Free Dunston Falls by Al Lamanda Page A

think anything is wrong with you,” McCoy said. “That’s the problem.”
    “What about those pills you gave me?” Peck said.
    “I’ve got something stronger, but I don’t want you to take it unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
    Peck allowed himself a tiny smile. “Define necessary.”
    McCoy responded with a smile of his own. “Your head in the toilet qualifies.”
     
    Seated behind his desk, Peck looked at Kranston, who occupied the chair opposite him. Both men were silent, lost in thought. The only noise in the room it seamed was the sound of Kranston’s constant gum chewing.
    “You look tired, Ed,” Peck finally said.
    “I am, but not nearly as much as you.”
    Peck glanced at his watch. “It’s four in the afternoon and there’s nothing more we can do right now. Why don’t you go home?”
    “Why don’t you?”
    Peck stood up from behind the desk, walked to the woodstove and fueled the fire with several heavy logs. He stirred things around with a poker until the logs caught fire.
    Returning to his desk, Peck said, “This is home, for now. At least until the state police call us back.”
    Kranston sighed to himself. “I could use a drink.”
    Peck opened a desk drawer and produced the bottle of scotch. “One finger or two?”
    “Better make it three.”
    Peck opened the bottle and poured scotch into two plastic cups. “Three it is.”
    Kranston tossed the gum into the trashcan, picked up his cup and took a sip. “I feel rather guilty, sitting here by a warm fire, drinking scotch. Safe, while two women are dead.”
    “Feeling guilty won’t help,” Peck said. “It only gets in the way and makes matters worse by fogging your judgment. It is best to keep your mind free of guilt, anger or anything else until he’s caught. There’s plenty of time afterwards for that.”
    “That’s right,” Kranston said, respectfully. “I keep forgetting this isn’t your first murder case, is it?”
    Peck took a sip of his drink as he looked at Kranston. “A homicide cop always hopes each murder is his last. It never is, though. There’s always another just around the bend, waiting to be discovered, hoping to be solved.”
    Across the room, the short wave radio suddenly came to life. Static gave way to the voice of Sergeant Goodwin of the Maine State Police.
    “This is Sergeant Goodwin of the Maine State Police in Augusta. I am responding to a distress call. Over,” Goodwin said.
    Peck and Kranston looked at each other, and then ran to Bender’s desk where the short wave radio was located.
    Peck picked up the heavy transmitter. “This is Sheriff David Peck of Dunston Falls. We placed the call. Over.”
    “Sorry about the delay, sheriff. Power is out statewide and I’m on generator. What is the nature of your distress call? Over.”
    “Sergeant, I need a forensics team and homicide. I have two murders committed several days apart. Over.”
    There was a slight pause before Goodwin responded, incredulously. “Two? There was only thirteen in the entire state last year. Over.”
    “Last year,” Peck said. “How soon can you send somebody? Over.”
    “Sheriff, give me a day to get back to you,” Goodwin said. “I’ll have to make some calls. Over.”
    “No more than a day,” Peck said. “I’ve got a situation here. Over.”
    “I’ll see what I can do. Out.”
    Peck set the transmitter on the desk and looked at Kranston. “He’ll see what he can do.”
    Kranston returned to Peck’s desk, picked up his drink and finished it off in two large gulps. “I’m going home, Dave. I suggest you do the same and get some sleep. You won’t be of any use to the state boys if you’re a basket case.”
    “I’ll stay here,” Peck insisted. “I’m getting used to the cot.”
    “Suit yourself.” Kranston walked to the door, and then paused as if he suddenly remembered something. “I almost forgot. Father Regan is preparing a memorial service for this Sunday. I thought it would be the