The Augustine Murders - Season 1, Episode 4

I.4

            “Le vray moyen d'estre trompé, c'est 

             de se croire plus fin que les autres.”

            (The truest way to be deceived is to think

             that you are more cunning than others.)

François de Marcillac, duc de LA ROCHEFOUCAULD

Réflexions ou Sentences et maximes morales – CXXVII

January 24^th, 1990 – Wednesday

   Scott’s room at the Paddington Hotel was on the 7^th floor, comfortable, large, with a Jacuzzi for a tub in the bathroom. His bed was a King size, but he couldn’t get himself to sleep. He was excited about his first day of interviews, but there was a couple having sex in the next bedroom. They kept banging the headboard of their bed against the wall – and the loud, squeaky sounds let out by the girl were enough to make him sick.

– “I had almost forgotten that they could get so high-pitched...”

  Since he couldn’t get a moment of rest in bed, Scott got up and paced for a moment, going through his thoughts once again.

  As expected, the mention of a possible homicide in Saint Augustine Bells School had caused an uproar with the security, then with the administrators, working its way back to Mr Porkenham. Less than an hour after he had left the place, Scott was welcomed by the hotel’s receptionist with a stack of hastily written notes: he was summoned to meet with the dean, while the school counselor had left messages to cancel their initial appointment.

  Everything was well wrapped up in very formal terms, long sentences, carefully chosen words. Scott smiled. He had just thrown a big rock into that murky pond, and those frogs insisted on troubling their own water even further...

  In its own petty, laughable way, such retaliation was a good sign. Scott needed to be antagonistic, or he would never get to come back to the scene of the crime. His first convocation as a journalist was a one-time free pass... Scott felt free to go anywhere as he pleased – he was almost invited to do so!

– “Well, maybe not. First steps are always the hardest... I only have a foot in the door, right now.”

  It was almost 3AM. Scott was too tired to go on pacing aimlessly. He opened the door to his mini-bar and helped himself with a shot of whisky, then a shot of vodka, then cognac – with peanuts. Mini-bar meant mini-drinks, and Scott felt a bit disappointed. Going back to bed, he found the hotel’s brochure next to the Bible, sat down and skipped through the description of Biberton.

“Biberton got its name from the settlement's proximity to a large body of water resulting from beaver dams.”

“The area of Burstin Valley, which became Biberton, was originally the home of a Native American tribe known as the Boartsi, which early settlers mispronounced as Burstin. The Boartsi population dwindled in the latter part of the 18th century, and the prosperous tribe was no longer dominant in the area by the 19th century when settlers, mostly German and Dutch families of lumbermen and fur trappers, arrived circa 1850.”

“The valley was increasingly settled until the town was founded in 1861, by the Gunns & Rosses Lumber Company. Farmers built a number of thriving grist mills, and the first brewery was inaugurated after the Civil War.”

“The original buildings have become a museum. BBB (Biberton Brewing Brothers) produces pale lager as well as amber ale and cream ale, some of the most widely consumed, most nourishing and commercially available beers in the United States.”

“The climatic region is typified by large seasonal temperature differences, with hot, often humid summers and cold, sometimes severely cold winters.”

“The public schools of Biberton are part of the Biberton School District. Private schools in the area include German American School, George Washington High School and Saint Augustine Bell’s Preparatory School. Biberton's High School mascot is quite obviously the beaver.”

“According to the United States Census Bureau, the city has a total area of 9.71 square miles, of which 6.53 square miles is land and 3.28 square miles is water.”

“The population was of 6,670 at the 1980 census, with 896 households and 491 families residing in the city. The racial makeup of Biberton is 97.05% White, 0.99% African American, 1.65% Native American, 0.09% Asian, and 0.22% from Hispanic or Latino origin.”

– “Bor... ring...” Scott yawned. “I need to get some sleep.”

  Eventually, Scott turned to the TV and slowly fell asleep on the couch, watching Bugs Bunny and other shorts on the Cartoon Network while he munched on his Toblerone...

  The hotel provided a big breakfast buffet, which cost 16 dollars on top of what Scott – or rather, his boss – had to pay for the room. According to their flyers, it was opened from 6:30AM to 9:30AM.

