The Augustine Murders - Season 1, Episode 1

I.1.

January 21^st, 1990 – Sunday

  The phone started ringing by the bedpost. A lazy hand extended from under the covers and started patting the receiver, looking for the button to make it stop. The man still lying in bed had mistaken it for the alarm clock. It was only a few minutes to 7AM.

  After a few more obnoxious rings, a long yawn came out as an answer, and the sleepy man sat up straight to take the call.

– “Hmmmllo?...”

– “Mister Porkenham?”

– “Speaking... Who is it? And why are you calling me so early?”

– “It's me, Headmaster. Wingrave. I'm sorry, but I have... really bad news.”

  As headmaster in Saint Augustine Bells Preparatory School for the last ten years, Mr Gregory Porkenham was not a man easily shaken. As a matter of fact, he considered himself – in his own words – “the very embodiment of self-possession and solidity”... But he knew Mr Wingrave to be of a similar nature, and he had already noticed how nervous his voice sounded on the telephone.

  If the head of Security was so concerned, it had to be something serious.

– “Well, what is it?”

– “It's young Mickey, Sir. Mickey Mouse...”

– “What about him?”

   For a man in his early fifties, Mr Porkenham was still quite alert. He was already up and pacing in his bedroom, getting ready to put on his clothes and start the day. He pulled on the cord to open the curtains, and turned off the light. It would be a dull and foggy morning, with a drizzle of rain… The school buildings were banked in with rolling clouds. The school headmaster heaved out a sigh, which turned into a cough. Everything felt dusty, today.

– “I have asked you a question, Wingrave!”

– “Sir...”

  Mr Porkenham was always a man of action and decision. Large, pompous and dignified – he carried well over 260lbs on his 5’9’’ frame. That being said, he was only a bit stout compared to the standard set by the students in Augustine Bells, hardly above average in fact...

– “The maid has found him in his room, this morning... lying on the floor.”

– “So?”

– “She couldn’t wake him up, Sir. He’s...”

– “No! You don't mean that...”

– “…I'm afraid so.”

  The headmaster's short, plump fingers were almost crushing the phone as he was already considering the dreadful consequences of such a situation.

– “Mickey Mouse is dead...” 

■ ■ ■

  Scott Girder was not a professional journalist.

  As a student, he had written a few articles for his University’s newspaper. He was the official “redactor” for the club – but there were only three members in that club, anyway... Back then, Scott’s life was almost entirely devoted to playing Football.

  His position evolved from wide receiver to tight end. He could run quite fast, and he was large enough to be equally effective as blocker. Scott was usually lined up on the offensive line. He had natural skills, similar to power forward in basketball. He was a perfect team player – and he looked good on the field, which made for better pictures when his team won a game. And they usually did.

  The school board had high hopes for him, following his coach’s recommendations. As a result, his teachers were pretty lenient regarding his major. Scott had chosen journalism as an easy way out... Besides, he had already been admitted thanks to a sports scholarship. Scott wasn’t exactly lazy, but he had a hard time with Math and didn’t do well in Home Economics. He had no interest in Physics or Chemistry, and he wasn’t much of a reader either. His achievements as captain of his football team would have to compensate for his failure in the more academic fields...

  His teachers understood the boy’s priorities – except one sub-teacher for English Literature who had once dismissed Scott as a “big lug”... Thinking about it, at night, after a long training or a hard-won game out of town, Scott admitted that it was a pretty accurate, if slightly exaggerated description of him. He would shrug and go back to sleep. He was pretty self-aware of his strengths and weaknesses.

  Scott could afford such certain amount of criticism, with everything he had going for him. When he turned eighteen, he was standing about 6’2’’ tall, and weighed a solid 190lbs with broad shoulders, slender hips and big, meaty thighs for his long legs. He had to put on about 20lbs of beef to make the team. And he had proved himself worthy with a huge appetite that matched his will to win the game. After he and his team had won a particularly brilliant interstate cup, he had bleached some of his mahogany brown hair blonde – a look he had kept to this day.

  Whenever he looked at his reflection in a mirror, a little spark in his deep, hazel eyes confirmed how good-looking he was. Scott knew how popular he was too, how all the girls in the cheerleading squad wanted him – and quite a few members of his team as well.

