The Cleaner (17 page)

“Do you ever go to church, Joe?”

“Church? No. Never.”

“You should.”

“I get confused,” I say, looking down while I say it, as if I’m admitting something that makes me feel ashamed of being a God-loving, God-fearing Christian. “I wish I could, but I can never make it all the way through the . . .” The what? The lesson? The sermon? The boredom? I’m not sure of the answer. “You know. The three hours of sitting still and listening. Plus I find some of the things hard to understand. It seems to me that the Bible doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense.” Which I’m sure is true. I look back up and I smile away the ashamed look I had put on my face. The big-boy grin gives her smile a new lease on life.

“I go to church every Sunday,” she says, reaching up and touching the crucifix.

“That’s good.”

“You’re welcome to come along. I promise it won’t be boring.”

I have no idea how she can promise something like that unless the priest is planning on breaking at least half the commandments. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do your parents go to church?”

“No.”

“It’s good that you have faith, Joe.”

“The world needs faith,” I say, and then Sally prattles on for five minutes, telling me things she has been able to learn from the Bible. I figure that to absorb all that Christian bullshit she must have forgotten other things along the way, which is why she’s so incredibly dim.

At the end of it all she asks me what I have planned for my weekend. I tell her I have lots of plans, like watching TV and sleeping. I’m worried she might suddenly suggest we do either one of those things together at her place.

But she lets me off the hook. “Have I ever told you about my brother?” she asks.

“No.”

“You remind me of him.”

Her brother must have been awesome, but I find it a little sick that she must have wanted to fuck him, too. “That’s nice,” I guess.

“Anyway, I wanted to let you know that if you ever wanted help with anything, or wanted to just do something, like talk or have coffee or something, well, I’m always available.”

I’m sure she is. “Thanks.”

She reaches into a pocket and pulls out a business card. Her phone number is written on it—she has that same cute, happy handwriting that normal women have. Seeing it there makes me realize she had this whole speech planned out. She hands it over. I turn the card over and see it’s one of Detective
Schroder’s cards. There’s also a coffee-colored ring stain on it—she’s recycled the card rather than stealing a new one.

“You ever need anything, Joe, I’m only a phone call away.”

“A phone call away,” I say, giving her my big-boy grin and tucking the number into my pocket while the back of my neck breaks out in goose bumps.

“Well, I guess I’d better get back to work,” she says.

“Me too,” I say, looking down at the vacuum cleaner.

She heads out of the room, closing the door behind her. I take her phone number out of my pocket and am about to tear it up, but she might come back through the door. Best to dispose of it after work. Maybe at home.

Four thirty rolls around. Time to stop working. It’s also Friday, so time to stop thinking. Putting in too many extra hours will only stress me out. A stressed cleaner is a sloppy cleaner. Therefore, when I climb off the bus near home, I decide not to continue investigating into the weekend. A stressed detective is a sloppy detective.

I will use this weekend to unwind. Try to enjoy myself. Spend some quality time with Joe. Perhaps watch my fish for a while. Perhaps visit Mom. Maybe read another romance novel. I walk up the stairs to my apartment, unlock the door, and push my way inside. A moment later I pull the folders from my briefcase. I’m telling myself not to open them up, not to start reading, but perhaps I’ll have a quick browse. . . .

No. Must. Not. Work.

I sit down on the sofa. Put down the files. Feed Pickle and Jehovah. While they’re eating, I check my answering machine. Mom hasn’t called. Odd.

I move back to the sofa and look at the files I don’t want to read. This must be how some cops become dedicated to solving a crime. Unfortunately, you only let yourself down, not for working so hard, but for working so hard and getting nowhere. You can’t stop working, because suddenly nothing else really matters anymore. You become obsessed.

I am at that point now. It’s like a need, I guess, or a craving. I’ve opened this investigation. I’m experiencing the exact reason for so many divorces in the police department. Unless I put the folder down right now, I’m going to end up spending my entire weekend sitting on my bed and reading. Working. Stressing. But it is a challenge. . . .

I walk over to the sink and splash cold water on my face. Do I want to be this dedicated? Who am I to spend my weekend solving a crime I’ve no real interest in?

