The Augustine Murders - Season 2, Episode 1

II.1

(“Me dying for you” – excerpt from “Only Death can kill”)

January 27^th, 1990 – Saturday

“If we don’t stuff ourselves full, we’re going to die, like Mickey did...”

  Scott kept repeating that last sentence, as he took another sip of beer.

– “Did the boys really say those words?”

– “You were there. You heard them.”

– “I know, I just... I don’t get it. No one’s ever said anything so weird to me. And I’ve had more than my share of weird!”

  Will had accepted to leave on the first train in the morning, to spend some time with Scott. They had come back to the “Double D” for dinner, where Scott had ordered two Dean’s Specials with double bacon cheeseburgers, fries and onion rings – and an extra patty in each burger – followed by a tall sundae with toffee and chocolate sauce.

– “What’s with your appetite, Scott? You’re eating like a shark!”

– “Hmmmph? I don’t know... I’m hungry.”

– “Just like that...”

– “It’s pretty cold out there, and we’ve been walking all day.”

– “Sure... Plenty of fresh air.”

– “That’s Nature for you”, Scott opened wide to grab a large bite of burger.

– “And plenty of fresh beer!”

  Will was right. Dean had come to their table to recommend the local beer, and the waitress had already brought six pints of Biberton Brewing Brothers’ finest brews: refreshing, tasty, rich... Scott shared Will’s taste for stronger alcohols. They had tested a light “swift fox” beer, first – then a couple of “lazy groundhog” beer cocktails, a bit sweeter and heavier. Now, Scott was taking a chance with a strong “growling bear”.

– “Ooof... This has to be the best brew I’ve ever tasted!”

– “It says here that this one’s 17 percent alcohol.”

  It had to be highly caloric too. Scott felt full just from emptying his glass in one long gulp. Will’s train would leave in three hours. They had plenty of time to talk and order some more...

– “If we don’t stuff ourselves full, we’re going to die...”

– “It feels like they should have this engraved on the town’s seal or something.”

– “What do you mean?”

– “Look around you, Scott. Dean’s Diner may be a regular stop for truckers and all, but seriously... How about that one in the corner?”

  Scott took a discrete look at a guy sitting in his booth alone, facing a large plate of burgers. He was wearing a red plaid shirt and a tight pair of jeans – and he had to weigh 300lbs.

– “How about these two? You think they’re going to finish that?”

  Scott grabbed another bite of burger, then turned to see a couple of guys in their late twenties, who looked like football players. They wore vaguely fitting T-shirts, which promised to get tight and snugly when they would be done with their dinner – their waitress had just put two trailers heavily laden with burgers, heaps of fries, bacon and fried eggs.

  Will was smiling from ear to ear.

– “There’s something about this town, all right...”

– “It’s a diner, Will. There’s nothing special about it.”

– “Okay, so it’s a diner. I don’t know... It’s a feeling I get around this place.”

– “What? Like a dark cloud hanging over your head?”

– “Pretty much, yeah. Let’s just say... I don’t like this town, but it fascinates me. That’s how I feel.”

  Scott thought about it. He had been feeling the same, on a few occasions, when he had been walking on campus, around Augustine Bells, around his hotel, even when he had been to the Police precinct – a certain air of mystery, something hidden in the bushes, behind the curtains. It never lasted more than a moment, but it never faded away completely.

– “Maybe it’s this murder case. We came to Biberton for a reason.”

– “If you say so...”

  Will didn’t sound convinced. They had little reason to be there. A student found dead in his bedroom was a sad but pretty common thing. Calling it a “murder case” was a bit of a fancy too. There had to be something else, something deeper that made Scott want to stay in town.

  The two journalists had been talking all evening, but Scott had not told him about his dream. Keeping it a secret made the whole matter even darker, more personal. He felt like he had no right to leave town...

– “You know what?” Will finally offered. “You may be right. Even if that boy wasn’t killed, he’s dead. Then I know what I’ve been feeling all day.”

– “And what’s that?”

– “A ghost.”

– “Oh, come on...”

– “Shut up. This is the best way I can put it into words. Obviously, this isn’t a ghost town. But it’s definitely spooky. There’s a ghost involved. Maybe not just Michael’s.”

– “Don’t be silly...”

– “What? We wouldn’t know, since we only got here after he was gone... You wanted something to write about, something to look for. This is your call.”

– “So I should be interviewing people about Michael’s ghost?”

– “I know how it sounds... Just, you know, keep it in mind.”

  Dean called for last calls at the bar. It was getting late. Scott asked for the check. He only realized how full he was when he got up and walked a few steps to the counter.

– “Okay, I have to go to the boys’ station before we get you to your train.”