  He wasn’t prejudiced. What may have been curiosity, in his sophomore year, had developed into a relatively balanced lifestyle. Scott wasn’t faithful in his affections so much that he was attached to his own personal sense of freedom. Sex was good. He didn’t make anyone feel like he was doing such a favor to him – or her – when they spent a night together or enjoyed a good moment in the locker room. Life was good. Scott had been blessed with a great physique, and he felt that he was quite generous with his friends, occasional girlfriends and boyfriends, for that matter.

  Anyone who knew Scott also knew that they shouldn’t expect more than what he was willing to give or share. While Scott wasn’t at all career-oriented, there was a bright future ahead of him as a professional football player. Then he could move on to become a sports journalist or commentator. There was good money in that too.

  And there was little for him to worry about, for that matter. Scott’s finances were quite solid, considering that his father was co-director of a well-esteemed insurance company, and his mother was successfully involved in real estate. And he was their only child, their pride and joy.

  His parents had bought his luxurious apartment outside campus. It was his to do whatever he wished... Scott’s allowance also represented more than what most of his teachers got paid, and he was driving to school in a nice convertible.

  Everything changed during his last year before graduation – for the worse... Scott blocked the wrong guy, who fell on him with all his weight and broke his leg. It was a real shock for both teams, and the injury was so bad that Scott had to be sent to the hospital at once. He was unconscious for a while. When he woke up, he realized that his dream career as a professional football player was over.

  The doctors tried to explain to him that he was suffering from what they called an “unhappy triad”, as his right meniscus was torn and several tendons were severely bruised. Scott didn’t understand half the medical terms the quacks used, but he got the picture. After a few days in the hospital and some surgery to fix his meniscus, he had to reconsider his options. He would have to look for a job – a real job...

  For the first time in his life, Scott was feeling miserable. A lot of friends came to see him, but they couldn’t cheer him up. He still appreciated that they tried to comfort him with kind words and sweets, and “get well” cards and chocolates.

  His leg was in a cast for quite some time. Then he could hardly walk more than a few steps for a whole month. Scott was so depressed after the incident that he tried to avoid his reeducation. Learning to correctly stand up and walk again made him feel like he was three years old.

  Both his parents were too busy to really help, even though he needed them more than ever... This was new, and it was bad. Scott had never asked for any particular attention from his mother and father. They had been providing him with everything he could wish for, and let him live his life the way he wanted. Scott should have been grateful for that – and he was – but now that his chips were down, he found that he was alone. As it turned out, being a spoiled child had its disadvantages.

  At least, friends and girlfriends came to see him regularly, almost daily at first. They tried to help him lighten up, and Scott’s positive nature came back to the fore pretty soon. They always brought big boxes of chocolates, and cookies, and butter toffee. Scott used to drink a lot of coffee, and he had always had a sweet tooth. He literally devoured the chocolate hearts and cupcakes left by his many female fans and friends... and other classmates whose intentions toward him may have been a little bit more devious than he knew.

  After a few weeks, visits became less frequent, but for every friend who came to spend an hour with him, bring him school papers and assignments, there was a box of doughnuts or pastries left by his bed.

  Scott welcomed such comfort food with open hands – even more so than he welcomed most of his fellow students with open arms… It didn't dawn on him that everyone – former partners, lovers or opponents in the field or in a party – brought food to his room just the same. It did help put him in a better mood, of course, but Scott's big appetite had also become something of a private joke at his school...

  Scott was eventually discharged from hospital. Without football, anything related to his studies had lost its appeal. Scott skipped class, spent hours in bed or on his leather couch. Friends would still come and go, but less often than before. Food still found its way to his kitchen table – and couch – and bed.

  Two months before graduation, when Scott was finally truly back on his feet, he found that his sedentary lifestyle had caused him to put on at least thirty pounds. At almost 240lbs, the fallen Football star was surprisingly potbellied – and getting chubby... He had lost some definition and muscle mass, while his midsection had grown large, round and flabby. That would explain why those horny cheerleaders had almost stopped visiting his apartment – after bickering for years over which one of them would get to him next...

  In his own opinion, Scott had always had a healthy appetite, so this was nothing to be worried about. He was only lacking exercise. He would go back to the gym, he would go on a diet, and that would be it. There was no reason for him to focus on his weight so much. As he stood naked in front of the mirror, he actually enjoyed looking a bit fuller and rounder, feeling a bit thicker and softer all around his body. This new bulk felt quite good. Neither his parents nor his friends had provided him with such inner warmth and comfort.

