Cleaner

The Death was three rooms down and to the left. 

Parker Gray eased down the dark hall and around a shattered bureau covered with faceless clay angels. The walls were bare and the old wood floors criss-crossed with scratches and missing boards; no rugs, no baseboards, plaster rotten and wet. 

The house was nice, once, 70 maybe 80 years ago. Now an aching triple decker on a West Side street, the building likely had a slumlord who lived in Boston and probably had never seen the rot, and would not care if he did.  

Parker followed the voices. 

He was asleep an hour ago - alone to be sure, and still wearing most of his clothes, but bed is bed. 

The Chief called at around 1 a.m. "Parker, you up? Sorry to wake you." 

Chief Peter LaShelle was apologetic. In a city like Manchester, where churches still said Mass in French, LaShelle's Franco roots combined with a frustrating charm made him both popular and feared. He had survived nearly two decades, four mayors and a paring knife that had punctured his lung - with air whooshing out of the hole in his chest, LaShelle had still managed to wrestle the knife away from the 18-year-old left tackle at Memorial High School and bust the boy's wrist in the process. When back up finally came, LaShelle had the kid cuffed, rights read and was lecturing him on civic manners and community service. 

"I was awake," Parker said. 

"Sure, sure, good, listen we have a job, bad one, up on Rimmon." 

"Can't it wait till morning, Pete?" 

"No, no, this one's bad." 

For years, Parker was the department's go-to guy on nearly every robbery that resulted in a dead store clerk, every drug deal gone bad that ended with a shotgun blast to the face and every abandoned baby left to die in a dumpster.  

"I'll be right over," Parker said. 

It would have been hard to miss the house. The West Side streets were quiet that late on a weekday, and the flashers from the cruisers and EMT trucks could be seen from the other side of the river. There weren't many onlookers because in that neighborhood, either residents were used to the sight of patrol cars or didn't want to be seen by them.  

Parker had no I.D. Everyone on the force still remembered him. The patrol cop outside the door motioned him inside the shingled triple decker. 

"What's up, Joe?" Parker asked. 

"The Chief ain't letting anybody too close. Must be a real Goddamn mess though if he called you." 

Parker trudged up the stairs. One flight up, he started to smell the death. 

And now, as he approached the door, Parker froze at the sight of his old partner. 

Sgt. Brody Fynn crouched in the doorway, crying. 

Parker hadn't seen the big Irishman in months and until that moment, hadn't even realized his former partner had tear ducts. 

"Brody?" 

The Sgt. looked up and shook his head. 

Fynn had seen it all, so Parker thought. "Brody, what is it?" 

"Look into the granddaughter," Brody whispered. 

"What? What are you---" 

"This is your chance, just look into it." 

Before Parker could reply, Brody shoved him aside and charged down the hall and out of sight. 

The smell grew overpowering. Parker pulled out a tube of peppermint lip balm and smeared it to the inside of his nostrils - trick of the trade - and steeled himself before entering the bedroom.