Mangled Meat

by Edward Lee

  “Great news today,” Heyton muttered a sarcasm.

  A guy next to him perked up. “Oh, yeah, the new lefty for the Yanks! That is great news.”

  Heyton smirked.

  Next, a stoic newswoman who looked like a lobotomized Barbie reported: “Also in the news, Michigan’s self-described B-H-R Killer, Duane Packer, was sentenced today to 23 consecutive life terms after an Antrim County court heard forensic evidence detailing most of Packer’s victims. In the witness stand, Packer himself defined B-H-R as initials for ‘blind, hang, and rape,’ and claimed that his only regret was being caught, because, quote, ‘now the fun has to end,’ unquote. Expert witnesses from the county coroner’s office verified that Packer, a crystal meth dealer, would also inject his young victims with the powerful amphetamine so they wouldn’t pass out during his ministrations of torture. Further charges of post-mortal and peri-mortal sexual assault, child abduction, and felonious imprisonment will be processed later in the week. All of Packer’s victims were boys and girls between the ages of six and eleven.”

  “Only in America,” the barkeep remarked, pale with disgust.

  Next, the TV flashed footage of the killer being led from the courthouse. He could’ve been a stock broker with his well-groomed hair, tidy suit, and studied expression.

  “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 4th 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 t
he 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...

  They moved down the hall. “Your story didn’t exactly wash like the cleanest laundry,” Rollin said ahead of him, “but neither did hers. Sometimes people just aren’t what they seem.”

  Heyton felt an inner groan from the choice of words.

  “The dead fetus in the garbage? You’re gonna have to write up a full statement on that, and we’ll have to run it by the district attorney’s office.”

  “I understand,” Heyton stammered.

  “But they’ll blow it off. You got no priors, you got no record, plus you’re a respected business man. And they won’t bother prosecuting you for solicitation because there’s no evidence the girl’s a hooker. Only thing the D.A.’ll make you do is fly back to St. Petersburg in a month or so for an inquest and hearing.”

  Fate kept throwing him gifts now. The fear had been enough, and the guilt. I’m not bullshitting you, God, he prayed. I really have learned my lesson...

  “Just let this be a lesson to you.” It was Rollin again. “Don’t pick up hookers—ever. It might seem like a victimless crime to most people but, trust me, it’s not. Guys like you get their throats cut by junkies, pimps, and whores every day of the week. It’s not your world, Mr. Heyton, so stay out of it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The main conference hall was packed now, milling with dozens of police chiefs and technical advisors. Heyton noticed with some satisfaction that all of his product brochures had been taken while his competitors still had plenty.

  “We’ll be out of your hair in a minute, Mr. Heyton,” Rollin said.

  But Heyton was confused. Why’d they even come back in here? he wondered. Rollin approached his place at the table.

  “What’s, uh, what’s going on?”

  Franco answered. “The lieutenant’s just gotta check one thing, then we’ll be out of here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Just a precaution. The girl was right about the roofies in your wallet—”

  “No, no, look, I told you, she planted it while I was knocked out—”

  Franco smiled. “Relax, Mr. Heyton. We know that. But we just have to be sure.”

  More unease spilled into Heyton’s gut. “About what?”

  “She also said you took something.”

  Heyton blinked. “Huh?”

  Rollin was unzipping Heyton’s briefcase, opening it on the table. It was the wider type, one section filled by his
laptop, another section for papers, and a side compartment for computer accessories.

  “Just my laptop and work folders,” Heyton said, mystified. Franco’s comment pecked at him. What are they looking for? More drugs?

  Rollin un-velcro’d the side compartment. That’s where Heyton kept his power cord and trackball.

  He squinted.

  The cord and trackball were gone, a crumpled plastic bag in their place. Heyton had no idea what it was, and was certain he hadn’t put it there...

  Rollin opened the bag—

  “What the HELL is that?” someone hollered.

  Rollin’s face melded into a rictus. Several other chiefs leaned over and looked in, then turned away pale.

  “God in Heaven!” someone else shouted.

  Then someone else actually screamed.

  After the first flash of shock, Franco had his gun to Heyton’s head. “You sick piece of shit...”

  Pandemonium broke out, the room going deafening. Rollin’s jaw seemed unhinged when he turned to re-face Heyton.

  “You’re going to pay for this, Mr. Heyton...”

  One peek in the bag was all Heyton got—and all he needed—before he was slammed face-first to the wall, man-handled, and cuffed.

  Heyton could not comprehend this, even though he’d seen it with his own eyes. Elbow jabs and discreet kidney-punches jolted him, and the cuffs were tightened like jaws. “Get that monster out of here,” he heard Rollin groan over the rising din, and as he was dragged out, his own thoughts finally registered: Oh my God the crazy psycho bitch had twins...

  Room 415

  When Flood saw the naked woman in the window, he froze. He stood poised as a mannequin in the dark, lit cigarette in hand. Excitement flashed, first in his heart, then his groin. It was the spontaneity, he knew, the total surprise. From this angle (Flood was on the fifth floor, the woman down on the fourth) he couldn’t see her face. Just a blur of shiny, ink-black hair, a flash of white breasts as she turned. Now she stood back to window; his eyes locked on the lines of her shoulders, waist, hips. A perfect snow-white rump. At first he thought she must be wearing a white bikini, until a maintained stare revealed stark tanlines. Another sun bunny, Flood thought. After that first second of reaction, he shrugged, uninterested. Why bother even looking? he told himself. What’s the point?