  When he started partying again, his friends were happy to see him in what they described as “such good shape”. Other guys, jealous of his looks, would come to pat his bulging belly and compliment him with more double-edged words. Scott was still the apple of many girls’ eyes – and the centerfold for many guys’ wet dreams... And he was quick with an answer to any snide remark.

 

– “There's no less padding on me than I used to wear for a game... It used to be on my shoulders, now it's around my tummy. At least this is all me!” He would say, and proudly slap his stomach.

  Everyone laughed, and the guy who had commented on his new weight or size would be mocked in return. Scott was even more admired for taking his classmates' childish pranks so well.

  On second thoughts, he wouldn't go on a diet.
  Scott's only serious concern was how impossibly tight his shirts and pants had become. He couldn't get any of his old jeans to close, or the two top buttons would just pop opened. Even his underwear threatened to tear to shreds around his wider butt... Then, shopping for clothes was definitely Scott's second biggest weakness – so now that his main weakness had become quite conspicuous, he would dig in and enjoy the consequences with a full-day shopping spree...

  He had actually had plenty of time to think, sort through his feelings and organize his priorities in life while he was lying on his back, in bed or on his couch, stuffing his face. Scott had given up on his childhood dreams and – after shedding one last tear, and eating a few more pastries – he had come to the right conclusion, which could be summed up in three major points.

  Number One: He had no other choice but to become a journalist now. He had kept on submitting articles to his newspaper, and they had been well-received. He had even come to terms with his professors, who felt genuinely sorry for him. Professionally speaking, Scott had no particular protection. His father only knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a chief editor somewhere out of State. Scott would have to move, but he was grateful for that helpful little push... Even if he had to start his career at the bottom of the corporate ladder, he didn’t mind.

  Number Two: Regarding sex, he had come to the conclusion that he preferred guys over girls. His recent experience had proved that his “bros” were more faithful than the most exalted girlfriend. Friendship was also more likely with a dude, and there was something about a relationship, both loving and friendly, that made him feel warm inside, after feeling so lonely and cold for a long time... Then Scott was also aware about his needs, his urges – and the fact that he was physically demanding. His partners would have to be quite good-looking, and athletic, and totally devoted to him – willing to go down and dirty all the way for him... He wouldn’t settle with just anyone with a handsome face and a solid body.

  Number Three: Regarding his health, Scott realized that his injury was a turning point in his life, and that he should make the most of it. He had become a bit bigger, a bit greedy, and he had also grown to like it that way. If that meant cutting ties with his old friends, making new friends – so be it. He would be working in a new town. It would be a fresh start... Scott was perfectly honest about himself, and that meant that he should be honest with others – starting with his parents.

  That last point was certainly a good decision, and also a lesson for him to learn – the hard way.

  Scott invited his parents one evening, had them sit down and came out to them. His mother cried. His father yelled. They had a heated argument about Scott’s life and choices, until he stormed out of his own place to get some fresh air.

  A week later, he was moving into a much smaller place. His father had cut off his allowance completely. While his mother officially approved her husband’s decision, she paid him a visit and promised to send him cash every month so he wouldn’t go hungry. Scott was thankful for that discrete token of affection, but they were still on bad terms about his sex orientation... Suddenly, money didn’t mean so much to him – even though it should have meant everything to him, as he would have to struggle for food and clothing, rent and various bills.

  At least he made a good first impression during his job interview, and his father put in a few more good words so that he got hired within a month. What a few, well addressed phone calls could do to change one’s life, make or break a career, Scott would never forget.

■ ■ ■

 

  For the next five years, the handsome ex-jock pushed papers, served coffee, reorganized old files, created new ones. As he would sometimes joke about it, he moved the pile on his left to the files on his right, in the morning – then he put the files on his right into a pile on his left, in the afternoon...

  It wasn’t rewarding, but it was easy. Any idiot could do it. Scott never complained about a thing – and why should he? No one would have listened to him anyway...

  His “office” was on ground floor, next to the fax machine, at the dark end of a hall. His miniature desk was downsized even further by the abundance of papers piled all over it, as well as an archaic phone and a monumental computer that should have been on display in a “Paleontology: The Dawn of Man” exhibit at the museum... The only chair in the room was under constant threat of an avalanche of files. The shelves were all too close, and crammed with hastily wrapped boxes and cartons.