  Scott had hardly slept for a moment. He got up, showered and shaved – right on time so he would be their first customer. He had every intention of enjoying his 16 bucks worth of breakfast to the fullest!

  At least the hotel’s buffet was far from disappointing. There were several kinds of coffee, café au lait and hot chocolate served in big bowls, a large number of tartines, full baguettes sliced and spread with butter, jam and cream, some with chocolate paste too, which Scott simply dunked in his hot drink. Then he had his eyes on some of the brioches, and other pastries: croissants, pains au chocolat and pains aux raisins... He kept a small pile of those next to his cup of coffee.

  Scott went back for a few bowls of cereals with fromage blanc, corn flakes and chocolate rice crispies, then fruit compote, ripe bananas, frozen yogurt, fresh apricots and peaches in tall cups of jelly...

  Then Scott feasted his eyes on the variety of bread rolls they served – only he made sure that his stomach received its share of such a feast! Stick after stick of butter, sliced ham and cheese, meat spreads, cold cuts, hard-boiled and soft-boiled eggs found their way into his mouth all too easily.

– “Yummy...” Scott mumbled, wiping his chin with a napkin. “This is truly a full breakfast... Hello there, fried eggs and bacon? Mine!”

  Scott helped himself with three plates of scrambled eggs with pork sausages, beef sausages and bacon, poached eggs with mushrooms, tomatoes and fried dumplings, pudding, toasts and potato scones...

  There were also bagels on display, some with poppy seeds, some others with sesame seeds. Scott loved both kinds and devoured a few of both, washing everything down with orange juice, pineapple juice and apple juice.

  It was a magnificent buffet, to say the least: Scott gave an appreciative look to the apple pies, strawberry pies and blueberry pies, the orange sponge cake with cinnamon rolls. Then, after he had given each and every one of them a chance to please his palate, the young stud drooled in anticipation before the big punch bowl full of chocolate mousse, the batch of flan, the crèmes brûlées with maple syrup and whipped cream...

– “Keep ’em comin’...” Scott mumbled with his mouth full.

  His table was already covered with plates and dishes. Every other minute, the buffet would be generously supplied again, with something new. And he would have another go at it.

  Naturally, Scott tried everything: some food he loved, some food he couldn’t resist, some other food he had never tasted but adopted immediately... He had second helpings of everything, and third helpings of half the food still available around him.

   Other customers came in, joined him, exchanged a few polite “hmmllo...” with him, and gave him a few envious glances maybe – they came and went, so he was the last person to leave, when breakfast time was over...

– “Now that’s what I call a good breakfast!... Woof...”

  Scott was still moaning and rubbing his full stomach in the elevator, going back to his room. It was still early, so he put the “Do not disturb” sign on his door and went back to bed... It was finally quiet around him. As he was opening his jeans’ buttons, the young man let out a deep, long, satisfied belch.

– “This whole case is turning into a much better deal than I hoped!”

■ ■ ■

  Scott’s first appointment was with Mr Miles Thorne, dean of Saint Augustine. For some reason, Mr Wingrave wasn’t at the gate when the young journalist got his pass renewed. The secretary hardly said a word, as he typed, and Scott was simply given directions this time.

  He was summoned, but clearly no longer welcome. Scott could care less about it. He was determined to get to the bottom of that mystery.

  As it turned out, Mr Thorne also enjoyed a good mystery, for the intellectual pleasure of solving seemingly impossible situations. He was a medium high, well-dressed old man with short, grey hair and dark brown eyes. His handshake was a bit delicate, and Scott was immediately impressed by his perfect manners.

  Mr Thorne’s office was relatively small, sparingly furnished with armchairs and a coffee table, bookshelves and a desk, all magnificently decorated. There were only a few books, a game of chess, and orchids in a corner of the room.

  A young maid followed, carrying a tray: Mr Thorne had invited Scott for tea, with scones, butter, jam and cream. They could keep their conversation out of any official business with the School. Scott found it quite clever.

– “Shall I be mother?”

  Scott sat down, and was served a cup of tea. It was a strong blend, good to jog their brain cells and engage in a brilliant, possibly erudite exchange of opinions.

