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Danny McCulloch

The McCulloch chainsaw 325 was introduced in 1949 by McCullough Motors and revolutionized the North American chainsaw industry with this light one-man wood cutting tool. The McCulloch brand became known for powerful and world-renowned chainsaws. Continuing with their successes they developed the Power Mac 6, the world’s lightest chainsaw in 1968. The name was synonymous with durability and toughness.

The story I am about to tell you has nothing to do with McCulloch chainsaws. It happened in the town of Marystown on the Burin Peninsula in the wonderful province of Newfoundland in the late 1980’s. Marystown detachment was one of the busier detachments in the province, and it was a common occurrence to be writing up reports long after your shift ended. The unfortunate part of that was not all those hours were paid and were volunteered just to keep abreast of your workload.

The detachment area covered a large territory from Frenchmen’s Cove to English Harbour East and all communities within that area. It was a large area covered by a staff of approximately fifteen police officers and support staff. Crime in the area consisted mostly of break and entries, thefts, assaults, serious assaults, sexual assaults, impaired driving, drug offences, illegal liquor, frauds, and other offences. There was also an occasional armed robbery and a murder in the mix.

A lot of the assaults resulted from family disputes. Police officers have been killed or seriously injured when attending family disputes and this was in the forefront of your mind when attending those calls. This was the case one fall night when I received a call from telecoms. A neighbor had reported a young girl had come to her house telling her that her Mom and Dad were fighting. Constable Henry Poswatta happened to be at the detachment office, and he contacted me via the police radio advising he would attend the call with me. I picked him up and we proceeded to the scene.

We had a little difficulty finding the access road to the house and decided to park on the road. We went through a neighboring property to get to the small house at the edge of a large open field with a view of the inlet to Mortier Bay. We knocked on the rear door and getting no answer we opened the wooden door to the small porch. The porch opened to a kitchen not much bigger than the porch. The table was overturned, the two chairs were strewn on top of the table, and the floor was covered with what appeared to be a mix of sugar and flour. The fridge door was open and some of the contents were scattered over the floor. A carton of milk had landed upright in front of the opened refrigerator.

There was a panel door that separated the rest of the house from the kitchen. It was closed and there were several large slits in the door. I glanced a WTF look at Henry as I opened the door. There was a short hallway leading to the front entrance door which was opened. There were a couple other doors which were closed, one with a chainsaw blade sticking in it and several slits like those on the kitchen door. A small thin man in his late thirties was sitting down in the front entrance, his foot hanging out the entrance. There was no step outside the door frame, and an eight-foot drop to the ground. This type of entrance was common in this province and known as ‘mother-in-law-doors.’

The shirtless man pushed his scraggly shoulder length hair back over his ear and spoke at the door.

“Come on, let’s start over.” He was oblivious to our presence until I announced our presence. “Police. We received a call of a disturbance here. Is everybody all right?”

A woman’s voice came from behind the door with the chainsaw blade in it.

“Is Danny (not his real name) still there?”

The only other person in the hallway besides us was this scrawny, little man so I assumed he was Danny.

“Yes, he is but we are here to help you.” I said as she opened the door which revealed it was a tiny bathroom. She was a large woman about the same height as Danny but twice as wide. She was wearing a night dress with a flowered pattern. Her hair sparkled with grains of sugar as she exited. She had a reddish mark on her right cheek.

“He’s crazy. He upset the kitchen table and hit me. Then he tried to stab me with this blade.” She said pointing to the blade sticking out of the door.

I pulled the blade from the door and looked at Danny who was still swinging his leg out the door, as if he were enjoying a lazy summer day waiting for a glass of lemonade. “Is this true?” I said as I handed the blade to Henry.

“Yeah, but she started it.” He muttered.

Okay, that settles it then, I thought. She should not have spoken in your divine presence. I told Danny he was under arrest for assaulting his wife. I reached down to grab his left arm to pull him to his feet. As soon as I touched his arm, he pulled away, resulting in him falling out the front door. He hit the ground and pounced to his feet running into a large deflowered, rose bush. We both jumped to the ground in pursuit, but he pushed himself in amongst the thorny bush and wrapped his arms around the branches. We went after him, Henry on one side and me on the other.