  Scott had to fit in there and stay still from 8AM to 6PM – being 6’2” with large shoulders didn’t help. In the morning, he would make an effort to look busy, and then try to work on something interesting – if there was such a thing. On a good day, he could take a nap in the afternoon. He would never be disturbed...

  His paycheck was in accordance with his achievements: minimal. Scott had made no fuss about starting at the bottom, but after five years and a raise that felt like he was the butt of a joke once again, he was itching to work his way up and prove that he was worth something.

  He didn’t know precisely what he could be “really good” at, but even according to the lowest standards, his talents were wasted in his dusty paper dump.

– “They can just throw me away with the trash, as it is...”

 

  Every morning, he would go to the newspaper building with the only purpose of having an argument with his editor. He had been thinking about all the right things to say for a long time. He had rehearsed his speech in the evening – he was ready. Things had to change around here! Something had to be done.

  Nothing happened.

  Every morning, Scott entered the building, said “Hi” to the staff and walked down the hall to his closet-sized office. He would sit down, yawn and daydream about the day ahead – facing his boss, fighting over his work environment, being given real journalistic jobs to do... After ruminating around such thoughts, he sometimes fell asleep early in the morning, until the phone woke him up, or – more likely – the bell at lunchtime.

  On a really bad day, Scott would even limp a bit to his desk, unnoticed to anyone in the building. He felt no actual, physical pain but the memories of his injury were linked to everything he had lost, which had first been promised to him on a silver platter, and he dragged his feet as if they were attached to a ball and chain...

  There was no doubt that Scott was a good fighter. He was still in good physical shape – only a lot thinner, after years on the brink of starvation, which had brought his weight down to a lean, mean 170lbs – but such an argument wouldn’t be settled with his fists. He was a good team player as well... only with no team to work with, at the moment.

  One Monday morning, while a cold winter wind was blowing outside the building, the light bulb in his only lamp died... The ray of light from the hallway through the almost closed door felt like a razor blade to his eyes. That was it. Scott stormed out of his office, banging his door – and every door on his way... He swiftly climbed the stairs and rushed into his editor’s office.

  Mr Horn was on the phone, at the moment, but Scott wouldn’t wait for him to be finished. The older man also knew at once what was coming to him. Scott was looking quite imposing, when he was in a bad mood – right now, his flushed face and clenched fists were enough indication to the short, stout and balding editor that he needed a lightning conductor device, or he would get hit, snapped and scattered like a twig in a storm.

  He ended his conversation at once, pushed the phone on the desk on his left, and kept the receiver on the side so they wouldn’t be interrupted – safety first.

– “Hello Scottie, my boy! You’re just the person I wanted to see...”

  That bought him a few seconds. Scott was startled. Mr Horn wasn’t a rookie, and with a cheerful smile stretched out from ear to ear, he offered him to sit down.

– “How long have you been working for us now? Two years?”

– “Five years, Mr Horn...”

– “Is it five years already? My, my! Where does time go?” he chuckled, but it felt fake to his own ears... “Well, I was keeping you in the loop, you know, for a really good case. It’s about time I gave you something to sink your teeth into!”

– “I guess...” Scott added, mumbling.

  Evidently, Mr Horn had to give this rabid dog a chew toy – now! – Scott was still tense... He had refused to sit down, and it looked like he was not quite over the idea of beating his old boss to a pulp.

– “Well... How about a murder case?”

– “Murder... Run that by me again?”

– “It’s come up this morning. Look.”

  Scott took the fax paper from his editor’s hand with a tearing sound. To his own surprise, it was an actual request – the real thing. The fax read:

“Saint Augustine Bells Preparatory School –

  URGENT – Michael Daniel Patrick Astern found dead, yesterday morning.

  Parental request for inquiry – Sen. Astern. Special school pass necessary.

  Top priority. Sensitive subject: to be handled with discretion.

  Funeral service on Saturday afternoon.”

– “Who’s Michael Astern?”

– “As a journalist, I suppose you’ve heard of his father, Senator Astern. The victim was his second son...”

– “How old was he?”

– “I don’t know. Seventeen or eighteen.”

– “Huh... That’s awful. But, then… Are we talking… murder, here?”

