You toss the floor sander, the level, drill bits and sander in a black garbage back and throw them in the back of your beat-up white '02 Chevy. You pass all the dumpsters you see for the first mile after leaving the house; you know they'll be searching the immediate area. After a couple minutes, you decide you've reached minimum safe distance and toss the bag into a dumpster behind a restaurant.
You've always followed your own two golden rules on getting away with crime: hide the body where no one can ever find it, and keep your fucking mouth shut.
The next morning, you're watching the morning news when, sure enough, the graphic with which you've grown flashes across the screen. "Floor Fucker Strikes Again!"
A distraught elderly woman has a microphone shoved in her face.
"I heard some noise in the night," she says to the reporter, "but I thought it was just the possum family under my house again. But when I woke up, I come into the living room and there's this little hole in the floor. I go to proddin' it to see what was it, and I was damn near elbow deep in the sucker before I realized my hand was covered in crisco and man butter! Ain't folks got no decency no more?"
You chuckle softly. No, you think, no they don't.