– “Sugar?”

– “Yes, please.”

  As the two men were left alone with their tea and scones, Mr Thorne spoke, with the same tone he would have used to ask Scott about his father’s health.

– “So, you have a theory about young Michael’s death.”

– “Not a theory, really...” Scott was convinced that he would have to be careful. “But the facts don’t add up to an accident.”

– “Even if they didn’t, would you consider murder the only logical alternative?”

  Scott blushed. He could not accuse anyone, and certainly not the School itself. Mr Thorne invited him to consider the facts he had gathered so far.

– “Number one: Michael is seen entering his bedroom alone, at...”

– “9:16PM.” Scott looked into his notebook.

– “Number two: The door was locked, and no one entered before Consuela, the chambermaid, came by on Sunday morning.”

– “At 8:32AM. Yes...” Scott started a new list with Mr Thorne.

– “Number three... Hmmm, do we really need to go further than this?”

– “Number three: Michael weighed 205lbs a few weeks ago and his body weighed 260lbs when I saw it.”

– “Did he really?... That sounds like a bit much.”

– “He wore jeans in size 36. In the hospital, according to his file, his stuffed belly was around 126 inches in girth.”

– “So... How does this add up to a fact?”

– “Number three: Michael had to consume enough food to show such an increase in size and weight.” Scott wrote down immediately.

– “It sounds reasonable to assume that he did...”

– “Number four: There were no wrapping papers, bags or boxes of any kind in the boy’s bedroom.”

  Mr Thorne sighed.

– “How is that a fact?”

– “Whatever food he ate, it had to be delivered and contained in some way... I have been looking everywhere in his room, and there was nothing. All I found was sugar powder, at best.”

  Scott looked at the old man sitting in front of him. His brain was processing all the elements currently submitted to his attention. Eventually, he admitted that it was still puzzling.

– “If Michael died of food poisoning, one could assume that he may have been hiding food in his bedroom for some time. Then he may have eaten something which had gone bad. But I can find no reason why he should have done so, and it is difficult to admit that the maid would not find such food, although the boy was highly intelligent, and very secretive. In any case, such amounts of food must be too difficult to conceal...”

  It had only taken half a minute. Scott was still munching on a scone, generously slabbed with jam and butter. He quickly gulped it down to express his admiration to the man, who was vain enough to shrug it off with a smile.

– “What else did you find?”

– “You were right about this: Michael ate something he was allergic to, which caused him to choke. I don’t think that he would have eaten anything like that on his own.”

– “Certainly not willingly, but no processed food comes to you with very specific warning indications, as you know... So we have five facts to consider.”

– “There may be more. I don’t know.”

– “I think that you and I have covered enough ground, as it is.”

  Scott was about to protest, but he was interrupted.

– “Are you familiar with Occam's razor?”

  The young man could only nod to the negative, after he absent-mindedly ran his fingers against his cheek to make sure that he was clean-shaved.

– “It is an important theory which states that, among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected. Another, more complicated solution may ultimately prove correct but, in the absence of certainty, the fewer assumptions that are made, the better...”

– “Is that so?”

– “Of course. “We prefer simple theories to more complex ones, because their empirical content is greater, because they are better testable”. Who said that?”

  Scott had no idea, of course.

– “Karl Popper.” Mr Thorne offered, with a knowing smile over his tea.

  Scott knew a lot about poppers, but he didn’t know that they had been named after a guy who spouted such weird theories.

– “So, what facts do we have here? Our first two pieces of information state that the boy was alone in his bedroom at all times, from 9:15PM to 8:30AM. The next two pieces we have gathered help us determine the state in which his body was found: largely overfed on food which could not be traced by any packaging. Then our last piece of the puzzle is the key. Michael died of food poisoning, as he was allergic to some product yet to be identified. I think this case speaks for itself.”

  Scott didn’t like where this was going.

– “If you ask me, I would be inclined to think that young Michael suffered from an unfortunate accident.”

– “How could he do all this, all by himself? Eat so much food, and something that he would normally choke on, under any other circumstances?”