– “It doesn’t say so in this fax. Doesn’t say anything, really… and it will say the same in your article, if you know what I mean…”

  Considering Scott’s rather blank stare, Mr Horn felt like some explanations were in order. He didn’t mind providing them. The storm had passed. With no fist holding lightning and thunder over his head, threatening to crush it opened like a crab’s shell, the short, stout man sat more comfortably in his chair.

– “I have received two phone calls since this arrived. First, from the headmaster of Saint Augustine Bells Prep School – watering it down, naturally: Good student, troubled kid, valuable subject nonetheless, made few friends, kept to himself. I got the same version of that story from the head of security. The usual dog & pony show... Now, to the meat of the matter – young Michael was found in his bedroom, alone, dead during the night. I guess their chambermaid came to change his bed sheets, and there he was...”

– “The chambermaid? What’s that, a four stars dormitory or something?”

  Mr Horn chuckled again.

– “Saint Augustine Bells is one of the top institutions in the Country. We’re talking five figures scholarship fees, so you can expect that kind of luxury. Their students belong to the highest circles of society: Sons of ambassadors, industrialists, stock market tycoons, former presidents, future presidents...”

–“...and in this case, a senator.”

– “Exactly. Married with money, Jewish money no less, and with such political and social network that you could call it a collection of 100% silk ties... And there goes my second phone call – our senior chairman. He told me that Senator Astern would appreciate a sensitive, dramatic yet positive article about this tragic event.”

– “How can you be... positive about a boy’s death?”

– “My guess? Politician’s talk. I’m pretty sure that they only meant for you to make him look good about the loss of a son. Grieving, sensitive – but in a strong, positive way: looking forward, overcoming all obstacles, leading the way...”

– “Oh come on. That’s crap.”

– “If you’re going with such an attitude, boy...”

  Scott felt that the tables were about to turn again. But he wouldn’t let Mr Horn strip this opportunity away from him. No way – not so close to his goal.

– “Is that all?”

– “Not quite. I have received other requests, or rather instructions, from the boy’s mother. She wants us to find out what really happened to her son.”

– “So she has doubts about it being an accident?”

  There was a moment of silence. Scott found the subject more interesting already, with such double-bound assignment for him: get to the bottom of things to discover the truth, then write a cover story for it... Of course, who would be better qualified to keep it in the dark than the man who had cast a light on every little detail?

  And it was a real case – “top priority”, no less...

– “Why me, then?”

– “Why not?” Mr Horn visibly hesitated. “How old are you, by the way? 24? 25?”

– “I’m 28... Sir.”

– “Oh well, you look young enough! And you have this fresh, brash, hot-blooded temper going for you. That will help you gain some sympathy up there... I want you to meet the boy’s classmates. Meet the whole staff. Meet their headmaster. Ask Jenny to book train tickets and a hotel room for the week.”

– “Where is the school?”

– “Biberton. Small town, up there in Washington county. I’ve been there once. It’s a nice place… maybe a bit remote.”

– “I don’t mind that. But I will need more than a bedroom at a local motel.” Scott thought fast. “This is a strictly upper class case... I want the best hotel in town.”

– “Sure.”

– “And all expenses paid.”

– “That goes without saying...” Mr Horn insisted, sporting a grin so fake as his previous chuckle. “You need to leave on the first train tonight. Will you be ready?”

– “Of course.”

  Scott had nothing planned for that evening anyway. This would finally be a change of pace for him, along with a change of place.

– “Anything else you want to know?”

– “I... Well... no. Thank you, Mr Horn.”

– “No need to thank me, boy. I’m glad to finally bring you into the team!”

  When Scott was out of his office – and out of earshot – Mr Horn took the phone and receiver, dialed a number and waited for a moment.

– “Hello... Gregory? Yes, we have decided to accept your offer... No, I remember what I told you... I have just reconsidered... Well, as a matter of fact, I have... Yes, he’s a bit young, and you may find him a bit cocky as well, but he will do all right... No, only a mention in tomorrow’s obituaries, then we’ll print a full article in next Sunday's Special. Send my regards to your family as well... Naturally. Good!”

  Then Mr Horn turned his chair to the window, stretched out his arms and rubbed his hands together. He had just killed two birds with one stone, sending Scott away to Saint Augustine Bells. No professional journalist would even consider the subject, knowing what they would be up against. Only Scott didn’t know.

(To be continued...)