Wednesday, May 28, 2014

The Augustine Murders - Season 1, Episode 7

I.7

                       “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
                        Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
                        Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
                        Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.”

W.H. AUDEN
Funeral Blues

January 27th, 1990 – Saturday

“You belong to the Night...”

  Scott’s thoughts had been slowly dissolving in a pool of Italian red wine. He was running through alleyway after alleyway, short of breath, his heart pounding in his chest. There were very angular corridors – turning right, turning left – never going back. Scott only saw walls on both sides – and no door, neither opened nor closed – not even in the distance. 
  The light around him seemed to come from the ceiling, but sometimes also from the floor – which made him run faster, in fear of feeling heat under his feet – and from the walls too, which radiated light and almost turned transparent at times. Scott’s head was spinning. Then the light went dim, and the alleyway felt like a tunnel for a moment.

“You belong to the Night...”

  Scott was getting tired of running so much – yet he couldn’t stop. He had to go further. The young man had a hunch that the path he was following wouldn’t lead him anywhere. It looked endless – and dangerous – turning into a narrow passage as it ran in a bee line to the horizon.
  He was hungry. As he looked down, Scott could see how thin and lanky he was. He could hear his hollow stomach protest and groan angrily. That was a dreadful sensation. Scott looked up – trying not to think that maybe he could count his ribs under such a harsh light. His skin felt so terribly tight. The further he went, the more painful it was for him to go... but he had to go further – escape in one way or another – find a way out of this maze.
  A strange, low and commanding voice kept telling him the same things, over and over. It made his ears ring. Loudspeakers screaming next to his temporal lobes would have hurt less.

“You belong to the Night...”

  Scott couldn’t make head or tail of it, but those five words were digging so deep into his conscience that they would be carved into his brains, very soon. As he kept on running, the young, skinny stud tripped and almost fell on the floor. But he was still running. He turned around, and his hands pushed against the wall. It was surprisingly sticky. Scott’s hands were trapped for a moment, as if he had dipped them into wallpaper paste or glue. The whole surface of the wall showed circular waves around his wrists.
  When Scott pulled his hands out of it, and licked his fingers, he realized that they were covered in honey or maple syrup. 
  When he touched the wall again, it had turned into cake. Scott grabbed a big chunk of it and started devouring.

“You belong to the Night...”

  The voices around Scott were more ominous than ever, but he was stuffing his face full of cake: layer after layer of wall turned into sponge cake, chocolate fudge cake, cheesecake, brownies and more...
  Scott felt that he had to go on. He had to run – run for his life. He had to get out of here. For some reason, he was convinced that he was in great danger...
  Maybe someone else was in this maze, not looking for a way out but simply looking for him: hunting him down. Maybe there was something else, something even worse, like a mechanism just about to trap him for good, or a ticking bomb somewhere. It was hard for him to tell, as he kept on running and scraping large handfuls of pastries.

“You belong to the Night...”

  Scott was trying not to listen to the dark, booming voices that seemed to tell him that there was no escape for him – no way out. He certainly didn’t feel that he was going anywhere, as he forced more handfuls of cake into his mouth, with both hands.
  The alleyway before him was going straight now – endless, growing narrow and reduced to a point of light in the distance. Scott found it harder to run as he was eating faster and faster. The walls were also getting closer and closer around him as he stepped forward. To his horror, Scott found that this passage was truly reduced in width – then he looked down again. He couldn’t see his feet. There was a large, round, bouncing belly pushing the walls on both sides, and growing larger, rounder, heavy and soft as Scott desperately tried to catch his breath...
  He was no longer running, or walking. The walls were no longer sticky, but greasy and slippery... Scott found that his belly had already grown so big that he couldn’t reach them. He had to roll out of that maze, while the light went out again. It would get dark again, soon.
  The walls began to crumble, as if they had just turned into crumble: Scott felt buttery chunks of hard crust rolling around him, then a warm and gooey flow of molasses with soft, caramelized apples threatening to drown him...
  Everything turned into night – and silence. Scott felt himself sliding, almost like a child in a toboggan, only like a big ball of lard on the hot surface of a cooking pan... He shuddered in fear, then he opened his eyes. There was a matching pair of green eyes sparkling in the dark, more fascinating than beams of golden light, more predatory than the eyes of a tiger... Scott wanted to scream or call for help – but, when he opened his mouth, no words came out. Only a long, loud belch woke him up from his dream.

– “BUUUURRRRRP!...”

  Scott was still in bed, lying in a poodle of sweat. He was panting, and the last moments of his dream were so vivid that he had to turn on the light, on his bedpost. He got up, ran to the bathroom and relieved himself.

– “What a strange dream... I have never felt anything like this before.”

  Standing naked in the bathroom, the young journalist looked at his reflection in the mirrors. The light drew strong shadows on his body, but he felt reassured. No ribs in sight, no skinny arms or thighs, and no hollow stomach – thank God...

– “It’s that tiramisu, I’m sure. That was heavy... So, what time is it?”

  It was a bit before 8AM. Scott only took a moment in the shower to wash those spooky feelings away. Then he put on his jeans and T-shirt – casual clothes, to get to the hotel’s buffet, where he treated himself with a magnificent breakfast.

■ ■ ■

  Scott didn’t go back to sleep, but he had left his clothes on the bedroom floor and he was in bed again. Last night had been rough on him, and nothing would feel better than belly rubs at the moment... Scott helped himself generously, under the covers. He had eaten no less than eleven plates at the buffet, and he had drunk half a gallon of chocolate milk, along with two or three pitchers of orange juice, apple juice and pineapple juice. All in all, he was happy.
  As a matter of fact, a contented smile was slowly spreading from ear to ear, while he let his stomach growl softer than a cat would purr.
  Another soft noise distracted him, just then. It was raining again. The weather was in accordance with the occasion – Scott sighed heavily.

– “Perfect for a funeral, but...” He let his thoughts wander again. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

  Scott was certainly not fond of religious ceremonies, but this had to be his least favorite. He had been notified that his presence was mandatory – and he knew that he would get the chance to meet the boy’s parents, senator Astern and his wife. That was important for him, so he could start writing his article.
  Still, he certainly wished that he didn’t have to get out of bed.
  He had nothing better to do, at the moment. Scott was waiting for a phone call. His boss had sent a photographer to take a few pictures. That would leave less room on the page for his columns, but it was probably for the best. Scott had no idea at the moment.
  He still was looking for an opening line when the phone rang.

– “Hello? Yes, it’s me... Oh, is that you, Wills? I mean, Will...”

  William Wills had certainly not been blessed with imaginative parents. Scott knew his colleague well – maybe a bit too well. As a photographer, Will was good enough but as a gay fellow, he was the worst. Scott had given up on acting like a bigger slut than him – although he had put on quite a fight!
  Anyway... It would be good to spend a few hours with Will, after a whole week away from work. Then Scott remembered that he would have to go back to his old office, and his old apartment, and his routine, and his anonymous existence in a big city. He turned his back to the phone and brought the covers back up to his chin.
  He definitely wished that he didn’t have to go...

■ ■ ■

  Will would meet him at the train station for lunch. In the meantime, Scott had to make a few preparations with the people in Saint Augustine.
  There were many long, black cars with chauffeurs and large vans with TV crew and equipment getting ready for the senator. That level of activity also meant increased security. Mr Wingrave had put on a new suit, which must have been bought for the occasion: it was a tight-fitting shirt, but at least no button seemed to be threatening to pop. Scott commented on how good he looked.

– “Thanks...” The man mumbled, unconvinced but still flattered. “They’ve been cheap on me, as always. Look: “made in Taiwan”. Hah... Give it a month and the seams will burst again.”

  Scott didn’t insist on the fact that the shirt would certainly rip at the seams in a few weeks, but that the poor quality of the Chinese fabric wasn’t to blame so much as the excellent quality of the local, All-American cooking...
  That thought brought a smile to his face again, although he didn’t know why. Mr Wingrave was generally surly, yet Scott felt like he would miss him now. That didn’t make sense. It was much more likely that he would miss the doughnuts, brownies and cupcakes in this school.
  Scott looked around, and he stood proudly among the gathering crowd. He was dressed in a designer black suit, with a black tie, and he looked great. It was a perfect fit, and Scott had not put it on in years. For some reason, his blue jeans were recently very tight around his thighs and waist.