– “It’s a good thing that I don’t have to drive.”

  Will had eaten less than him, and he was rather tipsy. Scott helped him with his suitcase, and got out of the compartment when his friend was seated. Will had promised him to give a good word to their boss, Mr Horn, so he would be able to stay for two weeks to dig a bit deeper into Michael Astern’s case.

  On his way back, Scott thought about Will’s impressions. There were almost no cars in the streets, at this hour. Every house looked quiet, when it wasn’t already asleep – families watching TV together, old people tossing and turning in their beds, maybe a few couples having sex here and there...

  The Paddington Hotel’s lobby was bright with all its lights falling on an empty, shiny marble floor, and only a few leather armchairs and palm trees. Tom was at the desk, in his uniform. Scott smiled. He knew that uniform – so well that he had kept a loose button in his pocket, after their first night together. No one had even noticed its absence.

– “Good night, Tom.”

– “Good night, Sir.”

– “Night shift, again?”

– “Yup. Boring...”

  Scott called for the lift.

– “Wait, Sir. I have two messages for you.”

– “Really?”

– “There was a phone call for you tonight, around eight o’ clock. Miss... Astern, or something.”

– “What did she say?”

– “I think she wanted to have a chat with you, but you were out.”

– “Is she still here?”

– “No, she checked out. But she gave me her card. You should call her.”

– “You’re right... I should...”

  That was a real missed opportunity. Scott felt bad about the way he had spent his evening: going out with Will for a coffee, then for a beer downtown, on a nice terrace, then for another beer at the local Irish Pub, then dinner at the “Double D” with enough burgers to fill his tank full...

  He had enjoyed every minute of it – and every bite! Scott decided that calling Michael’s mother in the morning would allow him some time to make a better impression on her.

– “What was the other call about?”

– “I don’t know.”

– “You don’t know?”

– “That one came in the mail.”

  Tom handed him an envelope. It looked pretty ordinary, very thin. There was no return address.

– “Okay... So, what time do you get off work?”

– “4AM tonight. I’ll be free around 10PM tomorrow.”

– “10PM sounds good.”

  They shared a knowing look and a smile.

– “Yeah, 10PM sounds good. How about chocolate cream cake?”

– “With butter toffee ice-cream?

– “Consider it done... And I want my button back.”

  Scott’s elevator wouldn’t wait forever. He got in, and up to his bedroom floor. As he stepped inside and turned the lights on, he opened his envelope. It was all cut-and-paste letters, obviously taken from local newspapers:

“You’ve seen the boy’s body. You’ve had your fun. Your job’s done. If you know what’s good for you, don’t get any further. Get out of town before it’s too late.”

  The message was signed “I.M.N.” – nothing more.

– “What the...”

■ ■ ■

January 28^th, 1990 – Sunday

  For Scott, Sunday was always “nothing to do” day: he had felt a rather childish thrill upon receiving an anonymous letter, so clear and so vague at the same time. It was just the right thing to put him in a good mood, and he had slept like a baby.

  As a matter of fact, he had slept so well that he only woke up around 9AM. It was almost too late for him to get breakfast.

– “I have to hurry up!”

  As he got to the buffet, Scott noticed a change in the morning light. It was snowing outside – all the streets were already white and grey, under a cloudy sky where snowflakes kept dancing and falling, turning into long drops of rain against the hotel’s windows.

– “No wonder that I was feeling so good in my bed...”

  After a few plates of various pastries, some fresh fruits, a good dozen pieces of his favourite pies, two hot coffees and orange juice, Scott was ready to face the day – even a snowy one.

– “I guess I should... Hmmm...” he wondered. “What should I do?”

  The best thing to do, really, was for him to get dressed in his best, warm suit and coat, then hop on the bus and stop when his instincts would tell him that he had something important to do.

  Scott spent some time in the bathroom, shaved and combed his spiky hair in a way that would look okay, no matter how windy the streets may be. Then he saw Tom’s note with Miss Astern’s number.

– “I shouldn’t make her wait too long for an answer.”

  Scott dialed. He had to introduce himself to a private secretary, but he got to speak to the lady of the house after a minute. Miss Astern sounded like a stern, commanding woman. Scott had not heard her voice until now, but he was willing to be patient with her. He couldn’t ignore what she was going through.

  As it turned out, Miss Astern was really pleased to talk to him. Scott’s article was currently under examination by her husband’s PR people, but she had been allowed to read that “first draft”. She was touched by some of the details Scott had put in there, which would obviously not be in the final print.

– “So... You think that my son was murdered.”

– “I’m sorry, but... Yes, that’s what I think.”

– “Well...” There was a short pause. “You’re not alone.”

