The Fat Blocker
"It's freezing in here!" complained Gwyneth Neale, Puritan Falls Police Department's resident computer genius. "Is something wrong with the heating system?"
"No," Detective Philip Langston replied. "I just turned the thermostat up, so it should get warmer in here soon."
Gwyneth put a jacket on and buttoned it up.
"It may take a little while," Phil's partner, Stanley Yablonski, said. "The furnace is old, and it's five below outside."
"I don't ever remember it being this cold before," Gwyneth remarked, shivering. "We must have set a record."
"When I was a kid," Phil answered, "there were many times when the temperature dropped to negative numbers. I guess there's something to global warming, after all. Don't you think the winters used to be a lot colder years ago, Stan?"
Langston received no response from his partner. Yablonski was sitting in his desk chair, his New England Patriots coffee cup in hand, staring out the window at the falling snow.
"Earth to Stan," Phil laughed.
"My first year as a detective," Yablonski replied, his eyes still staring out the window, "there was a day when it was ten below with a wind chill of minus twenty."
"That was when you were partnered with Gibbons, wasn't it?" his current partner asked.
Yablonski nodded.
"Poor bastard," Phil said, shaking his head.
"Why?" asked Gwyneth, who had never heard of Detective Gibbons. "What happened to him? Was he killed in the line of duty?"
Now both detectives were silent.
"Phil? ... Stan?"
"Marty was your partner," Phil said, passing the burden of telling Gwyneth the story to the senior officer.
"Like I said, it was my first year as a detective," Yablonski began his narrative. "It was ten below with a wind chill of minus twenty. There were at least three feet of snow on the ground, and it was still coming down. What with the bad weather and the flu that was going around, Marty Gibbons and I were the only two who had made it in ...."
* * *
Nothing much was happening around Puritan Falls that day. School had been canceled, and most villagers remained in their homes with thermostats turned up and fireplaces lit. Detective Martin Gibbons and his young partner, Stanley Yablonski, were sitting in the station house playing backgammon and eating glazed donuts when the telephone rang.
"It's your turn to answer. I got the last one," Yablonski said, putting down his coffee mug and picking up another donut.
Marty took the call, writing down pertinent information in his pocket notebook.
"What was that all about?" Stan asked. "Was some teenager caught shoplifting at Shop 'N Save?"
"No. That was old Mrs. Pollard who lives in that big Victorian home over on Putnam Street. She rented out her upstairs rooms to an art student from the college in Essex Green. The landlady hadn't seen her tenant for two days, so she went upstairs to check on her and found the young woman dead. You call the medical examiner, and I'll go over there and calm the old lady down."
"Don't you want me to go with you?"
"Not this time. Somebody has to stay here and mind the fort."
Mignon Pollard, an elderly retired English teacher and widow who supplemented her social security and pension by renting out the upstairs rooms of her large home, was in tears when she opened the door for Detective Gibbons.
"The poor thing," she sobbed into her old-fashioned tatted lace handkerchief. "If I'd only known how badly off she was, I would have let her stay here for free."
"The young woman was in debt?" Marty inquired as he opened the upstairs bedroom door.
He had expected to find a suicide victim: an unhappy young woman with no significant other, no friends, no family and no money. He had imagined a desperate girl who more than likely took what she considered to be the easy way out. When the detective saw the body, however, he realized her death was a different form of suicide. It appeared as though the art student had intentionally or otherwise starved herself to death.
"This young woman looks like she hasn't eaten in weeks."
Mrs. Pollard, standing in the hall behind Marty, erupted in a renewed bout of sobbing.
"When I saw her a few days ago, she looked fine. She was skinny, yes, but not emaciated. Of course, I only saw her coming in or going out of the house, and with this frigid weather we've been having lately, she was always wearing a hat, scarf and heavy coat."
"That would explain why you didn't notice how much weight she was losing."
"When I think about all the food I throw away, and here right under my own roof is a sad, hungry girl."