– “I knew it, they put my stuff under too much heat at the hotel. These guys are no dry cleaners... I will have to tell Tom about this.” Scott smiled wickedly. “Or maybe I will spank him for it!”

  The whole school was buzzing like a beehive. Scott had passed security, and he was in the main building. Even as he was climbing the stairs, he could hear Mr Porkenham giving instructions to everyone. The old man was almost barking.
  Scott saw Mr Thorne storm out of the office.

– “I wouldn’t step inside, if I were you... Not at the moment, anyway.”
– “What’s happening?”
– “What do you think?” Mr Thorne shrugged wearily. “Mr Porkenham does not like to be contradicted. There would be no reporter around, if it was only up to him. Now he’s reducing the number of people at the ceremony to a minimum.”
– “But you will attend the ceremony... right?”
– “Honestly? I would avoid it if I could. But I’m supposed to be there. Oh well... I wish I could weasel out of here and let Graham go in my place, but nuh huh... He asked to be there and he’s being turned down.”

  Scott knew enough about the school to understand that Mr Thorne meant to mention Phil. As the door wasn’t fully closed, he could recognize his voice too. Mr Porkenham was particularly loud, talking to him.

– “This is an important social event! Senator Astern expects to meet only important people from Saint Augustine Bells!”
– “Sir, if I may...”
– “No, you may not!” The old man interrupted him abruptly. “Once and for all, your recent behavior has been most damaging to this school! You should consider yourself lucky that we are not considering firing you and suing you! As it is, Mr Swayn has convinced me that a simple but significant reduction in salary would do...”

  There was something interesting in Mr Porkenham’s speech. Scott was all ears. Mr Thorne coughed and invited the young journalist to follow him into his own office.

– “Come, come... We’re all under great stress today. Let’s have a drink to calm our nerves.”
– “It’s almost eleven. I don’t really feel like tea.”

  Mr Thorne was still guiding him by his shoulders. Scott’s suggestion made him laugh in a sharp “Hah!”

– “Tea? Please.” He produced a bottle from inside his desk. “Who wants T, when I have J&B...”

■ ■ ■

  Scott was a bit tipsy when he got to the train station to wait for Will. Mr Thorne had served him three double whiskies neat, and no salty treats to munch on.
  At least, Will’s train wasn’t late. The young, flamboyant photographer had a way of springing out of the car like a jack-in-the-box – maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that Scott had drunk his way up to his current good mood.

– “Hey, Will! How are you doing?”
– “Scottie! Scottie, Scottie... Look at you. All black and no leather makes you a dull boy.”
– “I know, I know... Better get used to it, at least for today.”
– “I had to suit up too. How do I look?”

  Scott hated to admit it, but Will looked good. He was only about 5’7, dark hair, deep set, dark eyes, Roman nose and always an impish smile to his lips. He was light and sharp, faster than lightning and always ready with a sassy comeback.
  In many ways, Scott simply hated him. But he could cope with him for another day. Will was done turning around. It was his turn to compliment Scott on how fantastic he looked – which felt surprisingly sincere.

– “I had pictured you living in the sticks with a bunch of grubby farmers and lumberjacks or whatever, you lucky dog! Now, what’s the name of this place again?”
– “Biberton.”
– “Nice! And plenty of fresh air. I was looking at all those fields, and forests, and lakes, back in the train. Looks like this return to Nature agrees with you, too... You look good enough to eat!”
– “Speaking of... We should grab some lunch.”
– “Agreed. We have a busy afternoon in front of us.”

  Scott’s tongue was still thick from the alcohol, so he welcomed the large plate of double bacon cheeseburgers with fries and onion rings, at Dean’s Diner – also known as “Double D” in town. The waitress confirmed that they had put an extra patty into his burgers, as he had chosen Dean’s special.

– “You’ve truly grown an appetite in here!” Will commented.
– “You said it, it’s all that fresh air...”

  As they were almost done with their lunch, Scott had enough time to share his first impressions with Will – about the senator’s demands, and Mr Horn’s mission for him, but also about the case as he understood it.
  Will remained silent for a moment – which was not like him at all.

– “Hmmm... Interesting.”
– “That’s it? I come up with all this and you, of all people, find nothing more to say than Hmmm... interesting?”
– “Well... Actually, yeah. What I find interesting is that you got to find something about the whole event. It was a dead end job from the start.”
– “What do you mean?”
– “You were sent here just so that someone would be here... Mr Horn didn’t expect you to actually work on this case.”
– “What was I supposed to do?”
– “I don’t know. But this is good... This is actually interesting. A murder case? I like that...”

  Scott had only told him about the technical details: his hunch about Michael’s death being a murder, and the closed chamber mystery he had been presented – nothing about the school, or the enormous size of the boy’s belly, or the Quiet Diet meant for the students in Saint Augustine Bells... which was still a bit of a mystery for him.

– “I have only been here for five days...”
– “...And you have found all those shiny pebbles. That’s true. Now, there may be diamonds in there, but I suspect that most of it is just glass. And you could get a nasty cut on those shards.”
– “Don’t give me that knowing look. I know that look.”
– “All right. You got me. I think you’re right.” Will laughed. “There is something strange about this town, I have to say.”
– “What do you mean about the town? I’m talking about that school.”
– “Yeah, so? I’m a photographer. I’m all for the big picture here. And this... what do you call it again? Bibertown?”
– “Biberton.”
– “potae-to, potah-to... Let’s go with Biberton. Take a good look at it. This place looks like they have been shooting episodes of the Twilight Zone all over town, thirty years ago...”
– “What, you mean Rod Serling and everything?”
– “Exactly.” Will winked at him, always in a playful mood. “Maybe even worse: this town looks like it belongs to an episode of the Twilight Zone... Caught in a loop, or inside a time capsule.”
– “...or in a maze?” Scott asked, a bit concerned.

  He couldn’t quite understand why, but his dream had just come back to his mind – quite vividly too... He truly didn’t want to leave this place, he was almost begging not to go back to work – and suddenly, he felt like he couldn’t leave town if he asked for it.

– “Sure, a maze would do.” Will nodded. “And look at the people around here. Look at this diner. It’s great, coffee’s great, food’s great – but seriously? It feels like the whole population is a bunch of Barbie and Ken dolls...”

  Scott was still lost in his own thoughts. Will looked outside the diner, into the streets where the rain gave a nice, fuzzy quality to everyone and everything. It was a gray, cloudy day with a certain electric charge in the air, as if a storm would come soon.

– “...Scratch that. This town has its quota of teddy bears. Look at this one.”

  Will was almost whistling. Scott looked up. There were only a few people in the street, and he recognized the man immediately: it was Phil, walking slowly and listlessly, wearing his usual pair of jeans and an old coat of similar blue denim, almost drenched under the rain. He was just wandering, looking down.

– “Hello, honey goodness. Look at this poor cub. What is he doing out there with nothing warm to wear? He should join us.”
– “You want him to join? Watch me.”

  Scott knocked at the window with his knuckles. Phil snapped out of his hazy state. He noticed the two young men sitting at the table. Scott waved at him, so he smiled and waved back. Then Scott told him with a few gestures to get inside and have a drink. Will was fascinated.

– “No. Fucking. Way...”
– “What do you know? I still got it.”
– “You have to teach me that trick.”

  Will turned to get a better look at Phil as he walked inside the diner, looking shy or anxious – as if the man at the counter was going to frown and tell him that they didn’t want any drifter in there. But the owner only said “Hi, Phil”. He didn’t seem to care.
  The blonde guy looked like a lost puppy. The rain had flattened his hair, but when he ran his fingers through it so they would stop dripping, he looked shaggy and a sandy, dirty shade of blonde – which Scott found incredibly appealing. His well-worn jeans and his wet T-shirt also stuck to his body, showing perfectly meaty pecs and a strong, lean midsection.
  Will was licking his lips as he also commented about the bulge in his crotch – which Scott had already noticed for some time. He had never taken a moment to think about it, and he couldn’t remember why. No thanks to Will, it was all he could think about, right now.

– “There’s a boy who could use an extra, extra large codpiece...”
– “Oh, shut up!”

  Scott knew that Will wouldn’t even try to be discrete.

– “Okay, can we at least share this one? He is more than man enough for the two of us.”