Several minutes later we pulled him from this prickly refuge. He continued to struggle with the ferocity of a wolverine. We managed to put the handcuffs on him, but he laid still on the ground, his dead eyes giving no sign of the life within. His chest rising and falling was our only sign he was still with us. Either he was exhausted, or he had just given up, your guess is as good as mine. We carried him to the police car, lifting him over the neighbor’s fence. We put him in the back seat, and he mumbled something like ‘fuck.’ It would be difficult for the public masses to see, how such a small fellow could put up so much resistance for two big police officers. I venture to think that in today’s world, we could easily be ostracized on social media with cell phone videos distributed to a shocked audience. Thankfully, there were no cell phones then. Despite that I often feel for officers in today’s world with their every move being taped. Should someone want to resist you, there is just no way to make an arrest look pretty.

We booked this guy and wrote up the reports after we pulled the thorns from our hands and arms. Our injuries were minor and so were Danny’s but the next morning I went into the cells to check on him, and he looked like a wild cat had attacked him. There were surface scratches all over his chest and back. They were not deep and had mostly scabbed over. He apologized for his actions saying he had a few drinks and just went a little crazy. He asked me about court, and I told him he would be released on an undertaking later that day to appear in court in a couple of weeks.

I have a habit of nicknaming people based on my experiences with them and that brings me to the 1968 McCulloch Power Mac 6. It was lightweight and tough just like this fellow, so I nicknamed him Danny McCulloch. The nickname was not because of any admiration for him, he certainly did not deserve that, it just helped me remember the craziness of the moment. A lucky moment for him, because if the chainsaw blade had struck his intended target, his life would be forever changed, and this would be a much darker tale.

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The Graduation

High School graduation. One of the important milestones in a person’s life signifying the time when you move from your childhood stepping into the adult world. You leave that bedroom in the basement, the parents who raised you and the siblings you endured but secretly loved for all those years. Now it was just you to stand on your own two feet, survive and make something out of your life. Perhaps it is a little different now, children stay in the nest longer but still at some point it must be the same.

My graduation was in 1972 at Charlottetown Rural High School in Prince Edward Island. Before things like Safe Grad so shortly after the ceremony we all left for the parties. Food and alcoholic beverages had all been purchased in advance and were stowed away until the time was right. I am not saying this was the right thing but that is the way it was done in the Seventies. The memory of my graduation is…well, the important thing is that I had a fun time and ended up home in one piece. The graduation I remember most is not my graduation. It was one that occurred in the community of Wesleyville in the Bonavista North area of Newfoundland and Labrador, now known as New-Wes-Valley.

It happened when I was stationed there between the years of 1982 and 1985. I know little about it other than I was there on that night but this one incident sticks in my head. Wesleyville detachment was a three-person unit which covered the communities between Musgrave Harbour and Trinity and all the lands between that area. Point to point the distance is roughly 120 kilometers and the population at that time was around 7000-8000. Many times, it was patrolled by one member with back-up about two hours or more away depending on where you were at the time.

One of the things, we tried to do while on night patrol, to keep criminal offences down was to enforce the liquor control act. Many criminal acts involve persons who have consumed alcohol or drugs. Some young people while under the influence make poor decisions such as becoming involved decide to become involved illegal activities, things they would not have done in sober condition. It seems like a good idea when they are in a group. Enforcing the liquor control act, interrupts this thinking pattern and thus prevents the commission of an offence or so we thought. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t.

It was on a weekend in late spring and Lester Pearson High School was having their graduation dance. Constable John Butt was on patrol with me that night and we were aware of the dance. We had decided we should show the colors and swing the police car into the parking lot to throw a scare into those drinking by their cars. It worked because there were dozens of mostly young men in suits dropping beer and running for cover. We got out of the car and picked up the discarded beer, emptying them on the ground. I noticed one young man running for the woods as fast as his legs could carry him. I chuckled as I thought he would huddle in the woods until we left and then he would return to the dance.

