The CleanSweep Conspiracy

by Chuck Waldron

  “I was following a lead,” Susan said.

  “We were following a lead,” Carl snapped.

  Matt noticed a different tension between the two now. They seemed more and more like a married couple swapping gibes.

  Susan ignored Carl. “When I looked at my notes about the numbers of people who have seemed to vanish, I began to see a pattern in the kind of people that have been disappearing. Isn’t it curious?” She ran her fingers through her hair. “There used to be an old bag lady I always passed on the way to the newsroom. You know who I mean, Carl—the one near our studio’s entrance. Maybe she’s not that old, but she looked it. Once, I tried speaking to her, but she ignored me and kept talking to some invisible friends.” Susan wrinkled her nose. “And she smelled as bad as she looked. People walked past her and pretended not to see her. She was always sitting close to one of those subway ventilator grates, the ones that shoot up warm air. Then, one day, she wasn’t there.”

  “Her name is Ellie—or was,” Carl said. “She’s harmless. In fact, she has an interesting story.”

  Susan cut him off. “Have you seen her lately, this Ellie person? No, you haven’t.”

  “I’ve noticed stuff like that, too,” Matt said. He told them about riding the trolley and watching the ballet lady and the other man, both of them there one day and gone the next. “What’s going on?” He took out the envelope Carling had dropped at his feet at the stadium. “He made sure I got this before he left the game.”

  He held up two pages and summarized for Carl and Susan what was written on them. “This,” he said, waving one page, “is a copy of an order to the cops. They have to turn over all their notes and files on specific people to CleanSweep agents. The order contains a very specific list of names—the homeless and persons with known mental illnesses. It doesn’t stop there. CleanSweep is also interested in individuals with any physical or mental handicaps. They are also keen on criminals, especially those with gang affiliations.”

  “Add to that list distinct skin tones, accents, and other characteristics like that,” Susan said.

  “Get this,” Matt continued, “CleanSweep agents have the power to arrest and detain without a warrant.”

  “Damn, this is scaring me. It’s worse than I thought,” Susan said.

  “Amen to that,” Carl added.

  “There’s more,” Matt said. “Police are ordered not to interfere with CleanSweep agents who are transporting detainees. That’s what is making Carling so mad.”

  “By the time the activists realized what was happening,” Susan said, “it was too late. Their demonstration was stopped with an emergency court order. The special policing powers given to CleanSweep agents are similar to provisions made by the War Measures Act, that holdover from 1914 and the beginning of the First World War.”

  Matt looked up from a page he was reading and nodded. “Apparently it was OK to suspend habeas corpus and all the other civil liberty ‘niceties,’ all in the name of making us feel safe. I don’t feel very safe right now. Do you?”

  The three sat in an uneasy silence made worse by the growing darkness. It was after sundown, so Carl got up to turn on a lamp. It did little to cheer the room or uplift their spirits.

  “I may only be the videographer, but I have a question. What do we know about those buildings near Spadina Avenue? What they are for? I’m talking about the ones that have been renovated in the past couple of years. I’ve thought there was something queer about the one just north of Sullivan Street. Why would they lay a new streetcar track spur through an overhead door and directly into that building?”

  “I saw that and didn’t pay any attention,” Matt said.

  “There’s a new CleanSweep logo on the cornerstone of the building,” Carl said, looking thoughtful. “I was on a southbound streetcar one morning when we had to stop so that an approaching tram could make the turn toward the building. The trolley was painted dark gray and the windows were screened to keep the interior from view. I watched an oversize garage door go up, and the trolley went through. The door came back down—fast—before I could get a glimpse inside. Most unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

  Susan nodded. “Did you get a photo?”

  Carl cut her off with a wave to indicate that of course he had. He held up his smartphone. The three the rear of the trolley entering the building in the video, followed by a shot of the door being lowered.

