The Augustine Murders - Season 1, Episode 5

I.5

January 25^th, 1990 – Thursday

  Scott struggled to keep his eyes opened as he was sitting in the bus, on his way to Saint Augustine Bells. He had not slept so well, once again – and, after enjoying a big, hearty breakfast, the tall young stud was feeling a bit drowsy.

  It must have been snowing all night. Scott’s eyes twitched into the light. It was a bright, crisp morning. The snow had been ploughed into brown, crumbly bands by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of the footpaths, it still lay in the streets and all over private gardens in an immaculate white.

  The grey pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but the road was still a bit slippery. There were few people in the streets, and the bus was going cautiously slow. Scott yawned. He may have been eating a little too much, this morning.

– “Back to the scene...” he thought, as the bus left him next to the stately gates, where the layer of snow seemed thicker than anywhere else, covering the path to the school’s entrance as well as the trees and bushes around the corner.

  Scott looked up. The bells were striking nine. He had not heard them yet, or he had not noticed their presence until now. It was a long, low, strangely ominous sound. The sun was barely up, still hidden by the buildings. In the clear Winter light, everything felt shrouded in mystery, which was enough to give Scott a chill. It was worse than the fog he had been walking through until now...

  The permanent school pass he kept in his wallet helped Scott feel a bit better. He wouldn’t have to sign papers anymore. As a matter of fact, Mr Scupper was already in the waiting room – obviously here to welcome him, since he got up when he saw the young journalist. They even shook hands and exchanged a few words. Then he was invited to follow the old man.

  Thinking about it, Scott didn’t know if that was such a good thing. The campus was certainly large, and there were quite a few buildings, but he wouldn’t get lost if someone simply told him where to go, or gave him a map or something. With someone always leading the way, he couldn’t wander on school grounds. Scott had a hunch that he might learn something if he only followed his nose, instead of a nosey old guy.

  While he was not so happy with the way they handled things in Saint Augustine Bells, Scott was pleasantly surprised to find that Mr Scupper was quite eager to talk – a lot more, and a lot more frankly than he had expected.

– “Don’t get your hopes up, young man. You won’t get to interview any of our students today... not unless you play it real smart.”

  Mr Scupper suddenly stopped right in the middle of a large alley, and turned to Scott. They were alone, with nothing but the wind blowing over the snowy grass.

– “But you’ve been a clever player, so far!” he said. Scott noticed a malicious glimmer in the old man’s eyes. “Really clever. Aha!”

– “Huh... Thank you.”

– “Thank yourself. I have overheard a conversation between Mr Thorne and Mr Porkenham over dinner, last night. They both agree that you are less dumb than you look.”

– “Oh.”

– “Take it from Mr Thorne, it is a big compliment. And it has brought you this far. But you won’t get much more information from the guys you are going to meet today.”

– “ Who am I scheduled to meet?”

– “Mr Huggins first, I would say. Then Mr Swayn.”

– “And who are these gentlemen?”

  The old man shrugged.

– “Right. Call them gentlemen... Mr Huggins is the students’ counselor. He is also responsible for much of our budget, right under Mr Porkenham.”

– “And who is the other guy?”

– “Mr Swayn is a tutor and lecturer at our school. Don’t ever contradict him. He considers himself as some sort of psychologist. We’d better hurry now. They can’t hear us here, but we’re standing in the middle of nowhere...”

  Scott caught on immediately. Their presence was quite conspicuous in a wide, showy white field. As a matter of fact, Mr Porkenham and two other men were just stepping outside of the main building. They waited for them on top of the stairs, then Scott was formally introduced – all too formally for his own taste.

– “Dylan Huggins...”

– “Dirk Swayn... with a Y, not an I.”

– “Scott Girder... It’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you...”

– “Quite...” Mr Porkenham concluded, always mumbling a little.

  As announced by Mr Scupper, Scott was invited to interview Mr Huggins first. His office was on the fifth floor, somewhat less large than the journalist figured it would be, since the man in question was supposed to be right under the director in the school’s hierarchy.

