Toxic Love

Copyright © 2019 by Kristopher Triana

All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Don Noble

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This one is for Josh Doherty

May the Birdman’s wings never lose a feather

"While friends and lovers mourn your silly grave . . .

I have other uses for you, darling."—Alice Cooper

PROLOGUE

What can I say? I needed the money.

I mean, why else would someone decide to clean up human waste for a living? Wiping up blood, pus, and feces is a daily grind that would make most people lose their lunch. Some might even lose their minds. You could say that’s what happened to me, and you may be right, but when it all started it was just about paying the rent and putting beans on the TV tray.

I was forty-five years old. Starting a new job at that age is like teaching yourself another language while you’re lying in a hospice bed. There was barely an ounce of fat on my wiry frame from skipping meals in favor of whisky. My hair had gone completely gray. After twenty years in my own house with a loving family, I was now living in a crumbling apartment by myself. And as if all this wasn’t a big enough turd sandwich for me to choke down, I was unemployed too.

I couldn’t go back to a desk. I had no mind for it anymore. After everything that had happened, how could I possibly concentrate on spreadsheets and human resources? Where was the motivation in sacrificing forty hours a week of my life—which was now half over as it was—just to make some rich, greedy corporation even richer? And I certainly couldn’t do anything where I would have to engage with customers. I couldn’t iron on a smile any more than I could grow a foot out of the top of my head. There was a time when I was able to handle the masses, but that time was long over for me. Interacting with others on a daily basis was like drinking just a little less poison than would kill me. So customer service was out.

Mike Ashbrook—semi-retired from the fucking human race.

There weren’t a lot of options for a guy with no college degree. I had just barely survived high school. I was never any good at paying attention to what someone else wanted to teach me. I wanted to learn things on my own, when I was interested in them and ready to learn more. I was always bullheaded like that. It drove my parents nuts and then, when I got married, it drove Rachel nuts—too nuts, apparently. So I had to find work that didn’t require higher learning. The hours didn’t matter, so I looked into overnight jobs. Those often paid better because nobody wanted to go to work at three in the goddamn morning. I could have been a security guard, but most places wanted someone with a police or military background and I’d never even fired a gun in my whole life. There were courier jobs, but most required a CDL license. I was running out of options.

I was looking at janitor jobs when I saw the listing. Five days later, I was gainfully employed and wrists-deep in bloody human feces.

My life was starting to turn around.

PART ONE

NO GUTS, NO GLORY HOLE

CHAPTER ONE

There were skull fragments lodged in the wall.

When the guy had fired the shotgun into his mouth, he’d been lying in a twin bed with no headboard, leaving only a teddy bear between the top of his head and the wall. As I shifted the mattress the bear looked up at me with its button eyes, reminding me of my daughter Fay’s favorite stuffed animal. I wondered if she still played with it or if she was getting too old for that sort of thing. It was the sort of thing a father should know.

I tossed the bear into the red bag with HAZMAT written on it.

I walked to the tool kit on the edge of the tarp and dug in for the needle-nose pliers. I’d only been wearing my full Tyvek suit for half an hour and already I was drenched in sweat, my body heat having no way to escape in the tightly-sealed contamination gear. Even through the gas mask—which was designed to clean the air you’re breathing—the smell of death was thick as tar, as putrid as it was pungent.

Unattended deaths were always the worst. That’s what we call any crime scene where the body isn’t discovered until long after the victim died, giving it plenty of time to swell and stink, to rot and bubble and turn into a mush that smelled worse than a landfill of moldy yams, dog shit and sulfur water. It was the odor that finally got this poor bastard found, the neighbors complaining until the landlord made a visit and found his tenant had removed his own face with a Remington. Going that long without being discovered probably meant the guy lived alone, but I wouldn’t know. That was more information than I needed. Knowing the victim was the police’s job, not mine. I was just there to clean up the leftovers. The way I saw it, the less I knew about the human being the chunks had come from, the easier it would be for me to wipe it all up, to bleach it—and them—out of existence.

