The Scoville Suicides

Detective Inspector Jane Rhys out-stared Marvin ‘Blando’ Jones for the best part of ten minutes - then clicked her pen.
‘So, Mr Jones, how long have you been manufacturing poisonous chillies?’ The interview room went silent. Blando stared at the desk and scratched his beard. He felt choked, short of breath and dizzy. How did this happen? Why had he listened to that young fool-grandson, Rhodri?
‘You’ve become a bit of a celebrity, Mr Jones - in a record-breaking, senator killing sort-of-way.’ Jane Rhys was like a cat pawing at her mouse across the desk. Blando was panicking. He didn’t like cats.
‘It went too far. I didn’t know any of this would happen.’ A tear leaked down the side of Blando’s face as he rubbed his temples. He wasn’t a killer, he was a farmer. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was a mistake. He didn’t mean to run. He was scared.
Senator Gregory Rosemont’s body had been resting at Clearwater City morgue for just under a week before the ‘suspects’ were apprehended. In the minds of the public, generously aided by the media, the death of a prominent US Senator would normally prompt images of religious assassins, election fever or even bizarre conspiracy theories. Nobody imagined it would be the work of a craggy Welsh hill-farmer and his profitable hobby. Marvin ‘Blando’ Jones was having a bad week.
‘My client is not obliged to answer that question Detective Inspector; it is far too suggestive and, of course, self incriminating,’ piped in Mr Duty Solicitor. Jane Rhys bit her tongue and screwed her eyes.
‘Ok, let me put it another way Mr Jones. Capsaicin acid is a toxin, correct? Your chilli peppers contain more of this than any other in the world, and they’ve just killed a US Senator. Toxin = poison, divided by dead Senator, = heap of shite, Mr Jones. Is that any clearer?’
‘Erm… is this recording?’ asked the duty solicitor, raising an eyebrow.
‘No, it isn’t. Tape please, Sergeant.’
‘Ma’am’
‘Now then, Mr Jones, this interview is being recorded. I am Detective Inspector Jane Rhys of South Wales Police, also present...,’ - and so it went on. It was a polished interview procedure but Blando wasn’t listening.
He shook his head. The whole idea was barking from the start; chilli farming in Wales? It was an absurd idea. ‘Blando Jolokia’ (Capsicum chinense 'Blando Jolokia') was now officially the hottest chilli plant in the world (1,501,027 Scoville units, to be precise, as officiated by Guinness World Records) and the key component in ‘Marvin Blando’s Volcanic Chilli Sauce; the sauce that killed a senator. It was the sort of shite-heap that no pitchfork would shift. He was beginning to miss being a simple sheep farmer. They were poor but a lot happier. At least that’s how he remembered it. Perhaps it just seemed that way now that they were in trouble. What had Rhodri got him into?

Jane Rhys of South Wales Police, and her sergeant, sat opposite Blando Jones and the duty solicitor, and continued staring. She was a female version of a young Sylvester Stallone with a better hair-do. There was a glib air about the place, amongst the smell of stale perfume, coffee and doughnuts. Her face cracked an unwelcome smile. This made Blando even more nervous.
‘Do you have anything to say, Mr Jones?’
‘I need my tablets’
‘Do you know what I think, Mr Jones?’ she said, clicking her pen several times in succession. It was an irritating habit.
‘I dread to think. Something about promotion I suppose?’
‘I think you’re hiding something.’ she said, pointing the pen at Blando’s eye like she’d seen something moving behind the glazed expression.
‘Look, we were only trying to make some extra cash, isn’t it? The farm wasn’t doing so well, subsidies were no bloody good. That last outbreak of scrapie nearly finished us and I’m too old to be running after sheep, Inspector.’ Blando dabbed his forehead with a grubby handkerchief, and coughed. ‘You’ve no idea what I’ve had to go through; losing the wife, losing the business, no family except my grandson. Rhodri is the chilli expert. They’re hot, yes, but they’re not poisonous’ Jane Rhys again clicked her pen several times - then stabbed her desk.
‘That grandson of yours likes travelling doesn’t he? He’s had a lot of trips to South America, hasn’t he? I’m sure you’ll understand that the Americans are far from happy at this moment, even less so after discovering your grandson had met with rebel forces there. Care to explain?’ Blando could see where this was leading.
‘He’s not a bad lad, maybe once, but he did his time as you know.’ Blando sighed. ‘Rhodri has some large ideas, certainly, but his heart’s there. I wanted to help and, you know, help myself as well. He was looking for special chilli plants, you see, some rebels helped him get to the remote villages through jungle, but that’s all it was. He’s quite clever sometimes our Rhodri, does a lot of studying on the internet-thingy you know.’ A smile crossed his face but rapidly disappeared as he caught the Inspectors‘s eye.
It was the germ of an idea seeded in prison by Rhodri. Growing chillies became a speciality. They studied them with a passion reserved only for fanatics, mad scientists or both. Rhodri had an idea, and it was an idea that was going to make both of then rich; rich, famous and now under-arrest. It wasn’t going to plan.
Jane Rhys raised her eyes and sighed. This was nothing compared to the ensuing press-statements, reports, paperwork, diplomatic meetings. Not to mention the impending arrival of the District Commander. It would be worse if this didn’t go her way.
‘I’m sure he is very clever, Mr Jones. Not as clever as he would like to be. We found some emails on his laptop. He was corresponding with the Senator. Did you know about this?’
‘Erm…yes I did. Senator Rosemont was very interested in our chillies’
‘Did you know anything about The American Brotherhood of Scoville’?
‘Ah TABOSCO, yes, they’re a group of fans that like hot chilli products. We had our first order from them last week,’ said Blando, like a true entrepreneur.
‘They’re a suicide obsessed chilli-cult Mr Jones.’
‘Oh God, I had no idea.’ Blando put his head in his hands. The shite-heap was getting bigger. He was broke, ill, stressed and wishing he had run a bit further. He wasn’t cut out to be a mogul or a criminal mastermind. Sheep was his speciality, even though most had died in the second wave of scrapie outbreak. Rhodri was the one that studied agriculture, the chillies, and the markets. The only market Blando was familiar with smelled of livestock and muck, and even they seemed to belong to a different world and a different time; a time when chilli sauce didn’t kill American Senators that bought your produce over the internet.
Just as Blando was giving in to the possibility of incarceration, further shame and a deeper sense of hopelessness, there was a hammering behind him. He turned to see Rhodri, accompanied by the desk-sergeant, flinging open the door and waving a sheet of paper. Rhodri, his flame-haired grandson with the Oxfam dress-sense, was beaming. He was like Chamberlain bearing the promise of ‘peace in our time’.
‘They’ve found a note Gramps, the Americans; they’ve found a suicide note. They’ve just faxed us this copy’ Jane Rhys snatched up the facsimile and bore through it with her eyes, before handing it to her sergeant. She looked into Blando’s leathery face as his heart continued to crash into his chest.
‘Looks like you may be off the hook Mr Jones,’ she said, switching her gaze to the tape controls. ‘For the benefit of the tape and those present could you please read the note Sergeant.’
‘Ma’am,’ He cleared his throat. ‘From the desk of Senator Gregory Rosemont, 1st May;’

