Vengeance (4 page)

Four police officers stood behind two men in business suits. One of the suits looked just like David Caruso on that television police show. The other cop looked like an asshole with his goatee perfectly trimmed and his earring dangling down like a faggot. I would later find out he was. An asshole and a faggot.

“Trevor Ashton?” asshole asked.

“Yeah, that’s me. What’s up?”

Asshole motioned with his hands to the four uniforms behind him and they rushed me, grabbing my arms and handcuffing me.

“Hey.”

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Eleanor Gavin. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…”

“I know my Miranda rights. Shut the fuck up and tell me why you’re arresting me. What do I have to do with this woman?”

They pushed me against a wall so hard that I lost my balance and fell to the carpeted hallway of my apartment building. I could tell the superintendent wasn’t using a Kirby.

Asshole leaned down to me and whispered his evidence in my ear like he was asking to fuck me.

“We found her body bludgeoned with a meat tenderizer and a rolling pin. She was torn apart on her living room couch. It was so bad that her abdomen was literally shredded, evacuating her bowels on the carpet. One of her neighbors spotted your car out front. It took us over a dozen hours to track you down through your license plate number, but we did. And guess what?”

He stopped and smiled at me. My heart was pounding so fast I thought he could hear its drum roll as well as I could.

“We found the killer’s DNA all over the house. Hairs in the bathroom and kitchen sink. Fingerprints are still being lifted in her kitchen but you wanna know what the best part is? The killer’s semen is still in her carpet, and some dripped on her corpse. We retrieved a fresh sample from her right breast an hour after she was killed. Well, what was left of her breast. My guess is, we’ll find out that semen is yours.”

I panicked. Of course I panicked. Some of the demonstrations I do can turn kinky. As I said previously, I stole her shoes. For me, it’s all about the shoes. Sure I masturbate, but is that against the law? I asked her. She nodded her head yes. She even allowed me to finish anywhere I wanted. Now, tell me, with that kind of consent where does a courtroom get the right to question mature adults?

I waited until they got me to my feet and then I flipped out.

“You got the wrong guy!” I screamed. I turned to the wall and pulled the fire alarm with my front teeth.

“I didn’t do anything—”

It was probably getting close to four in the morning. The cops were super pissed that I had caused so much of a raucous. They jumped on me and threw a couple punches in too. Then suddenly I felt their combined weight leave my back.

Something poked me in the ass cheek. I have never felt anything in my life quite as horrifying and exhilarating as being tased. I flopped and bounced on the floor like a dying cockroach. I pissed myself and begged for it to stop.

They hit me again.

My neighbor opened their door at the sound of the fire alarm and the cop turned his lightning rod off.

Within minutes they had me on my feet and were escorting me, carrying me to the waiting prisoner van.

I felt special. A whole van just for me.

Assholes.

I was booked and placed in a holding cell. The next morning they brought me in front of a judge who felt, based on what they had already found at the crime scene, that I was a flight risk. I was ordered held until trial.

That was eight months ago. Since then, I have festered in this rat hole. I can’t sell anymore Kirby’s and I can’t collect anymore shoes.

I’ve often seen a prison guard with a great pair of Reebok’s, but the bars hold me back. I still masturbate, but it’s not as much fun.

In my eight months waiting for trial, I’ve written to shoe companies to receive their mail order catalogs, but my mail is inspected before it gets to me. I asked what harm there was in perusing picture catalogs. I went so far as to explain that they were my form of pornography. But still, the guards won’t let me have them.

There’s one more part that I have to cover before I leave this note for whoever finds it.

They gave me legal aid. I got a lawyer to talk to me two days after being incarcerated. His name was Delroy Conrad. He said he could get me off. I remember saying some half-assed comment like, “Oh
really
”. He didn’t like my attitude.

Another asshole.

Anyway, he’s arriving here in ten minutes so I’m going to sum this up.

I didn’t kill Mrs. Gavin. I touched her rolling pin and meat tenderizer. I touched her kitchen and bathroom. I even touched her, but that was because she offered consent. I stole her shoes. I have broken the law. But I didn’t kill her.

Someone was either in the house with me at the time and murdered her moments after my departure, or someone entered the house as soon as I left.

It wasn’t me.

I love shoes. They’re my religion. They’re what drive me. But not any shoes. They can’t be store bought. They have to have been worn by a woman. I love men’s shoes, but not in the same way.

That is what it’s all about.

Shoes.

#

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About Jonas Saul

Jonas Saul is the author of the Sarah Roberts and The Kill series. Visit his website,
www.jonassaul.com
for upcoming release dates. Jonas lives in Europe with his wife, author Kate Cornwell.

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