a few names left.

  Because the police have no leads, I have no time limit for solving my own case. I can take days or weeks. However, I have this competitive streak inside me. Right now it’s ordering me around, telling me to keep focused and sort out this investigation. I want to prove to myself I can do this, and do it well. I want to prove I’m better than the police, not just at eluding them, but at solving their own case. What sort of man doesn’t try to better himself? What sort of man doesn’t test himself?

  Another part of me, the more recreational side, is suggesting why not make it harder for the police? Throw in another victim to investigate? When investigations deal with only one victim, the police can take statements from two or three hundred people, even a thousand. They cross-reference these statements in an attempt to draw a map of the person’s activities that day. Toss in another victim, and the number of statements doubles, and so does the workload. They spend less time with the people from the previous killing, and close to none with the people before that. One trail is fresh while the others get cold. Soon they stop focusing on the evidence, and wait for the next victim, hoping that will be where they catch a break in their case. They become increasingly understaffed and overworked. A stressed detective is a sloppy detective. Kill two people in a row, and all previous statements are tossed into a pile beneath a conference room table in a large box.

  I vacuum around t
hem every couple of days or so.

  I catch the bus into town. Getting into a police station is easy when you work there and have a swipe card to open one of the side doors. I do just that, and step into a rear stairwell. I know a record is taken each time an ID card is swiped, but there is no reason for the records to ever be checked. If they are, and I get asked, I’ll simply say I got confused about the time, or that I came to get my lunchbox. I make my way to the fourth floor, taking the stairs. Less risky this way. I encounter nobody. Detectives, unlike beat patrol officers, work gentlemen’s hours. Unless a homicide is reported, or one is in the process of being solved, the detectives work from nine o’clock until five thirty. After that they go home, and the cubicles, the conference room, and the offices are close to empty.

  I take another look at the conference room wall. The prostitute I killed last night is still to be discovered. Same with the woman I stuffed into the trunk at the long-term parking garage. Not wanting to hang around, I quickly swap the cassette tapes and leave. The microcassette recorder I use has a voice-activated system. This allows the unit to be left on standby mode, where it won’t actually start recording until it hears sound. When the sound stops, it stops, so I can leave it on and there will be no wasted tape. I also replace the batteries.

  Of the ten names on my list, only a few work on this floor. Some of the others don’t even work in this building, but have come here from other cities to help with the investigation. The chances are high that it’s going to be one of these men-taking the opportunity of killing while away from the wife and family is pretty hard to turn down.

  I decide to begin with the first name on my list.

  Detective Wilson Hutton has been a detective far, far longer than I’ve been cleaning, and he has been overeating far, far longer than he’s been a detective. He, like the others, likes me. I move down the aisle, glancing at the cubicles to my left and right, double-checking that I’m alone. Most of the ceiling lights have been turned off. Only every fifth one is going, so it’s pretty dim, like being outside under a quarter moon. This gives the place a slight look of life, while also saving power. It also enables staff to come here and not knock themselves out on furniture. I can hear the slight humming of the lights. The ticking of the air-conditioning. But I can’t hear a single person. The floor has the feeling of an empty house. Like a tomb. No glowing desk lamps, no squeaking office chairs, no shifting of weight, or a cough, or a yawn. Things look tidier in this light. Cleaner. That’s because an hour and a half after I leave, a team of cleaners comes in and spends two hours doing all the things they think I’m too stupid to manage. Nobody has ever mentioned it to me. Maybe they think I think a team of magic trash fairies comes in and makes things sparkly and clean.