Ah, and that’s the problem. I
am
interested. Have been for the entire week. How can I not be? Is this a product of my lack of a life? Must I solve a murder to enjoy myself?

And here’s the killer blow—I actually
am
enjoying myself. Sure, all along I’ve been enjoying narrowing down my suspects, but I’ve also enjoyed everything about the entire investigation. I like the espionage—the way I feel like James Bond, sneaking into Mr. and Mr. Gay’s house, darting into the cubicles and offices at the station. The long hours. The continuous mind drain. The logic and the reality. It’s all been a buzz.

The problems are the late nights. The dreams. Not waking on time in the mornings. The disrupted routine. But I don’t want my life to be a routine. After this, I might take on another case. The satisfaction of knowing I am better than anybody else at the police department satisfies my ego, but is that enough of a reason to keep doing this?

I think it just might be. Sometimes killing is all about ego, especially for other people, but I remain comfortable with the knowledge that I’m not like other killers. I know what I do is wrong, but I won’t attempt to justify it. I won’t say God or Satan made me do it. I won’t say they had it coming. Nor will I pretend an abusive childhood sent me spiraling onto this dirt road from the main highway of life. My childhood was normal, at least as normal as it could have been with my crazy mother. She never abused me, never neglected me—though
it would have been easier growing up if she had. The abuse would have given me a reason to hate her. The neglect would have given me a reason to love her.

If I could point to my childhood and choose one thing that made me the man I am today, it would be the exact opposite of neglect. It would be the constant talking, the constant explaining, the
always being there.
So no deep-seated reason why I grew up to enjoy killing people, no inner turmoil or conflicts or resentment at the world or at my parents. Neither of them was an alcoholic. Neither of them molested me. I never burned down the school, never set fire to the dog. I was a normal kid.

I turn away from the sink and look out my small window onto the city. It’s still gray out there. I run some more water over my face, then towel myself down.

Just how dedicated do I want to be?

Dedication is willpower. I squeeze my eyes shut. To work or not to work? That is the question.

The phone rings. It startles me and I look at it expecting to see it rattling on the hook. My first thought is Mom. Has something happened to her? I’m not sure what the statute of limitations on premonitions is, but the one I had yesterday morning must have expired by now. Mom’s okay. Mom’s always going to be okay. I snatch it up before the answering machine kicks in.

“Joe? Is that you?” she asks before I even get the chance to say anything.

“Mom?”

“Hello, Joe. This is your mother.”

“Mom . . . why . . . why are you ringing me?”

“What’s this? Do I need an excuse to ring my only child who I thought loved me?”

“I do love you, Mom.”

“You have an odd way of showing it,” she says.

“You know I love you, Mom,” I say, wanting to add that I
wish that for once she could say something positive toward or about me, because if she could it’d make loving her a whole lot easier to do.

“That’s great, Joe.”

“Thanks.”

“You misunderstand,” she says. “I’m being sarcastical.”

“Sarcastic.”

“What, Joe?”

“What?”

“What did you say?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“It sounded like something.”

“I think I have a bad line,” I tell her. “What were you saying?”

“I said I was being sarcastical. I’m saying that it’s great that you now think I’m only imagining you love me. Are you saying I’m supposed to assume that you love your mother? I don’t see how I can assume such a thing. You never visit me, and when I call, you complain! Sometimes I just don’t know what to do. Your father would be ashamed to see how you treat me, Joe. Ashamed!”

Part of me wants to cry. Another part wants to scream. I do neither. I sit down and let my head and chest sag down slightly. I wonder what life would be like if Mom had died instead of Dad. “I’m sorry,” I say, knowing I can only apologize rather than try to correct her way of thinking. “I promise to be better, Mom. I really do.”

“Really? That’s the Joe I know. The loving, caring son who I knew I could only have had. You truly can be an angel at times, Joe. You make me so proud.”

“Really?” I start to smile. “Thanks,” I say, praying she isn’t being
sarcastical
.

“I went to the doctor today,” she says, changing the subject—or more accurately, getting around to the reason she actually called.

The doctor? Oh Jesus. “What’s wrong?”