  Scott resented that comment. He never shared his food, and he would definitely not share his toys. As Phil finally got to their table, he made sure that he would sit by his side.
  As Will was already making small talk, inviting Phil to take his coat off, Scott looked into the bag he was carrying. There was a nice, black suit tugged in with a white shirt and a tie – obviously rental. Maybe Phil would get his money back, since he wouldn’t get to wear it at the funeral, but it was probably paid for, with no refund policy.
  Scott thought that it was a bit sad.

– “So, Phil... What are you doing in town?”
– “Phil works at Saint Augustine Bells.” Scott cut into Will’s conversation, then he turned to him. “I’m sorry that you didn’t get to attend the ceremony.”
– “That’s fine... I guess it isn’t exactly my place.”
– “You would really stand out in the crowd...” Will kept swooning.
– “Did you get to talk to Michael’s parents?” Phil asked Scott.
– “Not yet. Why?”

  Phil looked thoughtful for a second.

– “Michael’s mother... I have overheard that she will be staying in your hotel for the week-end. You’re still at the Paddington Hotel, aren’t you?”
– “That’s right.”
– “I could be wrong about this, but she would be interested in meeting you and discuss a few things, considering...”
– “Okay. Then I should ask my boss to extend my staying in Biberton...” Scott looked straight at Will, proudly too, since someone else was suggesting it.
– “Okay, okay... I’ll have a word with Mr Horn.” Will gave up on it.

  Scott felt considerably better. He took the opportunity to ask for more.

– “What would really help my case is a completely different kind of interview.”
– “Who do you have in mind?”
– “The victim’s classmates. I have their names somewhere in my notes... There they are: Dan, Brad and Owen.”
– “Daniel Hilton, Bradford Dulles and Owen Dickson... Interesting...”

  Phil looked lost in his thoughts for a moment.

– “I think we can do something about it.”
– “Really? How so?”
– “Call the hospital, and ask for an appointment at about 10 o’clock, as an outpatient. Let’s say... for a routine check-up.”
– “Okay... How does that help me?”
– “You will find one or two of these boys in the waiting room. They have to go through their regular examination on Monday morning... And the school board won’t say a thing about it.”
– “I see...”

  Scott actually found that solution pretty clever: no one would be breaking any rule, but he could meet those students by pure coincidence and ask them about their departed friend. They may answer – or not. It was worth taking a chance.
  Will kept looking at Phil, then Scott, feeling left out of their conversation.

– “When you say “examination”... What do you mean?”
– “Phil’s a doctor at the local hospital.”
– “A doctor? No! Way!...”

  Will had almost shouted those last two words – and Scott could swear that little dollar signs had just come shining into his eyes, as they would with a character in a cartoon by Tex Avery...

– “You should see me in my lab coat, I guess...” Phil tried to smile.
– “No dice. Take your T-shirt off, and put on your coat.” Will flirted shamelessly. “Okay, a doctor... I would never guess...”
– “What did you think I do for a living?”
– “Gym teacher, maybe? Health instructor?”

  Scott repressed a smile. Will meant much dirtier lines of work, and his choice of words was pure code – only, taken for what they were, as Phil was bound to hear them, they actually hit a nerve. The blonde stud couldn’t help looking hurt.

– “Oh... Well, I used to teach at Saint Augustine... Gym, and basketball. And I’m still active as a nurse there.”
– “Wow... You’re active as a nurse?” Will jumped on that one. “Now tell me, what kind of guy are you?”

  That was blunt. Phil didn’t look comfortable about Will’s questions, but Scott wouldn’t help him – not this time.

– “I don’t know. I’m... nothing. I’m just a regular guy.”
– “I think there’s more to you than meets the eye... and I’m a photographer. Okay, tell me what kind of guys you like.”
– “Why would you want to ask him that?” Scott jumped in.
– “You know the old saying. “Tell me who you like, I’ll tell you who you are.” So? You look quite healthy, active... athletic... Anything I wouldn’t know just by looking at you?”
– “All right...” Phil proved not to be afraid to stand against such open fire. He flashed Will a smile that was enough to turn the air around them into steam. “I like a man with a big appetite.”

  Scott was done with his double cheeseburgers, and he felt an urge to order a second large plate with fries and everything. Will was speechless – which was no small victory.

– “Phil loves to cook. He even bakes pies.”
– “I see...” Will whispered, all the wires inside his brains already blown away.

  Phil excused himself, pretending that he had to go back to work at the hospital. Scott could tell that it wasn’t true: the young doctor must have taken the day off to pay his respects to the dead boy and his parents. Of course, now that his name was written off the list, he had nothing left to do.
  Scott was particularly disappointed with the administrators’ attitude. He had kept that letter from Mr Swayn, and he would use it against him if he ever got the chance...

– “Damn! He's yummy to the last bite...” Will offered as a conclusion. “So, what is he like in bed?”
– “I don’t know... yet!” Scott added, with a determined hunter’s look.
– “I see...”

  Will smirked. Scott wished that they didn’t know each other so well.

– “What did you expect? I’ve only been here less than a week.”
– “Fine, fine. You keep playing with your bear traps. But when you’ve caught that meaty specimen, you give me a call. I know what a man eater you are, but you can have too much of a good thing...”

■ ■ ■

  Michael’s body had been transported to be exposed at the funeral home. There was Mr Wingrave and three security agents keeping uninvited press people away from the lobby.
  The closed coffin looked surprisingly small. Scott remembered that the boy was only 5’4”. The extraordinary size of his belly made him look taller, perhaps. What was left after the autopsy didn’t take so much room. Scott found it sad... Being dead was nothing particularly funny, but the thought of being reduced to skin and bones made the whole matter even worse.
   One day, even he would have to fit his football jock’s frame in such a way that he would no longer be able to toss and turn...
  Scott was no longer tipsy. He had been eating quite well at lunch, and Phil’s comment on a guy’s appetite had made him go for a big Sundae for dessert. Will found it perfectly natural, since the greedy journalist was looking for a big scoop.

– “When are they supposed to be here?” He asked Mr Wingrave.
– “I have just got notice that their helicopter is approaching.”

  Going to their son’s funeral in a private helicopter... Who did senator Astern think he was? Liberace? Scott rolled his eyes and, since that made him look up and there were only dark clouds in the sky, he went for a short walk to clear his mind. He hated that someone’s death should be turned into a show.
  Scott worked as a journalist, but he got disgusted with PR sometimes.

– “What do you know? There’s the Police precinct.”

  It was a relatively small building, with a police car parked next to it. Scott had been thinking about paying a visit to the local sheriff, but he had not found the time for it. Now would be as good as any other occasion.

– “Hello?”

  There was a young deputy sitting behind his tall desk. When he stood up, Scott was shocked and amazed at his size. The boy had to be barely 21 years old. He would probably stand an inch taller than Scott, but he was even larger than Mr Wingrave around the waist. If Scott had to take a guess, this deputy would have to weigh 400lbs!

– “Huh... Hello, deputy...”
– “Andy, Sir.” The chubby young man saluted politely. “What can I do for you?”
– “Well...” Scott found it harder than expected to complete a sentence. “I was wondering if Sheriff Maxwell was here.”
– “I’m afraid not. Was it something very urgent?”
– “Not really. I mean... Is it possible to meet him, if I take an appointment or something?”
– “Why would you want to take an appointment?” The young deputy chuckled, which made his double chin giggle a bit. “You call this number... and he will tell you when you can come by, or maybe he will join you.”
– “Okay... Good. Thank you...”
– “Pleasure, Sir.”

  The obese deputy sat back in his chair. As Scott left the precinct, he was positive that the young man was eating doughnuts or something.

– “What the... Are they running some sort of contest with the security at Saint Augustine school, or what?”

  Scott was stunned – so much that he didn’t notice the crowd gathering around the funeral home. Senator Astern’s helicopter landed in the park behind the place – tricking everyone who was still waiting at the front.
  It took Scott a few minutes to get back inside. There were flashes going on every few seconds. Annoying as it was, it allowed Scott to take a good look at Mr and Ms. Astern. There was an old rabbi singing a eulogy in front of the coffin.

– “V'yamlikh qudsha b'rikh hu b'malkhuteh viqareh...”
(and may the Holy One, so blessed He is, reign in His sovereign splendor...)

