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West Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, UK
29th of December, 12:00 p.m. (GMT)
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“Finally, our food!” Wilson muttered under his breath as the waitress appeared, carrying two large plates. They hastily cleared a space among the paperwork littering the well-worn wooden table at the Bell, Book, and Candle’s pub. They had worked up an appetite in the few hours of interviewing and physical examination of the grounds and house, as well as the better part of two hours reviewing Mr. Grollo’s extensive calligraphy collection, taking photos as they went. DCI Jones was puzzled by their persistence, but Martinez whipped up a suitably sensible excuse—something regarding potential messages hidden in traded written art forms—that was just enough to satisfy his curiosity. The photos were sent to Chloe and Dot via a relay system with Leader’s assistant LaSalle, so there was little to do on that front accept wait.
The waitress plopped down two scotch eggs with chips and a small rocket side salad for him, and fish and chips for Martinez, who was desperately interested in trying them for the first time. They dove in and didn’t come up for air until they were done, trading bits of fried food so that Martinez could try her first scotch egg as well. Wilson was surprised that Martinez could eat so much after her breakfast, but she made quick work of her long slab of battered cod. They pushed the polished dishes aside and, after carefully wiping their hands on the napkins, returned to their files.
Wilson broke the post-meal calorie coma. “I was certain we’d find something in one of the calligraphic pieces; bits of old books rarely fail to deliver the supernatural bullet, if there is one to be had.”
“Maybe Chloe or Dot will see something you didn’t.”
“If anyone can, they will with their memory,” he retorted. Martinez gave him a peculiar look about his comment. “I never told you they have eidetic memories?”
“No. You did not,” Martinez curtly informed him. “It would have been nice to know earlier, but it does explain the sour look Dot gives me when I remind her of something she was supposed to do.”
Wilson grinned. “Sorry about that. Dot’s capricious at the best of times—best to ride the waves and try not to be in her path when it crashes.” Martinez made a note to feed Wilson when he became moody or she needed a favor.
He abruptly cut away from the moment of unguarded sincerity and returned to business. “If there’s something in those documents that I missed, they’ll catch it. Have you found anything new? Any new connections? I feel like I’m missing something, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
She shook her head. “We’ve still got the ME interview,” she added optimistically while she checked her watch, “in an hour, but I’m not seeing anything that we didn’t already know.”
Wilson looked outside at the blackening clouds. “I’m going to go to the store across the street to see if they have any umbrellas. You want one?”
“If you would. It looks like it’s going to come down hard.”
Wilson walked briskly to beat the weather while Martinez started the unenviable task of methodically putting away the papers, scanning them one last time before they went back into their labeled manila folders. She paused when she noticed something in one of the numerous lab findings that wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the ME’s reports. It was probably nothing, but she did a quick search on her phone and made a mental note before tucking it away.
*****
The drive to Slough was noisy from the downpour. “We don’t get hard rain like this very often,” DCI Jones loudly narrated. “Most of our precipitation is drizzle or mist. This isn’t our typical December rain.” It struck both agents as something particularly British to apologize for the weather, and they nodded in comprehension. They didn’t say much on the rest of the way down, having nothing that warranted yelling at each other over the din.
The clouds sputtered out just before they parked behind the concrete monstrosity that was Slough Hospital. “Dr. Brinston’s a peculiar fellow,” Jones warned them as they entered. “It’ll look like he’s wandering sometimes, but give him free rein and you’ll see he has a point, and it’s usually a good one. If he asks you anything, please feel free to answer directly; he prefers to be the only loquacious one in the crowd.”
“Will do,” Wilson answered diplomatically. He understood the desire to preserve a good working relationship with a colleague who has their quirks.
Jones led them through the maze of hallways, past the single security guard, and down into the basement morgue. He paused briefly in front of the doors before opening them, releasing a foul smell that heralded the sight of the large room with its six metal tables evenly spaced in the center.
Dr. Brinston was bent over the far table, occupied by a corpse in an advanced state of decay. Without turning or missing a beat, the ME greeted his expected guests, “DCI Jones! If you would be so kind as to wait, I’ll be there in a moment. I’m certain you are not interested in smelling with closer proximity what I am smelling.”