– “I see what you mean...” Mr Thorne took a pose for a moment, closing his eyes, fingertips joined as in a prayer, breathing and talking slowly. “You wouldn’t admit that the boy had an accident, because he would never eat so much food without being forced. Then you consider that someone else had to be present. But this theory has to be rejected, since there was no way in or out for anyone else than the victim. Now you see how Occam’s razor works.”

– “Or some pieces don't fit in this puzzle!”

  Mr Thorne opened his eyes, a bit startled.

– “One should always assume so. Then, if you apply the same method to dismiss what doesn’t add up, you can’t deny that you have seen Michael entering his bedroom, while you have not seen the wrappers or boxes you were looking for.”

  Scott wasn’t used to that kind of interrogation. It made him a bit angry.

– “You want me to trust my eyes, then?”

– “If you wish to consider it so...”

– “Well, I trust my eyes with what I can’t see even more than with what I think I have seen!”

  It was Mr Thorne’s turn to be surprised. Scott was right, in his own right. With a graceful, waving gesture, he smiled to his new friend.

– “I guess this is checkmate. I tend to follow a positive line of reasoning, while you obviously prefer to follow a negative line... Now, did you conclude that the boy had been murdered on these facts alone?”

– “I guess... I did, but I mostly followed my gut.”

  Right on cue, Scott’s stomach rumbled. He was still comfortably full and bloated from his breakfast, so much that he had skipped lunch. With six good scones and a few cups of strong tea filling him up again, he felt that his gut should carry some weight in this discussion.

– “Have you ever been audited?”

– “Huh... Do you mean, by the IRS?”

– “No, I meant something more serious. Auditors go through the same process as we just did: gather information about the case, check for confirmation where the event occurred, interview the people concerned, compare and confront, then draw the necessary, logical conclusions.”

  Mr Thorne stopped to refill his tea cup. He was rock-steady in his statements.

– “In any case, there will be some findings, facts that may sound inconsistent, and inconsistencies that may look like facts... A serious auditor has to make a choice, when he finds something that could be declared as a non-conformity. If the facts are solidly backed up, with procedural defects to make certain errors systematic, we have to consider a major non-conformity. If the error is only circumstantial and could have been easily avoided, had the proper rules been observed, it is a minor non-conformity. Both instances are quite clear.”

– “Huh... Quite.”

– “Then the most common case of finding is, unfortunately, neither consistent enough to be declared a major defect, nor identified with enough accuracy to be pinpointed as a minor defect. When you follow negative logic, you can’t draw any positive conclusion.”

– “Then we don’t have enough positive elements to consider that Michael’s death is something major, like a crime.”

– “It would be very risky to say so.”

  Mr Thorne let Scott go on.

– “Just the same, we have enough negative elements to refuse that something minor happened here, like an accident.”

– “Quite... ”

– “So we can’t decide. Is that what you had in mind?”

– “The only thing I know for sure is that you can’t print anything that would be misleading for your readers. I am really pleased to know that you and I share the same opinion about this case.”

– “Naturally...” Scott smiled. “A serious auditor would need some new elements to confirm or deny the ones he already has.”

– “Exactly,” Mr Thorne smiled in return, satisfied with Scott’s attention and his own, clear demonstration in the abstract. “What you have been suggesting so far could only be presented as inconclusive.”

  He put his tea cup on the tray, without a noise... It probably meant that their conversation was over – and, needless to say, he had won the game.

– “So, your conclusion...” Scott started, a bit slowly. “is that I should investigate further into these matters, to prove or disprove our theories about Michael’s death.”

  Mr Thorne’s smile suddenly vanished. Scott got up and shook his hand.

– “My employer and the victim’s parents will be really pleased to know that I can count on your full support about this case.”

  Mentioning Senator Astern and his wife was truly a coup de grâce. Mr Thorne tried to smile again, like a gentleman admitting defeat. He went to his desk and signed official papers that allowed Scott to come and go on campus as he wished – and interview anyone in the staff.

  It was a major step up, once again. Scott immediately asked to meet the school counselor – which would bring him even closer to interviewing Michael’s friends and classmates.

