DOOMWATCH

Season 4 Episode 17

Extreme Measurements
By Matthew Spencer

“Push. Come on now Melissa you can do this.”

The midwife encouraged. The baby was crowning now. Much as she relished her job it
was hell on her knees and the faster this was over the better – she always hated herself
when that particular thought bobbed up. Melissa’s chubby face contorted in a grimace of
pain, cheeks flushed as she gave another push. Her medical gown was caked in sweat
after 23 hours of exertion.
“Nearly there now. Just one last big push for me – that’s it. Keep pushing.”
With a scream from Melissa the baby emerged from its mother and into the midwife’s
waiting hands. The midwife passed the newborn carefully to a nurse hovering above her
and creakily got to her feet, knees popping which caused her to give a slight grunt.
Something was wrong; the baby wasn’t crying. Time was of the essence now and the
midwife seized the tiny figure with a much practiced combination of speed and delicacy,
holding it by both legs and slapping its rear. Nothing. Again. Still nothing.
“He’s not breathing. Get that crash cart here now!”
The small room erupted in frenzied movement as the nurses prepare for manual
operations. The child is laid down on the care and its chest tapped sharply by the
midwife.
“What’s wrong? Where’s my baby?” demanded the new mother, leaning over her but
unable to see because of the stirrups. “Why isn’t he crying?”.
“Melissa, his lungs are obstructed and we’re doing all we can but you have to be quiet
right now”, the midwife’s voice stern and tone level as she leant in to listen to check for
breathing. Melissa breaks down into tears which only added to the pandemonium.
“Mam, it’s been too long. You have to declare it” one kindly young nurse beseeches.
“No. No, I can save him. I can’t loose this one”, still tapping the chest and leaning in.
“You did everything you could, but you need to stop now”. The midwife sighs, her eyes
watery; when she addresses the nurse her voice is close to breaking.
“See to this would you.” turning around she approaches Melissa. “I am so sorry”. She
quickly leaves the room before the mothers’ cries of anguish completely push her over
the edge, standing in the corridor with head bowed while she collects herself. She dare
not look back at into the room of unknowable misery behind her. An elderly nurse jogs
over to her, face set in concern, eyes moist and flicking madly around, unable to remain
still.
“Midwife we need you in the maternity ward now”.
“I have to check in on my other case, she’s nearly twenty hours in -”. The nurse cuts her
off.
“We contacted Dr. Bentham to take care of it while you were busy. I’m sorry but it was
another still birth. My team are seeing to the mother now, but we need you in the
maternity ward NOW!”
The pair hurry down the corridor. Why now? thought the midwife, three still births now,
and 8 cases of miscarriage. What in God’s name is going on? They dash through the
double doors into the maternity ward as the doctor alert system goes into overdrive, all
available staff to report to their location immediately. However, despite the alarms and
constant messages from the com-system there was an uncomfortable silence in the air – it
put the midwife instantly on edge.
“Why can’t I hear crying? For Christ’s sake what is going on nurse?”
“They just…stopped. All of them at once”. They stopped at the large plate glass window
separating the maternity ward from the hospital. Inside a fleet of nurses and doctors were
desperately running around between the cribs or picking up and lightly shaking the
babies. The only sound from the room was their panicked voices.
“They’re all dead, miss” said the nurse. Tears streak down the midwifes’ face yet she is
unable to turn away from the chaos before her.
“What the hell do we do now?” she whispered.