  That part of the ceremony, at least, showed some beauty and grandeur. Scott found it quite moving, while everything else around him felt mean and shabby.
  After the benediction, the coffin was taken to be presented in Saint Augustine Bells, where the rest of the ceremony was planned for the victim’s classmates.

■ ■ ■

– “Hello? It’s me... Where are you?”
– “Where do you think? I’m in my car. So, how is it going?”
– “As expected. It’s a funeral, after all.”
– “And it’s Saint Augustine. A well-oiled mechanism, no grain of sand between the cogs... The whole machinery, complete with traps and everything.”
– “Not exactly. This is why I’m calling you.”
– “What do you mean?”
– “There is this journalist in town. Scott Girder... Have you met him?”
– “I’ve seen him, but I we haven’t really met yet.”
– “I see. Well... I think you should.”
– “I thought that he wouldn’t stay longer than a week.”
– “There has been a change of plans... I’m not sure, but he may be the answer to our problem here.”
– “Quite a tall order. Are you sure of him?”
– “He’s the only one who acts like a grain of sand in the school’s mechanism, as you said. I’m sure about this, at least.”
– “All right... I will meet him, then.”
– “I wouldn’t be surprised if you enjoyed having him around. He’s your kind of guy... you know.”
– “Is he, really?”
– “You tell me...”
– “All right! Not a word about this to anyone?”
– “As always.”
– “Good... I have to go.”

  The man hung up the phone in his car. He was parked in front of the City Hall. As he got out, he pulled on his tight, XL shirt a bit and stepped inside the mayor’s office.

■ ■ ■

  There was a private chapel on campus – an old and noble building whose walls were half-covered with ivy, going around its tall stained-glass windows, with a few statues and candles and other decorations inside.
  Chubby cherubs were represented everywhere – on top of the columns, in the form of statues and paintings – with their cheeks puffed out, as if they were blowing in absent trumpets and trombones... Scott was sitting on one of the last benches, as he was attending Michael’s service.
  In the first row, senator Astern was holding the pose he had maintained for the photographers. You could never be sure that one of them would sneak back in and take the wrong kind of pic to be sold to the highest bidder... Next to him, all dressed in black, was his bodyguard. Next to the bodyguard was the senator’s wife – she was also wearing black. Scott couldn’t tell how sad she was through her veil. Then that was probably the real purpose of that piece of silk.
  The picture of Michael on the coffin didn’t quite look like the boy Scott had seen – not only at the morgue, but in the school’s photo album. He looked thin, healthy, happily posing for the photographer. It probably ran in the family.
  Scott had not been able to introduce himself to them. The bodyguards had pushed him away as they were entering the chapel. He couldn’t care less about them, but it was still annoying...
  Michael’s classmates were also here. So was Mr Scupper, along with the board of administrators and a few teachers – one dusty row of sinister lawn jockeys looking over the sitting students. The priest was performing his usual singing & preaching number. Scott wasn’t listening – neither was anyone else, from the looks of it.

– “Our hearts go out to the family of a young man who perished... And my personal prayers of sorrow go out as well, because I believe he died alone, when his classmates and friends were only a few steps away.”

  It was a most boring speech. Scott felt tempted to doze off. He was focused on those boys in their tight, dark uniforms.
  One thing had startled him from the beginning of the ceremony inside the church: they were all eating something. They had been munching on bags of cookies or crisps outside, but to keep going right now, during the sermon... Scott felt that it was a bit much. 
  And they weren’t the least discrete about it!
  As far as Scott could tell, from behind, three or four boys had been put in charge of snacks for the whole group of students. They were constantly giving candy bars, bagels, pop tarts, doughnuts or other goodies from one row to the next...

– “If that’s the way they pay their respect to Michael...” Scott thought.

  But no professor or administrator, not even the director seemed to notice.
  The reverend kept rambling on, trying to look convincing in front of cameras and photographers, in spite of his monotone voice.

– “And now, as time heals all our wounds, we should reflect on what this tragedy means to us as a church, as a community, and as a family...”

“Oh, come on!” Scott whispered to himself, clenching his fists.

– “The loss of a young person is particularly tragic. A life unlived is the saddest of passings... So please, let us pray for peace, for guidance, and for the power to protect our children.”

  It was already hard not to laugh at the ridiculously, run-of-the-mill sermon, but the boys were munching on chocolate candy bars and pistachio nuts. And when those were gone, they all opened large bags of cookies, and started munching on them – loudly! Scott truly had to hold himself...

– “No way! Are they having sodas now?”

  They were... A small group of boys was already guzzling straight from bottles of coke or other soft drinks! Scott didn’t get it: they were not just eating at their friend’s funeral – it looked like they would never stop...
  

  When one of them started uttering a low belch, another boy let out a slightly louder one, then another belch would erupt somewhere else – that was more than Scott could handle. He rushed out of the chapel, trying not to laugh.

– “What the hell is happening in this crazy school?”

  Eventually, the coffin was carried outside by four pallbearers, and put back into the black van. It was meant to be transported back to New York, on Monday, where the burial would take place.
  Senator Astern made a speech. Scott didn’t listen to a word of it. The weather was clear, at least: no more rain, just as Scott had not seen a tear in anyone’s eyes. The press was dismissed – and so were the students.

– “Forget what I said earlier. You have to stay here and write something about this place...”

  That was Will, who looked flushed in the face after he had taken pictures of the audience. Scott could tell that he had been tempted to burst into laughter, just like him.

– “I’ll join you in a moment. Go talk to the director and his colleagues.”
– “What? Those gloomy stooges?”
– “Go! I have to try and catch a few students to question them...”
– “They shouldn’t be too hard to catch. And they won’t run away from you! They can hardly walk...”

  Will was Right. Scott was able to join a few boys, as they were going back to their dorms. For the first time, he could take a good look at them. Every boy in the school looked round and chubby, with large bellies heavily laden with food. The young journalist had already witnessed how much they could eat, on the school’s special Quiet Diet – but also unsupervised, inside the chapel...
  He could understand how such overfed boys would never feel jumpy again: no matter what they were addicted to, it was highly unlikely that any of them would be able to jump, right now! Scott didn’t expect them to be very talkative, but when he put the cat out of the bag – mentioning Michael’s last moments, the size of his immensely bloated belly, and their... relatively refreshing behavior during the ceremony – a few young boys turned to him, and their answer startled the young journalist.
   He had never seen such a scared, worried look on anyone.

– “You don’t understand. We have to eat like this...”
– “Everyday...”
– “All the time.”
– “And a LOT more than this!”
– “Especially now.”

  Scott didn’t understand – but he was impressed.

– “What’s so special about it, now?”
– “If we don’t stuff ourselves full, we’re going to die... like Mickey did.”

(To be continued...)

Next season : « Ghost »

Monday, May 19, 2014

The Augustine Murders - Season 1, Episode 6

I.6 

            “Wer nie sein Brod mit Tränen ass, 
             Wer nie die kummervollen Nächte
             Auf seinem Bette weinend sass, 
             Der kennt euch nicht, ihr himmlischen Mächte.”

            (Who never ate his bread with tears, 
             Who never spent mournful hours 
             Weeping upon his bed at night, 
             He knows you not, you Heavenly Powers.)

Johann Wolfgang von GOETHE
Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre – Book II, Chapter 13

January 26th, 1990 – Friday

“What can you say about a 17 year old boy who died?”

  Scott had been asking himself that question over and over, all morning. There was no easy answer to it. It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if there was no answer at all – certainly nothing that a journalist could put together from the notes he had taken during the last few days in Biberton. Number One: Michael was a short, frail, bookworm kind of boy. A Jewish boy, at least on his mother’s side. Rich family, involved in politics, at least on his father’s side. Number Two: For some reason, Michael had been sent to Saint Augustine Bells. Then he must have been addicted to something – most likely drugs. The boy was also allergic to something – both substances yet to be determined... Number Three: Michael had few friends at school, if any. He kept to himself, and there were a few more secrets about him. It was generally assumed that he had died alone – not only from the evidence gathered by the school’s security, but because it fit his profile. Number Four: Like any other student in Saint Augustine Bells, Michael had gained a considerable amount of weight, following a special diet. The purpose of such a diet was to keep those turbulent, frustrated boys under control.

