How to Crash a Killer Bash (24 page)

I nodded toward the back of the SUV. “So what is all this stuff, anyway? Anything dangerous, like explosives or toxic chemicals?”

“You’re safe. Don’t worry.” Brad winked. “As long as my brakes keep working and I don’t crash into anything.”

I glared at him. “Seriously.”

He shrugged. “I have just about everything you need to clean up filth, debris, fecal matter, bodily fluids, expired food, moldy stuff, and hazardous materials.” When he’d finished the list, he glanced at me to check my reaction.

I made a face. “Yuck.”

“Plus I’ve got protective gear, latex gloves for bodily fluids, shoe covers, respirators, stuff like that.”

“Bet you look cute in all that.”

“Then there’s the usual cleaning supplies,” he continued, apparently on a roll. “Mops, buckets, spray bottles, sponges, brushes. And lots of chemicals and disinfectants to clean up blood and vomit.”

He grinned as I squirmed. “Enzyme solvents to liquefy dried blood. Putty knives to scrape dried brain matter—that stuff dries like cement.”

“I can imagine,” I said flippantly, not daring to imagine.

He wouldn’t let up. “Shovels, for large amounts of blood when it turns to Jell-O. You can just shovel it into bags.”

I quit listening and focused on a couple of cameras I’d spotted on one of the shelves. When he was done trying to spook me, I asked, “Why cameras?”

“To take before-and-after shots—for insurance purposes.”

I thought a moment. “So do you have pictures of Mary Lee’s crime scene?”

“Yep. You can see them if you want, but I doubt they’ll tell you anything.”

“You never know,” I said, facing forward. I was getting carsick, either from the motion or from listening to Brad’s list of job supplies. “You like the work?”

“It pays the bills.”

“Really?”

“I make about six hundred an hour.”

My jaw dropped open. “Whoa, I’m in the wrong business. Need a partner?”

“Not sure you’d like it. It’s not as fun as hosting a party.”

I wrinkled my nose. “So what’s the actual work like?”

Brad took a deep breath. “Okay, well, I’m called a secondary responder. I get there after the cops, techs, fire fighters, paramedics, and coroners are done. Most of the victims’ families are surprised to learn they’re responsible for cleaning up the scene. They figure the cops are going to do it. Not the case. That’s when I come in. I do what’s called CTS Decon—Crime and Trauma Scene Decontamination—which covers everything from cleaning up after a violent death—homicide, suicide—to decomp—a decomposing body—to meth labs, to anthrax exposure.”

“Anthrax?” I shivered.

“There’s not much of that. Mostly it’s bodily fluids. They’re considered biohazards—a potential source of infection. If there’s blood, I have to make sure there’s no trace to pass along HIV, hepatitis, herpes, and hantavirus.”

Hantavirus? I’d heard about that. Rats carried it, didn’t they? I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to touch Brad again.

“How do you manage to do work that would cause most people to throw up?”

“Gotta have a strong stomach. Plus some emotional detachment mixed with a little sympathy.”

“Sympathy?”

“For the grieving family members. They’re often around when I’m cleaning.”

There was a lot about Brad I didn’t know. I tried to picture him cleaning up blood while consoling family members—not an easy task for anyone.

“You okay?” Brad asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I just never realized how involved it all was. No wonder you have an SUV full of stuff.”

“Couldn’t do the job without it. This one’s specially outfitted. Holds everything safely, including biohazardous stuff, like bodies.”

A chill ran through me. “You mean, you haul . . . bodies in here?”

“Part of the job is disposal. Can’t just put them in a Dumpster.”

“Don’t you burn out? I’d think all this gore would get to you eventually.”

“Sure, there are days when I wonder why I do this. Especially since I’m on call twenty-four/seven. Some guys in the business suffer from stress, depression. You know, the kinds of things you’re familiar with as an ab-psych instructor.”

“So how do you cope?”

“Well, lately by getting involved in your problems. You’ve kept me pretty distracted.” He shot me a look; there was a sparkle in his eyes

“Sorry about that,” I said, sighing.

He patted my leg. “Look, the only thing you need to worry about right now is your own safety. Keep in mind—someone cut those brakes.”

I had to admit he was right. And if I wasn’t careful, I just might be his next Crime Scene Cleanup.

As we approached Noe Valley, I gave Brad Corbin’s address. Then, figuring that Brad’s Crime Scene Cleaners SUV would stick out like a bloody thumb in front of the home, I asked him to park on a main street lined with bookstores, cafés, and clothing boutiques. We walked the block and a half to Corbin’s place, stepped up on the porch, and I knocked on the front door.

After a few minutes and no answer, Brad said, “Looks like nobody’s home.” He shaded his eyes and peered into a front window.

“Hard to say for sure,” I said. “He doesn’t have a car. Could be asleep.”

I knocked again. This time I heard a noise coming from behind the front door.

I whirled around to Brad. “Did you hear that?”

“Sounded like a dog barking.”

I moved to the window, cleaned the dusty pane with my fist, and peeked in the slit between the tie-dyed curtains. “It’s Chou-Chou, Mary Lee’s dog!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I’d know that irritating yap and unnatural pink fur anywhere.”

“I thought you said Corbin didn’t seem to like the dog.”

“I did. He also said he had no idea where it was. So what’s it doing here?”

Brad took a step back, straddling two steps. “He’s taking care of it, obviously.” He stepped off the porch.

Instead of following Brad, I said, “We’ve got to get inside.”

“What? No way! Not without the owner present. That’s unlawful trespass. I could lose my license.”

