Mangled Meat (7 page)

“Can you believe that shit?” said the tech salesman next to Heyton. “He looks like any of us. He looks totally normal.”

“Looks are deceiving,” said the keep.

Another man said, “When you get right down to it, lots of people are never what they seem.”

The words chased Heyton from the bar.
The girl said the same thing,
he recalled,
and she wasn’t kidding.
Indeed, people could look normal but could just as easily be monsters beneath their veneers of normalcy.

Like her,
Heyton thought. His stomach went sour.

Soon, droves of high-ranking police filed in to the center—Heyton’s target customers. He wasn’t sure why, because he believed his previous self-assurances.
She killed the kid, not me,
became a cyclic fugue in his head. Of course, so many police made him paranoid, and they weren’t just police, either. Police
chiefs.
Indeed, the con center was full to the brim with them.

Chiefs from every Florida city and township, chiefs from myriad counties, chiefs from sheriff’s departments, along with their technical liaisons.

If they only knew,
he thought, passing still more of them.
If they only knew what happened to me last night...

Even hours before the meeting’s official commencement, Heyton was approached by one chief after the next, wanting to know more about his system. “I heard damn near all of Texas bought it,” one said, “so it must be better than anything on the market.”

“It is,” Heyton told him.

He was about to start setting up his presentation material in the conference hall when it occurred to him that he was the star of the day. The competitors beside him were outright cold now, knowing their own pitches would go ignored, but at Heyton’s place at the table a line was forming almost like the autograph session for a bestselling author.

Police chiefs swooped down from either side to barrage him with questions, all of which Heyton answered with an easy expertise. He handed out business cards and brochures full of his system’s technical details. “It comes down to this, sir,” he explained to a Gregory Peck-looking county sheriff, “with our Interagency program system, your department saves money by identifying offenders faster. Your arrest rates go up, your processing costs go down. Why? Because you’re fully integrated with a statewide criminal offenders database. Access is instantaneous.”

“I want one,” the sheriff said, cut and dry.

Many more followed, and Heyton hadn’t even made his presentation yet. Perhaps God or the fates had taken his promise to heart.
Last night was a bad night but today’s gonna be a VERY GOOD day,
he thought.

Two younger police officers stepped ahead of the line. “Sorry,” Heyton began, “but you’ll have to wait your—”

The first cop held up an ID card. “I’m Lieutenant Rollin, and this is Sergeant Franco, sir. We’re with the St. Petersburg Police SRC Unit.”

Heyton’s brain vapor-locked. “SR—what? Do you want a brochure?” But a black vibe told him,
These guys aren’t here for the presentation...

“Are you Gordon Heyton?” the sergeant asked. He seemed to be reading off of something in his hand. “Of Blocher Systems International, Sioux Falls, South Dakota?”

Heyton gulped. “Uh, yes. What’s that you’re reading?”

“Come with us please.”

Heyton’s feet felt encased in chains when he followed the two officers out. The outside hall stood pin-drop silent; Heyton could hear his heart beating. “What’s the SRC Unit?” he had to ask.

“The Sexually Related Crimes Unit, sir...”

I’m caught,
the thought hit him like a piton to stone.

Rollin was steely-eyed, and had a mustache thick as a gun-barrel brush, while the younger sergeant was clean-shaven and pallid-complected. They both bore expressions cold as stone busts.

Heyton couldn’t shake the drone in his head when they led him to a smaller conference room and closed the door.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Heyton?” Franco held up the object in his hand: a flat leather slipcase.

Think! Think! What should I do?
“It’s the name and address tag on my suitcase,” he admitted.

“Do you know how we got it?” Rollin queried.

Admit it,
Heyton saw no recourse.
Don’t lie. All they can do is arrest me for solicitation.
He gulped again. “I guess the prostitute took it...and gave it to you. And now—what? She’s levying some phony charge against me, I guess.”

“May I see your ID, Mr. Heyton?” Franco asked.

Heyton gave him his wallet.

Rollin sat down at a table and began to write on a metal clipboard. “What’s this about a prostitute?”

“Come on,” Heyton griped. “The pregnant girl.”

Rollin and Franco exchanged blank glances. “You’re not under arrest at this point,” Rollin informed him. “We’d just like to ask you some questions. But please understand that you don’t
have
to say anything. Would you like a lawyer?”

Heyton sat down with a nervous slump. “I don’t need a lawyer. All I did was try to pick up a hooker. So go ahead and bust me for that if you want. It’s only a misdemeanor. All I’ll get is a suspended sentence or PBJ.”

“Is that so?” Rollin’s eyes remained cast down, to the board. “Just tell us about Sherry Jennings.”

“She didn’t tell me her name.” Heyton’s face felt red-hot. “Look, last night I picked up a prostitute. I admit it, I confess. But that’s
all
I did. I didn’t even have sex with her. She robbed me, and took my watch.”

Rollin’s brow arched. “It looks to me like your watch is on your wrist, Mr. Heyton.”

“Yes, I know. But this is just my spare. It’s not even a real Rolex, it’s a Chinese knockoff. She took my real one—”

“And she
robbed
you, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s that you just gave Sergeant Franco?”

Another long sigh. He’d passed the sergeant his wallet. “She took my cash, and left the wallet.”

“Took your cash and credit cards, you mean?”

“Actually, uh, no. Just the cash.”

Silence.

“Look, I know this doesn’t sound good,” Heyton broke the ice, “but I’m not lying. It’s not really that uncommon, is it? Hookers rob johns.”

