The Dead Janitors Club Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  about the author

  Copyright © 2010 by Jeff Klima

  Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by William Riley/Sourcebooks

  Cover photos © Fly_Fast/istockphoto.com, AndrewWilliam/istockphoto.com, jupiterimages

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems— except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information in regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional service. If legal advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought.—From a Declaration of Principles Jointly Adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Klima, Jeff.

  The dead janitors club : pathetically true tales of a crime scene cleanup king / by Jeff

  Klima.

  p. cm.

  1. Crimes--California--Orange County. 2. Crime scenes--California--Orange County. 3. Orange County Crime Scene Cleaners (Firm) I. Title. HV6533.C2.K55 2010 338.7'6136325--dc22

  2010001458

  For my boss…

  He pushed me to write this book—

  Now I bet he's sorry I did.

  Also, for Happy.

  All of what follows is true, but my apologies if my memory of chronology or events differs slightly from your own. It mostly shouldn't, though, unless you're a liar.

  Maybe something good can come out of all this evil?

  CHAPTER 1

  from wine to spine

  Man has to suffer. When he has no real afflictions, he invents some. —José Martí

  I walk into the lobby of a shockingly splendid hotel, and the wheel on the cash register in my mind is clicking audibly upward. I anticipate leaving this place a few thousand dollars richer than when I walked in. So many factors are at play here; I am chomping at the bit, trying to discern them all.

  French doors gilded with a gold overlay breeze open effortlessly before me, working off unseen sensors and a pneumatic arm. Caucasian employees stare pleasantly at me from behind the counter. From a financial standpoint, this is a good thing.

  White people are terrified of death. An overabundance of detachment and safety in our culture has resulted in "whitey" becoming a benign collective of soft-shelled whiners, people who understand pain only in terms of there not being three-ply toilet paper on sale at the supermarket closest to their condo.

  Ethnic folks are confronted by death more frequently than white people, and that numbed acceptance of it can mean a lot less money for a guy in my line of work.

  I stroll around a polite setup of stain-free and richly upholstered dark couches arranged around a coffee table holding stacks of newspapers from various regions of the world. The smell of breakfast fills the lobby. Whether it's pumped in or they have a café tucked somewhere, it still means that they give a damn about their multisensory first impression, and that is good news for me.

  I set my clipboard on the counter and straighten my black polo shirt so that the biohazard symbol is smartly on display.

  "Hello, sir. How can I help you?" the attractive, brunette counter girl asks. The orange script practically glows off my chest, screaming out what I do, but her eyes never waver from mine, not once. She's been trained well.

  "I'm looking for Gary," I say.

  "Right away, sir." She picks up her walkie-talkie, blocking out her mouth, but I can discern the same clipped and effortlessly polite tone with which she addressed me.

  I feel good…important…larger than life, and regret not parking beneath the valet awning, right in the middle of the lane, my car torqued at a hard angle to create an impasse, letting everyone know the Crime Scene Cleaner is here. It is the sort of dick move that I typically do these days—carefree, powerful me.

  What stopped me on this occasion was that my car had the misfortune to be parked the previous night under some sort of avian toilet. A ridiculous amount of white bird shit, speckled with the green remnants of devoured insects, gave my red car a rather polka-dotted appearance.

  I pick up my clipboard and step over to the coffee table to scan headlines from the news of the world, hopeful that the Orange County Register will scream about mass death and murder in its banner headline. But probably not, because I would have already known about it.

  Gary appears from behind me, looking dapper but terribly ethnic, which yanks several thousand dollars off what I was hoping to make the price tag. I curse silently behind a confident and winning smile.

  "Hi, Jeff Klima from Orange County Crime Scene Cleaners," I say, extending my hand and speaking first to inform him that I am the alpha male.

  "Hi," he says, a bit puzzled, and I suddenly hope I am in the right place.

  He introduces himself and looks around ashamed, as if I were a homeless urchin who had obstinately wandered into the ornate lobby and began snacking on the odds and ends in a trash receptacle.

  "I understand you have some sort of scene…" I query further, losing some of my swagger, and I can't help but note how two years on the job suddenly doesn't feel like that much experience at all. Shit, I might as well have acne and a pubescent hard-on, considering the detectable quiver in my voice. It shocks me how quickly my overwhelming shyness can come roaring back to capsize my confidence.