  “I didn’t know what to think at the time, but now…”

  Susan took the phone and stared at the last scene. “There’s something about that streetcar…” she said, her finger tracing a line on the screen. “I saw one like it last Wednesday. The windows were all shielded so you couldn’t see in. It’s the kind of tinting that’s used on car windows when the driver wants to stay hidden from view. I wondered what it was and thought it must be some kind of test car, or maybe a training car. I even made a note to check with the transit authorities about it, then forgot.” She took a notebook out of her purse.

  She fanned through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “Here it is,” she said, holding it up for the two men to see. “Last Wednesday. Here’s my note to call Sal Petrecelli. He’s my contact at the head transit office—remember him, Carl?”

  “There’s more,” Matt said. He told them about an e-mail he’d received from an anonymous source. “I almost put it in the file I reserve for crackpots. It was about vans driving around, mostly at night. The person who wrote it said he had seen at least two folks, good neighbors, being led to the vans in handcuffs and taken away.” Matt shook his head. “I found it hard to believe. Why would ordinary-looking people be taken away like that? It sounded too alarmist. I guess I don’t want to believe it.”

  “Things are starting to add up,” Susan said. “I don’t feel at all comfortable with what I’m imagining right now.”

  “I don’t know about you two,” Carl said, “but I’m wondering if it might not be a good idea to have someone like Detective Carling on our side.”

  Susan and Matt nodded their agreement.

  “We need to be extra careful from here on out,” Carl said.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Matt snapped. He leaned back in a chair with his fingers laced behind his head. “Why don’t we put our notes together now? There’s never been a better time for teamwork,” he said as he picked up a notebook from the table at his side. He turned to a blank page and held his pen poised. “What do we really know so far?”

  They lost track of time as they worked through the night. When they were finished, the three looked at one another. Papers were spread on the bed and on the three tables in the room. To someone walking in, the scene might look as if documents had been scattered around at random. The three accomplices knew better. The papers tracked a pattern back to the beginning of their investigations. Matt had certain facts previously unknown to Susan and Carl. They, in turn, had bits and pieces that Matt had been unaware of. They were most surprised, however, to find the similar facts they had each uncovered in the middle of their respective investigations—overlapping events that painted an ugly picture of Charles Claussen and CleanSweep.

  Matt spoke first. “Claussen is the key person behind this. He used his money, and he almost certainly has connections within the government. What else would explain the order to the police and the government so readily giving CleanSweep such sweeping—pun intended—power to arrest and detain?”

  “Agreed,” Susan said. “What we don’t have is a way to look inside his organization. Just that stuff Tanner gave you. It’s important, but it’s not proof of a conspiracy. We don’t have the smoking gun—yet. And the lid’s been sealed tight since the rioting began.”

  “Who will believe us with just this?” Matt said, sweeping his arm around the room. “Claussen has his reputation behind him. Who will believe Matt Tremain, except for some loyal blog readers? We need something
more, and it’s out there. I can feel it. We need the missing link.”

  Susan’s phone started ringing, its ringtone set loud enough to be heard in spite of background noise. In the quiet of the room, it was as jarring as a blaring fire truck siren. The noise was so loud it bordered on obscenity.

  She looked down at the phone number displayed. “It’s not a number I recognize,” she said, holding it up for Carl to see.

  “I don’t recognize it, either. What about you, Matt?”

  “Nope, I don’t have a clue.”

  Susan let the call go to voice mail. The three went back to work, reexamining everything, putting all their facts together in a master list.

  “Let’s have our next meeting at the farmhouse. It’ll be easy to see if anyone is following us there,” Carl said. He gave Matt directions.

  Susan put her phone away. They all agreed it had been a hard night’s work.

  Then Matt’s phone suddenly chirped. He looked at it, then turned it off and told them, “I’m heading back to the city. Carling has set up another meeting.”