“Certainly!” Jones eagerly complied before escorting the agents back into the corridor. “He’ll probably want to meet in his office,” he voiced his relief. Martinez kept her composure while Wilson mentally acknowledged that it was bad, but he’d smelled worse.
They hovered in the hall and heard the running water splash prodigiously in the metal sink on the other side of the door. A few minutes of waiting produced Dr. Brinston, dressed in new, clean scrubs. “Thank you for your consideration, Dr. Brinston,” Jones said appreciatively. “These are Agents Wilson and Martinez from Interpol.”
“Ah, yes, pleased to meet you,” he greeted them perfunctorily. Wilson put forth his hand, but the ME refused to shake, saying, “It’s best if we don’t; trust me. If you’d follow me, I’ve got the information in my office.”
He led them down the hallway to the small room, just barely big enough for the four of them. On the table was a thin manila folder. “Humbling to consider that so many lives end with little more than a few pieces of paper,” he spoke to no one in particular as he sat down. “Not so with Mr. Grollo, however! His ends as a few pieces of paper and millions of pound notes.”
“We went to the body’s location this morning and re-interviewed two of the deceased’s employees,” Jones brought the ME up to speed with current events.
“Based upon your long face, I surmise you discovered nothing new?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Jones admitted.
“Strange case, agents! Strange case,” Brinston suddenly declared, addressing Wilson and Martinez. “DCI Jones here believes there was some sort of foul play but has no evidence to support it, while I believe it was suicide.”
“Which you also have no evidence to support,” Jones added.
“True, true, but the lack of contrary evidence provides my opinion some greater support, does it not?”
DCI Jones didn’t say anything, and Brinston laughed. “I know you, Jones. You feel like there’s something wrong, but you’ve no reason to think so.” Wilson and Martinez watched the volley between the two seasoned players—this was not their first verbal bout.
Jones looked down, but before he could reply, Martinez jumped in. “I had a question that I don’t think was asked before.” This brought them both up short. “I was looking through the expected ranges in the blood report and noticed that the deceased’s ketones were rather elevated when compared to the printed expected range. Why would that be?”
Wilson fought back a smile. She knows how to work ’em, doesn’t she? The more he watched her guide the interactions between people, the more he approved.
“Well, that could be attributed to any number of things,” the ME began, “but as Mr. Grollo was diabetic, it is most likely related to that.”
“I assume he was on medication? Wasn’t that found in the blood report as well?”
Dr. Brinston looked down at his paperwork, double-checking his memory. “Yes, he was Type II, not on insulin but managed on oral therapy. Are you putting forth the idea of some sort of diabetic ketoacidosis occurring that drove him to eat paintings?” he blasted his voice with a hefty dose of incredulity.
“Oh no, I’m not trying to suggest anything,” Martinez responded. “I just found it odd that there was no mention made about it elsewhere in the report or in any of the other files.”
Pride assuaged, Brinston shifted into educator mode. “Elevated ketones are byproducts of the body burning something other than carbohydrates. It is either measured in the urine or blood, and is particular concerning with diabetics as it can lead to death when the body has insufficient insulin.”
Brinston glanced over the other lab values, talking his way through them. “His A1C showed adequate control of his blood sugars in the last three to four months and he wasn’t taking the medication that can sometime cause euglycemic diabetic ketoacidosis. There were no signs of metabolic acidosis, and his other chemistries were generally within acceptable range. So while his ketone readings were mildly elevated from the lab’s determined range of ‘normal,’ it didn’t seem significant in regard to his diabetes, specifically the threat of DKA.”
“So it’s high, but not that high,” Martinez commented to Brinston’s delight—he did so love a willing pupil.
“Exactly!”
“But it also happens after someone hasn’t eaten in a long time, right?” Martinez pressed.
“That is correct. It can happen during weight loss and fasting, but again, at mildly elevated levels. Basically, your body switches from consuming carbohydrates to fats after roughly three days without food, or without food that contains significant amounts of carbohydrates. You have probably heard of what’s popularly called a keto diet? Although the public names them as such, they are more accurately described as low carbohydrate diets that use protein as the primary food source. A true ketogenic diet is nearly all fats, and they’re almost exclusively something prescribed by a physician.
