Department Zero

by Paul Crilley

  I shake my head.

  “. . . associate need to clear out. We’re taking over.”

  “We have a work order for crime scene decon,” I protest.

  “This site hasn’t even been worked yet,” snarls Crew Cut from behind me. “I swear. If you two amateurs have compromised—”

  “Hey—GI Joe,” I snap. “Why don’t you suck my dick? We know what we’re doing, okay?” I turn back to Graves. “We were given the contract to clean this scene. We’re not leaving till we speak to someone in charge.”

  “We’re in charge,” says Crew Cut.

  “So you say.”

  Graves leans closer and whispers, “No, he’s right. He’s just very unpleasant. Doesn’t have much of a bedside manner. His parents divorced when he was young. They both cited him as the reason for the separation. Don’t think he ever recovered.” He straightens up again. “This crime scene doesn’t fall under the jurisdiction of the LAPD. As I said. The ICD is in charge, and we have our own scene cleaners. Dicks.”

  I blink. “Did you just call us—”

  “No, idiot. Keep up. Dicks. DDICS.” He spells out the initials. “Disposal Department for Interstitial Crime Scenes. Look, it’s a long, complex, incredibly interesting explanation, but one I’m not prepared to go into right now. Which leaves you both on the cusp of something world-shattering and amazing, quivering and red-faced but without the happy ending, I’m afraid. But that’s life. Leave now and you won’t get your license revoked.”

  I stare at him, then take out my cell phone and dial my contact at the LAPD. “Mills. It’s Harry. That crime scene at the motel. You sent it our way last night?”

  I listen for a moment, frowning, then hang up. Graves grins at me. It’s a really annoying grin.

  “All set?” he says. “Groovy.”

  “Did you seriously just say groovy?” I ask.

  “Yes. It’s a wonderful word, isn’t it?”

  I catch Jorge’s eye and jerk my head toward the van. I move away from the motel, Jorge following as I climb inside and slam the door shut.

  “What gives? That was our scene.”

  “Mills confirmed. It was handed over to them early this morning. We just never got the call.”

  “So who the hell are they?”

  “I’ve got no idea.”

  I start the van and pull out of the parking lot. Onto the highway and back toward LA.

  I look in the rearview mirror and see Graves standing in the parking lot, watching us leave.

  “Dicks,” I mutter.

  Chapter Two

  I grab a beer from the fridge, open the patio door that leads onto my balcony, and slump into the plastic lawn chair I use while watching the plebs below from my incredibly spacious and palatial balcony. (One foot by three feet.)

  The rest of the day was a shitstorm of epic proportions. And I mean that literally. After we left the motel we got a call out to another death scene. A heart attack. And let’s just say the victim . . . soiled himself before death. I mean, they usually do, but I think today I just noticed it more.

  The scene this morning at the motel has been bugging me all day. Something is going on. Something I feel I’m being purposefully left out of. And I hate that.

  Who were those people? What the fuck is the ICD? Because I Googled it and came up blank. They don’t exist.

  There’s a voice mail waiting from Megan on my cell phone. I sigh, wondering how long I can put off listening to it. But there’s no point. Might as well just get it over with. I play the message while the sun sets over a toxic horizon. The sunset is tinged with green tonight. Green, purple, and pink. Lovely and apocalyptic.

  “Harry? Listen, I was wondering if you can take Susan next weekend instead of this one. I want to go visit my mother. I already talked to Susan, and she said she’s fine missing her weekend with you.”

  Fucking Megan. Master of the passive-aggressive knife to the heart. I check the time. Shit. Nearly missed it.

  I end the voice mail and dial home—actually, not home. Not anymore. Still, hard to stop thinking of it that way.

  “Hello?”

  “Megan.” No need for long conversations. Or short ones, really.

  “Did you get my message?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well?”

  “Come on, Megs. It’s not fair to even ask me. It’s the only time I get to spend with her.”

  “I don’t have a choice. I couldn’t get time off work. It has to be the weekend.”

  “How is that my problem? Just leave Susan with me and go see your mother yourself.”

