It was six-thirty AM on a September Wednesday. Francis McLean lazily rolled over in his bed as his alarm clock screeched at its set time for awakening the college student. After a minute of trying to block out the vexatious beeping, Francis growled in the back of his throat and slammed his arm down on the snooze button, cracking it slightly. He took a moment to sit himself up, rub the sleep from his eyes, and then turn off the alarm all together.
Francis was halfway through his year at the Institute of Culinary Education in New York. His father, Logann McLean was an extremely successful chef known across the country. He made his fortune off several top-selling cookbooks, culinary sets, and from his exclusive restaurant. It was so exclusive, in fact, that only Mr. McLean himself chose its members. Much like a country club, but with dinner.
With the success of his father, it was preordained from the moment life bloomed in Sarah McLean's womb that their child would follow in Logann's footsteps.
"Someone has to take over once I'm gone," he would say to young Francis, as they sat at the grand mahogany dinner table. "I can't exactly run the business from my grave." The statement would follow with a laugh--not quite fake, but not genuine-sounding either.
Francis never wanted to pursue a career in cooking, but the fear of what may happen in going against his father's wishes fueled him otherwise. In the end, he turned out to be an excellent cook, especially in preparing meat dishes; those were his specialty and his favorite to create. He applied for the Institute of Culinary Education during his senior year of high school and was quickly accepted. That fall, he left for New York.
Francis pulled himself out from under the comfortably warm bed and slowly shuffled toward his bathroom to start his morning routine. After his shower and caring for the rest of his personal hygiene, he dressed in his chef uniform, grabbed his bag and left the dorm.
On the way to the school, he snatched a newspaper from the small convenient store across the street and strolled towards the institute to cafeteria. He sat at the round table closest to the corner on the opposite end of the large room. Francis preferred solitude--always had. He wasn't overly skilled at making friends, let alone talk to people, so every chance he got for private time, he took it. Taking out the paper, a large picture of a young man's face was printed on the front page. The titled read: College Student Found Dead by Highway. Francis passively scanned through the whole article, only focusing on the details of the murder and if it was brutal or not.
Name: John Maddison
No head.
Found in nearby woods.
Missing organs.
Motive: Unknown.
Francis blinked slowly and flipped over to the cartoon section, chuckling at the clever jokes delivered by a lasagna-loving cat.
Francis has an exam in one of his classes. The unit was on meat dishes, so he neglected to practice since he knew he would pass with flying colors. For his dish, he chose to create a spicy soup consisting of green onions, chopped potato pieces, and tripe for the meat.
Once his dish was finished, he set up a professional-looking eating area and gently set the bowl in the center. To drink, he poured a glass of one percent milk, to help combat the spice of course, and white rice on the side. The class grew quiet as the others finished and the professor glanced up from his desk, "All finished, are you?" the class answered in quiet yeses and head nods. The professor stood from his seat and started at the far right station to begin testing the various dishes.
Finally, he arrived at Francis's station, "Ah, mister Francis. What lovely meal have you created this time?" The professor flicked a small smile at him as Francis cringed behind his eyes. Personally, he preferred people to call him Frank, as he felt Francis was too formal. However, his professor always ignored his request and called him by his real name anyway.
"Spicy tripe soup with white rice on the side. Fresh milk to wash it all down with, of course," Francis answered plainly.
His professor examined the meal and poked at the tripe with his spoon, "Interesting color."
Francis paused for an awkward moment before answering, "I marinaded the meat in hot sauce."
Satisfied with his answer, the professor scooped up a spoonful of the soup and maneuvered it towards his mouth.
Just as his lips parted, there was a loud pound on the classroom door, followed by it swinging open, not waiting for a proper answer. Three policemen and the college dean spilled into the room. The dean's eyes were wide, her face plastered with the look of a dear in the headlights. The policemen pointed at Francis, "Francis McLean?" The boy nodded cooly, "you are under the arrest for the murder of John Maddison." Gasps filled the room and others grew silent with confusion and shock.
However, Francis's face remained unchanged. He didn't defend himself. He didn't panic and say it wasn't true. He didn't try to run away from them either.
Instead, he slowly leaned the palms of his hands against the table and let out a deep sigh, "Damn. It seems I was sloppy this time." He muttered to himself. His professor stared at him, the spoon still close to his mouth.
The policemen cautiously walked toward Francis, grabbing his arms and pinning him against the wall. The student grunted and went along with the arrest and asked only one question: "So, does this mean I'm kicked out of culinary school?"
The policemen glanced at each other then looked back to the boy, "Well, yes. You're going to jail, son."
"Pity. Such a waste of my father's money." Francis replied, a smug grin spreading across his lips.
The class watched in silence as they escorted him out of the room. At the doorway, Francis clicked his tongue and stopped walking, "Oh, right. Professor?"
"Y-Yes?" The man stammered back.
"Please do enjoy my soup. I just have one correction to make about it."
"And...what is that correction?"
A wicked grin cracked across Francis's face, "The real name should be spicy John soup."
The professor instantly threw the spoon and a few of the students turned away. Others screamed and the dean grabbed a waste basket as she hurled up her stomach contents.
Francis threw his head back and laughed as the police pushed him forward and out of sight.