Once we had emptied out the beer bottles, we threw the empties in the trunk and left the parking lot. Thinking our appearance had curbed the drinking activity at least for a little while, we continued our patrol. We had only driven a kilometer or so when we came upon a young man walking on the side of the road. He was dressed in a suit, but he was soaked to his arm pits. We stopped and I spoke to him. He told me he had run into the woods to get away from us as he had been drinking. Once he got in the woods, he found it difficult to walk on the slippery ground with his dress shoes and he slipped falling into the brook. He was walking home because he could not go back to the dance with his suit all wet.

I could not help but feel bad. It was certainly not our intention for anything like this to happen. I offered him a drive home and he got in the back seat. His house was another couple of kilometers up the road and when we pulled in the driveway, I let him out of the back seat. He thanked us and I told him not to thank us yet. He looked at me with questions in his eye and I said, “Get in and get changed. We’ll wait for you and drive you back to the dance.”

He dashed to the door, and it wasn’t ten minutes later that he was back. We drove him back to the dance and as we pulled into the lot, there was no one around. I let him out of the back seat, and he stood there before me. I told him to enjoy himself and stay away from the drinking. He teetered awkwardly on his feet and nervously he said thanks before running towards the gymnasium.

Our patrol was quiet that night, we checked a few cars, sometimes strategically in front of the clubs, and responded to a few minor calls. End of shift came, and we went home with one of us advising telecoms we were on call until the morning shift. I slid under the covers next to my wife and settled in. I thought about this young fellow and wondered if he had enjoyed himself as I drifted off. His first step into the adult world was certainly a wet one but maybe that night we all played a part in one of life’s lessons. We all fall down, make mistakes, but it is important that we get back up and move forward. When we do, there just might be someone there to help us, even if it is with a twinge of regret.

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Eleven

September 27, 2026, will mark the 28th year of the Canadian National Police and Peace Officers Memorial Day since it was proclaimed on September 24th, 1998. Since then, it has always been held on the last weekend of September. It will be attended by police and peace officers across this country to honor those of them that gave the ultimate sacrifice for their communities and their country. My sister and her husband, Heather and Ron Northrup will be in attendance with their son, Brock and his family. Their son, Devon, a constable with the South Simcoe Police Service and fellow officer, Morgan Russel were shot while attending a call in Innisfil, Ontario on October 11, 2022. They were two of eleven police officers who died in the execution of their duties during that same year.

Whenever I attend a solemn occasion such as this, there is always some little thing that stands out to me. It sticks with me and I find I must write about it. The following poem, I wrote after I attended the services in 2023. The young girl in the photo is my great niece and daughter of Brock and his wife, Elise.

The late September winds

Softened the warmth of the

Sun as we sat on folded chairs

The Peace Tower overlooking us

Uniformed police and peace officers

Hundreds of them followed

The marching band on the grass

Until they all stood at attention

Silently behind us

The wind died and the flags

Clung to the poles as if

Sensing the importance

Of this moment

Visitors stood outside the fence

Murmuring amongst themselves

Upon hearing the Parade Marshall’s

Deep, gravelly voice shout

“Parade, stand at ease!”

