Never Happened. Debra Webb

didn’t think this guy had any family,” Henson tacked on just to add credibility to his question and to prompt an answer, which he would already know. It was his job to know. Charlie Crane’s death might just be a suicide, but in the state of Florida all unattended deaths had to be investigated, especially those involving trauma.

      “The landlord.” Her gaze went back to rest on Charlie’s slumped form. He had to be sixty at least. It amazed her that he didn’t have any family at all. No parents, no kids, no siblings. No one. Not even any real friends as far as the landlord knew. A stir of something Alex refused to identify made her stomach feel a little tight and queasy.

      Henson cocked his head and studied the stiff, then tossed her a sympathetic look. “Well, I’m glad it’s you and not me. As soon as the M.E.’s finished, I’m out of here.” He visibly shuddered.

      She considered the spray of blood and brain matter on the paneled wall behind the body. Could have been worse. She’d certainly seen stuff more ghastly than this. “Nothing I haven’t done before.”

      “A guy never knows what a girl’s going to like.” Henson flashed her another of those big ol’ grins he considered charming, but she hadn’t missed the hint of bitterness in his voice.

      “You could always stay and watch, you might learn something more about what this girl likes,” she challenged. As she suspected, the big, brave cop didn’t have anything to say to that, for more reasons than the work that lay ahead of her.

      She realized it sounded strange, but the fallout from the manner of death didn’t really bother her. The bodies, well that was a different matter. Somehow seeing the person, or what was left of the person, made her knees go a little weak. The way they did now. She fought hard not to let Henson see her inner reaction to the corpse that hadn’t been taken away yet. She had a reputation to maintain after all. Not to mention she went through this routine every time she showed up at a scene. Men just couldn’t believe that women could handle seeing something this gruesome even though women were the ones who more often than not changed dirty diapers. Go figure.

      Not surprisingly, a lot of people asked how she got into the business of dealing with dead things. She usually made a joke of it. Someone had to do it, right? Truth was, her first experience cleaning up after the recently deceased had come at the ripe old age of fifteen. She hadn’t had a lot of choice in the matter. It was either jump in and help her mother or stand back and watch her do it alone. Alex hadn’t been able to do that…her mother had needed her, but she would have cut out her tongue before she would have asked her daughter for help. That moment had fore-shadowed more than Alex’s future occupation; she’d been taking care of her mother in one way or another ever since.

      As with Alex’s current assignment, her father hadn’t chosen the tidiest way to end his pathetic existence. A slightly off-center shot to the chest where the lungs could have sucked in most of the blood would have been preferable and considerably simpler. But like everything else in her life, his suicide hadn’t been simple. A single shot to the head using a 30.06 rifle created an explosion that made a mess of the crappy room in the dilapidated house they’d called home. He’d been an alcoholic who couldn’t see past the hole he’d dug himself into, so he’d taken the easy way out.

      Considering her line of work, Alex supposed you could say the event had made an impact on her. So, after dropping out of college—she hadn’t fit in and money always seemed to be an issue—and drifting from one dead-end job to the other, she started her own business, Never Happened. Another cop she’d dated once had given her the idea and all the reason in the world she would ever need not to date cops. Still, she’d ended up dating Henson. Their relationship hadn’t lasted the month and it was over more than three months ago. Truth was, it never should have started. When it came to men, apparently she had a faulty memory.

      Giving credit where credit was due, that first cop had given her something to think about. What happened when a person committed suicide or died of natural causes or, God forbid, was murdered and wasn’t found in a timely manner? Who cleaned up the mess? In the past it was usually a family member, but today, with elderly folks who have no family left or with those too busy to maintain family ties, who cleaned up the mess?

      More often than not, there were diseases to worry about, and in the cases of advanced decomposition, normal body fluids could become toxic, making it dangerous for a regular Joe to do the cleanup.

      All she’d had to do was get licensed in the cleanup and disposal of hazardous materials, learn to use the right cleaners and equipment and she was good to go. Her phone hadn’t stopped ringing since. For the first time in her life she’d become totally self-sufficient and was her own boss. She wouldn’t get rich but she did well enough to keep her bills paid and a skeleton crew of local misfits in work, including one of her closest high school friends—who assuredly would not be pleased at being lumped in with the rest of the group.

      And, Alex still helped out her mother, who was fifty-five now. She was a recovering alcoholic as of last year and Alex spent far too much of her time keeping her that way. But she had to give her mother credit for helping out with the business in a way that Alex wasn’t sure she would be particularly good at. Though she refused to go near a dead body, Margie Jackson was a damned good public relations rep. She single-handedly took care of all advertising and special offers, like fifty percent off a second service.

      Believe it or not, there were people who liked getting unsightly spots removed from carpet and the like in rooms other than the cleanup scene when Alex or one of her associates showed up to handle the remains of a dead relative or tenant.

      Never Happened was a broad-spectrum cleanup service. They cleaned up most anything. Calls generally involved someone’s passing, whether by natural causes or those not so natural. There was the occasional meth lab deserted by some scumbag who had or hadn’t gotten caught. Once in a while Alex got a request from folks who had experienced some sort of animal invasion, like a gator gaining access through an open patio door and getting swallowed by the family’s pet Burmese python. Big snake. Big mess. Two carcasses to remove. Then there were part-time residents who returned to their vacation home to find that rats had taken over during the off-season. You’d be surprised at the number of people who would rather die than sweep up a little rat poop.

      She supposed that was why they called Miami the international playground of the rich and famous. Folks had money for most anything they desired, which was real nice for Alex and her business.

      Never Happened provided a necessary service to the community.

      When the victim’s cause of death fell outside “natural causes” or was unattended, like now, Alex had no choice but to wait until the police had done their job to get started on hers. The delay made the scene a little less pleasant, but there were masks for that.

      Outside, in her shamelessly overpriced Toyota 4Runner, she carried the accessories of the trade. Hazmat—hazardous materials—outfits and bags for carrying away the refuse. The outfits weren’t attractive by any stretch of the imagination, think beekeeper, but like the bags they worked and that was what mattered. Assorted neutralizers, protein-stain cleaners, various tools and rags, as well as enzyme cleaners that killed blood-borne bacteria and pathogens equipped her for the job. Not exactly the Lysol and bleach one used at home, but the objective was the same.

      A full forty-five minutes and a latte later—Henson insisted on sending one of his minions to the Starbucks on the corner since Alex was forced to wait—the M.E. showed up and took charge of the body, which was wholly his jurisdiction.

      She and Henson stayed out of the way, during which time she listened to how he’d installed French doors in his living room over the weekend and how he’d love it if she stopped by to see what a great job he’d done. He still wanted to be friends. She wanted that, as well, but feared it would never be enough for him in the long run and that moment would be painful so she steered clear of getting too close again.

      With a promise to have a look very soon, Alex watched the cops and the M.E. head out. Since the M.E. had pronounced the cause of death as probably suicide and the police hadn’t found any indication of foul play she could do what she’d