  Scott didn’t know what to say. Then he had the feeling that Miss Astern didn’t like to be interrupted anyway. She offered to come back to Biberton, after the funeral – on Wednesday or Thursday, when she would get Michael’s personal belongings from the school’s security.

– “Will you be there?”

– “Of course. Mr Horn has already approved that I should stay for two, maybe three more weeks to investigate.”

– “Good.”

  That was it. Scott was politely dismissed. He had hardly spoken fifty words to Miss Astern, but he was confident that she would stand behind him in any case. That was no small relief.

■ ■ ■

  Scott let other people sit in the bus. He wasn’t only being polite: following his intuition meant that he should be able to leave at any moment, so he stood by the door, in the middle of the bus.

  It was almost 11AM when Scott saw the gates of Augustine bells. The school’s private chapel was close to the wall, and it looked like it was more people were admitted during mass than their own students. There were only adults, anyway, as far as Scott could tell.

  As these churchgoers were gathering in front, opening large, black umbrellas to protect themselves from the snow, or putting their gloves on, and a scarf to stay warm, Scott saw Mr Porkenham talking with Mr Thorne. That was just the sign Scott was looking for. The bus stopped, and he took a few careful steps to the school’s gates.

  Mr Porkenham was already gone, but Mr Thorne was still there.

– “Good morning, Mr Girder!”

– “Good morning, Sir...” Scott shook hands with the old man.

– “I thought I had just seen you in the bus. You’re a bit late for mass, but you didn’t miss much. It was pretty much the same as last Sunday’s sermon... and you don’t look like you would be satisfied with leftovers!”

  Mr Thorne seemed to be in a very good mood.

– “Isn’t it just the perfect weather... to stay in?”

– “I agree...” Scott nodded.

– “Don’t stay outside, then. Would you join me for a moment? I have something to tell you. Not that it can’t wait, but...”

  Scott had nothing better to do, of course. He followed Mr Thorne, only taking a short look into the security office, at the gate. Mr Wingrave didn’t notice them. He was sitting at his desk, facing a large pink box which had to contain cherry bakewell tart, since he had one piece in each hand while he was still munching.

– “We’ve been lucky that the snow hit us only during the night. Senator Astern didn’t want to delay the ceremony...”

– “I have no doubt that the readers will be happy.”

– “Who cares about that? No one’s reading today. Everything’s in the pictures. And Mr Astern didn’t want to look blurry.”

– “Of course...”

  Mr Thorne had brought Scott back to his office.

– “You look like you’ve caught a cold. Are you feeling okay?”

– “I feel fine.”

– “Huh huh... Better safe than sorry. You know how the French put it: “Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir”. Take your medicine before you get sick... And what better potion against a bad cough than good old Southern Bourbon Punch?”

  Right on cue, Mr Thorne opened a special cabinet, where a dozen bottles made a tickling sound of greetings. Scott couldn’t help smiling at this. Mr Thorne was a most intelligent man, but he was a hopeless alcoholic.

  Then it was obvious that the man was an expert, when it came to serving a good sweet punch. Mr Thorne had his own sealed jars of sweet tea, fresh lemon, brown sugar and a big bowl ready in its drawer. It only took a minute for him to mix all the ingredients, light a match and let the vapors burn away. Then he filled two large, tall glaces for the two of them.

– “Why don’t we sit by the window? It’s a nice view over campus, and we’ll feel warm just from watching whatever poor sap walks by... Ha ha!”

  Scott had never felt more welcome in Augustine Bells. He accepted a plaid for his legs, as Mr Thorne’s office was a bit drafty. Once they were both sitting and drinking, there was a moment of pure, perfect, comfortable silence.

– “Yes, the ceremony went rather well...” Mr Thorne started, following his own train of thoughts. “One would wish that some of our boys had been more discrete with their grief, but can you blame them?”

  Grief? Scott remembered how the fifty or sixty students he had been able to observe were simply stuffing their faces full of food, from hot dogs and waffles to crisps and chocolate chips, with gallons of sodas and soft drinks to wash it down. It was hard to mistake the boys’ belches – some of them were enormously loud ! – with cries or wailing or anything...

  But Scott was there to learn, and he was alone with the teacher now.

– “Was it planned by the students, or...”

– “What do you mean, the funeral? Everything was planned by Mr Porkenham, of course.”

– “Even the... you know, the food supplies?”

– “Oh, that. The students made a formal request to the school board, pending Mr Porkenham’s approval.”

– “So, it was their decision...”

  Scott felt his cheeks blushing a bit with every other sip of punch.

– “How did Mr Porkenham approve it, when it was bound to get... loud? Does it reflect the school’s policy, about the students’ diet?”