  “I want Susan there.”

  “And I want Susan here.”

  A pause. I can feel this building up into another one of our pointless fights. About nothing. About everything.

  “Let me speak to her,” I say.

  “She’s doing her homework.”

  “Megan, she’s six years old and it’s seven o’ clock at night. She’s not doing her fucking homework. Put her on.”

  I hear a muffled clicking as Megan drops the phone. I sigh, grabbing my beer and heading back inside to slump onto the couch. How the hell could something that was once so . . . perfect turn so bad? We were so good together once. Christ, I would have died for her. Where the hell did it go wrong? I’ve thought about it, over and over. Apparently, it’s one of the things people do after a divorce. (I looked it up.) I traced back the months and years, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when it fell apart. Except there wasn’t one. Neither of us cheated. It wasn’t anything like that. Twenty years on and we just started to . . . drift apart. And after every fight it became harder to pull it back together again. Until one day it was easier just to end it.

  I stare into the distance, feeling the depression cresting, starting to take over my mind like it always does when I think about it.

  Then Susan comes on the phone and my whole day just . . . gets better. It’s as if every shit thing that happened to me is washed away, cleansed by the sound of her voice.

  “’Lo, Daddy.”

  “Hi, honey. How’s it going?”

  “Horrible. A stupid boy pushed me at school.”

  “Bastard. What did you do?”

  “What you told me. I pushed him and stood on his stomach.”

  “That’s my girl. Did . . . you get in trouble?”

  “Nope. Nobody told.”

  I smile. Screw all this New Age parenting bullshit. I taught Susan from the moment she could understand my voice never to take any crap from bullies. Hit them back and hit them hard. They’ll never bother you again. Megan doesn’t know. At least, I don’t think she does. I probably would have heard about it if she did.

  “So you ready?” I ask.

  “Ready, Daddy.”

  “Great.” I get up, grab the book from the table in my apartment, and sit back down on the couch. “What page were we on again?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Come on, kid! You should be able to read by now. What page number?”

  “Daddy! You’re supposed to keep track, not me.”

  I smile. “Page thirty. You ready?”

  “Ready.”

  It’s something I insisted on, being able to read to her every night. Megan can have the house, the car, everything else. But reading was the one special thing I had with Susan. Every night before bed.

  Nowadays, it’s the one brief moment of happiness in my shitty life.

  About half an hour later I hear Megan talking in the background.

  “No, Mommy!”

  More mumbling. I sigh.

  “Time for bed, honey,” I say.

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  “Doesn’t matter. If mom says it’s bedtime, it’s bedtime. We’ll finish up tomorrow, okay?”

  Susan sighs. The sigh of a child denied her way, as if the whole world is against her.

  “Fine!”

  “G’night, honey. Love you lots like jelly tots. Have nice dreams.”

  Ou
r exchange of good nights is getting longer and longer. It started out with just good night. But then Susan had a bad dream, so I added in, “Have nice dreams,” which stuck. Then Susan decided she liked “love you lots like jelly tots,” and I added that too. Even now I’m sure I’ve forgotten something.

  Her silence confirms it.

  “Uh . . .” I close my eyes and rack my brain.

  “Daddy . . .”

  “Yeah, honey . . .” What is it? I’ve done the jelly tots thing. Done the nice dreams thing. Oh! Bedbugs.

  “Don’t let the bedbugs bite. If they do, squish a few.”

  Phew.

  “’Night, Daddy. Love you lots like jelly tots. Have nice dreams. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. If they do, squish a few.”

  I open my mouth to say I love her, but as soon as Susan finishes talking, the phone line goes dead. Megan.

  I toss the phone on the couch next to me and down my warm beer. I love reading to Susan, but it always depresses me. Thinking about how much I’ve lost. Where I am now.

  I look around the tiny apartment. Boxes of books still stacked up against the walls. My laptop showing a screenplay I haven’t worked on in over three weeks.

  Move to LA, man. Follow your dreams. You can be anything!