  Mr Huggins had to be in his late fifties or sixties. He was dressed in the same old-fashioned clothes as his superior: white shirt, black tie, dark grey vest and a deeper, darker jacket. It was not lost on Scott that the man was a bit short of breath, coughing every now and then.

  The young journalist tried not to sigh too visibly. He had little hopes about his day of investigation, at this point.

  Once Mr Huggins closed the door and they were alone in his office, however, there was a surprising change in the educator’s attitude.

– “Would you care for a smoke?”

– “Huh... Sure.”

– “Got matches ?” the man asked with some excitement.

– “I have my lighter.”

– “Perfect. Now...”

  Scott tried not to peak as the old man sat by his desk, rolled down his right sock and produced a pack of cigarettes. He brought one to his lips swiftly.

– “All right. What do you have?”

  Scott had his own pack in his pocket.

– “Good ones, but I’ve grown to prefer these.” Mr Huggins let out a puff of smoke with delight. “Not a word about this, right?”

– “Right.” Scott smiled, very much amused by the man’s attitude.

– “Stupid kids... They want me around here until the end of days, I guess.”

  Listening to him, Scott concluded that he meant Mr Porkenham and the other members of the school committee. Of course, it wouldn’t provide much of an example to be smoking in the presence of students. When he was done with his cigarette, Mr Huggins got up and opened a drawer.

– “So... now that we understand each other, how about we take it to the next level?”

– “Huh... What level would that be?”

– “I guess you’re the kind of educated young man who knows his way around a good whisky...”

  Much to Scott’s surprise, the old man grabbed a large bottle of single malt, 15 years old to say the least. There were only glasses in the drawer on top of that one. Mr Huggins poured two glasses that would make any bartender look stingy.

– “Neat, right?”

– “Neat’s neat.”

– “All right. Neat’s the way to go. Now...You’ve come here to talk. Let’s talk.”

  Then, just when everything felt nice and easy, Scott found that he had nothing to say. If this was a trick, it was a most clever one! Neither of them was in the mood to discuss a murder investigation. Scott took it as an opportunity to learn a bit more about Saint Augustine Bells.

– “All your students come from very wealthy families...”

– “Yes, they do.” Mr Huggins sounded rather unimpressed about it.

– “Forgive me if I insist. I have never been so close to high class...”

  The old man let out a short, sharp laugh.

– “High class! Ha! Right...”

  Scott was definitely startled by that reaction.

– “I mean... Your students have a pretty high profile...”

– “There you see...” Mr Huggins pointed at him. “Mr Thorne was right. You’re a smart boy. Ha! Ha! Very smart boy, indeed... I’ll pour you another one.”

– “What did I say?”

– “High class, low profile... That’s our school in a nutshell. I couldn’t sum it up better myself.”

  That was pretty much the exact opposite of what Scott had said, but he was all ears at the moment. What did Mr Huggins mean by that?

– “Let me ask you a question. I know you came here with more questions than anything, but you may grant me one. How did you know about our school?”

– “When my boss assigned me to this job...”

– “Well, what do you know? You’re more honest than I thought. You had never heard of us until last week, I suppose.”

– “No... I had not. I didn’t grow up in this state.”

– “That’s not the question. Our students come from all over the United States. We also have quite a few boys from Canada.”

  Scott still couldn’t tell what Mr Huggins had in mind. Three triple neat whiskies probably didn’t help.

– “What kind of students are you looking for, then?”

– “We don’t really look for them: they find their way to us, through their parents’ connections. You will find that most of our students are second or third sons of rich, powerful and, or famous people. Most of them also dropped out from their previous school, wherever it is.”

– “I see...”

– “Then our boys share a very unique quality, although that is declined in many, many forms.”

– “What quality?”

– “I thought you would have guessed by now. They were all addicted to something. Mostly drugs. Hard drugs, in some cases. We have a few violent boys too. Nothing like good, old-fashioned drinking and smoking. Cheers!”

  Mr Huggins raised his glass. Scott was speechless. He should have thought about all this from the very beginning.

– “Then... What was Michael addicted to?”

– “Who’s Michael?”

– “The boy who... died. The one you used to call Mickey, I believe?”

– “Oh. Right, Mickey. Now, that’s really funny...” Mr Huggins chuckled, although Scott couldn’t see anything funny about the whole incident. “I never knew what his addiction was. He was a troubled boy, of course.”