“I must have been sleepwalking last night, Joe. I woke up this morning with my bedroom door open, and I was lying on the floor.”

“The floor? Oh my God. Are you okay?”

“What do you think?”

“What did the doctor say?”

“He said I had an episode. Do you know what an episode is, Joe?”

I feel closer to crying than screaming. I think about Fay, Edgar, Karen, and Stewart from Mom’s favorite program. Yeah, I know what an episode is.

“What kind of episode?”

“Doctor Costello says it’s nothing to be worried about. He has given me some tablets.”

“What sort of tablets?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll tell you more when you come over. I’ll cook meatloaf. It’s your favorite, Joe.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Doctor Costello seems to think so. So what time will you be coming over?”

Suddenly I’m not so sure there was an episode. In fact I’m almost positive Mom is making all of this up to make me feel guilty. “Do you have to go for more tests?”

“No. Around six? Six thirty?”

“No tests? Why? What more are they going to do?”

“I have my pills.”

“I’m just worried, that’s all.”

“I’ll be better when you get here.”

I suck in a deep breath. Here we go. “I can’t come over, Mom. I’m kind of busy.”

“You’re always busy, no time to spend with your mother. I’m all you have, you know. All you have since your father died. Where will you be when I’m gone?”

In paradise. “I’ll come by on Monday, like normal.”

“I guess we’ll find out on Monday.” The line suddenly goes dead.

I stand back up and hang up the phone. Hearing it ring reminds me that I never called the vet back, but being reminded doesn’t make me want to do it now. I walk over to my battered sofa. I sit down and throw my feet up onto the scarred coffee table. In the silence of my room I can hear the pump circulating the water around in the fishbowl. I wonder what kind of peace I could find if I was a goldfish with a memory that spanned only the last five seconds of my mother’s conversation.

I look over at the folders containing the printouts of the four men left on my suspect list. If I start looking through them, I’ll at least stop thinking about my mother. Meatloaf on Monday. It’s a prelude to having her nagging me for not living there, for not having a life, for not owning a BMW. Will reading the files put her out of my mind?

I figure it’s worth a shot.

I pick them up and begin looking through them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Detective Harvey Taylor. Forty-three years old. Married. Four kids. Been on the police force for eighteen years. Became a detective in the burglary squad at the age of twenty-eight. Promoted to homicide at the age of thirty-four. Has been assigned to some of the biggest homicide cases New Zealand has ever seen. He’s a part of the team tracking the guy who left all the bodies in the cemetery lake—a guy the media are calling the Burial Killer. He’s a part of the team trying to track me too.

I’m reading through Taylor’s history, seeing he was a straight-A student at school. Several outstanding sporting achievements. High IQ. The type of guy I hated when I was at school. The type of guy I wanted to be.

Listed in the folder are results from his school days. Results from the Royal New Zealand Police College. Results from psychological tests. I look through the questions for
Have you ever strangled a woman to death after raping her?
but it’s not there. I figure he would have ticked
No.
Most of the questions are pretty lame.
What is your favorite color? What is your favorite
number? Would you steal if you were desperate? Have you ever smoked drugs? Ever killed a pet? Ever beaten anybody up at school? Ever been beaten up? Do you like setting fires?

The yes-or-no questions take up five pages before the tests move on to questions that require written answers instead of ticks in boxes.
What should we do with murderers? How did it feel being beaten up at school? What did you do about it?
Why this and why that. Big fucking deal this and big fucking deal that. They’re designed to make up a psychological profile. Something like “I was beaten up at school, but my favorite color is blue, which means I can’t be gay. Right?” Yeah, right.

I stop looking at the questions and go to the results. Taylor was basically rubber-stamped sane. No further explanation than that. The “insane” graduates become parking attendants.

I continue reading through his record from officer to detective: the arrests he’s made, the cases he’s solved. The guy has put in several of his own hours into these cases. You don’t get compensated for those hours, but you do gain some respect. They help you get promoted, so you can do even more work that you won’t get compensated for. The report indicates the man is dedicated, to his work and to his family. I don’t know what the balance is, but so far he still has both.