The Cleaner (24 page)

I stare up at the ceiling. It is sagging slightly in the middle. I try talking to my doctor, but I’m not really sure what I’m saying. Is this all a dream? Am I operating on myself?

I don’t know how much time passes, but when I look up again, the doctor is gone. I am all alone, just as my testicle is now all alone. I start to reach down my body, but then think better of it. I’m too scared to see what the damage could be. I close my eyes. Open them again. The doctor is in. I close them. The doctor is out.

What is happening to me?

Am I dying?

I stare at the ceiling and hope that I am.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Sally sits on the couch and stares at the goldfish bowl. When she reaches out and sprinkles in some food, the two fish inside quickly head toward the surface and begin eating.

The surgery, if she can call it that, has gone well. She suspects the chances of infection are slim. She has neatly removed the damage done by the pliers, and used dissolvable stitches internally and normal stitches externally. Of course only time will tell. Now that she’s finished, she’s hung the crucifix back around her neck.

She had figured Joe needed it more during that time.

She’s decided that as much as she wants to call the police, she won’t do it. She wants Joe to be healed professionally, and she wants the people who did this to be caught and convicted, but she’ll wait until she can discuss it with him. There isn’t room out on the streets for people who can commit such an evil act. She thinks about the Christchurch Carver, about the hell he’s been putting women through. It’s true that the devil can walk among us.

Joe’s life is different enough, and she doesn’t blame him for not wanting to be the mentally challenged man who was deprived of his money and his dignity. She respects Joe’s right to not be known as the man who has lost a testicle. When he is capable, when he is fully aware, she will help him understand that the right path will be to involve others who can help him.

She thinks about the scars on his chest. What sort of life has he had? Who abused him? Is this why he never speaks of his parents?

Joe is unconscious, so she rolls him onto one side, then the other, maneuvering the bloody sheets from beneath him. She wraps the pieces of flesh she has cut away in the plastic sheet and places it in a plastic bag, then throws the bedsheets, jeans, underwear, and shirt into the washing machine and sets the cycle going. She finds a second plastic shopping bag and begins filling it with all the rubbish from the surgery. She wraps the scalpel blade securely to ensure it can never hurt anybody. She takes off her latex gloves and drops them in the bag too.

She puts on another pair, then starts tidying and cleaning the apartment. The dishes piled up in the sink haven’t even been rinsed. The food stains on the countertop match the food stains on the table. When she finds a vacuum cleaner, she decides to run it briefly over the floors. None of the noises wake Joe. When the washing machine is finished, she bundles the items into the dryer and sets it going. The paperbacks on the couch are all romance novels. Martin never read anything like this; he only ever read comic books. She finds it odd at first, but encouraging that Joe would read something with more of a story. As she picks up the folders next to the books, the contents of one spill.

“What are you doing, Joe?” she whispers to herself. She recognizes the photograph of one of the dead women. She scoops them up, flicks through them, then puts them back into the folder before moving on to the next. Joe has the complete
set—the Christchurch Carver’s victims. He also has information on the detectives investigating the case. She looks through them, trying to figure out why Joe would have these here. Does he know the women in these pictures are dead?

Joe wouldn’t bring these things home unless there was a good reason, and she’s sure he wouldn’t be doing it for money. Either somebody’s threatening him, or he’s got them for himself. But why? Does it have something to do with his attack?

When she looks over at Joe, she sees another folder, this one on the small bedside table. It’s a psychological profile of the Christchurch Carver. No way in the world could Joe possibly understand any of this. So why have it? And why have it next to his bed, as if he had recently been reading it? Outside, the streetlights have come on. The road is empty except for a few parked cars and for the first time it’s starting to feel like autumn. She closes the window.

