Summer 1876 – Night of the Squeaking Death

 

The constable looked at me sourly. He stuck his finger in front of my face and said, “You are drunk. The sun has not reached the top of the sky and you are drunk.”

I considered breaking the finger. Or perhaps biting it off. Yes, it was on his right hand so it would be relatively clean. No, it was still a finger belonging to an unattractive and smelly man. Resisting any further urges to damage the appendage, I gently pushed it aside. I said, “I am not drunk yet. I have plans to be drunk and you are interfering with those plans. There was no law against being drunk in one’s own abode when I woke up this morning so unless such a law has been passed in last hour I would invite you to find somewhere else to be. 

He scowled. “The killer has struck again. You are needed.”