– “Is that it? Only four items... First one is public knowledge. I have no clue about the second one, and I can’t mention anything about the last two in my article.”

  Scott was soaking in his Jacuzzi, enjoying the water jets massaging his back, with bubbles and foam dancing in circles on the surface. He had been sitting there for hours, right after breakfast.
  After his rather playful night, it was natural for such a young stud to wake up later than usual. Tom had left soon enough to be back at his desk by the end of his night shift. Scott saw him again, standing by the buffet.
  There was less food than before: most of the customers had been taking their share, which had been his until today – at least a good part of it.

– “What, no more scrambled eggs?...”

  Fortunately, Tom was there. The young groom went to the kitchen a few times, always coming back with large plates and big heaps of food. Scott responded well, and every plate was literally licked clean in no time.
  After about a dozen trip to the buffet, and with Tom supplying him so generously, the tall journalist was finally sated.

– “How about a good slice of peanut butter cheesecake?”
– “Woof! I didn’t know you could have cheesecake for breakfast in this hotel!”

  Tom flashed him a mischievous grin.

– “Normally you don’t. But we are eager to please our top clients...”
– “I see...” Scott smiled back, and winked.

  Once again, as Scott had noticed with most pastries he had enjoyed for breakfast, that slice of cheesecake was almost too sweet for his own taste – but still delicious. Tom brought three more slices for Scott, who couldn’t find any good reason to refuse...

– “You had such a hard, long day, yesterday...” Tom teased him. “Investigating that murder must have really built up your appetite!”
– “Yes, I’ve been digging some seriously strange stuff... Definitely messed up.”
– “So you are not done here?”
– “Nope. I have a feeling that I will have to dig deeper... much deeper.”

  Tom was obviously game, both for sex talk and murder-related business. He was going to ask Scott about it, but Mr. Jackson called for him in the lobby. Scott left the table, feeling quite full and heavy, but excited about his first day off.
  He had spent enough time with those men in black, grey and white – educators and administrators... Now he would get to work – real work – and write his article about the boy’s death.
  Scott had been thinking about it so much that his columns would probably write themselves. He was thrilled to be in Biberton, small town with plenty of fresh air – or rather, an air full of secrets and mysteries... He would write his piece, publish it, and it would be thrilling for his readers too.
  He was wrong.
  Sitting at his desk, Scott wasted a whole hour scribbling and scratching out his first sentence. Then he realized that he had not thought about his investigation so much as he had been enjoying every minute of it. He was not in the proper mood to write. Then he tore up the first sheet of paper – then a second, and a third.
  He had to get up. Unfortunately, pacing in his bedroom wouldn’t help so much. Scott had already been going in circles for a few days, with no visible purpose – like a rat in a maze.

– “It’s that cheesecake... That stuff’s really murder!”

  The tall young man took off his T-shirt, then he patted his remarkably enlarged stomach with both hands – and let out a booming, beastly belch that rumbled on for almost five seconds.

– “BUUURRRP!!!”

  Scott was alone in his bedroom, so he didn’t mind behaving like a man-sized pig. He still needed to clear his thoughts, and got into his Jacuzzi. Maybe he would find some inspiration in there.
  What he found was the most comfortable way to spend the rest of his morning, stretching his arms and legs in the water and rubbing his athletic, masculine body with plenty of soap.
  It was all good and toasty, but Scott’s thoughts eventually drifted away from the case. He was painfully reminded about his shortcomings as a writer, his general lack of motivation in front of a typewriter or a notebook. Scott wasn’t dyslexic, but his articles were often so full of errors that he had to go through a series of tests to prove that there was nothing wrong with him.
  Simply, Scott rarely read what he had typed – or what someone else would type for him. He was also pretty hasty in his handwriting, especially when he took notes during an interview. Then it was not uncommon to find the word widow instead of window, spot instead of sport, read instead of red, round instead of ground and shame instead of same... 
  He would have to be careful not to write morning when his article had to deal with mourning. Scott’s career as a “journalist” had been so dead flat that it had never been an issue – and that thought didn’t make him feel any better.

– “There is almost no fact that I can mention in there. What was Michael addicted to? What was he allergic to? I need to know about this...”

  Both questions pointed to the hospital rather than the school itself. Scott smiled, thinking that he only had to confirm that he would have dinner with that blonde, handsome doctor tonight – what was his name already?

– “Phil... Right. And I totally have a leg up there.”

  Scott had kept the letter written and signed by Mr. Swayn on his bedpost, by the phone. The young doctor was pressured by the staff in Saint Augustine Bells as well as in Biberton’s General Hospital. Scott had found him sympathetic, and genuinely concerned. Now that he had leverage, manipulating him would be a piece of cake.
  The mere mention of cake brought Scott back to the rich, filling cheesecake which was still weighing heavily inside his stomach. He had to belch again, while his intestines groaned, churning, grinding all that food...
  Sitting in such a well-programmed Jacuzzi, which sent warm jets of water against his back and butt, along with a renewed whirlpool of bubbles, made Scott dizzy and too comfortable to fight sleep.

  It was almost 6PM when he woke up.

  

  Scott could hardly believe that he had been sleeping for almost eight hours. His fingertips were wrinkled, and his hair was all flat now. It took another hour for him to get dry, and put on a nice suit in preparation for the evening.
  Nurse Rockwell took his call at the hospital. Scott was lucky: Phil was about to leave. He had been working since 6AM. Dr. Lipton was back from his conference or whatever symposium he had been attending, and he would take it from here.

– “Perfect then. I would like to talk to him.”
– “I will transfer you to his office... Dr. Hewdge on One. Phil? Mr. Girder is on the line.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Scott recognized that voice saying “Hello”. It could hardly be mistaken: that warm, soft but manly baritone, with only a touch of Southern accent, that voice would be enough to make Scott smile and swoon.
  Phil sounded a bit husky and out of breath. He had to be tired, after such a day at work, but he accepted Scott’s invitation for dinner gracefully. He would come by the Paddington Hotel around eight to pick him up.
  For some reason, the young journalist felt strange when their conversation was over – probably because the phone allowed him to separate the doctor’s voice from the way he looked. Listening to him, Scott pictured a well-educated, well-dressed, rich man with a commanding presence. It would be unfair to pretend that Phil didn’t show every sign of a good education, complete with those famous Southern, courteous manners. When Scott checked him out, however, he couldn’t get past the fact that a young doctor could wear such well-worn clothes and shoes.
  Scott looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

– “I guess I can teach him a thing or two, just as I learn about Michael’s poison... or poisons.”

  Scott was almost ready. Considering the sheets of paper on the floor, he agreed that it would be better for him not to think about his article – not at the moment. Then the best thing to do was to shave, bring his hair back to their spiky, classy position. Scott could act like a pig, at times, but he took great care of himself.
  Obviously, Phil wasn’t so obsessed with personal grooming. Scott couldn’t help letting out a long sigh when he saw him entering the lobby, wearing an old pair of blue jeans and a grey T-shirt.
  It was still pretty discrete. The young, blonde doctor didn’t notice anything. He approached and shook Scott’s hand.

– “It’s almost 8PM. We had better get ready. I have made reservation at Gino’s... How do you like Italian food?”
– “I love it!”
– “Then Gino’s is the right place to go.”

  Scott followed him outside. Now that someone mentioned food, he remembered that he had completely slept through his lunch time – and he was getting quite hungry again!

– “Where are we going?” he asked, as Phil was heading toward Main Street.
– “Gino’s restaurant. I just told you.”
– “Huh, yeah... I heard that. But dude, where’s your car?”
– “I don’t have a car...”
– “Wait... You don’t have a car?”
– “I never had any.” Phil looked away, a bit embarrassed. Then he added with a little smile, “Do you want me to drive you there in the ambulance?”
– “That’s fine. I can walk... I guess it’s not very far from here?.”
– “Not at all. Hardly two blocks away...”

   Gino’s place was a little, homely restaurant, not a four-star palace with people at the door waiting to park your car, a fountain in the lobby and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Scott knew better than to judge a book by its cover – and he trusted his new friend’s tastes in food.
  After all, Phil was the man behind those amazing doughnuts, and cupcakes, and pie at the hospital. Scott had a hunch that any guy who cooked pastries with that level of excellence also had a talent to pick a great restaurant for dinner.

