Corporal James Prescott of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police leaned back in his chair and looked out the window of his tiny office, located in the rear of the small station house. He almost went snow-blind just glancing at the brilliant white scenery outside.
A weekend snowstorm had blanketed the surrounding countryside in another twenty inches of the white stuff, and the bright sun in the cold, clear sky reflecting off the crisp snow dazzled the eyes. Corporal Prescott blinked and turned away, took another sip of coffee from the steaming mug on his desk. He jumped when Constable Marchildon suddenly stuck her head in the door and said, “All four of them are here now, Jim.”
“Right,” Prescott snapped, his break now over.
The door closed again, and the corporal reopened the thick file in front of him. Investigative information pertaining to the murder of the miserable hermit ‘Red’ Tembeck and the theft of the Canadian Maple Leaf gold coins the recluse had hoarded away in his root cellar.