  Yeah, right. If by anything you mean a divorced, lonely, minimum-wage worker. (Note I didn’t put middle-aged in there. Because I still have some dignity.)

  My phone rings. I check the caller ID. Jorge. I frown. The hell is he calling me at this time of night? We don’t socialize.

  I hesitate, wondering whether to just blow him off. But it might have something to do with work.

  “Yeah?”

  “Harry! Thank fuck. You gotta get over here.”

  I sit up straighter. Jorge sounds scared. No—terrified.

  “You hear me?”

  “Yeah . . . yeah, I hear you. What’s wrong?”

  “That crime scene today . . . I . . . Listen, just get over here. I’ll text you my address.” His voice lowers to a horrified whisper. “We are so fucked, man. Seriously. We’re finished.”

  The phone goes dead.

  I stare at it, puzzled. The crime scene? Had we stepped on more toes than we thought? Shit. Maybe the FBI is involved.

  My phone pings with Jorge’s address. I stare at it, pondering. Can I actually be bothered with this? I’m tired. Driving around in the heat all day really takes it out of you.

  Another ping.

  Get over here now!

  I sigh and heave myself off the couch, grab another beer from the fridge, and head out of the apartment.

  Jorge better remember this when he’s the boss and my annual assessment comes around.

  I sit in my pickup, staring up at Jorge’s apartment. No lights. It isn’t dark yet, but the sun is gone, swallowed up by the gray-brown haze that coats the city like a chemical cloud.

  I dial Jorge’s number. No answer.

  I get out of the truck and climb the steps to the front door. I pull open the bug screen and knock.

  The door swings open at my touch.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  What the hell am I supposed to do in a situation like this again? My academy training was so long ago I can’t remember. It’s all been wiped away by bad cop shows.

  “Jorge?”

  See? Right there. Don’t call out when you’re entering a suspicious property. It just calls attention to yourself. Now the bad guys know I’m here.

  So . . . what now?

  Make them fear you, that’s what.

  “I . . . brought a gun, Jorge. Uh . . . like you asked.”

  I pause and frown at the floor. Was that a smart thing to do, or was it really dumb? I’d thought it was smart. Just in case there are any bad guys lurking around inside. But now that I think about it, it might have been stupid. If they think I’m armed they’re more likely to shoot first.

  Jesus, I really would have been a terrible cop. It’s just as well I failed the drug test. If I passed I’d probably be dead by now.

  I enter the apartment. The door opens directly into a surprisingly neat kitchen. Stainless-steel mixer, fancy coffee machine, a blender that looks like it cost more than my TV.

  The kitchen is open plan, the lounge visible beyond the breakfast counter. There’s a massive flat screen mounted on the wall. An Xbox and a PlayStation sit in the black cabinet below.

  If I’d known Jorge lived like this, I’d have tried harder to get to know him. This is a sweet place to hang out. Better than my dump. I bet Jorge doesn’t have to deal with someone like the screamer. (A man who, at four o’clock every morning, gets up, steps out onto his balcony, and screams at the top of his voice for a full minute before returning to bed.)

  There’s a sound off to my left. A soft, scraping noise. I take a hesitant step into the lounge, peer through a partially opened door. I can see black-and-white tiles on the other side. The bathroom.

  “Jorge?”

  The sound stops.

  “You okay?”

  The door slowly opens. Like, really slowly. About an inch every second. I glance quickly over my shoulder to make sure no one’s sneaking up on me with a knife. (There’s not, but yes, I watch a lot of horror movies, okay?) The door carries on opening, to finally reveal—

  Jorge. Standing there looking pretty goddamn normal.

  I sag with relief. “Jorge? What the hell, man?”

  Jorge doesn’t say anything. He’s really starting to creep me out. His eyes are unfocused, the pupils massive. Is he high?

  Then Jorge shudders and blinks, as if waking up from a dream. He focuses his attention on me.

  “Harry? That you?”

  “Uh . . . sure is, buddy. Listen, you take something? You want me to call an ambulance?”

  “I . . . took something. Yes.”

  I hear a sudden sound behind me. Some kind of animal-like chittering.

