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You would expect a sensational local crime to headline the front page of a local newspaper, but in
Derry—the Peculiar Little City—they kept as quiet as possible about their atrocities. The big story
that day had to do with Russia, Great Britain, and the United States meeting in Geneva to discuss a
possible nuclear test-ban treaty. Below this was a story about a fourteen-year-old chess prodigy named
Bobby Fischer. At the very bottom of the front page, on the lefthand side (where, media experts tell
us, people are apt to look last, if at all), was a story headlined MURDEROUS RAMPAGE ENDS IN 2
DEATHS. According to the story, Frank Dunning, “a prominent member of the business community
and active in many charity drives,” had arrived at the home of his estranged wife “in a state of
inebriation” shortly after 8:00 P.M. on Friday night. After an argument with his wife (which I certainly
did not hear . . . and I was there), Dunning struck her with a hammer, breaking her arm, and then
killed his twelve-year-old son, Arthur Dunning, when Arthur tried to defend his mother.
The story was continued on page 12. When I turned there, I was greeted by a snapshot of my old
frenemy Bill Turcotte. According to the story, “Mr. Turcotte was passing by when he heard shouts and
screams from the Dunning residence.” He rushed up the walk, saw what was going on through the
open door, and told Mr. Frank Dunning “to stop laying about with that hammer.” Dunning refused;
Mr. Turcotte spotted a sheathed hunting knife on Dunning’s belt and pulled it free; Dunning rounded
on Mr. Turcotte, who grappled with him; during the ensuing struggle, Dunning was stabbed to death.
Only moments later, the heroic Mr. Turcotte suffered a heart attack.
I sat looking at the old snapshot—Turcotte standing with one foot placed proudly on the bumper
of a late forties sedan, cigarette in the corner of his mouth—and drumming my fingers on my thighs.
Dunning had been stabbed from the back, not from the front, and with a bayonet, not a hunting knife.
Dunning hadn’t even had a hunting knife. The sledgehammer—which was not identified as such—had
been his only weapon. Could the police have missed such glaring details? I didn’t see how, unless they
were as blind as Ray Charles. Yet for Derry as I had come to know it, all this made perfect sense.
I think I was smiling. The story was so crazy it was admirable. All the loose ends were tied up. You
had your crazy drunk husband, your cowering, terrified family, and your heroic passerby (no
indication what he’d been passing by on his way to). What else did you need? And there was no
mention of a certain Mysterious Stranger at the scene. It was all so Derry.
I rummaged in the fridge, found some leftover chocolate pudding, and hoovered it up while
standing at the counter and looking out into my backyard. I picked up Elmore and petted him until
he wriggled to be put down. I returned to my computer, tapped a key to magic away the screensaver,
and looked at the picture of Bill Turcotte some more. The heroic intervener who had saved the family
and suffered a heart attack for his pains.
At last I went to the telephone and dialed directory assistance.
8
There was no listing for Doris, Troy, or Harold Dunning in Derry. As a last resort I tried Ellen, not
expecting anything; even if she were still in town, she’d probably taken the name of her husband. But
sometimes longshots are lucky shots (Lee Harvey Oswald being a particularly malignant case in
point). I was so surprised when the phone-robot coughed up a number that I wasn’t even holding my
pencil. Rather than redial directory assistance, I pushed 1 to call the number I’d requested. Given
time to think about it, I’m not sure I would have done that. Sometimes we don’t want to know, do we?
Sometimes we’re afraid to know. We go just so far, then turn back. But I held bravely onto the
receiver and listened as a phone in Derry rang once, twice, three times. The answering machine would
probably kick on after the next one, and I decided I didn’t want to leave a message. I had no idea what