Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

had heard about the Commemorative Peace Garden. In the 1960s and early ’70s Trafalgar and the Kootenays had been the major settling point for young Americans fleeing to Canada because of the war in Vietnam. Draft dodgers, deserters, anyone against the war, had settled in the Kootenay Mountains. A good number never left. War resisters, they called themselves. And now, in the first decade of the twenty-first century, more were coming.
    Tom Maas, mayor of Trafalgar for more than twenty years, a Canadian of the same age as the American hippies who’d found refuge in the mountains, had thrown his considerable influence behind the proposed Commemorative Peace Garden. Three acres of prime land had been left to the town in the will of Larry O’Reilly, a one-time draft dodger who’d prospered in Canada. He’d also left money, and the plans, for a fountain to be built at the center of the park. A stream of water flowing from the broken sword of Ares, the Greek god of war, into a reflecting pool. An inscription honoring the war resisters was to be inscribed at the base of the statue.
    No one had foreseen any problems with the bequest. At no expense, the town of Trafalgar would have a pleasant park for the enjoyment of the citizens.
    But word leaked out to the wider world. Opposition hit the unsuspecting town like an arrow cast by Ares himself. Winters had no opinion on the park one way or the other. But he was probably one of the only people in town on the sidelines. Once the U.S. media had gotten wind of the plan, the town was under siege. Times were not right for a somber reflection of the history and motives of Vietnam protesters. Trafalgar was less than a hundred kilometers from the border, and local businessmen quaked in fear of a tourist boycott.
    Reginald Montgomery had not been a calming force. His proposed resort development was facing opposition enough (threat to the grizzly bear habitation, ruination of the bucolic town that was Trafalgar). If the Americans didn’t come, his resort would fail for sure.
    But Tom Maas, the mayor, had been enthusiastic about the park, talking up its virtues as both a tourist attraction and a moral imperative, convincing everyone that negative U.S. media attention would pass as soon as another pretty, young, blond white woman disappeared.
    Anti-park forces retreated; plans for the park went ahead.
    And then Maas died. A heart attack moments after he greeted the annual meeting of the Mystery Writers of British Columbia. Linda Patterson, the deputy mayor, thrust into the top job until the next election, was better known for organizing civic functions and speaking at school graduations than for her political skills. She blew with the wind and agreed with whoever was presenting their side at that moment.
    “Evening, John. Constable.” A large man straightened up from the pavement behind Alphonse’s Bakery. A woman was brushing fingerprint dust on the shop doorknob, while a young man rooted through the garbage bags behind the convenience store.
    “Anything?” Winters said. Ron Gavin was the lead RCMP crime scene investigator for the entire Mid-Kootenays. They were stationed just outside of Trafalgar, so there hadn’t been too much of a delay in getting to the scene.
    “At a guess, I’d say the vic was killed where he stood. The doc’ll know better, but the amount of blood, brain tissue, and the splatter pattern is consistent with suffering a massive head trauma and falling right over.”
    “One person? More?”
    Gavin shrugged. “Can’t say. This alley’s well traveled. We’ve had a steady stream of people wanting to stop by and give us advice on how to do our jobs.”
    “That damned TV program.”
    “You can say that again. This alley’s a major route for foot traffic. It rained this morning, so we’ve gotten some nice partial casts of footprints.” He nodded toward the entrance to the alley. The pavement was in bad condition, patches of weeds growing between cracks. Anyone stepping in the mud would track that mud in their wake.
    “Tell your people I’m interested in locating a wallet, cell phone, and Rolex watch.”
    “Will do.”
    “When did the newspaper people leave?” Smith asked.
    “Not long after you. They took a couple of pictures of my rear end bending over the bloody residue and called it a night. Hope he wasn’t using a wide angle lens.”
    Winters laughed. Once a player for the Ottawa Rough Riders in the Canadian Football League, these days