"Don't blame yourself, Mrs. Pollard. I'm not saying it's the case here, but many young women deliberately starve themselves. They believe the thinner they are, the more attractive they are. If your tenant suffered from an eating disorder, she wouldn't have accepted a meal even if you'd offered it."
Although he knew negative or distorted body image was a problem that could prove fatal, it was the first time that Marty Gibbons had ever seen a victim of anorexia nervosa, but it would not be the last. Three days later, a twenty-eight-year-old secretary was found dead in her home. She, too, looked like a victim of a Nazi concentration camp.
"Doralee always thought she was too fat," her grieving young husband cried. "She had a great shape, but she wanted to look like those skinny models in the fashion magazines. She was always going on a fad diet or following some strenuous exercise program."
"Didn't you try to get your wife help when you saw how dangerously thin she was becoming?" the detective asked.
"I'm a long-haul truck driver, gone a few weeks at a time. When I left home three weeks ago, my wife was thin but healthy. I got back yesterday and found her nothing but skin and bones. I begged her to go see a doctor, but she said she felt fine."
Marty shook his head. The husband might have saved his wife's life if he had insisted she get immediate medical treatment, but his failure to do so was not a criminal act.
"Don't you think it's odd?" Marty asked his partner when they returned to the squad car. "Two women starve to death in one week, in a town this size?"
"It is a weird coincidence," Yablonski replied.
"What if it's not a coincidence?"
"What are you saying—that these women were murdered? That's absurd!"
"Not murder, but what about another cause, like a new bug that's going around?"
"I think that's pretty far-fetched."
"Maybe. Just the same, I'm going to call the State Department of Health."
The following day, Dr. Gracie Rush, an attractive forty-year-old physician who unselfishly devoted more than seventy hours a week to her job, drove to the Puritan Falls Police Station to meet with Detective Marty Gibbons.
"Thank you for coming, Doctor."
"You told me over the telephone yesterday that two women in your town died of anorexia this week."
"Yes, a nineteen-year-old college student and a twenty-eight-year-old secretary."
"There have been six other cases in Essex County over the past two weeks," Dr. Rush informed him confidentially, "as well as three in Middlesex and one in Suffolk."
"I take it this isn't the usual rate of such cases."
"I've worked for the health department for the past eighteen years, and I've seen only one fatality from starvation in all that time—until now, that is."
Marty raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"I'd like to work with the police department to find the answer to these deaths, if I may," the doctor continued.
"Certainly. We could use your help."
After examining the police reports on the two young women, Gracie told the two detectives, "I don't believe the deaths are consistent with anorexia nervosa or any other known eating disorder."
"What do you mean?" Marty asked.
"These women lost weight at an alarming rate. Three weeks before her death, Doralee Lightner was a hundred and twenty-seven pounds, yet at the time she died, she weighed less than eighty. Neither anorexia nor bulimia makes people lose weight that fast."
"What about weight loss surgery?" Yablonski asked.
"Such a procedure is only performed in cases of extreme obesity. Besides, there are no recent scars, not even from liposuction or tummy tucks."
For the next few weeks, Marty worked closely with Dr. Rush. During that time, the forty-six-year-old police detective became enamored with the beautiful doctor. He fought the growing feeling, for he had always been faithful to his wife, but some things were beyond man's control. Like many middle-aged couples, Marty and Anita Gibbons spent the majority of their evenings paying more attention to their television set than to each other. It was not that they were unhappy or that they had fallen out of love; they had simply grown complacent.
Anita intuitively sensed something was wrong, and when Marty brought Dr. Rush home to dinner, her suspicions were confirmed. Seeing the attractive and intelligent physician forced the housewife to take a long, hard look at herself. She had been pretty once when she and Marty were first married, but in the twenty years since then, she had aged considerably. Her once lustrous auburn hair was now heavily streaked with gray and her formerly athletic build had disappeared.
"How I've let myself go!" Anita moaned and turned away from the mirror. "No wonder my husband is interested in another woman."
* * *
Almost three months after the grim discovery of the art student's body in Mrs. Pollard's Putnam Street house, Dr. Rush developed a theory about the cause of death.