Adam tossed the files over to Paul and Miranda who stand at the foot of his desk.
“Thirteen cases of child death and miscarriage in one day alone, bringing the total up to
thirty-six this week alone at Bryson Gate Hospital, and with reported cases of unusually
large yields of more deaths in coming in from other hospitals and clinics within a ten mile
radius”. Miranda brought her hand to her lips and slumped into a seat.
“How horrible…”
“Jesus…” murmurs Paul who remained standing.
“Clearly there is something in this, and I think it’s fair to suggest that Doomwatch is fully
capable of getting to the bottom of it.” He hands a file over to Paul who seems relieved to
have less grim reading material. “Paul, you’re going to the hospital; chances are there’s
something there the health inspectors missed or didn’t think to look for. Find out about
the medical history of the parents. Miranda…” He reaches for another file and hunches
over the desk but Miranda cant stop flipping though the folder of horrors. “Miranda!”
“Yes? Oh, sorry”, she takes the file and Adam gets comfortable again.
“You’ll be going to see the bereaved families – no I don’t want to hear it”, cutting off her
protests. “You’ll be easier for them to talk to and better able to empathise - no offence
Paul.” Paul shrugs, unphased. “Find out about their personal lives; work; routine; food
and life style - anything that might not show up on their medical history.”
“All due respects sir, but I’m…” Miranda is cut short.
“Miranda, listen. You are the only person I trust to see that the family are as comfortable
as possible during this troubling line course of questioning. You can do this”. Adam
smiles reassuringly. Miranda sniff and nods, but her eyes are moist.
“Yeah. Alright.” She gathers her papers of addresses together and gets to her feet. Paul
leads her out.
“And Paul…” Adam calls to the disappearing figure. Paul leans back in though the door,
raising an eyebrow quizzically. “Try to use a little tact on this one”. With a solemn smile
Paul exits, closing the door behind him.
Adam and the head midwife walk down the hospital corridor.
“So did the health inspectors find anything amiss?”
“No Mr. Grover, they did not. Nor did the medical examiners or coroners find any
unusual substances in the blood, tissue, faeces, or any of the other samples we took from
each mother, father and child. Maybe if we had found a link then we could have avoided
such inane questioning from four separate investigative bodies – yourself included”.
“I apologise for the intrusion” Paul replies with a stone set face.
“No, I’m sorry” sighs the midwife, “this whole thing has been bad for everyone; the
hospitals reputation is in tatters, plus the emotional damage to the staff. I had to take a
few days leave just to snap out of it. Worst of all – or maybe for the best – we havnt had a
single mother come here for deliver once word spread, and several even transferred to
different hospitals”. They come to an unimpressive door marker ‘medical records dept.’,
the midwife swiping a card in the electronic lock and beckoning Paul inside.
The room within is lined with metal line racks stretching the far length of the narrow
corridor running parallel to it. Each shelf stacked with filing cabinets marked
alphabetically.
“Our head of records collected the files on all the patients a few days ago when the
investigation began the other day. He’s kept them down his office ready for your visit”.
A door into a small office hardly bigger than the desk crammed in it stands open at the far
end of the room. Inside a small man with a twig moustache and wirey spectacles is looks
up at the sound of the approaching voices, though he quickly resumes his work until the
two enter the tiny cubical. He stands and with a slight hunch moves around the table to
greet Paul.
“Shaun Ditko” he says with a forced smile, shaking Paul’s hand rather limply then
retuning to his seat, indicating Paul should do likewise. The midwife remains hovering in
the doorway. “These…” Shaun heaves a large stack of files up off the floor with a grunt
of effort and drops them onto the desk, pushing them towards Paul, “are copies of the
complete medical histories on all the women involved. We included the fathers’ medical
profiles to - where available -, as requested. Tell me Mr….Grover, what do you think the
other investigation teams have missed that your rag-tag team of government X-file
wannabe will find?” Paul smiles through the insult.
“If we knew we wouldn’t be looking, would we?” This rather flusters Shaun.
“Yes. Well, if that is all would you kindly leave? I have much to do and space is scare
enough as it is”.
“Of course”. Paul stands and extends his hand. When Shaun takes it Paul’s grip is slightly
harder than perhaps necessary, causing Shaun to wince. “Good day Mr Ditko”. Paul and
the midwife leave