  The old man paused, and poured Scott another glass. The young journalist could hold his liquor, but his head was beginning to spin a little. It was getting hard for him to focus, just when he was with someone who could no longer hold his tongue...

– “I don’t know. Mickey was a very clever boy, too... Yes, too clever... He had secrets, that one.”

  Scott couldn’t get more information from that guy. The bottle was very near empty anyway... When the bells struck eleven, the young journalist had to cover his ears. They were probably too close to the school’s tower. Or Scott was too sensitive at the moment.

– “Quite a noisy bunch, are they?” Mr Huggins chuckled again. “All right. Where were we ?”

– “Huh... You were telling me...”Scott tried to gather his thoughts. “You were telling me that Saint Augustine School is a... rehab center?”

– “Yes, you may call it a rehabilitation center. Mr Thorne likes to think that we are herders of black sheep, bringing them back all... whitewashed. Clean, with full school credit.”

– “So this is why your school is in Biberton...”

– “Exactly: right in the middle of nowhere, with plenty of fresh air, mountains and lakes for miles and miles around it.”

  Then Mr Huggins winked at Scott.

– “We also keep them away from the press. Too much publicity means too much pressure... They don’t want that. Their parents don’t want that. I’m sure that you understand our concern.”

  Scott understood. His hopes to interview Michael’s classmates were definitely shattered...

■ ■ ■

  Mr Huggins didn’t keep Scott much longer in his office. It was getting close to lunch time. The young journalist was hungry. After drinking hard with a man who probably downed a whole bottle every day without flinching, Scott’s tongue felt dry, and his breakfast was little more than a fading memory.

– “Mr Scupper will keep you company at lunch.”

  Scott wasn’t too displeased with that changing of the guard. Mr Scupper had made a better impression on him, while it was obvious that Mr Huggins wouldn’t tell him anything new.

  They walked by the largest building, and Scott finally got to see a few students. A few moments later, he saw a good hundred of them in the immense cafeteria.

  Then his first impression proved to be true: Scott had suspected that Michael wasn’t the only overweight student in Saint Augustine Bells. As it turned out, he had to be one of the relatively lean boys in his class.

  Mr Scupper was leading him through a gallery, which was separated from the students’ cafeteria by a number of large bow windows, but Scott’s curiosity was finally satisfied – up to a certain point.

  Every student he saw, even so briefly, had to be weighing at least 230lbs. Now that Mr Huggins had let the cat out of the bag regarding their condition, Scott could also spot some telling signs in their eyes, in the way the moved their hands or in the way they ate. He also noticed how very chubby they were, with cherub-like faces, double chins, sometimes merging into large, plump moon faces...

  Mr Scupper opened the door to the stairs. Scott followed him up to a private lunch room, with a balcony overlooking the hall where students kept going back and forth to the buffet, stuffing themselves with endless amounts of food.

– “Mr Porkenham has considered your wish to get a closer look at our students’ everyday life.”

– “That is... very kind of him. I truly wish that we could eat with them.”

– “Well, just the same, our director thought that it would be inappropriate for you to mingle, since most of these boys don’t trust strangers and some of them can get violent. You would recognize them easily enough, though...”

– “How so?”

– “They are only given soft spoons and forks with their meals – no knives. Besides, we keep an eye on them at all times. Now, follow my eyes... Don’t look straight at them!”

  Scott did as he was told. On the other end of the cafeteria, there was a small group of particularly large boys, whose school uniform was torn in a certain way. They looked intimidating. Scott knew the type. They didn’t need any knife or fork, since they were mostly eating with their hands, shoving fries and pieces of fried chicken into their mouths.

– “The tallest one...” Mr Scupper kept his voice and attitude casual, as if the boy in question could have overheard their conversation – while they were not even in the same room, technically. “That young brat is Dan Hilton. Next to him is his... well, let’s say “friend”, Brad Dulles. Then, at the other end of the table...”

– “Yes?”

– “That’s Owen Dickson. Okay, lunch’s ready for you.”

  Scott sat at the table. There were six plates ready around the center piece, but Mr Scupper was still standing.