  They started picking up the documents, taking care to preserve their order. They didn’t want their efforts to go to waste. Finally, there seemed to be nothing else to say or do. Matt watched Susan place her hands on her hips and lean back to stretch out tired muscles. He thought he saw the tension in her face spill away when Carl rested his hand on her shoulder.

  “By the way,” Matt asked as they were all leaving, “do either one of you know what KBO means?” His question was met with blank stares and shrugs. “Not a clue,” they both said at the same time.

  They walked to their car, laughing to relieve the tension.

  CHAPTER 25

  Two Names

  Matt’s life turned another dangerous corner when he met Carling near the foot of the arches at Nathan Phillips Square. “Make sure you’re on the east side of the square,” Carling had insisted in his earlier call to Matt.

  The detective’s foul mood was unmistakable as Matt approached, pulling his hood over his head. Carling held his fedora in his right hand and used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his brow.

  “Not having a good day?”

  “How about a bad day, week, and month?” Carling snarled.

  “CleanSweep?”

  “What else?”

  Carling spotted an empty bench and pointed. There wasn’t any shade, and the temperature was nudging toward the eighty-degree mark, hot for that time of the year.

  The seasoned detective knew something about tailing suspects. Now he wondered out loud who might be tailing him, and he remained standing, casually sweeping his gaze around in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree arc to see if they were under surveillance.

  When they were seated, he said, “I have no idea if anyone is following us right now or not. I’m good, but these guys are also well trained. I’m not sure I would spot their tail.”

  Finally, sitting next to Matt, he leaned over slightly. “It’s odd. Did you know that surveillance wasn’t even a word until Edgar Allan Poe invented it?” Carling looked and sounded unsettled. “I don’t have much time, and I have no idea why I just told you that about Poe. It has to be my nerves. I should know better; acting nervous that often gives my suspects away. See that takeout container?”

  It was sitting on a railing as if someone had left it there, abandoned. It made Matt realize how litter-free the city was now. Why haven’t I noticed that before, the absence of litter? he thought. That’s all new.

  “You will find a bagel and a diet cola in that container,” Carling whispered before he stood up abruptly and starting walking south, toward the street. He looked back at Matt and gave a brief nod before boarding a streetcar. His sad look spoke more loudly than words. It was like he carried a heavy weight on his shoulders.

  Matt turned back to see a young woman in a uniform nearby. She had spotted the paper bag and was moved quickly toward it. It was clearly her duty to make sure there was no trash left behind by some rude person. Matt hurried; he needed to get to the container first. He stepped to the railing and picked up the bucket before she could get to it. He looked at her with a “How could someone leave this here?” look. She smiled and waved her approval at his good citizenship, then turned to direct her inspection to some other part of the square.

  Matt settled his breathing and hoped nobody had noticed his odd behavior as he walked to the nearest trash container. Picking out the bagel first, he inspected it and saw nothing unusual about it. He dropped it in the garbage bin. Next, he pulled the takeout cup from the bag. It felt light; in fact, it was empty. He took care while opening the lid and peered into the container. He was about to toss both into the trash receptacle when he looked at the lid in his right hand. A note was taped to its underside.

  “So that’s where he put it.” Matt gave his best acting performance as a man casting a casual glance around, then slipped the lid into his jeans pocket and tossed the cup away.

  Exiting the square, he took a meandering walk before catching the streetcar heading east. Anyone following him might think he was out and about for an afternoon stroll.

  Fat chance.

  An hour later, he was sitting in his favored overstuffed chair at Java Jivery. He needed a caffeine fix, and he watched Connie behind the counter. She was getting ready for the late-afternoon crowd by making sandwiches of some kind. Her back was to Matt, and he could hear her humming as she worked. Her arms and shoulders moved in a steady cadence: bread, meat, lettuce, mayo, bread, meat, lettuce, mayo, bread, meat, lettuce, mayo.

  Unfolding Carling’s note, Matt began reading:

  Here are two names you need to check out. They should help you with your investigation. I met Mattie Reynolds when I was a beat cop. She must be in her late sixties now. She might not seem or act like the sharpest knife in the drawer, but don’t let that fool you. She’s a survivor and wise to the street.

