Dunston Falls (15 page)

He read the evidence log, which listed all items dusted for fingerprints and tested for blood samples.

There was nothing. He picked up the file for Doris White, read it through again, and finally settled on the evidence log. Then he made a connection, which like most detectives, he missed the first and second time. he read it again and again, then thought about Linda Boyce. That’s when he saw it with crystalline clarity, the way a master chess player could see twenty moves down the board.

Closing the Doris White file, Peck stood up, got dressed and left the office.

Behind his desk in the tiny, rectory office, Father Regan stifled a yawn as he looked at Peck, who sat in a chair opposite him. The priest appeared disheveled from being awakened from a deep sleep. He also appeared quite grumpy, which was understandable. His thinning hair was matted against his skull and his eyes were red and puffy from lack of sleep.

“Sheriff, what is so important it couldn’t wait until morning?” Regan said.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Peck said.

Regan glanced at the desk clock in front of him. It read two twenty AM. “Today is Sunday, sheriff,” he said with mild agitation in his voice.

“And you do mass at what time?”

“Say mass, sheriff. Mass is always referred to as being said. But to answer your question, it will begin at ten instead of the usual nine due to the circumstances.”

“You said Linda Boyce is a regular as your service,” Peck said.

“Even prostitutes have souls worth saving, sheriff.”

“Doris White and Deb Robertson were also regulars, is that correct?”

“Yes, but I….”

“I missed it the first dozen go rounds,” Peck said. “The crucifixes.”

“What are you talking about, sheriff? What crucifixes?”

“The evidence log for both Doris White and Deb Robertson has a crucifix listed among the items. I’d be willing to bet that somewhere in her trailer, Linda Boyce has one as well.”

Regan leaned back in his chair and stared at Peck. “You lost me. Maybe you better tell me exactly what’s on your mind, sheriff.”

“Have you seen any strange faces at mass recently?” Peck said.

Regan ran his fingers over his mouth as he ingested Peck’s question and finally understood. “You’re suggesting this madman is using my church to select his victims?”

“Three out of three are regulars,” Peck said. “Harvey Peterson was an accident.”

“Half the town are regulars. That doesn’t make them guilty of anything other than believing in God.”

“Half of those believers are female. I’d like to keep that half alive.”

Regan nodded his head and ran his fingers across his mouth again, seeing Peck’s point and grasping the seriousness of it. “What do you propose?”

When Peck arrived at the logging camp shortly after sunrise, he was pleased to see Reese and his men were early risers. Dressed and ready to roll, they were eating breakfast in the main cabin when he walked in and told Reese he might have something worth listening to if he could spare a cup of coffee.

“I don’t know why I didn’t catch that,” Reese said when Peck was finished. “It’s just fucked up enough to be true.”

“And possibly to work.”

“What are you suggesting, sheriff?”

“Go to church much, lieutenant?” Peck said.

From the cramped, changing room to the left side of the altar, Peck watched the gathering crowd through a small, tinted window in the door. The church was filling up fast. He wasn’t sure if that was Regan’s normal flock, or people wanted to hear the news of the murders. Either way, it didn’t matter. They were here.

Peck did a quick count of pews and estimated the church would hold two hundred people, not counting standing room in back. He looked at the altar. It was small and common, lacking the intricate designs of a larger, more affluent church and covered in plain, white linen. Large candles burned in plain, six-foot tall holders on each end of the altar. Centered on the altar rested the communion box, which housed the gold chalice , wine and wafers, used during the ceremony.

Behind him, Regan dressed in a variety of vestment robes he would wear for mass. The priest finished dressing and stood behind Peck to glance through the tinted window. In close quarters, the priest smelled of tobacco.

“It appears I’m needed,” Regan said. He opened the door and passed through to the altar.

Peck continued to scan the near capacity crowd through the window. He spotted Reese in a rear pew and several of his men scattered about the various other pews. Even dressed down in plain clothes, they stood out in the crowd. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now except hope the regulars were caught up in the mass and didn’t notice them.

Regan went to the podium to the left of the altar. “My friends, the generator can provide for heat only. I will try to make my voice heard in back.”