– “I thought that we were having lunch together...”

– “This is not my place. Now, those boys?”

– “What about them?”

– “They are the ones you want.”

– “How so?”

– “Dan, Brad and Owen’s rooms are in the same hall as Mickey’s. They are his neighbors, in a way. Those three boys were sleeping in their beds, with only a wall or the hallway between them and... whatever happened.”

– “I see... Well, thank you.”

– “Hah, forget it... I will be back in a moment.”

  Mr Scupper didn’t leave for long. Scott saw five young boys entering the room with him. They were all built like the ones in the cafeteria, although they looked shy in comparison to the big bullies he had been steeling glances at before...

  Tall or short, they were stocky just the same, with their bellies bulging out over their waists. Scott took a guess that the leanest one wore size 42 pants. It was also hard for him not to look at their love handles – hanging over their hips, with their chests starting to sag under those school uniforms.

– “These young boys will have lunch with you.” Mr Scupper introduced the students, patting the back of their heads a bit roughly. “This boy’s French, I believe, or Canadian French. It’s pretty much the same... These two meatballs here are supposed to be Spanish. I think this one is actually Portuguese, but Mr Swayn never got to tell the difference. And this potato head is German, right? And, last but not least, we have an Italian boy here.”

  That last boy was the largest and roundest of the bunch. They had barely said hello, but they sat with Scott and started eating as soon as food was brought to their table.

– “You’re safe. They hardly speak a word of English.”

  To Scott’s distress, Mr Scupper left him with those five greedy boys. They had been served fried chicken steaks with heaps of buttery pasta. Scott’s head was still smarting a bit from all that strong liquor with Mr Huggins, so he didn’t mind digging in. As a matter of fact, he had to eat rather fast or the boys sitting next to him would certainly steal from his plate.

  The young journalist didn’t quite forget that he was here with a purpose, but it was really hard to establish a contact with younger boys who didn’t understand him and only seemed to care about what would be next on their menu.

  Even before the chicken was gone, Mr Scupper opened to door and announced the second course: a whole platter of veal cutlets with fries and green beans.

  Scott could hardly believe it. He was no longer tipsy, and he wasn’t really hungry anymore, but he was served a large plate full of meat. Then his old survival instincts came to the fore and he found himself fighting the other boys for second helpings...

  Just when he started feeling thirsty again, Mr Scupper brought bottles of beer.

– “Wait a second... Beer?”

– “Local brew. It’s called Swift Fox beer, very low in alcohol. It’s lighter than ginger ale, really.”

  Scott looked at the bottles and recognized the BBB logo on the side. He didn’t know that beer, but it was both tasty and refreshing. Since there was no glass on the table, he drank straight from the bottle like the rest of the boys.

  Something still felt strange about their behavior. Scott was now aware of their condition, whatever it was they may have been addicted to, but he was very much impressed by their appetite.

– “Third course: Mexican delights!” Mr Scupper called to everyone’s attention.

  Scott saw a pile of enchiladas coming his way, all covered in cheese, guacamole and sour cream. There would be no fight over these, at least: everyone was served four big, thick ones, and they were told to eat everything to the last bite.

  It would take some time. Scott had already given up on making small talk with the boys around him. They wouldn’t answer. They wouldn’t even listen to him.

– “Fourth course!...”

■ ■ ■

  By the time Scott was done with his dessert, he was feeling drowsy again – not from lack of sleep at his hotel, not from the alcohol with Mr Huggins, but from pure, plain and simple overeating... Once the students were back to class, he let out a long, greasy belch.

– “BUUURRRP!”

  Mr Scupper had to remind him that he had an appointment with Mr Swayn. It was a good thing that the lecturer’s office was on the first floor. Scott didn’t feel like walking up another long flight of stairs.

  Mr Swayn was the youngest person Scott had met in Saint Augustine Bells, so far. He looked like a golf player, or a tennis player, with the proper tan and the proper clothes. Scott had an eye for these things – the guy had good taste. His office looked very much like a doctor’s office, with diplomas on the wall to Scott’s right. On the wall to his left were pictures of governors and senators shaking hands with the school staff. The largest picture even showed the president of the United States.