Across town Miranda is in the home of the fifth woman on her extensive list and still she
wasn’t used to the invasive questioning of emotionally unstable men and women. Best
case sanario they would sob through it and pass on what information they had; worst
cases had resulted in violent outbursts and threats to get out. This one was shaping up to
be the later. The woman, Mrs. Tyrone sat stone faced on the opposite chair, her watery
eyes unflinchingly focused on Miranda’s while her husband drifted in the doorway
behind her. She was dangerously large, the type that would be impossible to combat with
just a few salads and some trips to the gym. If this turned violent Miranda knew the
woman would be as unstoppable as a moving juggernaut. Swallowing hard from the
though Miranda continues with her questions.
“And would you say you’ve been doing anything differently from your normal routine
since the pregnancy began?”
“No.” Short and cold. Eyes still fixated on hers.
“”I know this is difficult Mrs. Tyrone but if you did anything, anything at all that can
help us narrow down our search we can find out why this happened”.
“Nine months is a long time damn it! A lot of crap happens every day and how much of it
do you remember?! We’re done here, get out”. Miranda acknowledges the request with a
flat smile and a curt nod, gathers her stuff and makes for the door, the husband silently
following, seeing her out and slamming the door behind her. Through the door Miranda
can hear the woman sobbing hysterically, glad to have made it out before it got any more
awkward.

In the cafeteria of Bryson Gate Hospital Paul sits at an empty table covered in a mass of
loose papers from the patient files. Annotated notes are scrawled across most, with
arrows linking some to others. His face is cupped in both hands, elbows on the table, pen
between clenched teeth, staring down at the several files in front of him. His leg twitches
from the need to return o activity and he drops one hand to the table with an exacerbated
moan. He grabs the next file and tips the papers onto the steadily steeping pile. He
glances over the basic information at the top without really reading it. Just as he is about
to move on to the next file something clicks, something he missed but had subliminally
registered. He studied the file with new scrutiny. There! The blood cholesterol level
didn’t match up to the BMI. And not just by a small discrepancy; by all accounts this
woman was only eleven stone, yet here her cholesterol was thick enough for her blood to
be used as an unhealthy alternative to syrup. He flicked though the woman’s case history,
noticing that her cholesterol level had increased exponentially over the last 14 months,
remaining at a normal level after that point. Intrigued, he begins rifling through previous
files to see if there were any other cases he’d missed. And there it was; every person
involved, either the woman or partner showed the same signs of rapidly increasing
cholesterol. Jubilantly he fished for his phone and selected Miranda’s name.

Miranda had moved on to the sixth house on her list. This woman was far less imposing,
but her frail build added to her visible exhaustion, making her look dangerously gaunt.
Her phone rang and Miranda pleasantly excused herself into the hall.
“Did you find anything?”
“Possibly the mother load. Can you ask them specifically about their diets? They’ve all
been ingesting high cholesterol foods on and off since, or prior to becoming pregnant –
their weekly check-ups confirm it. Fast food outlets are the best port of call”.
“Got it. Check back with you when I have a lead”. She hangs p and returns to the living
room. “Mrs. Stevens this is going to sound unusual but believe me it could be the clue
we’re looking for. I need you to tell me all the places you have eaten from frequently
over the last two years”.
“I think I have a winner”. Miranda was chirpy as she got into the car – this was the only
good thing she had experienced for the last 8 hours. Paul reved the engine and turned out
onto the road.
“Do tell.”
“Here: Master Fryer. It’s the only place all the individuals have recently frequented and
there are only several of them set up – all within a twenty mile radius. I think we’d know
if it were a nation-wide chain”.
“That’s a bingo”. The car speeds off down the motorway.