“It’s an emergency! The dog is inside . . . and it sounds . . . upset. What if it’s hurt? Or what if Corbin’s in trouble, and the dog is trying to alert us? I think that gives us just cause to go inside.”

I glanced around the ground, spotted a large rock, and held it up, ready to pitch it through a window.

Brad grabbed my arm. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

“Got a better idea?” I asked.

He cursed under his breath. He knew I was determined to get inside, whether he helped me or not. “Wait here! Don’t do anything. I’ll be right back.”

I reluctantly dropped the rock.

He pointed a finger at me, as if I were a disobedient child. “Just wait—you hear me?”

I crossed my arms and pouted like a disobedient child. “Okay, but hurry.”

Brad jogged down the street and disappeared around the corner. I peered into the window I had almost broken. Other than the sound of yapping, there were no signs of life.

Minutes later I heard Brad’s heavy footsteps racing up behind me. I turned around to meet him. In his hands he held a putty knife and a roll of duct tape.

“Duct tape?” I eyed him as if he were the crazy one now. “With all the stuff you have in your SUV, you brought duct tape?”

“Trick of the trade. You can use duct tape for just about anything.”

“And the putty knife? Isn’t that what you use to scrape up blood?”

“Among other things.”

He glanced back and forth between the two front windows, pursed his lips, then moved around to the side of the house. I followed him behind the overgrown bushes that kept nosy neighbors from seeing much of Corbin’s place. Brad scanned the area, found an old gallon container of paint in some weeds near a couple of trash cans, and picked it up. I watched as he placed the container underneath one of the small side windows. Stepping up onto the can, he wiped off the grimy pane with the side of his arm and peered through.

“See anything?” I whispered.

“No bodies,” Brad said lightly. “Looks like a bedroom.”

He pulled the duct tape from his wrist where he’d been wearing it like a bracelet, and ripped off an arm’s length, using his teeth to start the tear.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he looped the tape into a circle, sticky side out, stuck one end to the other, then pressed the tape onto the center of the window pane. He ripped off another length and placed that strip diagonally across the window pane, sticky side down, inserting it through the looped circle. Finally he placed a third strip crosswise, sticky side down, through the loop, forming an X on the glass.

I still had no idea what he was doing.

Pulling the putty knife from the pocket where’d he stuck it, he began chipping away at the aging trim that surrounded the window.

“Now what are you doing?”

He grunted, digging at the trim with the blade. “These windows are held in by this old beading. The new ones have the beading on the inside, so people like me can’t do something like this. But this is an old house.”

He stopped talking and kept chipping away at the strip around the window. In a few minutes I saw the pane loosen. He grasped the duct tape circle he’d made into a handle and pulled gently. The window came out into his hand without a crack.

“How did you learn to do that?” I asked.

He stepped down from the paint can. “You pick up all kinds of tricks in this business.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t get much more information from him. So far I’d learned how to break into an old house without using a brick, how to cut a brake line with a pipe cutter from Home Depot, and how to open a lock when you don’t have a key.

How sure was I that Brad Matthews was on the right side of the law?

“Well, you’re certainly handy with duct tape.”

“Couldn’t do my job without it. If you’re ever in hurricane country, make Xs on your windows to keep them from shattering.”

“I’ll remember that. Unfortunately, we live in earthquake country. Got a duct tape remedy for that?”

“Not yet. But I saw this show once where a girl made her prom dress out of different colors of duct tape. I imagine there’s a use for it during a quake as well.”

I looked up at the hole in the wall where the windowpane had been.

“Now what?”

Brad brushed his hands down the side of his jeans to clean them. “That’s up to you.”

I glared at him. “You don’t expect me to climb through there, do you?”

He gave a half shrug and matching half smile. “
I
certainly won’t fit.” He was right about that, with those broad shoulders, wide chest, and muscular arms.

“Crap.”

Wondering if I should rethink this, I stepped up on the paint can and put my arms through the opening. The bottom of the window came to my waist. There was no way I would be able to hoist myself through.

I felt a pair of hands on my butt.

I pulled my head out and glared down at Brad.

He withdrew his hands and raised them up like a criminal surrendering to the cops. “What? I’m just trying to help.”

I narrowed my eyes, then stuck my head back in.

I felt hands on my butt again. This time they lifted the rest of me up and into the opening. As I headed over the windowsill, I reached forward to support myself on the cluttered desk beneath the window and slowly slid onto it.

It wasn’t a pretty sight.

“I’m in!” I called.

“Quiet!” Brad hissed.

“Okay!” I hissed back.

A pink ball of frenzied fluff appeared in the doorway, yapping.

“Nice doggy,” I whispered to it. Chou-Chou snarled and gave a guttural growl. “Pipe down, you pip-squeak. My cats would have you for a snack.”

To my surprise, the dog sat down and wagged its tail.

“Good dog.”

I slid off the desk and took a look around. “Corbin?” I called out. “It’s Presley. Are you here?” I headed out of the room, trying not to step on the fur ball. Wasn’t easy. The thing was right on my heels.

Within minutes I’d checked all the rooms in the house. No sign of Corbin. It was still a mess of art comics, pizza cartons, and paint-spattered clothing. Unopened mail lay on the floor under the front door flap. No sign of a body. Or blood. Or a murderer.

Where was Corbin?

I returned to Corbin’s bedroom and found that the window had already been replaced. That was quick. I walked over to my landing desk, knelt down, and glanced through a few papers that had fallen during my entry. Nothing suspicious—just excerpts from articles printed from the Internet on DNA testing and genealogy.