Knowing he was not visible through the tinted window, Peck scanned the crowd carefully, paying particular attention to female faces. Since all three women involved had nothing in common as far as looks and personality was concerned, it was impossible to get an understanding of the killers taste in women, if he even had a particular taste.

Maybe just the fact that the women were religious was enough to set him off on his violent path. Some kind of grudge against God and rage against women. Peck made a mental note to ask Doctor McCoy if he had any psychological reference material on the subject. It might help with a profile.

At the podium, Regan said, “Concerning the deaths of parish members Doris White and Deborah Robertson, pray with me that our almighty God shall keep them in his good graces forever.”

Peck continued to scan the crowd as Regan lead them in a prayer.

“Bless them our Lord and keep their soul…..” Regan prayed.

Peck tuned out Regan’s prayer and concentrated on the faces of the men in attendance. Many were familiar to him from the hospital and church shelters during the past few days and from the recent interviews. Some he had seen around town during the past year or so and some were completely new to him. Familiar or not, that did not matter. What did matter was anything suspicious he could notice, such as a man paying undue attention toward a woman and not concentrating on the mass.

Suddenly, he spotted a man in the last pew on the left side of the church and zeroed in on him. The man was a mess. His clothing was filthy and his hair was unkempt. A four-day stubble covered his face. But, it was the man’s eyes, which caught Peck’s attention. They were out of focus and glazed as if he were high on something. Peck knew that marijuana use had increased since after the war and the youth in the country had little to worry about except the newest rock and roll dance. Maybe the man had managed to get a hold of some. Even remote states like Maine were not immune to the rapid changes in the times or culture.

Peck turned away from the window and went to the corner of the room where he removed the walkie-talkie from his utility belt. The radio was massive and heavy and he wished they would modernize police equipment to make it easier to use. Peck keyed the radio and spoke to one of Reese’s men outside the church.

“This is Sheriff Peck. Over.”

“Go ahead, sheriff,” the man responded. “Over.”

“There’s a man in the last row on the left side of the church as you enter,” Peck said. “I want you to try and get a photograph of him as he leaves the church. He hasn’t done anything I could spot, but I don’t like the looks of the guy. Over.”

“I’ll go in and take a peek, make sure I have the right guy and call you back,” the man said. “Out.”

Peck returned to the window. Reese’s man dressed as a civilian entered the church and stood in back. He scanned the last pew and Peck could see his eyes settle on the man. A moment later, he left the church.

Peck’s radio crackled to life. “Dirty clothes, unshaven, that the guy? Over.”

“That’s him. Over,” Peck said.

“I’ll grab a picture of him, sheriff. I got a Polaroid in the car. Over.”

“What’s a Polaroid? Over.”

“It’s a…I’ll show you later. Out.”

Peck returned his radio to his belt and kept watch through the window. Unlike the other attacks, this one struck without warning. There was no pain or pressure behind the eyes, no headache around the base of his skull. It just hit him like a sledgehammer between the eyes and he found himself on the floor.

Peck reached into his pocket for the prescription pills. He ripped off the cap and swallowed two. He lay as still as possible and waited for the medicine to take effect. In the background, he heard Regan speak from the altar.

“Please rise,” the priest said.

Peck curled himself into a tight ball as if forming a shell against the onslaught of pain in his head.

“And recite the Lord’s Prayer with me,” Regan said.

The pain in Peck’s head grew worse. He heard himself say, “Our Father who art in heaven,” along with the crowd.

Peck heard Regan say, “Hallowed be thy name.”

There was an explosion of color before Peck’s eyes as if he were looking through a child’s kaleidoscope. He closed his eyes and saw a fireman on a hook, and ladder truck as if he were watching a movie. The fireman’s face was out of focus and without features. A fire raged all around him as he climbed the ladder to the top.

In the background, Regan said, “Thy will be done, thy kingdom come.”

