“It’s like concrete when it dries,” he says while inside a Toronto apartment littered with kids’ toys, recording equipment, drugs, and gun paraphernalia. “But if you start when it’s too fresh, you’ll just smear it everywhere.”
The professional crime scene cleaner is on the site of a shotgun suicide where he gives me the rundown of his process. “I’ll scrape, clean, disinfect, then paint,” Weir says. All of the guy’s possessions will be placed in a storage locker for his family to sort through. “When I’m done, nobody will ever know what happened here.”
Mouldy grow-ops, vicious murder scenes, liquefied corpses—Weir has cleaned them all. He’s lean and wiry with cigarette-stained teeth, needle-short hair, and a distant, muddy stare. And you can tell that he’s seen things that would shatter a sensitive soul. You can also tell that he’s just fine with that.
“That’s someone’s existence that