– “Oh, you’ve heard about that?” Mr Thorne chuckled, holding his glass with both hands. “The Quiet Diet, ha ha! Yes, you could say that...”

– “Would you explain it to me? How does it work?”

  Mr Thorne took his time to answer. Then he nodded and asked Scott a few preliminary questions.

– “You’ve been given a pretty thorough visitor’s tour, but you have only met our boys for a few minutes. What was your first impression? Be honest.”

– “My first impression? I don’t really remember... They look like regular students, from any high school or college in the country.”

– “Oh boy...” the old man let out a sigh. “If that were the case, we wouldn’t be much of a country, really.”

– “How so?”

– “You may have not noticed this, but our boys come from almost every state in the United States, with a few foreign students. Shouldn’t we be more famous, as a preparatory school? What was the first time when you heard about us?”

– “Huh...”

– “When your boss told you to go to Biberton. There’s your answer. Our students are not particularly bright. They’re not particularly athletic. God knows they’re not disciplined! So... what’s left?”

– “They’re rich?”

– “Right on money... as they say. Our average student, in Godless, Saintless Augustine Bells, is aged 16 to 21, a second son rather than a firstborn, a dropout from as many schools as you like, violent, addicted to whatever illegal substance you may think of, with a psychology ranging from conflicted to sociopath. Their one and only redeeming quality is their parents’ fortune.”

  That sounded a bit harsh. Scott had noticed that some boys looked like bullies, and others showed peculiar mannerisms, but nothing so alarming as Mr Thorne put it into words.

– “So, there’s no real selection for your students?”

– “There is some sort of selection. We only accept students who have been refused or excluded, we take them under our responsibility until their majority, and our services are extremely expensive.”

– “I see...”

  Scott could understand how this policy would provide them with difficult boys, maybe even a few dangerous ones. As he got his glass fully refilled by his host, the young journalist didn’t quite see how they had come up with such a “special diet” that their students were overeating all day. Scott couldn’t forget what they had told him after the funeral : “If we don’t stuff ourselves full, we’re going to die, like Mickey did.”

– “So, what about this Quiet Diet?”

– “Ha ha. The school board came up with the idea years ago, even before my time. Then Mr Swayn raised the bar to a whole new level, when he took charge. Mr Porkenham appreciated the results, and that’s how...”

  Then, Mr Thorne stopped for a moment, like a man who has gone too far.

– “I guess, that’s how some things got out of hand...”

– “How about Michael? I didn’t get the feeling that he was such a problematic boy... What was he like, when you saw him?”

– “Michael?” Mr Thorne emptied his glass. “Michael was different, that’s for sure. I mean, he could read and write! We even played a few games of chess together. He was only a beginner, but he learned fast... Yes, he was definitely different.”

– “Do you know... why his parents left him under your care?”

  Mr Thorne shrugged. There was no punch left, not even in the bowl. Scott had some left in his glass. The old man brought two bottles of gin, soda and various other things, and started making cocktails.

  Scott was feeling more than warm, with that heavy plaid over his legs.

– “Under our care... For all they care...” Mr Thorne mumbled. “What do we do, really? We’re given time bombs when they may be about to explode, then we try to defuse them. Or we used to try, at least...”

– “What do you do now?”

– “We bury them, of course!”

– “You bury your students alive?” Scott laughed.

  But Mr Thorne was serious about it.

– “In a manner of speaking, we do. Not our students, but their... Huh, let’s call it their problem. What’s eating them from inside out, whether it’s alcohol, drugs or any other kind of addiction, trauma, you name it! We don’t even take the trouble of identifying it: we bury it... under tons of food.”

– “Oh... So you replace alcohol with candy?”

– “Have you ever seen a man when he’s attempting to quit smoking? Just as I said, we take it to a whole new level. Our students are so well-fed, in Augustine Bells, that they will sleep on it, digest their sins, forget about their trouble and live in peace.”

  Then Mr Thorne burst out with laughter – a dark, ironic laugh.

– “Do they really feel better?”

– “We have experienced some resistance in the past, but they were only a few, isolated cases. After a month or two, all our students get used to overeating, then they get used to being full and heavy, then they get used to growing fatter. You should meet some of our senior boys... They’re almost sociable.”

– “So, that’s your Quiet Diet?”

– “That’s it.”

  Scott couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. There wasn’t much of a mystery behind that school. It was hardly a school, when he thought a bit more about it – merely a glorified hog farm, with old farmers wearing dark suits and young hogs wearing uniforms...

– “I had never thought about it... like this.”

– “Mr Swayn has put his theory to the test. Discipline used to be a real problem, as well as violence. When Michael was found dead in his bedroom, he was about to establish a new record of three hundred days without even an incident!”

