Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

prick on the chopping block and a cleaver in her hand, and despair at the state of her parents’ marriage. Plus trying to come up with a solution to the Montgomery killing that would have everyone, Winters in particular, singing her praises and her future in the Trafalgar City Police secure.
    “You don’t look too well, Molly,” Winters said. “Christa?” His face settled back into lines and wrinkles, and she realized that when he was joking his expression let go of some of its usual seriousness.
    “She’s gonna be fine.”
    He tossed his coffee cup into the waste basket. “Turns out that Mr. Bassing has a record. Purse snatching in Vancouver. He wasn’t armed, first offense, so he got off without jail time. But his fingerprints are on file. Lots of nice clear prints were found at the scene.”
    “So now all we have to do is find him.”
    “Punk like that. Piece of cake. I suspect it’s a dead end, but we have two cases in three days. I want to ask Clemmins and Mrs. Montgomery if they know Bassing. Looks like Goodhaugh and Sorensen are in the clear. I spoke to them yesterday. Lots of smug looks and talk about how he’d deserved it, but they were in Calgary on Thursday evening, at a wedding. Robyn was her sister’s bridesmaid. I’m checking, of course, but she looked like a smart cookie, not the sort to come up with an alibi that easy to confirm if it isn’t true. I’m glad Christa’s going to be okay.”
    “Me too,” Smith said as they left the office.
    “How do you stand it, John?” she said. “The job. Seeing the worst the world has to offer. Day after day. All the pain, the misery.” She stopped talking, horrified at what she’d said. It was the 21st century, but even so, there were still impediments for a woman on the job. And she’d thrown herself into the biggest trap of them all—going all emotional.
    Instead of running back to his desk where he kept a big black ledger to record every female constable’s moment of weakness, he turned to look at her. “You have to find that out for yourself, Molly. But think of it like this. You’re driving down the street one night. Been at a party, had a good time and you’re feeling great—not intoxicated, of course. You see a dog ahead, lying in the street. Someone hit it and drove on, perhaps didn’t even know what he’d done. Do you turn your head to one side and drive on, wanting to keep that after-party glow? Or do you pull over, grab a blanket out of the back to protect your hands, and wrap the dog up to take him to the all-night vet?”
    “I’d pick the dog up, of course,” she said. “We’re dog lovers in my family. But if I found out that the person who’d run him down got away without any consequences, and the dog died anyway, then maybe I’d regret spoiling my party mood.”
    “We each have to find our own way, Molly. But now, I want to find my way to Frank Clemmins.”
    She let out a deep breath. Find her own way. Wasn’t that the problem in a nutshell? What was her way? Between her mother’s outdated hippie pacifism, her father’s keep-your-head-down ethics, her brother’s make-all-the-money-you-can-fast-as-you-can morals, Graham’s aggressive push-everyone-forward style, and Christa’s quiet optimism, Molly Smith no longer knew what was her own way. And then there was John Winters. Tough cop or local clown?
    “Hold up, John, Molly.” Jim Denton lifted a hand in the universal stop gesture as Winters and Smith headed for the door. A car pulled away from the station, under full lights and sirens.
    “Big fight on Front Street. Scarcely eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning.”
    “You think this is something to do with my investigation?” Winters asked.
    “It’s at 345 Front Street.”
    “Christ.” Smith headed for the door. “That’s the store.”
    “Think this is related to our case?” Winters asked, taking the steps two at a time beside her.
    “There’s never been a fight there in all my years,” she said. “Last night it was revealed to the massive CNC audience to be the heart of darkness. You decide.” She headed for the parking lot. She would not even entertain the idea that the fighters might be her own parents. That could not be happening.
    Winters passed her, running. “Move it, Smith,” he said. The headlights of the plainclothes van flashed as he flicked the remote.
    A large crowd had gathered in front of Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations. A blue and white police vehicle was pulled up,