  Clifford Horne is a guy I ran into during a homicide investigation. He turned out to be a good witness. He’s a stand-up guy and tough as nails, but you’d never guess by looking at him.

  Both have gone to ground. If they agree to meet you and tell you their stories, it’ll go a long way toward explaining why they are in hiding. They have both escaped the clutches of CleanSweep.

  If you decide to talk to them, you will have to go through a network of gatekeepers. They will vet you and let you pass—or they won’t. It’s up to them. They won’t trust you. Hell, they don’t trust me all that much, but these are people who know I have helped them in the past.

  I never did think we should treat marginalized people as criminals. Criminal is a word that should be reserved for the bad guys. People like Mattie and Clifford aren’t bad, just overwhelmed. Criminal is a word we should reserve for someone like Claussen.

  I’ve passed along word that you’re a stand-up guy, on the right side of the story. Like I said, though, whatever they decide is up to them.

  Go into the coffee shop chain that uses the distinctive red-and-white sign. They have a store at the corner on Sherbourne Street, south of Bloor. Be there at nine tonight. I know it sounds stupid, but order a blueberry fritter. Then order an extra-large, double-double coffee. The people you need to meet don’t know what you look like, but when they hear your order they will recognize it as a signal from me. That’s as much as I can do to vouch for you.

  If they decide you’re a go, a man called Stinky will sit down at your table. You won’t have to wonder how he got that name. If you pass his test, he will be your conductor. If not, enjoy your fritter and coffee and go home.

  KBO, Carling

  There it is again, Matt thought. What the hell does KBO mean?

  Following Carling’s earlier instructions, Matt tore the note to pieces and hoped Connie wouldn’t notice or look up from making sandwiches to see him walking around and distributing random pieces of it in seve
ral wastebaskets.

  “Bye, Connie!” Matt shouted as he walked to the door.

  “See ya, Matt,” Connie said over her shoulder. “When’s this smoke going to clear?”

  He contacted Cyberia, who said his apartment was still safe.

  Back there, Matt sat in darkness. Time seemed to pass in slow motion. He stared at the clock. The digital readout flashed 7:17 p.m. Only three minutes had passed since he’d last checked the last time. He had figured out when he needed to leave. It wouldn’t take long to get to the coffee shop. He visualized his route to pass the time.

  What am I setting myself up for? he wondered. Trust seems like a rare commodity these days.

  He needed something to calm his nerves, so went to the kitchenette to pour a glass of single malt. The scotch left a happy trail down his throat when he swallowed, and it reminded him of the drink he’d shared with Tanner. The whiskey did little to calm him; nothing would, he realized. He took his drink back to the living room and picked up the TV remote. He didn’t turn it on, though. He just stared at the blank screen, wondering if he had nerve enough to keep going on.

  A noisy crash-bang shattered the silence, and he almost dropped the glass. Liquid splashing over its rim. He heard shouts from the street and tiptoed to the window. A car had turned into the side street, and Matt saw that it had smashed against a parking meter. It was only a minor car accident, but he couldn’t steady his hand enough to finish the drink.

  He looked at the clock again. It still wasn’t even eight. He began to pace—thirty more minutes to wait.

  A phone rang in the next apartment. A door opened and closed in another. They were typical apartment-living sounds, but he couldn’t get them out of his head. He walked into the bathroom to splash water on his face. It didn’t help.

  He was back to watching the numbers on the clock change when he heard the sound of a siren. It almost tipped his emotional scale into the red. CleanSweep vehicles used a distinctive European-type siren that growled from high pitched to low. He heard that warble in the distance. He realized it probably wasn’t heading in his direction, but it was a bad sound, a sound he couldn’t erase from his thoughts. The siren faded, and quiet returned. It was finally time to go—afraid or not.