  I whirl around, scanning the apartment. There’s nothing there. Just the closed door to what I assume is Jorge’s bedroom.

  I turn back . . .

  . . . straight into Jorge’s arms. He puts his arms around my waist, leaning in as if he’s going to nuzzle my ear. I try to pull away, but he has a tight grip.

  “Jorge? What the hell? Let go.”

  “I took something,” he whispers.

  “Yeah, I’m kinda getting that.”

  “From the crime scene.”

  I stop trying to wriggle out of Jorge’s grip and look into his eyes. “Today?”

  Jorge nods. Tears trickle down his cheeks. “I’m in so much trouble.”

  “Uh . . . look. I’m sure we can fix it.” I hate tears. Especially in adults. I never know how to respond to them.

  “Can’t fix it. They already found me. I’m dead, man. Dead.”

  “You’re not dead. Trust me.” I reach up to awkwardly pat Jorge’s shoulder. “There, there,” I add. Just in case it helps.

  I freeze.

  My fingers touch what feels very much like short, bristly hair.

  Bristly hair?

  Jorge finally lets me go and steps back. I unconsciously wipe my hand on my jeans.

  “I . . . think they scooped my brains out.”

  I’m starting to get seriously freaked out here.

  Then Jorge turns around.

  I let out a shriek of incredibly unmanly fear and stagger back. I hit the leather couch and tumble over the back, somersaulting onto the hardwood floor. I scramble to my feet and leap behind another couch.

  “What the actual fuck, Jorge?”

  I can’t believe my eyes. Clamped to Jorge’s back, its legs nestling together and following the exact contours of his body, is some kind of . . . spider. It’s massive. Huge and hairy, as tall as Jorge is, perfectly molded to his back so you can’t see it until he turns around.

  I raise a shaking finger. Pointing. Accusing. “Jorge!” I scream. “Why is there a big-as-fuck spider on your back?”

  It’s a pretty lam
e response. I’ll be the first to admit. But I’ve found that people tend to state the obvious when confronted with panic.

  “Seriously, man. A . . . a tarantula or something!”

  Except tarantulas don’t grow that big.

  There’s something else. I lean forward, peering closer while trying to shy away at the same time.

  The spider’s fangs are clearly embedded in Jorge’s brain. “It’s eating your goddamn brain!”

  And then, just when I think I’ve seen everything, the spider explodes, bursting into thousands upon thousands of smaller spiders. They drop to the floor, onto the couch, skitter up the walls and across the floor, a black wave heading toward me.

  I only have a moment to see Jorge’s now spider-free back before he drops to the ground. The entire rear half of his body is gone. Like he’s been sliced in half from top to bottom. I can see his spine nestled amid pink-and-purple tissue.

  I turn and bolt for the last remaining door in the apartment. The bedroom.

  A spider lands on my head. I shriek again, flailing at it before yanking the door open, rushing inside and slamming it shut behind me.

  My back is up against the door, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. I’m dreaming. That’s it. I got wasted. Drank a six-pack in front of the TV and passed out. Yeah, that’s it. That explains everything.

  The door thuds behind me. I jerk away, stumbling against Jorge’s bed. The door thuds again, rattling on its hinges. I look around for a weapon. Nothing. Just tasteful white linen and clean blinds.

  Even in the middle of my panic, I take a moment to appreciate Jorge’s taste. I’ve seriously underestimated the guy.

  Another thud. I yank open the bedside drawer. Magazines. Condoms. Lube. A dildo. (A big one. Anemic white with bulging veins running up its fifteen-inch length.)

  “Gross.”

  I check the other drawers. What I need is a gigantic can of bug spray. That would really hit the spot right about now.

  Nothing.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I reluctantly pick up the dildo, brandishing it like a lightsaber. It flops around a bit, but it’s still pretty heavy. Should be good enough to squash a few spiders.

  A few thousand spiders.

  I hurry to the window. Pull the blinds up. The back of the apartment block has a drop of about three stories down to some dry scrub. Could I jump? I could. If I wanted a broken ankle.