Quiet prevailed

The Emcee opened the

Ceremony followed by the

Governor General, the

Minister of Public Safety and

Other officials, all offering

Solemn remarks for this solemn occasion

Until it was time to bring forth the dead

Those eleven brave men and women

Who died in this past year and

Would now join hundreds of other

Police souls who adorn the

Glass walls of remembrance

Which stand silently as the

Ottawa river and city

Serve as their background

Each name read aloud

With a brief history,

A history of human beings

Who lived, loved and

Believed in something so

Strongly they gave their

Lives for it

Once read, the march past

Began, each group giving

Eyes right as they passed

The hats, the hats worn by

These courageous officers

Whose families must push on

Walking back to our hotel

A lump formed in my throat

And I wondered how

The answer came as I

The small child

Walking in front of me

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Behind Every Tree

I was a polygraph operator during the last three years of my career. I was the oldest in the class of 2007 at fifty-two. I was comfortable in the job I was in as a Criminal Operations Reader where I could have easily served out my career in. The job involved research, reporting, developing policy and meeting with community and government agencies. I enjoyed the work and the long hours (maybe not so much). I could have remained there and been quite comfortable but comfort was never where I was happy. Being in the game, not sure of your next move, figuring out problems, that was where it was at for me. When I heard of an opportunity for polygraph, I put my name in the pile. A few months later in January 2007 I was off to the Canadian Police College in Ottawa where I spent the next four months learning what the Polygraph technique was all about. Once you completed the training, you were required to undergo a two-week internship with an experienced polygraph operator. Then you returned to your posting and started arranging and conducting your tests. A random selection of your testing during that first year, were reviewed by Ottawa, and if no problems surfaced during this time frame, you were certified as a Polygraphist.

I liked this job but being a polygraphist in Newfoundland and Labrador is a lonely job. One spends many hours travelling to and from work sites, and while you have contact with other members at the detachments you are often alone when performing the polygraph tests, making the calls on your own. Many members often enjoyed road trips and I was one of those members but when you spend over half of each month on the road, eating restaurant food, watching TV while lying on a hotel bed, more than likely falling asleep on top of the covers with the TV blaring in the background; it loses its luster real fast.

While the road was lonely, I did enjoy the social interludes that I encountered on my travels. Once such encounter occurred on a trip to Labrador in spring of 2009. I flew into Blanc-Sablon, Quebec to start my journey to Forteau. I was scheduled to conduct a polygraph test in the afternoon on a young man who was suspected of a break and entry into a business in that detachment area. I had other tests scheduled in Cartwright and Goose Bay and my plan was to rent a car and drive to Forteau. Once I finished here, the police plane would pick me up and bring me to Cartwright detachment for another test. That was the plan.

To say the airport in Blanc-Sablon is small, is probably an understatement but it serves this remote area of Quebec and the surrounding communities of southern Labrador well. I came off the plane and went to the baggage area. While there I saw a sign for a car rental company which said inquire at the ticket counter. I looked over at the ticket counter which had a couple of people waiting in line, but no one was behind the small counter. Through the conveyor belt access door, I could see the baggage guy unloading the bags from the plane onto a cart. I watched him as he brought the bags to the conveyor belt and laid them on it. When he finished that, he came in and went behind the ticket counter serving the two customers waiting in line for tickets. Once I had my luggage, I got in line at the ticket counter. When it came to me, I enquired who I had to see to rent a car and the man said,

“That would be me.”

I smiled as he completed the paperwork for my car rental. This made me remember one of my favorite cartoons. It depicts a man standing before the boss’s desk saying he deserves a raise because he is doing the work of three men. The boss looks at him and says,

“Give me the names of the other two and I will have them fired.”

I always loved this cartoon because it so depicts life in the RCMP for me. I would tell you the name of the cartoonist if I could read his signature. I did not bother to explain my amusement to this industrious fellow.

I drove to Forteau and checked in at the detachment and set up for the test. The guy showed up at 1:00 pm with his mother. He was twenty years of age, but she did the talking for him, and according to her, he was not taking this test. I tried to convince him otherwise, but his mother would not be buying anything I was selling. They left and the member who had arranged for the testing and I exchanged glances with each other as if to say, ‘well back to the drawing board’. That meant back to the hotel room for me to wait for the police plane in the morning.

Now, if you are a coffee drinker, Labrador is probably not a place to go looking for that gourmet brew. Outside of Goose Bay and Lab City, they are tea drinkers, and coffee is only kept for those few outsiders with strange tastes. When ordering coffee, you are most likely to get the cheap powdery instant coffee or some brewed concoction akin to motor oil. Needless, to say, when you are on the road in these parts of Labrador and you finally reach coffee civilization, you are in an advanced stage of withdrawal. Thus, was my state as I waited to be picked up by the police plane in the morning.