– “So... Gino, right? Is he any good?”
– “One of the best chefs I know. You can’t be more Italian than he is. Born and raised near Naples. He’s a good friend of mine, too.”
– “Okay then.”

  There were a few couples or groups already seated, with waiters taking orders. Scott was a bit surprised to see them wave or wink at Phil, just a little friendly sign that wouldn’t disturb any other customer.
  Scott followed Phil to their table. Then a middle-aged man with strikingly dark hair entered, wearing his white apron and chef’s hat, made a bee line to Phil and gave him a big hug of welcome. That was a bit unexpected – at least for an outsider. Phil hugged the man back, and introduced Scott to the owner.
 
– “Scott Girder, who is honoring us all by his presence tonight. Giovanni Balducci...”
– “You can call me Gino... You are most welcome, eh. Any friend of Phil is a friend of mine. Are you very hungry?”
– “Hmmm, well...”

   Scott’s breakfast was long gone by now. He was also being invited and that was the kind of occasion Scott never missed to really eat to his heart’s content. So...

– “Seriously, I’m starving!”
– “Well... not for long, eh!” Gino laughed out loud.

  It was a most refreshing outburst. Scott had not yet complained about it, but he had found the atmosphere around Saint Augustine Bells and Biberton a little too quiet, a little too “hush hush”, even for a private school and a sleepy town.

– “Is it okay for you and me to discuss... sensitive subjects?”
– “Don’t worry about it. This place is way off the school’s radar. We’re good.”

  Thinking about the school, Scott suddenly realized that he had forgotten Mr. Swayn’s letter: it was still at the hotel, by his bed. He didn’t mention it, and looked at his menu. Phil would tell him any information that he needed to know, and he could come back to the hospital with good news of his own, at some point during the week-end – or maybe on Monday.
  Scott was in no hurry to leave town, at the moment.

– “Are you really very hungry?”
– “I almost didn’t eat lunch. I’m drooling over this menu already!”
– “In that case, I would recommend the chef’s Giostra special. It’s a whole menu, so you will see just how good Gino is at what he’s doing. And, unless I am very much mistaken, he will appreciate that I brought a friend who enjoys authentic Italian cooking.”

  Scott noticed the word “friend” – and let it pass. It felt nice, but he wondered about it for a moment. He was feeling a good deal of mutual trust and support from the doctor, but he didn’t expect to be introduced as a “friend” to his other friends.
  It brought a bitter smile to his lips. Phil was being polite, of course – he would be friendly with him, but he wasn’t his friend. Scott remembered what it was like to have friends, and he remembered how easily you lose them or they tell you to get lost... Years of friendly betrayals and broken promises had left Scott cynical about the whole “friendship” deal.
  Nevertheless, Phil had brought a file with him – which had to be the results of Michael’s analysis – and it seemed like that Giostra special order was good choice for his meal. Scott had not reached that page in his menu, as he was still a bit lost in his thoughts.
  The waiter was writing down Phil’s order for veal parmiggiano with spaghetti, considering Scott’s silence as if he was hesitating. Then he turned to him.

– “And for you, Sir?”
– “So... Do you want to try that Giostra?”
– “Sounds good to me. In fact... You know what? make that two Giostras for me.”

  The waiter stopped in his shorthand writing, and stared at Scott in disbelief. Phil also looked puzzled, as if he had not heard him correctly.

– “Two? You mean... Twice the Giostra?”
– “Sure. Told you, I’m famished!”
– “Oh... Okay!” the waiter concluded, and dashed off to the kitchen.

  Scott unfolded his napkin, but he hardly said a word. Phil would have to provide for most of their conversation, although he didn’t seem too comfortable with long speeches. Keeping in mind that he was a journalist, Scott started by asking him a few questions.

– “So, what did you tell the school board of administration about my visits to the hospital?”
– “Very little... As a matter of fact, I told them that I couldn’t remember any of your questions.” Phil blushed a little. “Sadly, that was true... I didn’t have to lie about it. I didn’t mention the fact that you have seen Michael’s body.”
– “But you remember that I have, right?”
– “It would make sense, so I assume that you did. I just... don’t remember.”

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Then the waiter brought a bottle of chianti. Scott tasted it and nodded in approval. Phil didn’t look very thirsty, but they shared a toast while the chef was busy in the kitchen.
  Scott took the opportunity to look into Phil’s eyes deeper than before.

– “What do you know? Your eyes are green.”
– “Yes, they are... I wouldn’t forget about something like that.”
– “I thought they were blue. Let me look further...”

  Phil stood still, facing Scott with a smile curling up the corners of his lips. Scott had never seen such a pair of sparkling emeralds – perfect iris, with pupils like dots of black ink, growing bigger and smaller like two little hearts beating in unison.
  The harsh, greenish neon lights at the hospital were to blame for Scott’s previous mistake. Deep down, he also admitted that he had been mostly paying attention to the young doctor’s frame, and a few important details like the size of his biceps and triceps, which made the sleeves of his T-shirt fit very tightly around his arms.

– “Memory lapses, right?”
– “Yes...” Phil’s smile faded a little. “Sometimes, I remember a facial expression or every word in a conversation, years after it took place, and I couldn’t explain why it made an impression on me. Then I get to work for ten hours or more during a day, and it fades away immediately. I wake up, and my previous day feels like it never happened. So... I’m sorry, but...”

  Scott nodded again, pouring himself another glass of wine.

– “The Army really did a number on you. How long have you been a soldier?”
– “Almost ten years... but I wasn’t a soldier so much as an Army doctor.”
– “Did you see much action?”
– “I guess I’ve seen enough...”

  The waiter came back with a plate of veal, pasta and a side salad for Phil, and two big salad bowls for Scott, with a large basket of garlic breads.

– “What is this? Just salad?”
– “Not quite. This is only... your first course”, Phil indicated, his eyes twitching a bit now, as if someone had played a good joke on Scott.

   The journalist had something more than vegetables in mind to satisfy his hunger, but he started digging in – and he wasn’t disappointed. Both bowls contained tall heaps of lettuce in a thick, olive oil dressing, tomatoes, fresh beans, turkey breasts, shredded ham and bacon with croutons, hard-boiled eggs, black olives and big slices of goat cheese grilled on toasts.
   Scott hardly paused between bowls. It was delicious – although not quite what he had expected for the promised Giostra special, whatever it was meant to be.

– “You really meant it when you said you were starving...”
– “That’s right!”

  Since Scott has started devouring, and Phil looked more tired than he was hungry, their conversation lingered a bit longer about the blonde guy’s military experience. With his football injuries, Scott had never been bothered about being drafted. He was naturally curious to know about it.
  Phil had been training in Virginia and Texas. He had been sent to Granada, Korea, the Middle East... Those were probably not memories he was fond of, but he would answer faithfully.
  One detail left Scott a bit baffled. Even during combat, Phil didn’t hesitate to help an enemy soldier if he saw that the members of his unit were okay.

– “Why would you do such a thing?  Did you interrogate prisoners after the fight?”
– “Sometimes we did, and sometimes we didn’t.”
– “What were your reasons, then?”
– “I guess I didn’t have a reason for it. I never needed one. I’m a doctor, it’s my job. And we’re all men under the uniform.”
– “So you didn’t discriminate.”
– “I never did. Skin color is just the same as uniforms. It would be silly not to heal the wounds of a young Iranian man, or Cuban, or Chinese. I don’t know... What would you say of a doctor who refuses to treat a sick person simply because he doesn’t like his shoes or the shirt he’s wearing?”

  Scott didn’t have anything to say about passing that kind of judgments – which reminded him about his own attitude regarding Phil’s grey T-shirt and his old pair of jeans. Looking rugged was not such a bad thing, by the way. Phil certainly pulled it off well. Scott also noticed how the young doctor didn’t mind sharing some of his own values. The journalist assumed that he had rarely been given the chance to do so – most people didn’t care about him and the way he thought.
   The waiter came back with a truly immense calzone pizza, which looked big like a whole ham dressed in pizza crust... When Scott cut it with his knife and fork, his nostrils were incensed with the smell of tomato sauce, fried mushrooms, olives and sausage stuffing in there...

– “Are you sure that you are going to finish this?”
– “I better warn you, I’m willing to share information, but I’m not sharing food.”
– “There is another one coming your way, remember? You ordered two...”
– “Still mine...” Scott mumbled between mouthfuls.
– “Huh... Okay.”

