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To that, I got a nod from him as he slinked back into the shadows.
I took my last deep breath of fresh, non chemical-laden air, then moved inside, slipping fully into my hazmat suit, mask and all, and got to work.
I did the office first, knowing it would be the easiest, and a room I could close off when I was done to make sure nothing else contaminated it.
All lemon cleaner in there.
Same with the bathroom, though I grabbed the soap dispenser, and tossed the whole thing into one of my black bags.
The blood was next.
Easy enough work, when you were accustomed to cleaning that up.
It was the wiping down of every surface that got really fucking tedious. But when it was a brawl, not just a clean execution, you had to cover all your bases.
Then, once it was all clean, you had to air that shit out. Because nothing was more suspicious than a spotless back room, a missing person, and the stench of bleach.
It took hours to clean up what took five minutes to create a mess out of on a microscopic level.
By the time I was done, the bleach smell was overwhelmed by a lemon cleaner scent. Partially because I cleaned more surfaces with that before shuffling random crap around to make it look less professionally cleaned. Mostly, though, it was thanks to the bottle of lemon cleaner I left on its side in a cabinet with the other meager cleaning supplies.
Someone would smell it, and search for the source, only to find something very innocent. Not a potential crime scene.
When I was finally satisfied, I made my way outside, got out of my suit, since it would look suspicious as fuck to drive in one, loaded my shit into my car, nodded to Venezio, and took off.
There were rules on the road too.
Stick to the speed limit, use turn signals, don’t switch lanes inappropriately, don’t follow too close. You had to make sure there was nothing suspicious about you driving alone late at night. No reason to be pulled over. To have the cops get suspicious about the bins.
It was a long drive, but not long enough for the scent of decomposition to make the trip miserable.
I got out of the city, out of Jersey, and up into New York state.
The key, I decided early in my career, was not to hide the bodies the same way often.
Sure, you could do the classic cement shoes at the bottom of a river here and there. But you didn’t want to do that shit too much.
And, yeah, I could melt a body here and there. But buying that much lye, then heating it up to the right temperature, was a long and arduous undertaking I didn’t want to do more than a few times, and then only when completely necessary. High value targets kinda shit.
This meant that I had about a dozen locations at the ready at all times to hide a body. Mostly, by burying it.
Most of these locations were in rural parts of upstate New York.
Like this one.
All property was owned by someone but a lot of it was unused. Like this thirty-acre stretch of woods that had a small hunting cabin located on it. The kind of hunting cabin that had no electricity, a water catchment system, and a composting toilet.
I’d walked the property before, all dressed up in a bright orange with yellow reflector vest with a rifle propped against my shoulder, looking like just another hunter who accidentally followed a deer or some shit onto the wrong property.
Shit like that happened when property lines were hard to determine.
That trip had solely been to find and to carefully turn all trail cameras in the direction I wanted, making it so there was no way for any of the cameras to find me if or when I might need the property to hide a body.
Four hours later, I was driving my car as deeply into the woods as the trees would allow before finally giving up and climbing out.
“Fuck,” I grumbled, rolling the tension out of my shoulders from the long drive, feeling the exhaustion deep into my bones.
And I had most of the hard work ahead of me.