■ ■ ■

  Scott’s exchange with Mr Miles Thorne lasted longer than he had expected. The young journalist had just scored another point, but he had also put everything under the microscope. Evidently, he still stood on shaky grounds, and he needed some confirmation to build a more solid case.

  What kind of food did Michael eat, that night? – What was he allergic to? – What was the definitive cause of death? – Scott couldn’t answer precisely, so he went back to the hospital.

  He had bought a bus pass for the day, but the driver told him that the passes signed by Mr Thorne, which had taken another hour to get prepared for him at the security desk, also worked outside Saint Augustine Bells.

– “Better than a pass in my wallet, this is money in the bank!”

  It was getting dark when Scott entered the lobby, at the hospital. There were two nurses at the desk, enjoying a coffee break.

– “Ladies...”

– “What can we do for you, young man?”

– “I’m looking for... Huh...” Scott looked at the list of names on the wall. “Doctor Hewdge. Is he available?”

– “Doctor who?”

– “He means Phil...” the other nurse reminded her.

– “Oh? Of course. Well, doctor Hewdge is in the operating room right now.”

– “How about doctor Lipton ?”

– “Doctor Lipton is attending a seminar out of town. If you don’t mind waiting for Phil, he shouldn’t be too long...”

– “It should be done by now. That woman was in a pretty bad shape...”

  Scott didn’t feel much compassion in her voice.

– “What happened?”

– “Car accident, this morning.”

  Then a third nurse rushed into the hall, not even noticing Scott.

– “That man is impossible!”

– “What did he do now?”

– “Blood transfusion. Can you believe it? I told him, clear and simple. If he wants to do it, he will do it alone.”

– “So...” Scott ventured a guess. “You have left the doctor alone with his patient in the operating room?”

  The three nurses turned to him.

– “Who are you?”

– “I’m Press. Scott Girder. I’m currently investigating Michael Astern’s death.”

– “Oh... You come from Saint Augustine Bells, then.”

  Suddenly, the oldest nurse – who seemed to be the leader of the pack – smiled and invited him to wait in the doctor’s office.

– “Nurse Vickers...” She had a way of shaking hands that felt like arm wrestling. “I will page him at once.”

  Scott was a bit uncomfortable, standing in that fully furnished office alone. The voice on public address was almost a shrill. There had to be a problem with the wires somewhere. Scott tried to look interested in what he saw on the walls, as he had to wait. There were the young doctor’s diplomas in various frames – from the VMI in Lexington, VA, the AMC in Fort Sam Houston, TX – his medical license in the Commonwealth of Virginia – a few more degrees obtained at the LRMC, in Landstuhl, Germany, then an official report awarding General Surgeon Philip H. Hewdge the Combat Medical Badge for “performing medical duties while being actively engaged by the enemy in the Joint Security Area – Panmunjom, Korea, Nov. 1984”.

– “All right. I forgot that he was a doctor in the Army. Hello, Soldier boy...” Scott whistled, looking at a few small pictures of soldiers in black and white.

  There was an Army Test scorecard in the corner, almost hidden, indicating that “this soldier had met the standard for the Army Physical Fitness badge, in 1987”. Scott could read the words “Physical Fitness Excellence” on the round insignia sewn on an old, grey short-sleeve T-shirt in the closet.

  The doctor’s desk was a bit messy, with plenty of papers and only one picture. Scott took it in his hand to look at it more thoroughly.

– “Family picture, of course.”

  The young doctor was smiling and standing behind three boys and three girls of various ages and heights. He was clearly the first born in that family, and almost perfect poster boy for “caring big brother”. They looked like a happy family, all dressed in well-worn clothes, which had to be passed from one kid to the next as they grew up. The boys looked a bit skinny, almost underfed. Scott could tell that they had no money: too many mouths to feed and little income.

  Looking closer to Phil in the picture, Scott smiled. Then his smile turned into a grin when he saw a large apple pie in a box, on a chair next to the doctor’s desk.

– “Sweet tooth, all right. This pie looks still warm from the oven. He must have bought it this morning...”

  Then the door was opened again. Scott took a step back from the pie, but he hardly saw the young, blonde doctor as he was running. Doors were slammed before and after he got to his private cabinet, to wash his hands in the sink. He  was almost covered in blood, up to his elbows.

