Bailing Water from a Sinking Ship

"Fixing a broken window when there's a body in the cupboard is just perfectionism with extra steps."

I opened the rear door of the patrol car, the mechanism clicking with familiar smoothness. The interior smelled of industrial cleaner and old coffee and the accumulated scent of thousands of suspects who'd occupied this space — fear and sweat and resignation rendered olfactory through sustained exposure.

"Watch your head," I instructed automatically, one hand guiding Gladys whilst the other protected her skull from impact with the door frame.

The warning was pure procedure, drilled into every officer until it became reflexive. Protect the suspect even whilst restraining them, ensure their physical safety even whilst depriving them of liberty, maintain duty of care even towards those you're arresting.

The irony wasn't lost on me — showing such careful consideration for Gladys's wellbeing whilst having shown absolutely none for the man decomposing in that cupboard, whilst having actively concealed violence rather than investigating it.

Gladys folded herself into the back seat, her movements awkward due to the cuffs but managing the transition without resistance. She settled into position, staring straight ahead, her expression still carrying that disturbing vacancy.

I closed the door firmly, the sound echoing with finality. Secured. Contained. One problem temporarily managed whilst countless others continued to multiply.

Before beginning the drive that would inevitably lead to questions I wasn't prepared to answer, I needed to address one final piece of unfinished business at the house.

The broken window.

Standing beside the vehicle, I pulled out my mobile phone with movements that tried for casualness despite the trembling in my hands.

I scrolled through my contacts, searching for a specific name — someone I could trust, or at least someone whose discretion I'd purchased through past favours and the implicit understanding that police relationships operated on reciprocal obligations.

"Hey, Benny," I greeted as the call connected, my voice steady despite the chaos churning beneath the surface. Professional. Friendly. As though this were just another routine request rather than active obstruction of justice.

Benny was a handyman I'd used before — for legitimate purposes, mostly, small jobs where having someone reliable and discreet was more important than going through official channels. He owed me a favour from a previous situation involving some minor drug charges that I'd helped make disappear through creative paperwork and strategic memory lapses.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, the kind of silence that suggested Benny was calculating what this call might cost him, what obligations were about to be called in.

Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying that particular blend of wariness and resignation that came from knowing you owed someone something and that debt was now being collected. "What do you need?" he asked.

Straight to business. No pleasantries. Just acknowledgment that this was transactional, that whatever I was about to ask would clear the ledger between us — or possibly create new obligations depending on the nature of the request.

"I have a smashed bedroom window I need you to fix," I said, keeping my tone matter-of-fact, as though police officers routinely arranged for property repairs at scenes they were investigating. "It's around the back of the house on the corner, you can't miss it. Make sure you also remove all the broken glass on the floor."

My instructions were clear and concise, leaving no room for misinterpretation about what I needed done. The window needed to be repaired — urgently, thoroughly, in ways that would eliminate evidence of forced entry and remove the glass shards that might contain fingerprints or blood evidence or other forensic traces I couldn't afford to have discovered.

"I'll text you the address," I added, already composing the message in my head, already thinking through the timing that would make this work without raising suspicions.

I ended the call before Benny could ask questions — why a detective was personally arranging property repairs, why this needed to be done quickly and quietly, why standard procedure wasn't being followed. Questions I couldn't answer without revealing far too much about my compromised position.

As I sent him the address — Luke Smith's house, the scene of multiple crimes both recent and historical, the location that represented ground zero for my professional and moral collapse — my mind raced with justifications and rationalisations.

Until I knew that neither Karl nor myself could be implicated by the decomposing body downstairs, I didn't want to leave any reason for police to enter the property beyond the anonymous call that had already been made. The window was evidence of illegal entry, was my point of access, was something that could be examined for forensic traces that might lead investigators to conclusions I couldn't afford them to reach.

You're destroying evidence, the internal voice observed with clinical detachment. You're actively obstructing a murder investigation. You're using police resources and civilian contractors to facilitate a cover-up. Each action compounds your crimes exponentially.

But what choice did I have? The window represented a liability I couldn't manage, a vulnerability I couldn't accept. If forensics examined that broken glass, they'd find traces of my presence — skin cells caught on rough edges, fibres from my clothing, possibly blood if I'd cut myself without realising.

And I wasn't entirely convinced that Gladys had been the one to make the anonymous call, despite the obvious conclusion her presence at the scene suggested.

The timing felt wrong somehow. If Gladys had discovered the body and immediately called police, there would have been more urgency in the report, more detail beyond a simple break-in notification. The caller had mentioned property crime but nothing more serious, which suggested either someone who hadn't found the corpse or someone who had specific reasons for partial disclosure.

Could there be another witness? Someone else who saw you enter the house? Someone watching from a distance who reported the break-in without knowing about the murder?

The paranoid speculation was probably unfounded — born from guilt and exhaustion rather than actual evidence — but I couldn't shake the feeling that there were layers to this situation I hadn't yet uncovered, complications I hadn't anticipated.

Better to eliminate the obvious evidence first, then deal with whatever else emerged as it emerged.

As I pocketed my phone and turned my attention back to Gladys — still standing docilely beside the patrol car, cuffed hands behind her back, her features slack and unreadable — I felt the weight of accumulated decisions pressing down on me.

Each choice you make digs you deeper, I acknowledged silently. Each action moves you further from any possibility of redemption. But you're already so far gone that one more hardly registers.

The logic was circular and self-defeating, but it was all I had to work with.

Walking around to the driver's side, I allowed myself one last glance back at the house. It stood there in morning sunlight, unremarkable and silent, giving nothing away to anyone who didn't already know what it held.

Benny will fix the window, I told myself firmly. Will remove the evidence. Will eliminate one vulnerability. It's something. It's action. It's better than doing nothing.

But deep down I knew that fixing the window was like bailing water from a sinking ship — useful in the immediate term, utterly inadequate to address the fundamental problem… the body under the stairs.

I climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, adjusted the mirror so I could see Gladys in the back. She remained motionless, staring at nothing, lost in whatever thoughts or trauma had reduced her to this state.

Time to see what she knows, I decided as I pulled away from the kerb. Time to determine whether she's a threat or a potential ally. Time to figure out exactly how much trouble I'm actually in.

The drive to the station would take perhaps twenty minutes depending on traffic. Twenty minutes of proximity with someone who might be able to destroy me with a single sentence or who might — if I played this correctly — become complicit in my crimes through her own silence.

Twenty minutes to extract information without revealing how much I already know. To assess her state of mind without triggering whatever might make her start talking about bodies and blood and corrupt detectives who contaminate crime scenes.