Best laid plans echoed in my brain when I received a call early the next day from the detachment. The member told me the police plane had mechanical problems and could not pick me up. I discussed my options with the member who advised I could drive to Mary’s Harbour and get a flight with Labrador airways to Cartwright, where my next test was scheduled. I wondered if I could get there in my rental car and the member told me unless it was a four-wheel drive, he would not attempt it. He advised he would drive me to Mary’s Harbour in the detachment suburban.

We left shortly after I returned the rental. The sixty-five kilometers to Red Bay was not bad as the road was paved. I say paved in the loosest interpretation of the word. The road had suffered from the relentless onslaught of nature which covered it with potholes much like the face of a teenager with a severe case of acne. Even still, it was heaven compared to the ninety kilometers of muddy ruts to Mary’s Harbour. My experience with Labrador was limited up to this point and this trip gave me a real appreciation for travel in the Big Land. In addition to the road conditions there were giant banks of melting snow on either side of the road making it seem like we were driving through a series of tunnels. If this was spring, what was it like in the dead of winter? I could only imagine. Since then, anytime I hear anyone saying they have seen a lot of snow, I ask them if they have ever been to Labrador, if they have not, I know they do not know snow.

We got to Mary’s Harbour, a picturesque community, surrounding the beautiful St. Mary’s river. The member who graciously gave up his time to get me there, bid me goodbye and left to return to Forteau after dropping me at the airport. I arranged a ticket through Lab Air (Labrador Airways), and it was off to the races so to speak. It was a milk run type of trip and if memory serves me correct, we had four stops before we got to Cartwright. I boarded the plane which had five seats and a big open area in front of it filled with cargo. A sudden stop might end up with the passengers becoming human pancakes, I thought as the pilot, a rough featured older fellow, jumped in the pilot’s seat and maneuvered the craft down the gravel runway.

We stopped in what I think was Rigolet first. The plane lowered, touching down, then rolling in with rocks tinging off the wings until is spun around in front of the sole building at the end of the runway. The pilot jumped out, grabbed some of the cargo in front of us and dropped it in front of the terminal. He was closing the cargo/passenger door when he said to me,

“The next place we are going to is God’s country.”

“That must be where you are from.” I replied, smiling.

“Right you are!” he exclaimed. “Charlottetown is the place where I was born.” He was almost singing.

We flew into Charlottetown and because we were only there for a few minutes, I did not get an opportunity to see if God was out for a stroll on the local streets. I would have to take his word on that but if you cannot trust someone who loves where they are from, then who can you trust. The pilot grabbed some more packages from the cargo hold and while he was doing that, he said to me,

“They got a saying about the next place we are going to.”

“What’s that?” I mused expecting some humour from this crusty fellow.

“Behind every tree there is a good-looking woman.”

“Where’s that?” I queried.

“Black Tickle.”

We were off the ground again leaving Charlottetown in our wake. It was not long before we came to a large barren area devoid of trees. This continued until we hit the gravel in Black Tickle. I looked out the window and there were no trees. I chuckled at the pilot’s remarks as I waited to travel to my next and final stop at Cartwright. A couple of passengers got on, one being a young man with a heavy odour of cologne. It reminded me of a men’s cologne from the sixties called Hai Karate. It was best known for its humorous television commercials depicting the users of this product using martial arts techniques to fend off women who were attracted to this fragrance. I had some of this in my bathroom cabinet in the late 1970’s but I have not seen it (smelled probably the better term) in years. It never worked for me; I never had to fight off any women and then I got married so I did not have any reason to wear it any longer. On the other hand, this guy seemed to have the last existing stockpile of this aftershave.

Amused with my great humour I waited for the plane to lift off. I looked out across the tundra in front of me, amazed at its vastness. Wait now, what was that? Blazing across the openness I saw a snowmobile pulling a sled laden down with logs. No doubt there would be another snowmobile and sled coming behind this one carrying the women they had found behind those trees. I reached out to tap the Hai Karate guy on the shoulder to let him know.1

