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 26^th, 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...)