Free No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP by Ian Parsons

death seemed routine and the weather was frigid. An ambulance had been dispatched, and I was instructed to bring the body to an accessible location. The light was fading, casting a rather ominous and spooky aura over the scene. Hastily returning to the cabin, I located a toboggan and returned to the body, which was frozen solid, arms and legs akimbo, making it very difficult to move. I manoeuvred the body onto a toboggan and headed off to where I would meet the ambulance. The corpse caught on trees and slid off in the snow, and I was beginning to hear strange noises as darkness settled in. Visions of wolves competing for my charge danced in my brain. Finally, after wrestling the body through a half-mile of bush, I spotted the ambulance with the very welcome presence of the driver. Together we loaded the body in the ambulance and returned to town.
    As is common in most small communities, the ambulance driver was both a close associate of the local detachment and a good friend. Our man, Tony Olio, not only drove the ambulance, but also ran the community funeral home. Wearing both these hats, Olio’s path frequently intersected with that of detachment members. He was from a nearby coal-mining community and apparently had a reputation as a moonshiner. We were convinced that Olio had left his distilling career far behind him; however, we were to learn from RCMP Federal Enforcement investigators that he was under surveillance for being up to his old tricks. They had received intelligence that he was transporting his illicit spirits into the city in his hearse. On one of Olio’s trips, the RCMP’s Preventive Service Section, aka the liquor squad, intercepted him. They examined his hearse and found a large amount of home brew. A further search of Olio’s residence revealed a commercial still. Our compatriot was arrested and charged with bootlegging. Shortly thereafter he appeared in local court to plead guilty and was levied a large cash fine. To his credit, he held no grudges. In fact, the following Sunday, Tony invited the entire detachment to his home for breakfast. Tony apologized for the error of his ways and hoped that it would not affect our professional and social relationship. The corporal deemed that he had paid his debt to society, and since we needed an undertaker and an ambulance driver, we continued on as if nothing had occurred. We were all slightly more vigilant, however, when it came to Tony’s activities.
    Garfield was our neighbouring detachment to the west, and it was staffed by two members. Corporal Roydon Porter was the detachment commander and a member of a distinguished RCMP family, almost Kennedyesque in the tragedies that had befallen it. The patriarch of the clan had been one of the Force’s longest-serving commissioners. He was the son of a former assistant commissioner, whose lineage was directly connected to American president Zachary Taylor. The commissioner had sired three sons; one died in combat during the Second World War and a second was killed in a motor vehicle accident while serving with the RCMP. Roydon, the youngest and only surviving son, had also joined the Force. He made no secret of his distinguished background, but in spite of it his garrulous personality made him a favourite among his peers. His second man, Jack Fargey, was a senior constable awaiting his own promotion. The area they were responsible for was primarily wilderness, and Garfield was a generally placid mill community, which meant that these two experienced members only needed to deal with minor incidents. During the World Series, we expected them to appear at our detachment to watch the games on television, bringing with them a case of beer and a huge jar of peanuts.
    A later encounter with a section NCO further elevated Corporal Porter’s standing in the eyes of his co-workers. The role of a section NCO was to serve as the right-hand man of the officer commanding. Section NCOs were assigned a number of detachments to