– “Wow...” Scott commented, showing no particular enthusiasm.

– “Almost a whole year of peace and quiet. In here! In our school... Oh, he was terribly upset about the boy’s death...”

  Scott wished that he could refuse the next cocktail Mr Thorne was serving him, but he wouldn’t know how – these were amazing cocktails too!

– “And the boys’ parents are happy about your methods?”

– “Why wouldn’t they applaud us, when we get such results? Naturally, we will never have a Nobel Prize laureate among our alumni... We won’t graduate any of our students as useful members of society. Let’s be honest, we’re doing the best we can with these boys. At the very least, they won’t be a threat to society!”

– “I guess...”

– “Of course, Graham was always upset about our methods. We had to shut him up once and for all, when we hired him.”

– “Graham?”

  It took a few seconds before Scott remembered that Mr Thorne meant Phil, the young doctor who also worked in Augustine Bells as a male nurse. Scott’s mind was pretty hazy from the cocktails, and the lack of salty treats on the side.

– “You mean... Your doctor, here?”

– “Yes! Graham. Our students’ favorite teddy bear...” Mr Thorne took another sip of liquor through his teeth, with an air of contempt.

– “What about him?”

  Scott didn’t understand his reaction. The old man looked a bit more composed.

– “Oh, well... He may a good kid, deep down. I guess it’s not easy for a doctor, to be put in charge of almost three hundred adolescent, overweight boys, overeating for a living... He wanted them to be more active. Can you believe it? I remember how he tried to coach them for basketball, or baseball. We had to put an end to that! And we had made it very clear from the start. He’s just stubborn. Yes. He’s from a Southern state, anyway. That’s a Southern boy for you!”

  Scott let him ramble on. He was thinking about the boys too – and the fact that they were probably overeating for their lives, as some people would be running for their lives...

  There was something more to that Quiet Diet, something Mr Thorne wouldn’t tell – something more, that would explain why all those boys were not only eager to overeat, but afraid of “not overeating enough”!

  That was the real mystery. Scott could feel it now, just as Will had felt it before.

  Mr Thorne served another round of cocktails, then he said something strange – like a lesson, like a student in front of the class.

– “Oh well... Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night.”

  Scott didn’t know what to add to such a statement. Mr Thorne smiled as he noticed his blank stare.

– “I guess you are not very familiar with the poetic world of Mr William Blake?”

– “Not really... No.”

– “Now, how does that poem go?”

        “Every night and every morn,

         Some to misery are born,

         Every morn and every night,

         Some are born to sweet delight.”

– “I see.”

  Scott had no idea about what the old man was saying, or reciting.

        “Some are born to sweet delight,

         Some are born to endless night.”

– “Graham was definitely born to endless night...” Mr Thorne concluded, with a wicked grin – where Scott could see a hint of cruelty, hiding in a fog of alcohol.

  It was almost 1PM when Scott left Mr Thorne. He almost welcomed the rush of cold wind slapping his face, as he walked back to the gates. It felt good to walk. His steps were elastic on all that white, frosty grass. He deliberately avoided to follow the paved roads, as they would be slippery.

  His moves were hardly coordinated. His left leg felt all right, but his right hip hurt for some reason. It came in waves, then the pain faded away. Scott had not felt a thing for years, where he had been injured so badly...

  Mr Wingrave saw him, as he passed the turnstile, and offered him to get inside his office. Scott followed him to his desk. To his surprise, there was an opened box with a large, fresh cherry pie waiting for him.

– “I thought you were eating cherry bakewell tart...”

– “I was!” Mr Wingrave complained.

  He had to stop talking and take a short breath, then he let out a long, growling, roaring belch that lasted almost five seconds. Even after a few “inhale... exhale” movements, the head of security couldn’t stop rubbing his distended belly. Scott had already noticed how stuffed he was, but the poor guy could barely breathe.

– “Please, Scott... Would you do me a favor?”

– “Anything.”

– “Take this pie with you... I’m begging you.”

– “Why do you want me to take it? Was it meant for me?”

– “No, it was left on my desk in the morning. But I can’t eat another bite! I mean it, Scott... Put me out of my misery, please.”

  Mr Wingrave was sweating profusely. He was full to the point of bursting. Scott took the pie – he was feeling hungry, anyway. This meant that the guy owed him a favor, too. Scott had to make sure.

– “Why don’t you give it to your assistant?”

– “Oh, he’s been munching on two full baskets of muffins already...”

– “Wow! They’re really feeding you... really well.”

– “It’s our damn students. They gave me a taste of their own medicine.”

– “Oh...”