I grabbed the pliers and returned to the wall. I’d already removed the dried flesh, blood, and bits of brain matter on the surface. Now it was time to dig into the drywall itself. Every crevice where human waste could have entered had to be thoroughly cleaned, and when I say thoroughly, I mean it to the full extent of the word. Human remains are hazardous waste. Even though I always wore my suit, boots, gloves and mask, I received regular hepatitis and HIV tests, making sure I hadn’t been infected by any blood-borne pathogens. This wasn’t a fucking maid service. I was decontaminating toxic shitholes, places where nightmares had come to life and left bloody skid marks in their wake. You’ve got to be meticulous.

A large piece of skull—about the size of a silver dollar—came free from the wall. Then I went to work on the smaller, more time-consuming bits. From the looks of the spray, and the fact that I was alone on this particular job, it was going to take a while. Even though it was only six in the morning—a very reasonable hour for a crime scene cleaner—Ryker said he couldn’t get anyone else to come out. When I had asked the boss why Jericho or Shawn couldn’t help, he told me they weren’t with the company anymore.

I canned Jericho ‘cause he didn’t pass his drug test, Ryker said, probably unaware he was breaking employer rules when it came to confidentiality, something I knew a lot about from my old job. I knew that fuck was high last weekend, giggling his ass off while we were cleaning up that double murder over on Oak. And Shawn up and quit after that same job. I think the old lady’s intestines were what put him over the edge.

I groaned. Christ, man. That’s the third and fourth ones we’ve lost in, what, two months?

Come on, Ashbrook, Ryker said, clearing his throat. You’ve been in the game long enough to know the turnover rate.

Sure I did, but this was getting ridiculous. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed working alone, but I’d been putting in long hours as it was because we’d been short-staffed. Now we were down to skin and bones, if you’ll forgive the pun, and the long, grueling shifts were making a hard job harder. It was difficult enough just keeping the hours of a crime scene cleaner. You’re on call twenty-four seven. It’s not like gruesome crimes are committed on a set schedule. And people want to get these messes cleared away as soon as possible. You can’t make an appointment for a future date with a grieving family to wash away the runoff of their daughter’s suicide from the bathroom tile. If you want to get paid, you have to take every job you’re called for, whenever they come. So I was making good money, but was paying for it in other ways.

I dug deeper into the wall, expunging another russet-colored shard of bone. Sweat boiled in my crotch and armpits, and my lower back was tight from having passed out in my recliner the night before.

It was going to be a long day.

***

I’ve got a few interviews set up, Ryker said.

The tall, lanky man was in his late fifties but looked withered beyond his years. His clothes were too big for him and there were permanent bags under his eyes. My boss reminded me of a scarecrow. He had a full head of hair but must have used the same stylist as Bernie Sanders. It was never combed. All about him was a pharmaceutical odor—vitamins, mothballs, nasal spray. His feet were up on his desk, giving me a good look at the dirty waffles of his sneakers.

Should have somebody hired by the end of the week, he said. I’ll bring ’em on soon as I can.

Shit, Harry, that’s the problem. You can’t just hire the next person who walks in the door. You’ve got to be more selective or we’re just going to keep having these duds.

Harry picked up the orange on his desk. It looked a little past its prime but he began peeling it with a long fingernail anyway. Listen, bud. This isn’t as easy as you think. It doesn’t matter what a person’s work history is like. Everyone reacts differently to their first day cleaning up after corpses. Most people have a very negative reaction. That’s why so many of ‘em don’t last.

Yeah, I get that, but—

No, no, he said, flicking a piece of rind. "You don’t get it. You’re one of those rare individuals who doesn’t puke at the sight of the stuff. I’ve been hiring people for this work for ten years and I can tell you, that’s a rare trait. He pulled a segment of the orange free, juice trickling down a thumb with a black nail. So when I get an applicant, as long as they pass a background check and can tell me what year it is and who’s president, I’m gonna give ‘em a shot."

The chair squealed as I leaned back. Rented out of a five-story eyesore, the office was between a lawyer who specialized in unemployment hearings and a three-hundred pound massage therapist. Sometimes the sound of relaxing wind chime music could be heard through the walls. Today it was soft piano and thunderstorm sounds. It made me think of summer afternoons camping with my family, the leaves rustling in the breeze as deer drank from brooks. Ryker ruined the ambience by slurping down an orange slice and sucking his fingers.