  Everything felt fake – even the pictures, which were obviously real... Scott was in such a state where a good fiction would sound better and more believable than any news report.

  Sensing that his guest wouldn’t know what to say, Mr Swayn asked him a few questions about his work, his stay at the Paddington Hotel, and what progress he had made with the case. It helped Scott focus, and he was able to ask questions of his own.

– “How well did you know Michael?

– “I knew him all too well. I wouldn’t know where to start... I got to meet his mother once, you know. Sarah Silversmith, the daughter of Ham Silversmith, the famous... philanthropist.”

– “Huh... Okay.”

  Scott could care less about the victim’s grandparents, who seemed to be still very much alive, according to what he was currently told.

– “Ham Silversmith? Doesn’t ring a bell? “Ham” is not short for “Hamilton”. It’s Haim. It should be Haim junior, to be honest, since he’s the son of Haim Selig Silberschmidt... grand old Wall Street tycoon.”

  Mr Swayn went on to comment, in an almost Darwinian “survival of the fattest” process among fat cats, on how the son of a loan shark becomes a banker, then his son gets to be a promoter, then a philanthropist, once the family has reached such a level of wealth that demands some attention and respect.

  There wasn’t a piece of information Scott could use in there, which made his next move even more difficult. Then he decided to follow a hunch.

– “Would you say that... Michael took after his grandfather?”

– “Absolutely. People would tell you that he was smart. And he was. I should know, I have tested his IQ myself. But there was more to it. Mickey was cunning, like... a rat or something. He was hiding something.”

  Scott was under the impression that everyone was hiding something. In its own slanderous way, comparing the victim to a rat could be taken like a compliment.

– “I guess he did a good job at keeping his secrets...”

– “A bit too much of a good job, if you ask me. But you have only arrived a few days ago, you must have lots of questions.”

– “I do...” Scott had a hard time picking one. “Well, for one thing, I have only noticed today how your students are...”

– “Yes?”

– “They’re... huh... really well-fed!”

– “Oh! Yes, they are... That is part of our policy here, at Augustine Bells.”

– “Okay...” Scott didn’t sound too convinced. “Why?”

– “I believe that you are now fully aware of the special nature of our school. All our students are recovering from very serious addictions, deep personal troubles, even personality disorders sometimes. We have a responsibility toward them and their parents, and so we do our best to keep them safe and prevent any erratic behavior on their part.”

– “How does this translate into big meals?”

– “Happy meals for happier students...” Mr Swayn chuckled. “A well-fed boy will overcome his addiction so much easier, whatever it may be: drugs, sleeping pills, alcohol, ether, you name it... And it works. Of course, Graham wasn’t too happy about the whole idea, but it’s not like Mr Porkenham or Mr Thorne ever asked for his opinion.”

  Something didn’t feel right, once again. Scott had met almost every educator on campus, at this point, and he couldn’t remember anyone named Graham.

– “Our average student’s diet amounts to 8.000 to 10.000 calories a day, at least during his first year... We keep a 24/7 Opened Fridge, All you can Eat policy on campus. It represents a significant part of our budget, by the way.”

– “So... how much did Michael weigh when he was admitted in Saint Augustine Bells ?”

– “I couldn’t say... I remember that he was always on edge, always nervous for absolutely no reason. I guess he weighed about 150lbs... 155, maybe...”

  Scott didn’t take a note, but he kept it in mind. Even before his body got to grow so huge overnight, Michael had put on about 50lbs.

– “When was he transferred to Saint Augustine?”

– “About a year ago. Michael had not turned 18 yet.”

  So that meant a 50lbs gain in less than a year... Of course, after he had just shared lunch with some of his classmates, Scott understood only too well how such weight gain would be pretty common around here.

  The young journalist let his mind wander for a moment – what if all this was only a decoy? – a way to distract him from more important key points? Michael’s size and weight would look like nothing special, nothing worth mentioning in the newspapers... Scott could feel that ominous shroud of mystery weighing on him and everything around him, once again.

  He had to admit that the students behaved rather strangely, and in such a way that could not be part of an act. They were also genuinely fat and overweight – and incredibly greedy. Scott knew enough, from his own personal experience, to confirm that they ate and stuffed themselves like they meant it.