  He politely shushes me with one raised hand, vibrating softly, panicked. I understand completely but say, "A suicide, maybe?" a bit loudly, as if I didn't, comfortably reestablishing my authority. The same trembling hand waves me out of the lobby and away from the guests checking in, who can undeniably read my shirt.

  We step out into the courtyard, a lush open-air affair, where hotel workers are scrambling to set up for some speaking engagement to take place a little later in the day. None of them make eye contact with me; they've been well trained. We wait in silence for a short eternity, though I'm eager to persist, having had to wake up well before noon to ready myself for this gig.

  Another man, also ethnic (and more money off the bill), joins us. I don't remember his name, so we'll call him Osama. He is better dressed than Gary, and I clue in to his seniority when Gary quickly moves aside, his eyes slightly downcast. I introduce myself to this man as well, comfortably meeting his gaze through his executive eyeglasses. This guy may be a fearsome bo
ss to the minimum-wage herd working here, but to me he's just another jerk who needs my skills. It further empowers me.

  Osama shepherds Gary and myself quickly along manicured stone pathways past doors with placards that refer to the rooms beyond the doors as "suites." This is usually good news for me. This place, in its self-congratulatory way, considers itself a "nicer" establishment. I bet I can get some good money out of them after all.

  The elevator is farther away from the lobby than I would like, though, which is a glaring indication that this is an older hotel with fresh polish—not a good sign. It was built when places put less consideration into guest needs, and more into overall aesthetics and intent. Old hotel casinos do this, making guests walk through the main casino floor en route to their rooms, hoping the whirling lights and cheerful pings of jackpots being wheedled out will entice the guests into making a long detour at their expense.

  Stepping into the elevator further confirms my suspicions. The elevator, with its glass paneling staring out into the courtyard, has threadbare and nappy carpeting that would be completely verboten anywhere near the entrance or lobby. The elevator buttons, once a trickle of elite white circles, have faded to a stale version of their past glory. The elevator buttons run from top to bottom, though, with the higher floors listed at the top, convincing me that the hotel started off as a glitzy, hip place some time ago.

  We head for the third floor, the elevator doors closing around us like a tomb. I tap "Another One Bites the Dust" on my clipboard with my fingers as the elevator chugs upward, its pneumatic lift struggling far more than its brothers operating the front doors. Nobody speaks and nobody looks at each other, which is fine with me.

  The elevator halts with a lurch, and the doors swing open to reveal a maid's cart jutting obstinately across the pathway, completely oblivious to would-be passersby. The fat cats share a collective acknowledgment over this, and I develop the melancholy opinion that this year some woman's kids aren't going to have much of a…however you say "Christmas" in Spanish.

  The doors here, each similarly designated as suites, belie the fact that this hotel has no real suites, only standard rooms. It's one of those places that refer to every room as a "suite." This hotel lures guests in, rather like insects to a bug zapper, by using an alluring lobby complete with an English-speaking counter staff to make tourists feel comfortable—like they are going to have a high-dollar hotel experience.

  Once guests check in and take the walk to their "suite," however, they realize they've gotten the bum's rush, and similarly, so have I. This job practically feels now like I will be doing it for free.

  We step to a door conveniently located a short distance from the elevator, good for me on the likely chance that I will have to move a stain-mottled bed, flush with leaking guts and malodorous chunks, through the hallway. Few things are a bigger pain in the ass to a crime scene cleaner than a crime scene on the upper floors of a multiplestory establishment.

  I wait apprehensively for one of the two suits to open the door, but nothing happens. Glancing right to left, I suddenly feel like it's all a trick and I've been led here to be whacked, Mafia-style. (Since I dropped acid in college, my mind occasionally leaps to these extremes.)

  "We wait," Osama says mysteriously. I step over to the railing, wondering if there is anyone around who will hear the gunshots and react appropriately, but there probably isn't. My jaded experience over the past couple of years has taught me that precious few people react appropriately to the sound of gunshots anyway.

  "Did a man kill himself in there?" I ask, adopting a slight personto-an-affected-child voice.

  "Please, we must wait," Osama maintains, and I look to Gary for some semblance of understanding. He is deathly silent and subservient to his master; he, too, has been well trained.