  Sure enough, Scott finished his second, huge calzone, leaving little more than crumbs in his family-sized plate – of course, he had slowed down considerably... Phil was smiling at him, definitely amazed at his friend’s eating capacities.
  It was a truly charming smile. Scott was well aware that most people looked their best by candlelight – a pretty useful trick – but, in Phil’s case, he would have to consider some other factors.
  Right now, Scott was focusing on his sensual, rosy lips, surrounded with blonde facial hair: Phil’s moustache and his goatee were quite dense. This guy could grow a really thick beard, if he stopped shaving for a week or two...
  Scott also smiled. The waiter was taking the cork out of his third bottle of chianti. Another waiter brought another basket full of garlic bread, dripping with olive oil and topped with grilled cheese – which the young journalist immediately claimed as part of his menu. Obviously they had never seen him eat his way out of a meal.

– “Ready for more?” Phil asked, cautiously.
– “Don’t worry about me, there is still plenty of room for dessert. See? I told you I could handle two pizzas... although these were big ones! But I have to say... they were the tastiest things I’ve ever tried.”

  Scott had not talked that much during the evening. He was a bit short of breath from eating so well.

– “It’s not... quite time for dessert yet. Not for you, anyway...”
– “Why’s that? I’m done here.”
– “Oh, your meal is far from over”, Phil pointed out in his warm, husky tone of voice, as Scott was falling into a comfortable daze. “Look...”

  Three waiters were coming back to their table – with no less than six large plates of pasta: fettuccine alfredo topped with shrimps, thick cavatappi drowned in pesto sauce, tortellini with cream and parmesan cheese, maccheroni alla carbonara with fried bacon and a poached egg, penne rigate in a Bolognese sauce with meatballs, and lumps of gnocchi with fried onions and marinara sauce poured all over it...
  Scott felt a cold sweat running down his back. The whole table was covered with plates. They had to start putting plates on display on the tables next to Scott. Phil had already welcomed these various dishes with a smile.

– “I see Gino has agreed to serve you as you wished, and make it a challenge.”
– “You don’t mean that this is all... for me?”
– “Sure it is. You ordered the chef’s Giostra special. This includes three pasta dishes after your pizza. At least, it usually does. I guess you have just invented the extra special Giostra...”

  The waiters had placed all the plates around Scott, who found himself surrounded so well that he was at least forced to “taste” a bit of each. After some hesitation, he realized that the sauces were just exquisite... but he was feeling pretty stuffed!

– “Damn... This is just too much! How often do they eat that much, in Naples?”
– “Giostra means Merry-go-round. It’s meant to take you on a gourmet tour of all the rich specialties from different Italian regions.”

  Scott finally understood. He lowered his voice, feeling all eyes on him.

– “Do you think they will mind it very much if I open my pants’ top button? They feel so tight right now, it’s killing me.”

   The doctor answered with a gentle smile.

– “Just look at the waiters...”

   There were always two or three of them, gathering around their table, going back to work – never leaving Scott out of their sight.

– “I guess Gino wants to know how you’re holding it up... He always gets sad when there’s leftover food sent back to his kitchen.”
– “I see...”

  Scott discreetly opened his belt and his jeans’ top button – now that felt a whole lot better! – then the other buttons followed in a matter of minutes. Scott started eating his fettuccine alfredo. There was a real, tall heap of food...
  Phil was done with his own meal, but he wouldn’t rush Scott into anything. He was patient enough to pour him some more wine, every now and then, when his friend looked thirsty. Scott was getting a bit tipsy, actually.

– “So, you were saying... No discrimination.”
– “Death and injuries strike everyone the same. Why should doctors treat certain people, and not others?”
– “Did you take part in humanitarian action, then?”
– “No, I never did... Honestly, it’s sad enough to burn a whole village in the jungle, but to call it “humanitarian” because you’ve helped the people who didn’t die in the flames would be too much for words.”
– “I meant some non-military, non-governmental action...”
– “Nothing like that. I leave it to people with a lot more money that I have.”
– “So you don’t believe in humanitarian action?”
– “I believe in action. That’s all...”

  Phil didn’t consider himself as a good soldier. Scott didn’t want to contradict him, but the documents he had seen in his office told a different story. As a member or Med. Corp, Phil must have been strict and disciplined, with a strong sense of duty – which also prevented him from fully embracing the hard-nosed, traditional opinions in the Army.

– “What do you think of the discrimination against gay men in the military?”

  Scott was going through his plate of tortellini, and he enjoyed the startled look on Phil’s face. It was no easy question for him, but he didn’t even flinch.

– “Do you really want to know what I think of it?”
– “You tell me...”
– “Honestly? I wish our president had the brains and the balls to do what president Harry Truman did, when he signed an executive order that allowed black men to serve in the US Army without discrimination.”
– “When was that?”
– “1948. It’s about time...”
– “So you think gay men should be allowed too.”
– “Being gay is nothing like being black or white: you can hide it, just like people used to hide their religion in times of persecution... There are certainly more than 50.000 gay soldiers doing a perfectly good job today.”
– “You just said that you can hide your sexuality... I’m not so sure. You get to tell about the way you pray and everything, when you talk to a priest. As a doctor, did you, sometimes...”
– “I never recorded anything like that, but... between you and me?” Phil paused. “It’s even more common than you think. I wish it wasn’t considered a crime.”

  Scott couldn’t help smiling, even as he stuffed his face full of buttery pasta, with more garlic bread on the side. Phil wasn’t too comfortable with the question of gay soldiers, so he made his point quickly.

– “Even if there were only 20.000 gay men currently in active service, it would be a mistake to discharge them on those grounds. More than a mistake: a strategic error.”
– “How so?” Scott asked, his mouth full of meat and pasta.
– “You will find that gay soldiers are often more intelligent than straight soldiers, more resilient too... They have better instinct when confronted to danger, they respond quicker and, most of the time, they are willing to sacrifice themselves for their unit.”
– “Someone should conduct a study about it, then.”
– “Maybe the Army or the government should ask for such a study.” Phil lowered his voice again, which made him sound deeper and darker – and too manly for word, in Scott’s opinion. “More than anything, a gay soldier knows how to keep a secret, at all costs...”

  Scott looked up. He was done with his plate, and was ready to reach for the next one, when he met Phil’s eyes looking straight at him. It was just the opposite of what he had done previously, and he felt a long, earthquaking shiver run along his spine. There was something like dark magic about these deep, sparkling green eyes. It was so strong that Scott forgot how full he was, and started devouring his new plate of pasta with renewed hunger.
  The waiter came right on cue with another bottle of wine. The young journalist was very thirsty. He wondered if the temperature in the restaurant had not been raised by five degrees or more...
  Phil poured him another glass, after Scott had downed the first one in one long sip. Their conversation went back to more pressing matters, after Scott mentioned the students’ special diet.

– “Oh, you have found out about that too.”
– “I certainly did. Is that a professional secret?”
– “The Quiet Diet...” Phil sighed. “That’s how Mr. Thorne describes it.”
– “I guess that you don’t approve.”
– “No one ever asked for my opinion on the subject... But no, I don’t.”
– “Because you consider that it’s not healthy?”
– “Because I think it’s an easy way out.”

  Phil didn’t beat around the bush. His reasons were clear and simple, just as his voice was warm and caressing. Scott would have good reasons to wonder if his shirt was clinging to his body because he was sweating through it, or because he was already stuffed and putting away more food, even faster than before...

– “This... Quiet Diet is supposed to be the secret behind Saint Augustine’s success. Be it as it may, it is no more dignified than pushing a lollipop into a child’s mouth when he’s crying, or buying an ice-cream cone to a teenager simply because he’s going through a tantrum.”
– “Many parents do just that.”
– “All I’m saying is, it’s bad parenting. They don’t listen to the children, and they don’t understand how they have to deal with resentful young adults, a few years later. Our great psychologists in Saint Augustine have lowered the bar to the level of... candy bar, in a way. Nothing like drugs or alcohol, or fancy clothes, or a trophy car or whatever: just food. Lots of it... Keep the other needs at bay, whether they might be justified or not.”
– “You get results in Saint Augustine Bells, don’t you?”
– “In most cases, we do... Then we also end up with files like this one, sometimes.” 