The following afternoon Miranda and Paul pull up outside the headquarters of Master
Fryer Inc. and stride with authority into the reception area. The receptionist looks up with
a forced smile and cheerful demeanour.
“Good morning and welcome to Master Fryer Incorporated. How can I help you?”
“Mam were with the environmental agency Doomwatch. We’re here to speak to your
managing director”. The receptionists’ smile falters momentarily and her face remains
tightened at this.
“Well I’m afraid Mr Albury is currently unavailable right now. Perhaps if you book an
appointment I can arrange a meeting in…six weeks?” She tinkers with something on her
computer as she says this.
“I’m afraid this can’t wait.” Paul strides around the desk, “surely he has some time
available this aft…” He notices what she is writing on the screen; a message reading
‘people are here to talk to you – think they might be police!!’ Paul looks up at Miranda.
“He’s here – get to the elevator.” He rounds on the receptionist “the cliché loyal to the
end receptionist. God you’re a dying breed. Now where is his office! This man is
suspected of multiple cases of murder so you’ll tell me now or so help me God you’ll be
an accessory to the fact”. The receptionist clearly has divided loyalties and it is some
seconds before she can answer – her voice breaking as she does.
“Third floor – end of the left corridor.”
“Miranda – third floor.”
“Got it”. Miranda presses the button for the third floor, holding the door open for Paul to
join her. She fidgets as the slow lift begins its ascent. “Recon she’ll try to warn him
again?”
“Don’t think so. She seemed pretty jarred by the idea of him being a murderer – if she
was that good an actor she’d be a personal assistant or in film. But that email pretty much
confirms our suspicions. Even if he isn’t responsible for this, he’s defiantly up to
something”. The lift stops and they march with haste to the door at the end of the left
corridor. Paul knocks loudly and announces his presence but there is no reply from within
so he flings open the door to present the red faced Mr Albury stuffing papers into an
overflowing shredder. His round face is coated in sweat and his small beady eyes flicker
wildly between the two intruders, clutching the papers in his arms closer to his flabby
heaving chest.
“Mr Albury, we have suspicion to believe you are involved in the deaths of numerous
children. You can come quietly and answer our questions now or we can alert the
authorities and have you arrested right here and now”. Mr Albury’s lip trembles and he
chokes out his response perhaps a tad sharper than he’d intended.
“I only did what I had to. Ask anybody. They had only themselves to blame.”
“Sounds like a confession to me Paul.” Miranda takes out her phone and dials. “James, hi
it’s Miranda. Listen I’m going to need officers down at Master Fryer. The case is related
to the Bryson Gate incident – we have the suspect.”

Adam reclines in his chair as Paul begins talking through their findings.
“He was pretty eager to confess. The police barely had to pressure him at all. Said he was
almost gloating at what he’d done – that he’d saved a generation from a childhood of
humiliation and stigma”.
Miranda takes the reigns.
“Apparently it’s the result of some lifelong trauma started in his childhood – a deep
rooted hatred of overweight people stemming from his own mothers obesity. The
embarrassment he felt for her condition let to paranoia and the feeling he was always
being ridiculed for her condition. Naturally he was over fed as a child and his appearance
only added to these feelings. The last straw came when his mother eventually died from a
massive myocardial infarction; at the funeral she had to be lowered into the grave with
reinforced chains by a crane. He took it upon himself to ‘save’, as he saw it, future
generations from the stigma and shame of being a child to overweight and sickly parents
shortly after being diagnosed with acute onset diabetes two years ago from his high sugar
consumption through his childhood and teen years”.
Paul pulls a medical report form from the file on the desk and takes over.
“He was using a drug he synthesised from mifepristone, the ‘abortion pill’ and having his
employees on the production line pour the chemical into the franchises trademark sauce.
He was clever enough to hire only people of relatively poor intelligence who wouldn’t
know or think to question what they were adding into the mix. It was near untraceable in
the system because it sped up the metabolism enough to burn up any trace in under
twelve hours and the high blood cholesterol would be near unnoticeable in his specific
overweight targets. It slowly poisoned the foetus over a course of months, the speed
depending on the mother’s blood pressure or the rate she ate at a Master Fryer.
Fortunately for us he didn’t account for slimmer people eating regularly from his outlets,
in a train of thought inherent from his stereotyping form of classification, which made the
contrast between body mass index and blood cholesterol obvious for those looking for it.
It’s also responsible for the outbreak of male impotence in the area”. Paul concluded the
presentation and Adam reclined and smiled grimly.
“Another success for the agency, although I’d clearly rather have never their been a case
like this in the first place. Good work. Take a days leave to wind down – no doubt this
has been a difficult assignment to deal with”. Paul and Miranda thank him and take their
leave. Left alone, Adam contemplated the events of the case which further grounded in
him the fact that the world was full of demons and today they had caught one. Taking out
a concealed bottle of whiskey he justified that both of these facts entitled him to a drink –
maybe several.

THE END