  Nurse Vickers was right behind him, and Scott only got to listen to the end of a long argument, when she joined him by the doctor’s desk.

– “...And if you insist on performing this kind of operation, I will notify doctor Lipton to remind you that you have more important responsibilities in this hospital!” She raised her voice, since the man she was talking to was in the next room. “Do you know how much an hour of operation costs, in terms of staff and equipment?”

  Scott couldn’t stand having someone shouting next to him like this.

– “What happened? Did the patient die?”

– “What did you say?” Nurse Vickers turned to Scott, noticing him again. “No, it’s worse. Phil has stopped the bleeding, she will live.”

– “How is that... worse?”

– “Because she’s on Medicare. Now she has to stay under observation, while her room could be put to better use. Phil had me working overtime for it, and she couldn’t pay for all this if she sold one of her kidneys.”

  Explaining the situation to a stranger clearly helped Nurse Vickers recharge her batteries. When Phil came back to his desk, she kept him standing and scolded him like a child. Scott was speechless.

  At least he could take the opportunity to look more closely at him.

  Phil stood a bit under 6’ tall, and he had to weigh at least 210lbs. He was built like a true athlete, with powerful arms and forearms, which he kept rubbing with a dry towel. Scott also noticed how large his hands were, with strong fingers – although they were shaking a bit, right now.

  The young doctor appeared to be under more stress than expected. He wouldn’t notice Scott checking him out, as he was looking down. Then he was probably not paying much more attention to Nurse Vickers, who kept talking about fees, bills, salaries, insurance, budget...

  Phil was unshaven. He sported a short scar running from his left eyebrow to his temple, which made him look a bit rugged. In spite of this, he was quite good-looking – or he could be, at least, if he took better care of himself... Scott kept stealing glances at his neck and pecs, and the chest hair that curled just over the top of his shirt.

  He was really blonde, not bleached like Scott – and he looked exhausted. It had been a long day for the whole staff. Eventually, nurse Vickers was done with her rant against Phil. She accepted his apologies and patted his head like a mother, tousling his hair a bit.

– “What are we going to do with you, bad boy?”

  The poor guy let out a long sigh when she was gone. Then he looked up and saw Scott standing almost right in front of him. For a moment, he couldn’t find his words.

– “I’m sorry, but... You came by, yesterday morning, didn’t you?”

– “Yes, I did.”

– “Right, you’re a journalist. Scott, is it?”

– “That’s me...”

– “Forgive me for asking. I go through unfortunate memory lapses sometimes.”

  Scott didn’t know what he meant by “memory lapses”, but that would explain why he kept thinking that this beefy guy, with all his medical degrees, was a bit dim-witted...

– “When did you get into my office?”

– “Soon enough... Tough day?”

– “Not even close. Working in a hospital turns your days into coffee: you have regular, black, long black... and you end up in hot water, every now and then.”

  Phil came back to his private cabinet to put on a clean shirt.

– “What was it all about? That scene with...”

– “Don’t worry about it. Nurse Vickers is a little too familiar with Luke 18:5.”

– “Huh... Okay.”

– “...Yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will see that she gets justice, so that she won’t eventually come and attack me!” Phil quoted, with some comic emphasis. “That’s the parable of the iniquitous judge.”

– “Oh...”

– “Or, if you prefer: Nag and you shall receive... Now, how may I help you?”

  Just then, the phone rang: He had to go check on a patient in room 314.

  Nurse Vickers was done with her shift. As she was about to leave, all dressed in a long black coat, Phil quickly took the pie and came by the lobby to wish her a good evening. Scott was about to think that the guy had no spine, but the young doctor told her matter-of-factly:

– “I had to use some of my own blood samples to save that woman... Our next campaign for blood donation starts in two weeks. I know that you will show an example and inspire others by your actions, as always... Good evening, Miss Vickers.”

  Naturally, there was a chill when she opened the glass doors to leave, but Scott was impressed. For a moment, he wondered whether this Southern dumb blonde boy wasn’t a lot smarter than he appeared...