‘My dearly beloved friends and associates, as you read this I have all but transcended the Golden Pathway to Heaven and into the arms of Our Lord. No blame shall be laid at the feet of those innocents across the water that helped me on the path of righteousness, for they were without knowledge of my condition or my intentions. I wish to state for the record that Mr Marvin Jones, and his grandson, famous chilli growers of Llan Builth Farm are innocent, and should not be considered suspects for what will inevitably happened. I alone, and without persuasion, have made this decision as part of my own personal battle with my cancerous invaders and it is the cancer that has killed me. I have merely taken an eye for an eye, as the Good Book says, and have taken the cancer with me. Do not weep at my passing; only spare a thought for those who are suffering still. God bless y’ all.
G. Rosemont. (Senator),’

Jane Rhys watched Blando’s face relax. She turned to the portly desk-sergeant standing next to Rhodri.
‘He overdosed on chillies to commit suicide, sergeant?’
‘It would appear so, Ma’am. I’ve just spoken to a representative from the Senators office. Apparently he had prostate cancer. Too far gone they said. Their autopsy revealed he had consumed approximately one litre of very hot chilli sauce with an average Scoville rating of 1.5 million units. Then they gave me some gobbledygook about the senator’s believing that the acid in chillies would cause his cancerous cells to die. Barmy if you ask me.’
‘Suicide actually,’ interrupted Rhodri. ‘I read it on the internet. Study in America had shown that capsaicin acid, that’s the acid responsible for the ‘heat’ in a chilli, actually caused cancer cells to commit suicide in mice. Not humans though, we had no idea he was planning this.’
Jane Rhys switched off the interview tape and handed the copy to her sergeant. Apprehending two potential killers on the run seemed to have lost its shine.
‘You can go, Mr Jones, for now. Don’t go to far though eh? We may need to speak to you again. Take your grandson with you. Sergeant, see them out.’
Blando was escorted out of the interview room by the desk-sergeant to collect his belongings, fill in the paperwork and be sent on his way. Sales of Volcanic Sauce were suspended due to the absence of a licence to produce food products fit for human consumption. It was back to sheep farming and a re-think about the future, if there was one.
About an hour after Blando and Rhodri left the building the portly desk-sergeant made his way to the DI’s office. He knocked the door and entered. He was puzzled.
‘Ma’am, it seems our Mr Jones has left without his tablets.’
‘Well, post them on sergeant. I’ve washed my hands of Mr Jones.’ The sergeant shifted his feet and cleared his throat.’
‘What is it now?’
‘Erm, it’s the tablets Ma’am. We did a check on them.’ Jane Rhys looked up. ‘They’re Bicalutamide tablets. The lab says they’re for cancer,’
‘Mr Jones has cancer?’
‘It’s prostate cancer, to be exact, Ma’am.’ Jane Rhys dropped her pen.
‘Oh God, did he say where he was going?’
‘No Ma’am, but we’ve received this fax.’ She snatched up the paper and read aloud.

‘My dear Inspector Rhys and beloved friends at South Wales Police, I thank you for showing me the light. The true value of my continued existence has never been so greatly illuminated as it has been today, and I know now what I must do to look after my grandson and secure his future. As you read this I have all but transcended the Golden Pathway to Heaven and into the arms of Our Lord…

Jane Rhys could read no more. She stabbed the desk with her pen.