So hang in there, he said, talking with his mouth full. I know it’s brutal flying solo, but it won’t last much longer.

And it didn’t.

On Monday morning he texted me, saying there was a newbie who’d just finished the safety class the company gave before putting workers in the field. There is no special certification required to do crime scene cleanup, even though the tools of the trade are extremely strong chemicals (solvents far more potent than your average bottle of 409) and the work environment is basically the inside of a human body. After the training video, the new hire was expected to be ready as soon as there was a job. That’s when I got to show them the sticky ropes.

Figuring this would be just another temporary drone, I didn’t bother asking Ryker anything about the newbie. I just told him to make sure he tacked on my extra three dollars an hour for training them in the field. I was positive they were going to be another dead-end loser, another dope who would take one look at a blood-soaked carpet and turn in their time card.

Boy, was I wrong.

***

Hi, I’m Sage.

The young woman stuck out her hand for me to shake. She was slender, toned and well under thirty. Her face was smooth with youth, eyes bright as Skittles, and blonde hair past her shoulders. She wore a raglan shirt with a distressed logo: Vermont is Beautiful.

I blinked a few times and shook her hand. I’d been expecting another shiftless stoner like Jericho or a washed-up former retail worker like Shawn, not a gorgeous blonde who appeared fresh out of college. She looked like she should be selling lingerie, not filling up blood buckets. It was a sexist thought, but I hadn’t felt the touch of a woman for months and was getting a little one-track-minded. It took some effort to keep my eyes off her chest and hips.

We were at an apartment in a low-income-housing complex in the former industrial area, a riverside valley with old plants and factories that had long ago closed down. It took me less than an hour to drive there in my van. Zero traffic on Sundays, especially at two-thirty in the morning. Sage had arrived before me and was waiting for instruction outside the complex.

Mike Ashbrook, I said, shaking her hand, hoping my mouth wasn’t too agape. I felt light in the chest, my words turning to ash in my mouth. Welcome to the team.

I instantly hated myself for the way I sounded, like some corporate-stooge-toolbag-dickbrain with no soul. I’d always hated it when someone called employees team members. It wasn’t soccer, for Christ’s sake; it was a job.

I’m excited to start my first day. She beamed.

This wasn’t just your typical new-job enthusiasm. Sage looked thrilled. Her eyes were large and sparkling, lips wet as she sucked in the bottom one. She was bobbing at the knees, sneakers scuffling on the sidewalk as the police photographer came out of the apartment, his face like an avocado—green and ugly. This site was farm fresh, as Ryker liked to say. The police department was just now wrapping up, and already the property manager had called in a cleanup crew. He must’ve been used to this kind of thing. You’d be surprised the kinds of things a person can get used to, believe me.

Lieutenant George Hallahan came down the front steps, hands in his trench coat pockets, silver hair slicked back. His brow was taut with consternation. He looked at me and nodded—we’d seen a lot of each other these past few months—and then he looked at Sage. She was probably the same age as his kids. He turned to me and pulled a Camel from the pack in his coat pocket.

You’ve got your work cut out for you today, Ashbrook.

I sighed. That bad, huh?

And then some. He took a puff and eyed Sage. You must be new.

Uh-huh, she said, smiling like a bubblegum ad.

You can always tell. The enthusiasm is a dead giveaway.

Sage looked away, self-conscious. She held her hands together in front of her.

I’m showing her the ropes, I told Hallahan.

You’re showing her more than that today. What we’ve got here is an apparent murder-suicide, a man who slaughtered his wife and children.

God, I hated when he told me the details. Beside me, Sage watched the evergreens as they shuffled in the wind of late fall. She seemed unfazed.

We’ll take care of it, I said.

Hallahan nodded. Best of luck to you.

He wasn’t being sarcastic. Like most people on the force, he respected the important service I provided. Today he seemed particularly somber, given the nature of these killings, and he was hinting at a real mess inside, something he did