The rest of the trip was uneventful or perhaps could be a story for another day, we will see on that. The only thing I remember of any consequence was arriving in Goose Bay in the evening of a blistering cold late spring day and wanting a coffee. Bad. I did not have a vehicle, but it was not a far walk to the Tim Horton’s from my hotel. A few minutes later I arrived to find the restaurant part of the Tim’s was not open due to construction. The drive-thru was open but I did not have a vehicle. Determined I got in line. I was getting a coffee regardless of what I had to do. I stood behind the cars in the lineup breathing in their exhaust as it rose in clouds in the cool evening air. When it came to my turn to order, nothing. No one asked what I wanted; the speaker was dead. It was the first time I realized the kiosk was activated when a vehicle passed the sensor. I need coffee! was screaming in my head and while I was trying to figure what to do next, the kind gentleman in the car behind me pulled his car up to the kiosk so I could order. He saved my life, I thought, as I waved to him after I ordered.

The young lady who served me was surprized by me standing where a car should have been, but she did not question me. The desperation in my eyes was enough to tell her to back off on this one. I paid for my coffee and decided to wait, albeit difficult, until I got back to my hotel room. I got to my room, locked the door, and closed the blinds while the coffee sat on the table. I popped off the lid, and I quickly sipped the elixir within. It flowed through my veins. I was at peace and the world was now safe.

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Footprints in the Sandbox

Everyone who has been involved in policing has been involved in investigations that cling to you. Especially those involving children. Those little beings with their whole lives ahead of them. Those files refuse to fade away. This is one such case for me and many others who worked on it. Two three year old girls drowned in Gander Lake while on an outing with their father in August 4th, 2002. In the playground, a single set of small footprints running across the sand toward the lake are depicted in one of the crime scene photographs.

An intensive investigation was conducted and years later, the father was charged with murder and convicted. However, on appeal he was acquitted in 2014. As far as I know the case remains open. I wrote the following poem about this tragedy.

The Drownings

The water wanted in and as much as

The small girls struggled to keep it out

It overpowered their trivial efforts and

Replaced their breath with

Its cold, liquid fingers showing their

Young and open little minds

Humans do not exist without air

They would float until it, the lake

Would claim them, sucking them below

The surface and away from those

They held dear

Their killer, walks free

Yet, he has no freedom

He is stuck in the quicksand of

Guilt, living his days

In a mental squalor

Their deaths in his thoughts

Knowing his deed

Maybe even regretting it

While two children

Blanketed with dirt sprouting grass

Sleep without breathing and

Slumber without dreams

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Pigs

No offence meant by the title of this week’s post. Back in my days of policing this was a common slur towards police. I am sure these are worse terms used today. This is meant to be a humorous look at this term through events that occurred during my service and personal life. I hope you enjoy it.

My wife and I lived in a Central Newfoundland in the late 1970’s and again in the early 1990’s. When we posted there first, it was called Grand Falls and on our second time around it was Grand Falls-Windsor. On the first occasion we lived in Bishop Falls until 1979 then we moved to the government quarters on Greenwood Avenue, Grand Falls. There were four apartments there and we got the one in the middle. We lived there until 1981 when I got transferred to Wesleyville.

While I was in Grand Falls, the detachment life was busy and almost every week you had to wrestle or fight with someone when you were making an arrest. It seemed it was a badge of honor to the locals, which they could brag about.

“Yeah, the cops arrested me, but I didn’t go easy.”

No one got hurt seriously other than a few scrapes and bruises. Police officers back then did not have the pepper spray, batons, tasers or bullet proof vests. You had a gun and handcuffs. The gun was the last resort, to be used when you, or a member of the public, were in danger of being seriously injured or killed. It was something that no officer wanted to use, even if justified. It was rare the gun would be taken out of the holster; even rarer if it were fired. Your tongue was your best weapon when dealing with someone. Knowing how to reach a person who is in an agitated state due to mental health issues, or alcohol and drug use, was an invaluable skill. It worked many times but there were always occasions when it did not and then you had to get physical.

Your strength and fighting skills were important because, once you decide there was no other way, you had to be the winner. Otherwise, the person went free and worse, the rumour mill would start. That would encourage other persons to challenge you and other officers in the future. You could not let that happen because it could result in injury or death. Thankfully, most of the altercations were wrestling matches and with a few key moves remembered from training depot, the person was in custody. It also helped things go more smoothly if there were other members around.