– “I should have known better. They go me hooked on all this...” The fat man kept complaining, still rubbing his massive belly, which groaned along with him, like a contented cat. “I swear, I’m going to explode if they keep it up!”

  Scott smiled about it, as he was eating piece after piece of pie, on his way back to the hotel. It was a homemade cherry pie, with a lattice top – too delicious for words...

■ ■ ■

January 29^th, 1990 – Monday

  Scott enjoyed waking up as Tom had to leave for work. They had spent another playful night together, and he was feeling great. He licked his lips, still sticky with ice-cream, and went to the bathroom.

  After another hearty breakfast, Scott didn’t feel like going out in the cold. It had been snowing all night.

– “I can wait for someone else to shovel it away.”

  As he had little to do in his bedroom, Scott ran a warm bath in his Jacuzzi-sized bathtub. When the room was toasty and full of steam, he put the water jets on, then he was surrounded with foam and bubbles.

  It was just what he needed to clear his mind, sitting and soaking in there.

  Before he knew it, Scott fell asleep. When he woke up, it was almost 11PM.

– “Shit! I have to hurry up!”

  Scott had not forgotten that he was supposed to meet one or two students – by “pure coincidence” – at the local hospital, as they would be waiting for their regular examination. It was getting a bit late for that.

  Maybe Scott got out of the bathtub too fast, but he felt like he had sprained his ankle. His right leg felt strangely stiff. His hips hurt again, and his knee was like blocked for a moment. Scott remembered how a few bad steps used to hurt him, after his football accident.

– “I guess it comes and goes...”

  Scott got to the hospital as fast as he could. The bus left him by the parking lot. There was only one boy left in the waiting room. He had to be a student at Saint Augustine Bells – wearing his uniform, which was pretty tight around his bloated belly. There was a box of pastries next to him, and he kept munching on them as he waited for his turn. He didn’t look to impatient about it.

– “Hello.”

– “Yeah, hello.”

  Scott recognized the boy. He didn’t know his name, but he remembered how Mr Scupper had mentioned three boys for him, in their dining hall. There was one of them. This fat young man slept in a bedroom next to Michael’s. He was the closest thing to a witness, for Scott’s investigation.

– “Good pastries?”

– “The best...”

  The boy belched loudly, for good measure. Scott knew the type. He would have no problem with him.

– “You boys really enjoy your food, at Augustine Bells.” He smirked.

– “So what?”

– “If it’s that good...”

– “Like we have anything else to enjoy in that godforsaken place.”

– “Of course. But lots of food...”

– “As much as we can get.”

  Scott also recognized these pastries. They didn’t look like the pies and tarts and doughnuts Mr Wingrave was “forced” to eat – and the box was marked with the school’s stamp. They had to be baked in their own kitchen... Scott was under the strange impression that they were even more rich and sweet.

– “You certainly get a lot.”

– “Hmmm hmmm...”

  The boy wouldn’t tell much, with his mouth full. Scott took a closer look at him. He was a bit tall for his age, about 5’8”, and probably 260lbs – all lard. His face was round and puffy, with chubby cheeks merging with a plump double neck – what some people called a “fat man’s moon face”. His fingers were also plump like sausages, which was enough for anyone to guess how obese he was.

  As expected, the boy felt Scott’s gaze – and he didn’t like it.

– “You want one of these?”

– “Sure. Why not?”

– “I’m just saying... They’re fattening!”

  Scott ate the whole cream-filled doughnut in two bites, on a dare. The boy may have not been talkative, but he did not lie about how filling it was – Scott felt like a full stick of butter sliding down his throat!

– “What’s your name, boy?”

– “Owen Dickson.”

– “Oh? so your father is...”

– “Yeah, that’s him.”

  Scott had no idea about who his father might be. That was a shot in the dark – and a bull’s eye, apparently.

– “He’s a friend of senator Astern, isn’t he?”

– “I wouldn’t know. Who cares?”

– “Then his son was a friend of yours.”

– “Who, Mickey? I hardly knew him.”

– “Please... Everyone knows him, now.”

– “Yeah, now! Stupid had to die in his own bedroom to get people’s attention...”

  The boy took a bottle of soda from his backpack, under his seat.

– “Did that catch your attention, at least?”

– “What?”

– “Michael’s death.”

– “I was at his funeral, with everyone else. Boring...”

– “I don’t mean that. I meant Michael’s death.” Scott insisted.

– “Why do you... ask?”

  Scott could see that Owen was more worried than he wanted to appear. The boy was suspicious, but there was something else to it – like fear.

– “You’re that journalist, aren’t you? I’ve seen you before.”

– “That’s right. I’m a journalist.”

– “What the fuck are you doing here?”