She immediately phoned the Puritan Falls Police Department and asked to speak to Marty Gibbons.
"I think I've found something," Gracie announced when the detective came on the line. "I've isolated a chemical compound that was discovered in all the bodies during the autopsies. As best I can tell, it's a man-made substance, perhaps a new food additive. I've contacted the Food and Drug Administration, and they're going to generate a list of all products that may contain this substance."
"Great," Marty replied. "Let me know what they find. Got anything else for me?"
"Nothing good, I'm afraid. There have been five more victims."
"I know. One of them was from Puritan Falls."
An awkward silence followed. Marty was the one to break it.
"Will I see you later tonight?" he asked softly so that Stan, who was filing reports in the adjoining room, would not overhear.
"Are you sure you want to?" Gracie asked, knowing that the detective was reluctant to betray his wife.
"Yes," he replied, hating himself for being unable to resist the temptation.
After he hung up the phone, Marty called Anita.
"I'm sorry, honey. I have to work late again tonight."
"But I haven't seen you in days. You leave early; you come home late."
"I know. Once this case is over, maybe I'll take a week off and we can go camping in the Berkshires or rent a place on the Cape."
Anita could tell from his voice that Marty was hiding something and correctly assumed her husband did not really have to work and that he was going to spend the evening with Dr. Rush.
* * *
Marty had been waiting at Gracie's apartment for close to an hour when she finally came home shortly after 8:30 p.m.
"What's wrong?" he asked when he saw the downcast look on her face.
"The FDA said that the unknown chemical compound is a diet supplement still in the testing stages and that it hasn't been approved for distribution yet. The only information they could give me was the name of the company that applied for the patent."
"What was the company?"
"Corwin Nutrition Products."
"Isn't that the vitamin manufacturer in Copperwell?"
"Yes. The FDA told me they're using the compound in a new weight control product: a metabolism booster and fat blocker."
"Fat blocker? It does a damn good job," he commented with a humorless laugh.
"Too good. Once the compound reaches a certain level in a person's system, no amount of food can sustain normal body functions. Regardless of how much it takes in, the body cannot absorb the nutrients it needs, and the person quickly starves to death."
"Let me get this straight. You're saying the food basically passes right through the digestive system and out the body."
"Not only that, it also dissolves whatever fat might already exist. What you have left is skin, bone and muscle."
"How do you know that?"
"I was just at Corwin's laboratory where I met with the head of research and development. She told me the company has given up on the fat blocker because of the disastrous results they obtained during the animal testing phase."
"The lab rats all starved to death, right?" Marty asked.
Gracie nodded.
"And that's not the worst of it. Once the fat blocker is in the body, there is no way of neutralizing its effects even if the animal stops receiving the supplement. In short, the product has a one hundred percent fatality rate."
"How many people were in the sample group?"
"None. Corwin discontinued the product before testing it on people."
"So how did our victims get their hands on this fat blocker?"
"I can't say with any certainty, but I'm guessing that one or more of Corwin's employees have been selling it illegally."
Marty agreed that it was a likely theory.
"I'll contact human resources at Corwin," he said, "and ask for a complete list of all current employees as well as any that may have left the company—voluntarily or involuntarily—since this supplement was developed."
Gracie, however, was more concerned with warning potential victims than with the apprehension of the culprit.
"Regardless of how this fat blocker is being distributed, the FDA is going to issue a statement informing everyone about the dangers of the product."
"What about those who have already begun taking it?" Marty asked.
"They're to go to Corwin's lab for medical testing. Although, there's really nothing anyone can do at this point. In a few days, those people will be walking skeletons."
"And real skeletons not long afterward," Marty added, putting a grim end to the conversation.
There was another awkward silence. This time it was the doctor who broke it.
"Have you eaten yet?" she asked as she headed toward her galley kitchen.
"Yeah, I grabbed a cheeseburger and fries at Burger Barn's drive-thru on the way over here."
He watched the attractive doctor put a frozen meal into the microwave.
