realize he meant before the shotgun blast.
"It's a bad time, I realize, what with it being so recent," Dirk said, "but it's important that we start tonight to make sure that the stains will come out."
"I understand."
"The cost for us to clean all this up is $750, because we're going to have to take the carpeting and the recliner and the table and everything on the table near her, if that's okay…"
"Probably also the picture," I said softly in my most sincere voice, not quite sure about the correct way to extract money and justify the cost to the grieving.
"I can't pay that."
"We can work with the price…"
"No, no, no," Martin said, his lips and face tightening to reveal a momentarily stiffer, more youthful man, a military man with wellhoned reserve. "Look, I'm sorry to call you out here. I know you drove a long way. Just forget it; I'll clean it up myself. I was a pilot; I've seen this stuff before."
My first crime scene wasn't going to be an old-lady suicide.
"Is it the price?" Dirk persisted.
There was a knock at the door behind us, and another old man walked in, this one a few years younger and with a lot more hair. Walking into the dining room, he put his arm around Martin. I turned to go back into the living room, feeling more comfortable with the blood and guts than I did with the human emotion.
"This is my neighbor, Fred," I could hear Martin announce from the next room. The rest of the house was clean but not sterile. It had a lived-in look that suggested that the folks who resided here had done so a long time. It was dark and the air smelled musty, like a comfortable cave.
Portraits of the couple hung on the opposite wall. I couldn't discern their features, but I recognized Martin's vague outline in them. There were also several metal placards advertising beer companies of which I had never heard. These accumulations of a full life lived made me feel a little better about the old lady's actions. If I had spent my life collecting as many metal beer signs as she had, I'd probably kill myself too.
I walked outside to suck in some night air and leaned up against the truck, not sure how to respond. I felt terrible that we were taking the old guy's money, but I was going to feel a hell of a lot worse if we had driven all the way out here only to stare at the scattered meat chunks of some old lady's face and not get paid, especially when I was undoubtedly worse off financially than the old coot. It no longer felt like this job was a divine mission from God to fill my bank account— hell, I couldn't decide if I believed in God at all anymore.
Dirk came walking out to me, nonplussed.
"We're going to do it," he said, emotionless.
"Yeah?"
"Martin's in shock. His neighbor convinced him to do it. But we're doing it for $435. I dropped the price because we're going to leave the carpet."
"Can we leave the carpet? Isn't that counterproductive to the whole crime scene cleaner philosophy?"
"No. We don't clean it if they won't pay for it." He grabbed his crate. "Let's suit up." I guessed I could believe in God for a little while longer.
* * *
The Tyvek suit—or "bunny suit," as we called them—was incredibly hot even in the cold air of Riverside. Stepping into the house covered up to my neck in a protective biohazard suit was like turning on a hair dryer in a pup tent. Sure the blood couldn't get in, but the sweat couldn't get out. Now I knew how the scientists who killed E.T. felt.
"Where do we start?" asked Dirk, suddenly nervous about things, which made me scared as well.
"I guess the recliner," I said, figuring that once it was out of there, the major part of the mess would be isolated.
"It's too saturated with blood to cut into it here," Dirk said, shaking his head. "We should carry it out intact and deal with it
"It's a bad time, I realize, what with it being so recent," Dirk said, "but it's important that we start tonight to make sure that the stains will come out."
"I understand."
"The cost for us to clean all this up is $750, because we're going to have to take the carpeting and the recliner and the table and everything on the table near her, if that's okay…"
"Probably also the picture," I said softly in my most sincere voice, not quite sure about the correct way to extract money and justify the cost to the grieving.
"I can't pay that."
"We can work with the price…"
"No, no, no," Martin said, his lips and face tightening to reveal a momentarily stiffer, more youthful man, a military man with wellhoned reserve. "Look, I'm sorry to call you out here. I know you drove a long way. Just forget it; I'll clean it up myself. I was a pilot; I've seen this stuff before."
My first crime scene wasn't going to be an old-lady suicide.
"Is it the price?" Dirk persisted.
There was a knock at the door behind us, and another old man walked in, this one a few years younger and with a lot more hair. Walking into the dining room, he put his arm around Martin. I turned to go back into the living room, feeling more comfortable with the blood and guts than I did with the human emotion.
"This is my neighbor, Fred," I could hear Martin announce from the next room. The rest of the house was clean but not sterile. It had a lived-in look that suggested that the folks who resided here had done so a long time. It was dark and the air smelled musty, like a comfortable cave.
Portraits of the couple hung on the opposite wall. I couldn't discern their features, but I recognized Martin's vague outline in them. There were also several metal placards advertising beer companies of which I had never heard. These accumulations of a full life lived made me feel a little better about the old lady's actions. If I had spent my life collecting as many metal beer signs as she had, I'd probably kill myself too.
I walked outside to suck in some night air and leaned up against the truck, not sure how to respond. I felt terrible that we were taking the old guy's money, but I was going to feel a hell of a lot worse if we had driven all the way out here only to stare at the scattered meat chunks of some old lady's face and not get paid, especially when I was undoubtedly worse off financially than the old coot. It no longer felt like this job was a divine mission from God to fill my bank account— hell, I couldn't decide if I believed in God at all anymore.
Dirk came walking out to me, nonplussed.
"We're going to do it," he said, emotionless.
"Yeah?"
"Martin's in shock. His neighbor convinced him to do it. But we're doing it for $435. I dropped the price because we're going to leave the carpet."
"Can we leave the carpet? Isn't that counterproductive to the whole crime scene cleaner philosophy?"
"No. We don't clean it if they won't pay for it." He grabbed his crate. "Let's suit up." I guessed I could believe in God for a little while longer.
* * *
The Tyvek suit—or "bunny suit," as we called them—was incredibly hot even in the cold air of Riverside. Stepping into the house covered up to my neck in a protective biohazard suit was like turning on a hair dryer in a pup tent. Sure the blood couldn't get in, but the sweat couldn't get out. Now I knew how the scientists who killed E.T. felt.
"Where do we start?" asked Dirk, suddenly nervous about things, which made me scared as well.
"I guess the recliner," I said, figuring that once it was out of there, the major part of the mess would be isolated.
"It's too saturated with blood to cut into it here," Dirk said, shaking his head. "We should carry it out intact and deal with it
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