– “Scott, if you don’t mind, I will be with you in a moment. Ladies... from me for you, as you’re about to take your shift and I may have to leave soon.”

– “What did you bring tonight?”

– “I just remembered, you have mentioned Northern Spy apples, recently. So...”

– “Apple pie!” They almost applauded. “You’re the devil!”

  The phone was ringing again. Phil left Scott with the two women. They were taking large slices of that pie, which was enough to make him jealous.

– “Do you know where he bought it?” Scott asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

– “Bought what? Do you mean this pie? He baked it, of course!”

– “Would you care for a slice or two?” The other nurse offered. “Phil always cooks so well, but he always cooks a bit too much, and leftovers make him feel bad.”

  Scott didn’t need to be told twice, but he accepted two slices to finish the pie. It was perfect – with toffee for sugar under the buttery crust... He wasn’t drooling: his taste buds were weeping with joy!

– “This is delicious...” He managed to mumble between mouthfuls.

– “Phil is a good kid. He works hard, and he knows that we are already operating in the red. That’s why he does so much on the side.”

– “Like baking pies?”

– “Like that project for a children hospital.”

– “What about it?”

– “Phil has been with us for almost two years now, and he’s been participating in a lot of activities for the community. He keeps trying to raise money so we can open a new building dedicated to children.”

  Both nurses started chattering, while Scott was all ears – about a recent bout of flu, and sick kids all over the place. When it was over, Phil had accepted to open a temporary day care center in the hospital.

– “You should have seen those boys and girls playing with him!”

– “They were terribly noisy... It lightened everyone’s mood, at least.”

– “Especially Phil’s. Not every guy would take a chubby kid on his shoulders and two others in his arms, the way he did, or let three or four boys and girls climb on his back and ride him like a mechanical bull in a rodeo bar!”

  They had to stop laughing and go back to work. The doctor was back.

– “Mister Parker may call for you during the night...”

  When he was done with his instructions to nurse Rockwell, Phil invited the young journalist to follow him back into his office. As he walked behind him, Scott wondered what it would be like to ride this guy... like a mechanical bull.

– “I am sorry that you had to wait.”

– “No problem.” Scott was no longer hungry, for once.

  Phil handed an opened letter to him.

– “I won’t keep you much longer. Please read this first.”

  Scott should have expected it: the letter was from the board of administration in Saint Augustine Bells, signed by MM. Porkenham, Thorne and Huggins. Phil was summoned, in much stronger terms than Scott was, to answer questions about the Press being admitted in the hospital, at the morgue, and so on and so forth.

  When he was done reading, Scott took a moment to breathe. He was flushed in the face – nurse Vickers bickering about nickels and dimes felt like friendly advice, in comparison.

– “So you have to be there tomorrow?”

– “Day after tomorrow. I told them that I had to wait for doctor Lipton’s return.”

  Scott felt discouraged. Phil was the only person who would grant him access to the most important criminal elements. Obviously, that connection was broken: his patrons were already angry at him, and threatening the hospital with financial sanctions...

– “I see. You were right, I won’t stay much longer.”

– “It’s almost 9PM...” Phil looked at the clock. “I have papers to go through, and you have something else to do as well. I have little news at this point, anyway... Then...”

– “Yes?”

– “I know I shouldn’t be asking this, but... didn’t we agree on a dinner meeting, already?”

– “You had mentioned something like that...” Scott answered cautiously.

– “I’m sorry...” Phil smiled. “Memory lapses, you know. It can get pretty bad... How about Friday evening? Would you be free?”

– “For dinner?”

– “Sure. Dinner, conversation, just a pleasant evening on the town... You might want to pick me up, or I may forget about it again.”

– “But... nothing like the last conversation we had... about Michael.”

  Phil looked up, and Scott suddenly felt his sparkling, soulful eyes piercing right through him – more powerful than being struck by lightning.

– “...What conversation?”

  They exchanged looks – and smiles. It didn’t last more than a second, but there was something strangely wicked, and appealing, about Phil’s smile...

  Scott left the hospital with a song in his heart, once again. That young doctor was definitely a “Southern stud”, but maybe not such a “dumb blonde”!

(to be continued...)