"A TV dinner?" he asked with a laugh.
"I live on them. I know they're not too nutritious, but I hate to cook."
Marty thought of Anita and felt a pang of guilt. She was an excellent cook and as near to a perfect wife as any woman could be.
What am I doing here? he wondered suddenly. I should be home with Anita.
"Gracie," he began hesitantly, but he did not have to finish; the guilt-ridden look on his face said it all.
"Go on home, Detective Gibbons," Dr. Rush said with tears brimming in her blue eyes. "It's where you belong."
* * *
As Marty headed toward his house, he realized it had been almost a week since he spent time with his wife. He had not realized until now how much he missed her.
Gracie was beautiful; there was no denying that. She was also a brilliant, remarkable woman, but she was not Anita. His wife was the warmest, most loving and thoughtful person he had ever met. He was thankful he realized that in time—before things with Gracie had gone any further and he did something his wife might not forgive.
On impulse, Marty stopped at the twenty-four-hour Walmart Super Center in Copperwell and bought a bouquet of flowers. True, they weren't long-stemmed roses, but Anita would love them just the same.
Feeling like a teenager on his first date, Marty took the front steps two at a time.
"I'm home," he yelled as he opened the door.
"Marty?" her voice called from the second floor. "I thought you were going to be putting in another late night."
As his wife came down the stairs, Marty stared at her with appreciation and cried, "You look fantastic!"
Anita nervously ran her professionally manicured fingernails through her newly styled and colored hair.
"If I'd known you were coming home, I'd have put on some makeup."
"You don't need any," he said, enjoying the way she blushed like an innocent young girl with every compliment. "You look like you've lost some weight. Have you been going for long walks again?"
"No. I didn't have to. Paris, my beautician, told me about a new diet product about to be placed on the market. She bought two bottles from a friend and was nice enough to sell one to me. I tell you, Marty, it works great! One Corwin Fat Blocker pill a day and you can eat all you want and still lose weight! The Great American Dream, right?"
Marty groaned in anguish and turned away so that his wife wouldn't see his tears.
"I know you were attracted to Dr. Rush," Anita continued. "I don't blame you; she's quite beautiful. I just never noticed how much I'd let myself go."
"No!" he cried.
"It's all right, Marty. If anything happened between you and her—well, I forgive you."
Marty fell to his knees. He knew it was only a matter of time until the man or woman responsible for the recent spate of deaths would be caught. And the media warnings should effectively stop any new cases from occurring. But his beloved Anita was doomed, and he was as much to blame as the Corwin employee who was selling the illegal and deadly diet supplements on the black market.
It had been months since he had told Anita that he loved her, weeks since he had taken her out to dinner or shown her any affection. Just minutes ago, Marty had been pleased and proud of himself for resisting the temptation to betray his wife with another woman. Now he realized that by taking her for granted, he had done far worse ....
* * *
"I think I remember reading something about that diet supplement scandal when I was in college," Gwyneth said. "I didn't realize our department was involved in the case. Wasn't it the FBI that apprehended the guy who sold the illegal diet pills?"
"Yes, but only because ...," Stan replied and then was unable to continue.
"Why?" Gwyneth pressed.
"Because when Anita Gibbons died, her husband blew his brains out with his service revolver. After consulting with Dr. Rush, the chief called in the feds and asked them to take over the investigation. Then Marty and his wife were quietly buried in Pine Grove Cemetery, and Phil, here, was promoted to detective."
"What a horrible story!" Officer Neale exclaimed. "I'm amazed I never heard about it before."
"There are a lot of things that go on here in Puritan Falls that I'm sure none of us is aware of," Stan Yablonski said, finally putting down the coffee cup he had been holding throughout his narrative. "Maybe we should be thankful for that. Did you ever hear that old Thomas Gray quote, 'Ignorance is Bliss'?"
"Of course."
"I think that it applies to our village," Stan said.
Detective Phil Langston nodded his head in agreement.
Don't be alarmed. Salem didn't take the fat blocker. I just hid his supply of Godiva chocolate.