– “I have an appointment with doctor Hewdge.”

  The boy looked him up and down.

– “Then I have nothing to tell you.”

– “Maybe you don’t, maybe you do. You can talk to me, or you can have another one of these...”

  Naturally, the boy chose pastry – he stuffed a full doughnut in his mouth, with his fingers smeared with cream. Scott answered with a knowing smile.

– “You really have to eat lots of these... Right?”

– “Shut up!”

– “Especially now.”

  The boy froze, looking straight into Scott’s eyes.

– “What the fuck do you mean?”

– “Now that Mickey’s dead...”

– “I don’t know...” Owen mumbled.

  He was looking pale. Scott felt like he was on to something.

– “I know that you boys have to eat – all of you... But is there any reason why it should be you?”

  That strange question earned him the most amazing answer. The boy suddenly looked terrified, his pudgy hands shaking so much that he had to hold on to his knees with a firm grip.

– “You also think that... I could be next?”

– “I can’t know for sure. Do you?”

  But Owen wouldn’t answer. He was shivering nervously.

  The door opened. Doctor Hewdge came in, and invited the boy to follow him in the examination room. He said hello to Scott, but he also looked worried about his young patient – who was probably more docile than he had ever been...

  Scott remained in the waiting room, alone.

  He had not expected to get such reaction and answers from a boy who had once been so close to the victim – in terms of personal space, at least – before his death... even during his death.

– “What the hell happened to him, that night?”

  And he thought about the boy’s words again, after the funeral. There may be a ghost, whose shadow hung over Augustine Bells preparatory school like a dark veil. Ghost or no ghost, these words were haunting him:

“If we don’t stuff ourselves full, we’re going to die, like Mickey did!”

■ ■ ■

  When Owen was gone, Scott opened the door to the examination room without a noise. He wanted to have a few words with the young doctor.

  Phil was washing his hands, humming a little tune. Scott couldn’t imagine him actually singing in the hospital, but he could hear the words of some Southern, possibly Country song.

        “Come what may,

         Live on hay.

         You’ll get pie

         In the sky

         When you die –

         That’s a lie...”

– “Doctor?”

– “Scott? I didn’t know that you were still here. Please, call me Phil... What can I do for you?”

– “You already helped a lot. I wish I had come sooner, but talking with Owen has been very... instructive.”

– “I’m glad if you think that you have made some progress.”

  He didn’t look too curious about what Scott had just found out – or maybe he was polite enough not to ask him.

– “It’s almost time for lunch, but I can examine you, if you like.”

– “What? Why would you do that? I’m not sick or anything.”

– “I didn’t mean that you are, although I could help you with your limp, if you let me have a look.”

– “My... limp? What are you talking about?”

  Scott was protesting a bit too much, but he had never been to a doctor since he had been through surgery to get his meniscus fixed.

– “I noticed that you were walking with a slight limp, as you came in. Unless I’m mistaken, it must be the result of some old injury. Football, was it?”

– “What would you know about it? You don’t know.”

  Phil sat down behind his desk. Scott’s tone was definitely offensive, but he kept his cool. Looking straight at Scott, he started telling him, in his soft, warm voice.

– “What do I know? From what I can see, you’re a little under thirty years old... You are 6’2’’, but you like to pretend that you are a few inches taller. Your weight is around 190lbs, maybe a bit less. You used to be much bigger than this, but you lost some weight over the years, somehow. This murder case is the first real professional assignment you have been offered, and you have no experience on the job... Clearly, you had no intention of working as a journalist, when you were in high school. I believe that you were a great athlete – a football stud, a blocker rather than a receiver. You had to pick a major and you chose journalism, then you were forced to make it a career when someone broke your leg, or gave you what is called an “unhappy triad”. That was more than you could handle, at the time, so you avoided reeducation. You don’t like being in a hospital. Of course, nobody enjoys being in a hospital, but you also don’t trust doctors. Only now that you have put on weight again, your body is aching as a result. How am I doing, so far?”

  Scott was stunned. He had to sit down. Who was that guy? – Sherlock Holmes’ and Doctor Watson’s lovechild’s... grandson?

  Phil had stopped talking. That kind of speech was obviously unusual for him.

– “You’re... quite right – except for my weight. I’m nowhere near 190lbs. I used to be a solid 190 when I was playing football...”

  Phil smiled. Scott was amazed at how kind his eyes could be.

– “You were a bit thinner when we first met, but I would say that you have put on no less than 15 pounds since you’ve arrived in Biberton.”

– “Don’t be silly! I’ve only been here for a week.”

– “I know... Let’s have a friendly bet on it. How does that sound? If you’ve put on less than 10lbs, I will invite you for dinner again – anywhere you like.”