  The doors to all the rooms face inward, open to the courtyard air, and it is warming up quickly. It will be a hot day, and I pray the job will be over quickly. Working in a protective biohazard suit normally makes all the sweat from my body collect and slosh uncomfortably around me. In the July heat, though, it makes the sweat stink. I need the money, because summers in the crime scene business are always slow, but craving even more than that, I need a few extra hours of sleep. I think I'm still drunk from a party the night before.

  The clip-clop of quickly approaching executive shoes drums out the nearby freeway sounds and I look up. A third man, dressed better still than Gary and Osama, has arrived and has an assistant in tow, showcasing his importance beyond what a mere suit could achieve. Real power players have assistants, you see. Not that I care. I'm done introducing myself. Now I only want answers, not new friends to add to my Facebook account.

  The top cat apologizes briefly and instructs Osama to unlock the door. His assistant steps forward nervously, holding a small handful of painter's protective breathing masks, but the master waves him back. The top cat then simply states that they will be downstairs when I am through and stands by the open door to let me pass, which is definitely a good sign for my pocketbook. He doesn't want to see anything more than a bill.

  I step past him into the room, not waiting for the others to join me. They don't. The room, which is more opulent than I had anticipated, stifles the clip-clop of executive shoes moving away from the door in unison.

  Decorated to allow for the matched prestige of the lobby, the suite is three rooms—a living room, a bathroom, and, down a slight hallway, a bedroom. I check first for the presence of a minibar that I could get into trouble with, but finding none, I plunge down the hallway toward the bedroom.

  The place doesn't have the rank odor of death attached to it, which is nice but mostly expected. Unlike homes or apartments, which can be left unchecked for months in the right circumstances, hotels have a quick drop-to-flop ratio (that is, from the time the bodies drop to the time the maid comes in to flop out the bedding and the towels and then cross herself while jabbering hysterically at the sight of some ruined and eviscerated ex-human).

  I check the bathroom en route to the bedroom. The bathroom is immaculate, much to my dual relief and concern. Concern because the tiled multi-surfaces of the bathroom are generally conducive to easy cleaning. Relief at the overall cleanliness of the bathroom, however, because I indulged in a meal of Jack in the Box late the night before, and it is beginning to push its way out. Few things are more of a bummer than having to take a dump amid the unsanitary and potentially disease-riddled innards of some jilted, joyless corpse.

  Walking into the bedroom, I can scarcely contain my glee for the moments it takes to complete my survey of the room. It is clean, save for the bed, which is a king-size wreck of tangled sheets, dark-red blood (which means the unlucky fucker bled through), and one very, very soiled remote control. Finally I can laugh, exhaling a great torrent of cheery exclamations, doubtlessly heard through paper-thin walls.

  It is a dream scene. This wrecked life, its remnants spread gashed before me on the large bed, in its temerity was probably too miserable to run screaming through the room splaying its hacked-at wrists outward, polluting the walls with its cherry-red essence. No, whoever it was stayed perfectly still, mummylike in the center of the bed, bleeding slowly out into the night, the linens catching the life that he or she let slip away.

  I even flip the mattress upward, as experience has taught me, smiling broadly when I ascertain that nothing has even leaked down to the box spring. Sometimes when people rot, their guts collect inside the mattress, and when you go to move the damn thing, all their guts go splashing out onto the flooring. But that isn't the case here.

  So as I wrap up my inspection and get ready to start cleaning, I'm feeling pretty good about this one. It's a simple job that will net me five hundred or so dollars for less than an hour of work. I bet they even have HBO on the living room TV that I can kill time with so these sharply dressed ethnic men will feel as if they have gotten their money's worth. Too bad about the lack of a minibar, though.

  * * *

  Of
course, I wasn't always this way—this racist, uncompassionate whelp who sees dead bodies as dollar signs and trauma as a means to a fancy dinner out with my girlfriend. No, I wasn't always like this. I used to be unhappy.

  Picture yourself standing in a line at a retail store. It's a long line, and the clerk has to wrap and bag every item of the customer several people ahead of you. You grow irritated because the store hasn't bothered to open any other checkout counters, even though there are three people ahead of you and two people behind you.

  All the customers are equally displeased, as they all have many places to go and this particular clerk seems to be taking forever. It has easily been six minutes since you got in line to check out, and you need the items that are in your cart, so you can't just step out and refuse any further patronage of said nameless store. You're also tired from having to navigate your SUV all over town and deal with traffic and other hazards of shopping. You just wish the clerk would hurry up.