She empties the bucket in the sink and rinses it out, then fills it a quarter of the way with water and sets it next to Joe’s bed. She imagines he’ll use it to urinate into—he won’t be able to walk for a few days. She checks the dressing on his wound. No signs of blood. When the dryer stops its cycle, she pulls out the sheets, rolls Joe to one side, then the other, tugging one sheet beneath him. She tucks the second sheet over him, but it’s still too warm in here for a blanket. His briefcase, which is heavier than she thought, she puts within reach of his bed in case he needs it. She spends a few seconds thinking that she should open it, that perhaps there are answers in there, then decides against it. Joe trusted she would come and help him, not to go through his belongings.

She checks that everything is tidied away, picks up his keys, her first-aid kit, and heads back out to her car.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Sunday. Not in the morning, or even in the afternoon, but late in the evening. I have slept for over a day. My internal clock tells me nothing. I am somewhere between hell and the torment of life. I pass in and out of consciousness, hardly aware of the fact that I am even alive. I look at my alarm clock. It’s nine forty.

When I toss aside the blankets I’m relieved to see little in the way of blood. A white dressing around my crotch has been methodically applied. It is mostly dry. I try to focus on what happened after I managed to get home yesterday morning, but come up with nothing except a headache.

I have nothing to get up for. My fish need feeding. But my fish can wait. I don’t know how long they can survive without food, but we all might be finding out. The bucket, which looks relatively clean considering I’ve filled it with water and antiseptic, I now piss into. My urine stings and comes in short spurts. When I finish, my room smells worse than normal.

I close my eyes. I can see a woman standing over me with a
mask over her face and a scalpel in her hand. She shimmers, the mask disappears, the scalpel becomes a pair of pliers, my bedroom ceiling becomes a purple sky with dying stars, and the stranger becomes Melissa. Melissa did this to me. Melissa ripped away my testicle.

And it was Melissa who came to help me. Had to have been.

“Goddamn her,” I say, opening my eyes. I pull the covers over my body and lean back into the pillow. I need rest, but I’m not tired. I need to think about something other than Melissa, if only for a few minutes. I reach out to my bedside table and grab the folder.

A loner. Caucasian, as crimes like these seldom cross racial lines and all the women are white. Early thirties. Killings are all at night, suggesting he has a job, but it will be something menial. He feels the job is beneath him, that he is far too good for what he is doing. He lives with a woman who is domineering, perhaps a mother or an aunt.

I remember Melissa asking me about the domineering mother figure. She believes the same bullshit as whoever wrote this.

He does not have the ability to stand up to this woman and, through transference, he gets back at her by killing different women. It is not the sex he wants, but the domineering power. He uses sex as a weapon. It is highly probable he has a previous police record. Peeping and peering—voyeurism—would be a good guess. Burglary just as likely.

The report goes on to say that I don’t have a multiple personality, and that I’m not insane, which means they got at least something right.

If there are constant compulsions for him to rape and kill, then these are not consistent with the times he has committed the acts. Mostly there have been gaps of a month between the deaths. This could be because he has been picked up on other, unrelated charges. Other times there is a gap of only a week. The fact that his victims cooperate suggests he threatens them with a weapon, and since none of the victims has been killed while her husband or partner was home, it is reasonable to assume he is unwilling to risk an encounter with another male.

He shows a lack of organization, using items from the scene to bind the woman rather than bringing items of his own. His sexual nature is becoming more perverse as he continues his attacks. He plans his attacks perhaps weeks before committing them. The covering of victims’ faces and the turning down of photographs show he likes to depersonalize them. He covers their faces before he kills them to fantasize that he is killing somebody else, the dominant woman in his life, rather than covering them afterward out of any feelings of guilt. He keeps items as trophies, underwear and jewelry from the scenes, perhaps to relive the moments. He has sociopathic tendencies, he has no conscience, and he does not see his victims as real people.

Grave sites should be kept under surveillance as he may show up, not out of remorse, but to relive the crime. He may call the police to offer help, to offer a witness statement, all to learn where the investigation is at. He may try to hang around police bars, may try talking about the case with them to learn what he can. . . .

The report goes on. It mentions that rape is a violent crime where sex is the weapon. Mentions that sex is used for power
and control, that it’s used to dominate. Are they right about why I covered their faces? Was I depersonalizing them, or pretending they were somebody else? I’m not sure. They’re right about the graves, though. I did consider going there, but luckily I found out that they were under surveillance before I ever tried.

