Behind the Smile

8

There had been a crowd at the scene when Hayden arrived, rescue workers and boats drifting in from other parts of the lake, drawn there by the shrill and wail of sirens, along with the usual number of ambulance chasers and curious onlookers. Some, Hayden was sure, had gone away disappointed because the meat on the end of the hook wasn't human. Yet, they had not gone away completely empty-handed, for unspeakable mutilations had been done to that dog that would, he knew, be expounded upon over coffee shop counters for many days to come.

He would never understand the grotesque fascination that accompanied violent death. He had seen so much; he witnessed the meaningless waste and the immense sorrow brought upon families like an inescapable scourge. And he'd seen how people were drawn to horrible situations with a bloodlust to learn every sordid detail.

An observer of people, Hayden often stood in the background, watching. It seemed that everyone had a part to play—grief-stricken mourners lost in their anguish, gold-digging parasites counting their windfall, grateful bystanders awash in relief that such horror had come to another man's house and had, at least this time, bypassed their own.

But none loved attention's spotlight more than the one with a story to tell.

Time after time, death's bard recounted gruesome details with a macabre relish. And those who listened most intently listened with an insatiable appetite as the same tales were hashed and rehashed, tattered from the telling, yet devoured again and again.

And the irony was never lost on Hayden that such a harvest of pain for one person could be a bountiful feast of speculation for another. Over bridge, coffee, and a second piece of cake, the women would discuss the horror. Their husbands would sit with beer, stale peanuts, and the blast of the radio, listening to the race and wondering aloud why such a thing had happened.

They were no different than the crows he'd seen as he crisscrossed the county on patrol. Dressed in formal mourning attire, like black feathered undertakers, they picked the road kill carcass clean, devouring every morsel, leaving only a death stain upon the highway. With stomachs gorged on carrion, they flew to the treetops to belch decay, oblivious to the victim who had been the meat of their meal.