Page 116 of Requiem

Maggie 47

They don’t tell you about the mess. That’s the thing about a crime scene, or a suicide, or any other violent act that happens to take place in your home. After the police have gathered their evidence and taken their photos, after the coroner has carted off the body and the last detective has left the scene, you are left alone. With the mess. No fairies come to clean the brain matter from the walls. No special cleaning unit arrives to mop up the pool of blood in your kitchen. They don’t even take the yards of yellow tape with them when they leave. I know this, because I’ve seen it too many times in my line of work. And because I see it now as I walk from room to room of Julia and Matthew’s beautiful home. We – Brett and Trudy and I – will be the last ones to see the house like this. I’m going to make damn sure of that.

Trudy is resting upstairs in the nursery with David and I’ve sent Brett to the hospital with coffee and bagels for Matthew and Tony. I have a big job ahead of me, and not a lot of time to do it. The clock on the wall of the kitchen tells me it’s nearly six in the morning as I start gathering cleaning supplies in the kitchen.

“Alright then, let’s get down to it, shall we?” I mutter to myself, grabbing rolls of paper towels, trash bags, bleach, a mop, broom and sponges.

I take my time as I walk down the hall to the front corridor. When I get to the flagstone floor, I stop. I haven’t really allowed myself to take this in, but I have to now. I’m the only who can do this. It’s bad enough, the memories that will be tied to this house for Julia. I’m not going to let Matthew walk into his childhood home and see it like this. Nor am I going to allow Brett or Trudy to mop up Jeremy’s blood. Or his victim’s for that matter.

I start at the bottom of the stairs, where they landed, using the mountains of paper towels to soak up the blood on the floor. Once that’s done, I mop it all with a bleach solution until the water turns a rust color. Then, I work my way up the steps, scouring each riser for drips and drops and smears, until they, too are clear of all biological material. When I get to the top of the stairs, I see a long trail of blood, presumably where Julia used the wall to support herself as she made her way toward Jeremy.

There are also some droplets on the hardwood floor. A little spray bleach and a sponge take care of these, too. And that just leaves me with the master bedroom, it’s door slightly ajar, looming at the end of the hallway. I walk toward it slowly, and give the door a reluctant push with my index finger. It swings the rest of the way open, silently revealing to me the gruesome scene within.

I know that she was beaten, but I hadn’t expected there’d be this much blood. Not without a stab wound or a gunshot. There is smeared blood on every wall and areas of the bed sheets are soaked with it. There are small puddles and drops all over the floor, some intact, others smudged by foot- and handprints. I shake my head. Surely she has miscarried. With the amount of blood in the bedroom, the hallway, the stairs … At this point, I’m not even sure if she’s alive. Or brain dead or …

“Come, we’ll do the bed together.”

I jump at the sound of Trudy’s voice right behind me. She’s taking in the room from over my shoulder.

I start to object, but she pushes past me and waits till I join her. Without speaking, we pull it apart in layers. Pillows and cases, sheets, blanket and mattress pad. No blood has seeped through to the mattress, thankfully.

“Alright, you go ahead and bring these downstairs, and put them in the washer to soak in hot water with bleach.”

I nod and start to gather the sheets when I feel her hand on my shoulder. When I look up at her, she is staring intently at me.

“The hottest water you can run, Maggie. And a lot of bleach.”

I do as she asks. By the time I return, she has somehow managed to scrub every last drip and drop, splatter and stain from every surface. There are crisp, clean sheets on the neatly made bed, and she’s opened the windows so the brisk, early morning air can displace some of the stench left behind from the events of the last twelve hours. She stands, silently, with her back to me, looking out through the sheer panels as the first light of dawn begins to crawls across the sky.

And so, it is done. We can all breathe a tremendous sigh of relief that Jeremy Corrigan has, at long last, left this world. The pity of it is, of course, that he could have had it all on his talent alone. But something deep within him wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of wining anything on merit alone. For Jeremy, it wasn’t worth having if it wasn’t worth taking. Part of me feels guilty. It’s not quite right to celebrate the death of another human being, no matter how evil he was. And yet, I know that I won’t be the only one sleeping easier tonight. Or at least I would be, if I were going to sleep at all.