“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 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.”