  What was left for him, then? Michael only studied, ate and slept like the rest of the students in that godforsaken school – he got healthy, big, fat and round like the rest of them...

– “Who would you say were his best friends?”

– “Mickey didn’t have any friends.”

– “Not even one?”

  Mr Swayn didn’t look too concerned about that question.

– “I guess he was friends with Graham, in a way... But that wouldn’t count. The guy’s friendly with all our students.”

  Scott had to ask him, this time.

– “You’ve already mentioned a Graham, earlier. Who is he?”

  Mr Swayn suddenly blushed. Scott didn’t expect that from such a guy.

– “I meant... We had to provide our students with regular check-ups and medical attention, so we hired someone from our local hospital. That’s Graham.”

– “So he’s a doctor, or...”

– “Naturally! He used to be a surgeon in the Army.”

– “Wait. Are you talking about Phil? Dr. Hedge?”

– “That’s right. That’s him.”

– “Why do you keep calling him Graham?”

  The young tutor looked embarrassed for a moment. He had let himself get carried away, somehow. Scott couldn’t tell why, but he actually enjoyed watching this cocky young man squirm a bit before him.

– “It’s... nothing, really. It’s a joke.”

– “A joke?”

  Scott wouldn’t let him weasel his way out of it so easily.

– “It’s not a very good joke at that...” Mr Swayn’s voice was almost a whisper.

– “Tell me.”

– “We call him Graham”, he finally sighed “...because Phil is our little cracker.”

– “Oh...”

– “And also, you know, students often refer to him as their “pet bear”. So there you go, Graham cracker... Teddy Graham... Ha. Ha.”

  It was a terrible joke. Mr Swayn’s laugh was dead flat too. Deep down, he was furious that Scott had caught him spreading more racist slur like that. Making fun of the rich and foreign – and Jewish – was one thing, but to dismiss the poor and All-American – Southern as they may be – all in the same conversation, that was a bit much.

  It would be better for the two of them to change the subject immediately. As a matter of fact, Mr Swayn mentioned that students had “pet names” for pretty much everyone around school, which Scott was ready to believe.

  Their conversation went back to its main subject. Most of Scott’s leads were lost already: Michael probably didn’t eat any more than his classmates – he had no reason to hide food in his bedroom, as Mr Thorne had already pointed out. There was only one card left for him to play.

– “Were you aware of Michael’s allergies?”

– “I’m a psychologist. You’d have to ask Gr... Err... Phil, for that matter.”

– “Well, I had every intention to do so... Then I was told yesterday that it would imply some serious consequences for him and his coworkers. Financial sanctions too, apparently.”

– “Oh, really...”

– “I guess your colleagues didn’t keep you in the loop when they signed that letter to doctor Hewdge at the hospital. I don’t think that I remember your name being mentioned in there...”

  Scott had gone straight for the jugular, and it paid off. Mr Swayn couldn’t take any more. He interrupted the journalist, took his fountain pen and started writing a new letter immediately.

– “You were right to tell me about their decision... Mr Porkenham can be a bit hasty in his actions. I will discuss this matter with Mr Thorne.”

– “So, I can question the hospital staff.”

– “It’s an important aspect of your job, isn’t it? To each his own...”

  Mr Swayn signed the letter, which looked like a giant blue mosquito drawn in a hurry. Then he handed it to Scott.

– “When you see Dr. Lipton... or Phil – whatever you said his name is – will you give this letter to him?”

– “I can do it tomorrow.”

– “Perfect.” Mr Swayn sat back in his chair. “I guess you should ask Miss Spread about Michael’s diet...”

■ ■ ■

  Diana Spread was the top chef at Saint Augustine Bells.

  Scott had to wait for almost an hour before he could leave Mr Swayn. Then he was introduced to her by Mr Scupper, who took a moment to congratulate him on their way to the kitchen.

– “You've made the right choice. This is where the action truly is.”

– “So you think that Michael was poisoned?”

– “I never said such a thing. Maybe he was poisoned, maybe he wasn’t. The whole school is talking about it... The point is, did you see those kids eating at lunch ?”