The fireman reached the top of the ladder where a small boy hung out the window of a burning building. The fireman reached for the boy and the boy jumped onto the ladder. The fireman held the boy tightly for a moment, then pointed to something below. As they descended the ladder, a large hunk of debris fell from the building and struck the ladder. The boy, shaken loose, falls screaming to his death. The fireman cries in anguish as he watches the boy reach bottom.

In the background, Regan said, “Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

As the boy hit the sidewalk below, the vision in Peck’s mind suddenly vanished. White spots filled his eyes, then slowly his vision cleared. The pain lessened quickly and in a few minutes, was gone.

Peck sat up, then stood up and looked out the tiny window. The crowd inside the church was thinning out quickly. Regan was at the open doors, shaking hands with parishioners. The mass had ended.

Peck turned away and walked to the side door that lead to the backyard of the church. An urge overtook him and he leaned over to vomit into a wastebasket.

“Who is he?” Peck asked from behind his desk.

Reese, Bender and Ed Kranston were with him in the office. Reese had a three by five, black and white photograph of the man from the church, taken with a camera called a Polaroid. The camera took photographs that developed a picture within sixty seconds.

“It’s the latest thing in police technology,” Reese explained. “I heard that in a few years, the pictures will be in color. The state purchased several of them for homicide units.”

Kranston and Bender examined the photograph.

“That’s Jonathan Muse,” Kranston said, as he inserted a fresh stick of gum into his mouth.

“You know the man?” Peck said.

“Not well,” Kranston said. “He’s had a rough time paying his property tax. I granted him an extension last year.”

Bender looked at the photograph again, then at Peck. “You think he’s a suspect?”

“I think he’s interesting,” Peck said. “Don’t you?”

Reese picked up the Polaroid and studied the face of Muse closer. “Yeah, I do.”

“Wait,” Kranston said. “What makes you think Muse is suspicious? That he came to church looking like a bum?”

Peck turned to Bender. “Jay, you see Muse in town at all since the storm?”

“Come to think of it, no. I haven’t seen him in months.”

“So he shows up at mass looking like he just stepped out of the Oklahoma dust bowl. Why?” Peck said.

“Maybe he’s religious?” Kranston said.

“Maybe,” Peck agreed. “Or maybe he’s picking out his next victim. Doris White, Deb Robertson and Linda Boyce are all regulars at Sunday mass.”

Kranston eyes went from Bender to Peck to Reese. “Okay, pick him up, but just for questioning. If he’s innocent he still has to live here.”

“My men and I will do it,” Reese said.

“Can I tag along?” Bender said.

Reese nodded and he and Bender left the office.

Kranston said, “You don’t want to be in on the action?”

Peck stood up from his desk and reached for his jacket. “The action will come later, after we pick up what might just be nothing more than the town drunk.”

Peck walked to the office door.

“Where are you going?” Kranston said.

“Have my head examined.”

Peck met McCoy for coffee in the hospital lounge where Peck recanted his nightmarish experience from the church.

“How long did this episode last?” McCoy asked.

“The better part of the ten AM mass.”

“This dream…”

“Not a dream,” Peck said. “I was wide awake the entire time. It was like the first time, more a hallucination or vision.”

McCoy sipped coffee as he thought for a moment. “I hesitated to bring this up, Dave, but in the past, in the Army, did you experiment with any kinds of drugs?”

“Drugs? What do you mean drugs? Like medicine?”

McCoy shook his head. “More like mind altering drugs. Have you ever heard of LSD?”

“Tom, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I’m glad to hear that and not,” McCoy said.

“I don’t understand.”

“If we eliminate the use of drugs, that’s one less possible cause of the problem,” McCoy said. “However, that throws an unknown variable into the mix.”

“Like?”

“Like I honestly don’t know,” McCoy said. “That’s why it’s an unknown variable.”

“You sound more like a lawyer than a doctor.”

McCoy grinned, then said “Look, without tests, it’s impossible to say what’s causing these headaches,” McCoy said. “I’ve read about tumors that………”

“Tumors?” Peck said, remembering he thought the exact same thing.

McCoy shook his head. “Dave, that’s so remote a possibility, I wouldn’t be concerned about it. It just could be plain old stress like we talked about before.”