– “Okay...”

– “Then if you have put on more than 10lbs, you let me give you a complete check-up. And I may help you with that limp.”

  Scott couldn’t refuse such an offer. He stripped down to his underwear, and stepped on the scales. He had been eating well, of course – more than well! – so he had probably put on a little weight, but definitely not...

– “188? One hundred and eighty-eight pounds?...”

– “Not so far from 190, then.”

  Phil didn’t insist, but Scott was shocked.

– “188? Damn, I’ve put on 12 pounds over this past week?...”

– “It looks like you have.”

  It was also a shameless lie: Scott knew that he didn’t weigh 176lbs when he had come to Biberton – and Phil had to be aware of it too. He had gained no less than 16 pounds, as the young doctor had guessed.

  There was a full-length mirror on the wall, next to the scales. Scott was standing straight, lifting his T-shirt to check the damage done to his waist. His whole midsection looked round and soft. His bellybutton felt like someone was pinching a fully blown balloon and pulling a bit from inside. It was surrounded by a good expanse of belly, with budding lovehandles which looked eager to grow...

  Scott had been much fatter than this, of course, after his injury. Feeling bigger brought a few memories back – some sad, some rather pleasant. Being plump had always felt good to him.

– “12 pounds... So, will you let me examine you?”

– “Okay.”

  Phil was still nice to him. He offered to provide him with the right massages to heal his hip and leg. On second thoughts, Scott agreed that it couldn’t wait.

– “How about tomorrow evening, then?”

– “Sounds good to me.”

  Scott put his clothes back on. He was blushing a bit, as the blonde doctor had been able to see right through him better than with an X-ray machine, while he kept denying that he had been eating a bit too well and letting go a bit too much.

– “Do you think that I should... go on a diet?”

– “Why would you want to do such a thing?”

– “Huh... I don’t know.”

  It was what any doctor would have advised – but not this doctor.

– “I would simply recommend caution. The people you are questioning may be more dangerous than they seem. You have already made an impression on them as a worthy adversary, but you were lucky to catch them off guard.”

  Scott appreciated Phil’s support, but he didn’t like the sound of all this.

  The young doctor noticed it, and put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

– “More than anything, you have to consider both sides of your investigation: the students and their teachers. If you don’t mind me saying, I would advise you to win the boys’ trust and earn the old masters’ respect.”

– “Yes...”

  It was actually quite well-thought. Scott patted his little belly.

– “How about it, then?”

– “Eat with the boys, look greedy to the school board. There’s the key to open all the doors in Augustine Bells.”

– “But then I’ll get fat.”

– “You’ve been heavier than this. You told me so yourself. I think you can afford to pack on a few pounds, as long as we make sure that you stay healthy.”

– “Okay!”

  Scott tried not to sound to enthusiastic about obtaining such a “license to eat”, just as he had been given a free bus pass from Mr Thorne.

  Phil was closing his office for lunch. It didn’t look like he would be eating much, considering the amount of files he had to carry under his arm. Scott let his mind wandering a bit, as he waited for him. He was looking at Phil’s diplomas on the wall, which called for a few comments.

– “So you were born in Virginia?”

– “In Richmond, yes.”

– “Sounds nice, being born and raised there...”

– “Born, yes... but not raised. I grew up mostly in Norfolk.”

– “Where’s that?”

– “On the Atlantic coast.”

– “Awesome...” Scott noticed that there was no nurse in the lobby, once again. “Thank you, Phil...”

– “You’re welcome. That was the least I could do.”

  They shook hands. Scott was in no hurry to leave.

– “Phil... Hewdge? Isn’t that a pretty unusual name for a Southerner?”

– “My grandfather came from Russia. The family name used to be Youchtchkov, or something like that.”

– “Youch... How the hell do you write it?”

  Phil took a pen and wrote on a sheet of paper: Юшков. 

– “Huh... So your father?”

– “My father was born in the United States. When my grandparents came to Ellis Island, Immigration got rid of that cough. The German Army had already made an attempt at renaming them Hedgekopf, during World War One, which sounded pretty ridiculous. So the guy at the desk met them halfway with Hewdge.”

– “I see. Do you speak Russian?”

– “Not a word...”

– “But your family was Russian, before they came over here?”

– “My grandmother was German, actually. She would be polish today, I guess... But my mother came from an old family, well-implanted in Virginia.”

– “So... What are you, exactly? Southern, German, Russian...”

  Scott was teasing, but Phil took it like a man. He even answered with a slightly mischievous smile.

– “I am everything they hate.”

  Scott couldn’t be more turned on, when he left the hospital and took the bus back to his hotel. And he was hungry!

(To be continued...)