– “I did...”

– “Rich kids today... They live like pigs, they eat like pigs!”

  The old man went on, rambling on the students’ lack of any real education, bad manners, foul language, outbursts of anger – Scott had stopped paying attention for a while, when they entered the kitchen.

  Just as he had expected, the rooms were simply huge: endless, sparkling clean surfaces of stainless steel and ceramics. It felt a bit cold and empty, now that the staff was done cooking and serving lunch.

  Miss Spread was a short, four-eyed, vivacious brunette who evidently loved her job. She was making preparations for dinner already. Scott looked at the clock. It was barely 5PM.

– “I don’t remember that Mickey had any allergy, really...”

– “Do you remember what he had to eat, on Saturday night?”

– “Mickey ate exactly the same food as his classmates. If there was something wrong with the food, I would be the first to know. Here, taste this...”

  Miss Spread was working on a curry sauce. Scott had a good spoonful of it, over pieces of shredded lamb.

– “Hmmm... Good.”

– “Bit too hot, maybe. What do you think, spicy enough?”

– “I guess it depends on how spicy you like your food in general.”

– “See? That’s the thing. We’re dealing with kids, here. There’s no such thing as too spicy food. Have a taste of this chicken here.”

  Scott was offered to sample a few different sauces with pieces of chicken breast – then Miss Spread asked for his opinion about a dozen preparations for Mexican beans and lentils.

– “Wait a moment. You’re a grown man, you deserve to taste this with a good vintage of red wine.”

  Before he knew it, Scott was standing behind the kitchen counter with a glass of Merlot in one hand, and toast in the other. Miss Spread was often interrupted by one of her assistants, who was working on something tasty. And, since Scott was their guest du jour, she insisted that he should be offered some food to give them an unbiased opinion.

  After four glasses of wine, Scott’s tastebuds were no longer in the game... He couldn’t tell Miss Spread that everything tasted the same to him, so he tried to compliment every dish. His opinion was generally well-received.

– “Add more butter to that sauce... Didn’t you think that it was a little lean?”

– “I don’t know...”

– “We’ve been over this. No such thing as too spicy. Get those kids to drink. And no such thing as too much butter.”

  Scott didn’t feel like interrupting anyone who gave him information about the way they handled things in this strange school for rich, white trash, dropout kids. He accepted another glass of wine, although miss Spread had already moved on to desserts.

– “Cake is almost ready... Try this chocolate frosting, boy!”

  When Scott eventually left, his shirt felt unbearably tight around his stomach.

  The young journalist had made an excellent impression on the entire staff of cooks, but he must have eaten the equivalent of nine or ten large plates of appetizers, first course, main course, cheese, desserts and cookies.

  Scott was lucky to catch his bus, right when he had left Mr Scupper at the gate – with the head of security waving good evening at him with half a smile. It was almost 10PM already. For a moment, Scott couldn’t believe how time could fly on a day like this.

– “A hard, long day at work...” Scott thought, absent-mindedly patting his full, groaning stomach.

  The lights were off inside the lobby at the Paddington Hotel. Scott recognized Tom at the desk, and wished him good night.

– “I will escort you to your room.”

  Scott didn’t know why the young guy would be interested in operating the lift. His job in the lobby had to be pretty boring. As they were going up, Tom started asking questions.

– “You’re investigating about that murder in Saint Augustine, right?”

– “I am... investigating. Yes.” Scott hesitated. “Why do you think that it was a murder?”

– “I don’t know... I just thought... Saint Augustine’s a pretty weird place.”

  Scott sighed. He couldn’t agree more.

– “All right... Good night, Sir.”

  Once he was alone in his bedroom, Scott let out another massive belch. He had been drinking too much for his own taste – not that he couldn’t handle his booze, but those people had made him mix whisky with beer, and red wine.

  Scott would probably wake up with a nasty headache, and he didn’t want to start another day like that... He got to the bathroom, thinking that a toasty bath might help – then he noticed that the couple in the next bedroom was going at it again. It made him sigh, exasperated.

  He couldn’t help feeling a little bit frustrated too.

  Just then, Scott heard a knock on his door.

– “What the...”

