They call me the Hygienist. I never complain about work. Whenever someone calls, I always show up. That’s because lately the orders have dropped off, and I still have a family to feed.

So here I am, working on a Sunday. Don’t think I’m whining. I’m actually doing pretty well. I only work two or three days a month, but I still make more money than those fools who sit around in their dull offices.

The building has a doorman, which isn’t ideal, but I’m well disguised, so there shouldn’t be any problems later. In fact, no one’s ever managed to recognize me yet. Still, there’s always danger — that’s how it is when you do people’s dirty work.

I go in. The doorman lifts his head from his newspaper and asks who I’m visiting. I tell him I’m a plumber, that Mr. Strasser called me, and he nods and goes back to reading. I take the elevator to the penthouse on the seventh floor, pull out the key they gave me, and unlock the door. I enter and lock it behind me.

The place is luxurious, which annoys me — I should’ve asked for more money. No doubt the owner’s loaded. But a deal’s a deal. I’m not the kind who goes back on his word. To stay in this business, you have to be honest.

The body is lying on its back on a Persian rug in the living room, arms spread out, legs crossed in a grotesquely unnatural way. A woman, of course. Around twenty-five, long light-blond hair, pleasant features. There’s a matted patch of blood near her temple, but not much — the carpet’s probably fine. I honestly hate cleaning carpets.

I look her over. She’s fresh — hasn’t even turned that waxy pale color yet. Can’t weigh more than fifty kilos, which means once I cut her up, I can carry her out in five or six trips with the duffel bag.

I spread the plastic sheet beside her. I’ll move her to the bathroom and do the cutting there — the blood can drain away, and cleanup is easier. I grab her under the arms, drag her onto the plastic, lift her, and carry her to the bathroom. Big place — perfect for chopping up a body. I put her in the tub and take out my handsaw. I don’t like using power tools — too noisy, might make the neighbors suspicious.