“Sherry Jennings, you mean,” Rollin said. “She has no criminal record, Mr. Heyton. She said she missed the last bus home from her job, and you offered her a ride. She said you then drove her to a motel on 4
^th
Street, overpowered her, and—”

“That’s a lie!” Heyton almost bellowed. “I’m leveling with you!” Franco now, arms crossed, looking down. “And this girl is
pregnant,
you say?”

Heyton could’ve laughed in spite of the situation’s grimness. “Well, not any more, but you guys must know that.”

Two more hard glances drilled into Heyton’s eyes. “Mr. Heyton, are you sure you don’t want a lawyer?”

“I don’t need a damn lawyer! I’m being upfront, damn it! The girl’s crazy, can’t you see that? I ought to be pressing charges against
her!
”

“And she
robbed
you?” It was Franco again. “You’re telling us that a twenty-year-old
pregnant
girl took your cash out of your wallet, took the watch off your wrist? What? Did she hit you in the head or something? Did she pull a gun?”

Heyton frantically waved his hands. “No, no, she drugged me. When I went to the bathroom she put some rohypnol in my drink.”

“Ah, rohypnol,” Rollin said. He wore his sarcasm well. “And how did you know it was rohypnol?”

“I found the empty packet on the floor.”

“Do you still have it?”

Heyton rubbed his eyes. “No. I threw it out. There was no reason for me to keep it.”

Rollin nodded. “All right, Mr. Heyton. Here’s her side of the story.” He sat upright. “She claims that
you
drugged
her.
”

“Total bullshit,” Heyton blurted.

“She didn’t know with what but she said it was something from a packet you kept in your wallet.”

Franco fingered around in the wallet’s slots, then—

“What’s this, Mr. Heyton?”

The cop had found it slipped behind the center slot in the wallet: a packet that read: ROHYPNOL (FLUNITRAZEPAM) —DO NOT USE WITH ALCOHOL.

Heyton’s mouth turned dry as sand. “She...planted it.”

Rollin examined the packet, blank-faced. It had been opened, and only contained one tablet, but he made no comment.

“She planted it,” Heyton repeated. Sweat drenched his collar. “She’s trying to set me up.”

“Hmm,” Rollin said, “There’s more to her story.”

I know,
Heyton thought. But he couldn’t say a word.

“She claims that after you drugged her, you molested her and then beat her so severely that she had a miscarriage—”

“WHAT!”

“—and that you sexually assaulted the fetus,” Rollin finished.

Heyton gagged, his eyes rolling back. His head bowed and he ground his fists into the table. “She performed an abortion on herself in the bathroom when I was knocked out,” he choked. “She left the fetus in the toilet, then she took my money and watch and left the motel. When I came to, I found it. It was dead—I’m
positive
it was dead.”

The next few seconds of silence seemed hour-like.

Franco never uncrossed his arms. “What did you do then?”

Now, indeed, Heyton felt as though he were confessing to murder. “I got scared,” he droned. “I didn’t know what to do. I knew the fetus was dead, and I knew that if I reported it to the police, my reputation would be ruined. There was no turning back the clock. It was
dead.
The girl was
gone.
So...I cleaned up the mess, and...I wrapped the fetus up in plastic bags, and...I...disposed of it.”

“How, Mr. Heyton?” Rollin asked quickly.

He almost couldn’t hack out the next words. “I put it in a dumpster at a convenience store. I don’t know which one. It was still dark.”

Right now the tick of his phony Rolex sounded like crowbars clanging together.

Rollin and Franco remained silent for several moments, then Heyton nearly shrieked when the door barged open and in walked another cop, bull-shouldered, forearms stout as softball bats.

“We didn’t find anything, sir, except these.”

The cop placed a stack of magazines before Rollin’s gaze.

When it rains, it fucking pours,
Heyton thought.

Glossy pages flittered; Rollin thumbed through a few of them. “
Natal Attraction,
Mr. Heyton?
Buns In The Oven?
”

Something like a psychic hydraulic press began to crush him. “It’s not against the law to have those,” was all Heyton could say. “But I’m pretty sure it
is
against the law to search someone’s luggage without their consent.”

The brawny cop flapped the warrant in his face. “Not with one of these.”

“Take this shit away,” Rollin said. “Put it back in Mr. Heyton’s suitcase. He’s right. Possession of this type of pornography is not unlawful, and we shouldn’t make judgments. It’s not our job.”

Heyton was vibrating with adrenalin. “Lieutenant, I swear to God, I didn’t cause that girl’s miscarriage, and for God’s sake, I didn’t—” He gulped something large as a rock—“I didn’t molest the fetus. I admit I’ve got this weird attraction to pregnant women, but I never do anything bad to them, and I’d never think of hurting them, and good God Almighty do you really think that I could do something that sick?”

Rollin began to lose some of his rigidity, to either fatigue or tedium. “Actually, Mr. Heyton, no. I don’t think for a minute that you could do something like that. In my time, I’ve busted plenty of people who are that sick in the head—and sicker. But you’re not it, not even close.”

Heyton wanted to cry...or just keel over.

The lieutenant went on, “You got some kinky thing for pregnant women? That’s pretty fucked up if you ask me, but, hey—that’s just me. And you’re right, that girl probably is off her rocker. But I have to know for sure before I walk out of here. You follow me?”

“Of course.”

“Come on.” Rollin stood up. “Let’s get Mr. Heyton back to his conference with our apologies.”

Heyton walked out rubber-kneed.
Oh my dear God, thank you...