  Scott went back to his door. There was Tom, standing in the alleyway – with a plate of sandwiches.

– “What are you doing here?”

– “Well... You came back so late. I figured, maybe you didn’t get to have dinner. And I thought, maybe you’d like a sandwich or to... I’ve noticed that you enjoyed our bakery’s buns, so...”

– “Believe me, boy... I have had more than my share of a good dinner.”

  It was still nice of him to be so considerate – but Scott wasn’t dumb. He could tell that there was some other reason for Tom to be back and knocking on his door.

– “All right... Let me make this clear for you, once and for all. I can’t discuss on-going investigation.”

– “Wow... You had to go all FBI on me like that.” Tom smiled, looking more than a bit smitten by Scott’s cocky attitude. “Wicked, man.”

  Scott leaned against the door frame. They took a moment, looking and smiling at each other.

– “So, you see... There’s no reason for you to be here.”

– “No reason at all. Unless you would enjoy some company for tonight...”

– “I guess... Working night shifts must be pretty lonely too. You should be at the desk, right now.”

– “I really should... You don’t want Mr Jackson to find out about these things.”

– “Who’s Mr Jackson?”

– “Hotel manager. He’s a real prick.”

– “Oh well... I know the type.”

  Scott took a hundred dollar bill from his wallet, and held it between his fingers like a cigarette. Tom’s smile and his own turned into mischievous grins.

– “How about Mr Franklin... What would he say about this?”

– “I think he definitely outranks my manager.”

– “All right then. Get your buns in here...”

  Tom closed the door behind him, and – thanks to the magic of room service – Scott enjoyed his first good night in Biberton.

(to be continued...)

The Augustine Murders - Season 1, Episode 4

I.4

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

             de se croire plus fin que les autres.”

            (The truest way to be deceived is to think

             that you are more cunning than others.)

François de Marcillac, duc de LA ROCHEFOUCAULD

Réflexions ou Sentences et maximes morales — CXXVII

January 24^th, 1990 — Wednesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The population was of 3.500 at the 1980 census, with 466 households and 490 families residing in the city. The racial makeup of Biberton is 97.05% White, 0.99% African American, 1.65% Native American, 0.09% Asian, and 0.22% from Hispanic or Latino origin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

■ ■ ■

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

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

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

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

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

– “Shall I be mother?”

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

– “Sugar?”

– “Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Mr Thorne sighed.

– “How is that a fact?”

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

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

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

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

– “What else did you find?”

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

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

– “There may be more. I don’t know.”

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

  Scott was about to protest, but he was interrupted.

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

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

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

– “Is that so?”

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

  Scott had no idea, of course.

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

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

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

  Scott didn’t like where this was going.

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

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

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

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

  Mr Thorne opened his eyes, a bit startled.

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

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

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

– “If you wish to consider it so...”

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

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

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

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

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

– “Have you ever been audited?”

– “Huh... Do you mean, by the IRS?”

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

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

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

– “Huh... Quite.”

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

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

– “It would be very risky to say so.”

  Mr Thorne let Scott go on.

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

– “Quite... ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

■ ■ ■

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

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

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

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

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

– “Ladies...”

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

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

– “Doctor who?”

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

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

– “How about doctor Lipton ?”

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

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

  Scott didn’t feel much compassion in her voice.

– “What happened?”

– “Car accident, this morning.”

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

– “That man is impossible!”

– “What did he do now?”

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

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

  The three nurses turned to him.

– “Who are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– “Family picture, of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– “What happened? Did the patient die?”

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

– “How is that... worse?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– “Yes, I did.”

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

– “That’s me...”

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

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

– “When did you get into my office?”

– “Soon enough... Tough day?”

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

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

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

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

– “Huh... Okay.”

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

– “Oh...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

– “What did you bring tonight?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– “Like baking pies?”

– “Like that project for a children hospital.”

– “What about it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– “I am sorry that you had to wait.”

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

  Phil handed an opened letter to him.

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

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

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

– “So you have to be there tomorrow?”

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

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

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

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

– “Yes?”

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

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

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

– “For dinner?”

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

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

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

– “...What conversation?”

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

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

(to be continued...)