Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

Christmas pageant.
    “Please, sir,” she said, “go away.”
    He peered at her through unfocused eyes. He was young, not much older than she, thin to the point of emaciation, with a scraggly beard and hair that hadn’t seen scissors or shampoo in a long time. Something green was trapped in the depths of his beard. He grinned, showing yellow teeth and exhaling breath so rancid that Smith blinked. “How ’bout we go to my place and have ourselves a party? I’ll get a six-pack.”
    She almost laughed. “I don’t think so, sir. You should go home.”
    A light flashed.
    “Meredith Morgenstern,
Trafalgar Daily Gazette
. What seems to be happening here, Constable?”
    The drunk slipped away. His hair caught the light from a street lamp and he disappeared.
    “Police investigation, Ms. Morgenstern,” Smith said.
    “I can see that, Molly.”
    The newspaper photographer took another picture.
    “Come on, you can tell me what’s going on. For old times’ sake, eh?” Meredith tossed a smile so fake it would have elicited boos at a children’s play. She couldn’t act, but she was beautiful. She was tall, thin and full-breasted at the same time. Her hair tumbled down her back in a river the color of midnight. Her black eyes sparkled in the light from the street lamps. Meredith had been in Smith’s class all through school, when her breasts were the size of raisins. Her current lush figure had to be the handiwork of a good doctor. For old times’ sake, Smith would cheerfully stuff Meredith’s head into the garbage bags behind the convenience store.
    “Sorry, Ms. Morgenstern, I can’t tell you anything.”
    “I guess not. Being just a lowly constable. I’ll ask that man over there. Come on, Ed.”
    “This alley is restricted, ma’am,” Smith said. She tried to keep her voice level, as she bristled at the sneer in the way Meredith said “lowly constable.” What did Meredith think she had to brag about: a second string reporter on the
Trafalgar Daily Gazette,
where the biggest story of the past month was an out-of-control truck careening down the side of the mountain.
    “What are you going to do if I go there anyway? Arrest me?”
    “Yes.”
    For the briefest moment Meredith’s composure cracked, and Smith relished the thought of snapping handcuffs on her old enemy’s thin wrists.
    Detective Lopez strolled up. Lopez always strolled; so calm and relaxed, at first Smith hadn’t realized that a tough police officer lay under the casual Latin demeanor. She’d seen his hard side when several participants at a weekend-long outdoor rock concert attacked a local girl.
    “We’ve nothing to tell the press at this time. I suggest you go home and wait for an official release.”
    “But…” Meredith said.
    “If not home, then stand on the other side of the street.”
    Meredith and her photographer complied. Lopez shrugged one shoulder at Smith.
    A white SUV pulled up. A blue stripe ran down the side; the city crest and the words
Trafalgar City Police
were painted on the door. Constable Dave Evans drove. Sergeant Winters got out, and Evans remained in the vehicle.
    Winters was dressed in a nice business suit, a cut up from the casual clothes he preferred. He nodded to Smith, as if she were the doorman at a fancy hotel, and joined Lopez. They walked toward the black shape that had once been Reginald Montgomery, talking in low voices.
    A laughing group of young people came down the Elm Street hill, heading toward Front Street. The women wore long colorful skirts and loose blouses, and the men’s hair was either shaved off or gathered into a mass of dreadlocks. They eyed Smith and the police vehicle, and crossed to the other side of the street. One of the boys dropped his cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under his heel. He scooped the butt up and stuffed it in his pocket. The scent of marijuana lingered in his wake. Smith did nothing: this was Trafalgar, where the police pretended not to notice minor drug infractions.
    Lopez walked up to her. “Sergeant wants to talk to you, Smith. I’ll have Evans take your post.”
    Winters stood over the body. Just observing. He looked up as Smith approached. The last rays of the summer sun were gone; there were no streetlights in the alley and the light from the restaurant kitchen was poor. His face was full of shadows, his eyes unreadable pools. His black and white hair was cut very short; thin on top but not all gone. He had a well trimmed silver mustache—on