  Scott agreed, although he was secretly glad that such an unfortunate event had happened, a few days ago. Back home, on a regular Friday evening, at the end of a regular week, he would have to consider another regular week-end... 
  Phil had just opened Michael’s file. The time was right: Scott had just finished his last pasta dish, to his own amazement.

– “I can’t believe that I’ve cleaned all those plates...”
– “And here are our waiters ready to congratulate you.”
– “Are you telling me that... there’s more?”
– “Gino has his own sense of fun. Unless I’m wrong, he wouldn’t let a good client like you feel only half satisfied...”

   Two more waiters were coming back to their table, as a matter of fact. One left a long tray of chicken breasts with green pepper and drizzled tomatoes, and the other left a round plate of sliced liver of veal roasted with onions and fried polenta.

– “Merry-go-round?” Scott commented, patting his distended, already aching gut. “They should give you a clear warning about the “go-round” part...”
– “Are you going to eat this?” Phil asked, genuinely concerned. “I know how playful they can get... They will encourage you to eat everything to the last bite.”
– “Well, they haven’t seen the end of me... just yet!”

   Now Phil was truly in awe – and he wasn’t alone. The waiters left them as they were also trying to discuss their murder case, over that marathon-like dinner.

– “Did you perform the autopsy...”
– “As soon as I have received official authorization. I guess you got notice from Michael’s mother too.”
– “Huh... No, I didn’t.”

  Scott had forgotten, for a moment, how he had been lying his ass off about being a privileged representative of the victim’s parents. Fortunately for him, the doctor moved on to get down to the details.

– “As it turns out, I was right about the boy’s cause of death. Anaphylactic shock, occurring suddenly due to... Well... You know.”
– “Right. What did you say the boy had to eat?”
– “Junk food, mostly... Burgers, pizza, doughnuts, pop tarts, ice-cream, chocolate, fudge, pastries... I would have to run more tests, but my guess is that some kind of nut provoked that fatal allergic reaction. Maybe macadamia nut, I don’t know...”

“Damn!” Scott thought. “What’s wrong with me? I’m stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, and I’m still eating against my better judgment, just to prove those guys wrong – what’s worse, I feel hungry just from hearing about Mickey’s last meal...”

– “Oh well... Nuts?” he tried to organize his words in a sentence, as his thoughts were getting fuzzy. “You can never be too cautious, with all the nuts out there.”

  Scott laughed nervously, and drank another full glass of wine in one gulp – which his friend was good enough to ignore.

– “My official report will say that the boy died from ingesting macadamia nuts or some other kind of appetizer that was dangerous to his system. I was asked not to mention the massive, unexplained absorption of food that went along with it...”
– “Right...” Scott added, while devouring the last pieces of chicken.

  His heart was pounding in his chest – his mind was racing as well, both about the case and the gigantic portions of food he was ingesting. Scott had never felt like this: he was eating in a rush, a mix of panic and excitement – he couldn’t even slow down...

– “After closer examination, it appears that the boy only fell to the floor, possibly hurt his head and was unconscious when he died. Did you notice something on a corner of his desk, or any other piece of furniture?”
– “None at all... But I’ve been mostly looking for... food.”
– “I guess he went peacefully...” Phil whispered. “He didn’t get struck or beaten, as you suggested, and he wasn’t drugged either.”
– “I see...” Scott mumbled, tearing away more chunks of meat. “Speaking of drugs, did you know what kind of substance Michael was addicted to?”
– “Michael wasn’t addicted to anything.”
– “Why did his parents send him to Augustine Bells, then?”

  The blonde doctor looked distressed again, as he was concluding his report. While he didn’t avoid looking at Scott, his eyes weren’t focused on anything in the room. For a moment, Scott noticed that they were a stunning shade of darker green than when they had connected so intensely earlier, for a split second.
  Maybe that was simply because he was exhausted after a long day at work.

– “Honestly, you should ask them directly. Michael was a troubled boy, and I am sure that they had their reasons. Everyone has his reasons... I am sorry, but there is nothing more I can tell about this case...”
– “Oh well…” Scott mumbled, finally done with the last plate of fried polenta. “I’m sorry but... BUUURRRP!!!”

    Scott was facing a pile of empty plates. The overfed stud caught his breath and smiled absent-mindedly, then he arched his shoulders back, playfully patting his protruding belly again – utterly stuffed.
   If the contents in Mickey’s stomach had proved to be Italian food, Scott would have questioned Gino immediately. Right now, his own gut was probably stretched out and swollen just like the boy’s, when he had seen him in the morgue.
   Strangely enough, Scott didn’t seem to mind that rather grim comparison... He kept it to himself, of course – how would Dr. Hewdge react to such an attitude?

– “Time for dessert, then?”
– “...Come again?”

   This time, Gino himself attended to him, as a sign of respect. He had brought a large pan of tiramisu, and offered Scott to eat as much as he wanted.

– “Wow! This looks... huge!”
– “My Giostra is an eight-course meal, Mister.” The chef almost bowed before him, always talking with that chanting, Mediterranean accent “You have just made it a complete, sixteen-course meal... Bravissimo! I should like to take a picture of you two at this table, and have it framed on the wall.”
– “There’s really no need...”
– “Now eat your dessert! Eat! Eat!”

   The waiters encouraged him as well: “Eat! Eat! Eat!” Phil only waved at Scott with a smile that seemed to say “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine...”

– “Mangia! Mangia! MANGIA!”

   They were the last customers in the restaurant: it was already 2AM – and it was past 3AM when they left the place, with Gino praising Scott’s appetite and inviting him to come back anytime.


  When Scott woke up in his bed, his memories from Gino’s place were all blurred. He didn’t even remember how he had found his way back from the restaurant.
  He wasn’t sure that it had not been just a dream – but his groaning stomach told him right then that his meal had been only too real, and too consistent.

– “Ooof... Boy, did I pig out!”

  Trying to organize his thoughts again, he remembered that he had finished the whole pan of tiramisu, urged by the whole staff of waiters, and eagerly fed by Gino himself for a few good mouthfuls. Then he had been offered strong, black Italian coffee to get back on his feet...
  Gino had taken some time to tell him his story, how he had left his home town of Conza della Campania, ten years ago, after an earthquake had destroyed the whole region. Scott also felt like a living volcano – and who could pretend that he had not come to Biberton to cause trouble and mayhem?
  Phil must have called a taxi, or he had brought him back to his hotel.
  Scott doubted that he could stand up and walk by himself, after such a gigantic meal... Looking around, he saw his suit and shirt neatly folded on top of a chair – something he usually neglected to do. They offered dry cleaning services at the hotel anyway. Scott was also not wearing his socks right now. Phil must have put him to bed. He didn’t remember any of it, sadly...

– “I’ll have to pay him another visit – at least to thank him for the meal... I guess he also paid for it. I can hardly imagine the size of that check bill...”

  There were lights in the streets, playing with the curtains, but it was nothing like dawn. What time was it?

– “Barely 6AM... Woof! I’m too stuffed to move...”

  Just as he had rushed to get up, Scott fell back on his bed, heavily – his belly felt like a bomb ready to explode – then he burped again... It was another loud, long, piggish belch that rumbled on for more than five seconds.

– “It’s probably for the best... I’ll just sleep through it.”

  When the sun came up, Scott was still feeling full like an egg. He gave his round, stretched out gut a light pat under the covers. Feeling painfully overfed was still a thousand times better than hunger pangs. He also knew that such perfect meals were only too few and far between. It had certainly been so in his past...
  Resting like this – full, warm and comfortable – Scott was still trying to recapture memories from the night before. There had been some chit-chat over coffee with Gino... Wait! Didn’t they even mention Michael?

– “Mickey? L’ho visto... Right here, with a couple of friends. They had dinner in here on Friday.”

  So Michael’s last dinner outside Saint Augustine Bells had been at Gino’s – barely 24 hours before he died! – and he wasn’t alone... Who were those friends? What did they have for dinner?

– “Well... I guess I WILL have to go back for a good meal at Gino’s !” Scott smiled, giving his groaning, gargling stomach a last good pat.

  The young journalist let out a contented sigh. He took off his pants and boxers to go to sleep. He had not yet written the first words for his article...

(to be continued...)