When I was in my late teens, I used to lie in bed at night and think about my neighbors. I used to wonder what they were doing at that exact moment. Were they thinking of me? I used to imagine moving from house to house under the darkness of night, taking what I wanted from them, doing what I wanted to anybody. Back then the fantasy was in getting away with it—not the killing, but the succeeding. Back then I always believed that I could commit the perfect crime. These days the fantasy has become reality. And that’s what the profile is missing.

I turn off the light and close my eyes. I’m tired, but the soreness keeps me awake. I get up to four before deciding that counting sheep is one stupid idea.

I don’t know how it happens, but the next thing I know I’m waking up in the morning, my alarm clock helping me to escape from another nightmare. I dreamed of Melissa and her pliers. Each time I screamed for her to stop, but nothing would stop her.

I call work. No, I’m not sick, but my mother is. Yes, it’s sad. Yes, I’ll give her their best. Yes, I’ll let them know how she is. Yes, I’ll take as long as needed to make sure she is going to be okay. Yes, yes, fucking yes. It hurts to talk, and I feel like my nuts have been run over by a train. I use my bucket to urinate.

I’m tempted to get up for a glass of water, but the temptation loses out to my reluctance to produce more pain than I can handle. Instead I remain thirsty until I finally fall back to sleep. When I awake I’m covered in sweat. My sheets are
wet, my face sticky. I’m so thirsty I ball up the sheets and try sucking the sweat out of them. When I can’t find enough moisture, I glance at my bucket of urine, but it isn’t something I can resort to.

I stagger to my feet and hobble away from the bed to grace the sink with my presence. I throw up into it before filling a glass of water and knocking it back. Fill it back up. Wash out the sink. Then I throw up again. The kitchen counter is tidy. I can’t remember doing it. In fact the entire apartment looks like I’ve cleaned it. Just what in the hell have I been doing while I’ve been passed out?

In the process of half shuffling and half dragging my feet toward the sofa, I trip and pain explodes through my groin as I hit the floor. The world disappears, and when I come to, I’m in bed. A glass of water with flecks of ice in it rests on my bedside table, alongside a bottle of pills without a label. Several hours have passed. Maybe even an entire day.

I take out one of the pills. It has to be some sort of antibiotic. I swallow it down with some water. I close my eyes. I don’t even know what’s real anymore.

I get out of bed, lean against the sofa, and sprinkle some fish food into the bowl. I don’t hang around to watch them eat. I look around. My clothes have been washed and folded. The sheets have very little blood on them. I look down at the dressing around my wound. There seems to be less blood there than yesterday. Did Melissa change the dressing when she helped me back into bed? Or did I change the dressing when I helped myself back there? Jesus, what’s wrong with me? I pass out the moment I touch the bed.

When I wake up, I pick up the phone and dial the number.

“Joe? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Mom. Listen, I can’t come over for dinner tonight.”

It’s an effort to talk, but I do my best to sound as normal as a guy who only has one functioning testicle can.

“I have meatloaf, Joe. You love meatloaf.”

“Right.”

“I don’t mind cooking you meatloaf. You enjoy it, don’t you?”

“Sure, Mom, but—”

“Your father never enjoyed my meatloaf. Said it tasted like rubber-soled shoes.”

“Mom—”

“Because if you don’t like it, all you have to do is say.”

What in the hell is she going on about? Christ. “Listen, Mom, I can’t come around. I’m tied up with work.”

“How can you be tied up with work? You sell cars. Listen, Joe, I can make something else if you like. How about I make spaghetti Bolognese?”

At first I’m not sure what she’s getting at, that she must be talking about my cousin, but then I remember that for the last few years I’ve been telling her that I sell cars. I find I’m gripping the phone. Hard. “I can’t come around, Mom.”

“Seven o’clock then?”

“I can’t come around.”

“Supermarket has chicken on special. Do you think I should buy some?”