“So is it possible that Mr. Grollo hadn’t eaten for a long time prior to his death?”
Brinston thought for second, weighing things in his head. Eventually he conceded, “Yes, it’s possible. None of his medications would have caused hypoglycemia without the intake of food, and there wasn’t anything else in his stomach.” He looked down at his notes again. “The large intestine was low in fecal matter, although not enough that I thought it overtly unusual. The ample presence of fiber was more of note, as I recorded.”
Wilson inhaled excitedly, drawing everyone’s attention. “What kind of fiber, Dr. Brinston? Can you tell what kind of fiber?”
“Pardon?” The ME was taken aback at the question.
“What kind of fiber? Could it have been paper?”
The eyes of Jones and Martinez lit up, and Jones quickly filled in the gaps for the ME, “There were more than a hundred pieces of calligraphy unaccounted for in the estate. Could he have been eating those as well?”
Brinston squinted and looked up, thinking. “I suppose it could have been paper, but I didn’t do any tests on it. If there were other materials present—inks, for example—we could possibly test for that. Please give me a second.” He reached for his phone and made a quick call to the lab. They waited silently until he finished.
“You’re in luck, DCI Jones. The lab still has a stool sample—they sometimes hold materials regarding a suspicious death for several weeks before they properly dispose of them. We’ll be able to run some tests and find out if the ingested fiber is your missing calligraphy. Be thankful it’s the holidays; at normal times with a full processing staff, the samples would be long gone.” He put his phone back into his pocket and goaded him with a slight smile. “Still think it wasn’t suicide?”
“I have my reservations, yes,” Jones firmly but respectfully replied. “When will we get the results on the fiber test?”
“It’ll probably take them a few days, perhaps longer due to the New Year’s holiday. I could call and expedite matters, if you’d like.”
DCI Jones glanced at Wilson and Martinez. “I’m sure they’d appreciate all the speed that we could provide.”
“In that case, let’s see if I can get it tomorrow,” the ME said, reaching back into his pocket.
*****
“Suicide?!” DCI Jones exclaimed once they were out of earshot of the morgue. “It just doesn’t make sense! From all descriptions, he was a busy, contented, and extremely wealthy man. What would drive someone to do that?”
“The heart of a man is never truly known by others,” Wilson remarked.
“What if it was just an accident? Like an overdose?” Martinez suggested.
“Overdose?” Jones repeated as they wended their way through the Slough Hospital’s white corridors.
“Yeah, maybe he didn’t mean to kill himself; he just couldn’t stop,” she conjectured.
“Couldn’t stop eating paintings?” He stopped in the middle of one of the halls to look at Martinez. “You’re saying he was addicted to eating strange things?”
She shrugged and held up her arms. “I don’t know, but it explains everything—how the pieces in his stomach started off small and got progressively larger until he was trying to swallow entire strips, which killed him.”
Jones was troubled but mulled it over, prompting Martinez to continue her theory, “Using safety scissors to cut a painting—isn’t that indicative of a strained mental state? I know I’d use a chef’s knife over kid’s scissors, if for no other reason than ease of use. According to the housekeeper, they were from when his kids were young, and he kept them in the...what did she call it...the ‘bits and bobs’ drawer. It’s as if he was in such a state of desire that he just grabbed the first thing that came to hand.”
Martinez could tell that Wilson was already aboard with her idea, his face wolfish in the florescent light. DCI Jones was more hesitant. “That’s all dependent upon it being paper fiber. Even then, why change from paper to paintings?”
“To continue the metaphor, perhaps he was upping his dose,” Wilson put forth. “The calligraphy wasn’t very valuable. The paintings were. Perhaps there was some sort of need to increase the transgressive value of the action. Perhaps the act of consumption was related to the perceived value of the consumed goods.”
“There’s a whole handful of ‘perhapses’ in that, Agent Wilson,” the DCI objected. “And even if your theory is right, that doesn’t really get us closer to the reason it happened.”
Wilson nodded. “True, but if my hunch proves correct, it’s something that Agent Martinez and I can apply to the other potentially related cases. There may be something in one of those cases that provides the reason for Mr. Grollo’s incomprehensible behavior.”