Another popular thing in those days was being called a pig. I remember during one of my first shifts I was driving on a street in Windsor, the town on the other side of the tracks from Grand Falls. I saw a cute little fellow in blue jeans and a checkered shirt on the side of the road. My guess was he was about four-years old. I decided I would attempt some good community relations, so I stopped the car along side of him and rolled the window down.

“How are you doing, bud?” I said smiling broadly.

“Fuck off, pig.” He said giving me the middle finger.

I was somewhat shocked and paused for a moment as he ran into a nearby house. What kind of a parent taught their child that type of language? I thought as I drove away. It was quite common to be called a pig but coming from a four-year old child, it struck me to the core. It bothered me that people would hate police so much they would teach their child, to imitate their behaviour.

I would talk about this with my wife, Sharon and she told me I should not take it as an insult. I asked why and she said because it is means Pride, Integrity, and Guts. That meant a lot to me, and I remembered it throughout my policing career. I even thanked a few of those souls when they called it out to me. That quickly changed their sneer to a WTF expression which amused me, as opposed to being angry at being insulted.

Sometime between that night and the second posting in 1991 to what was now Grand Falls-Windsor, Sharon started collecting pigs. Not real ones, figurines. She had them in all shapes and sizes and had them stashed in any available space around the house. I did not mind as she enjoyed collecting them and come gift-giving times it made shopping for her easy. The only one I regretted buying was a twelve-inch pig in a police uniform. It was hollow inside for putting cookies in and it required two double A batteries. It operated by a sensor and when you passed it the pig would say,

“Stop! Take your hand out of the cookie jar!”

It amused me for the first few weeks, but it got irritating fast. Okay, maybe I was eating too many cookies. It got on my nerves so much that one night a friend from work was visiting and remarked how cute it was. I gave it to her right then. She protested a little, but I said, no, a deal is a deal. She was still saying she did not make any deal as I pushed her out the door and bid her goodnight. I do not know what happened to the pig after that, I never saw it again. Sharon asked me what happened to it, and I told her I dropped it and it broke so I threw it out. She did not believe me; however, she did not say anything. She was probably glad it was gone.

I told you, because of these pigs, Sharon was easy to shop for, right? Well, sometimes it was not quite as easy as you would think. A couple of weeks before Christmas one year I was walking through the Exploits Valley Mall looking for some stocking stuffers for Sharon. I was passing a Novelty Shop which had recently opened when a flash of pink caught my eye. Pigs, I thought, as I quickly headed directly for them. As I got close, I could see they were not pigs; these items were flesh coloured dildos. I turned to leave but I was not quick enough for the ambitious store clerk. Probably thinking about a big sale and telling his buddies about it the next day.

“Sale of a lifetime it was. A case of dildos (or dildi). Fellow was sweating a lot and looked kind of sketchy, but a sale is a sale, right.”

“Can I help you with anything, sir.” he said cordially after all I was the potential purchaser of a case of dildos. He might even have a business card, ‘Dildo Sales and Service’.

“No, no. Just thought I saw something.” How could I explain I thought these dildos were pigs? For all I knew, he could have pig shaped dildos in the storeroom. There are some weird tastes out there.

“Thank you, for your help.” I said backing out of the store as if from a rabid dog. I exited the store and walked quickly to Woolco which was the anchor store of the mall. I disappeared into the aisles and exited through the other door. I walked to my car looking around as I went. I do not know why, maybe I thought this guy, the dildo salesman, would follow me out to the parking lot shouting,

“But sir, the twelve-inch ones are fifty percent off.” Waving a large flesh coloured one in his hand as he closed in on me.

I quickly got in the car and drove away, vowing to see the eye doctor before I go shopping for pigs again.

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The Church Parking Lot

I could never be described as a religious person. Oh, I believe in God but my position in the cue at Heaven’s Gate is probably near the end of the line. Years ago, I figured I was probably not good enough for Heaven; not bad enough for Hell; but I was probably a shoo-in for Purgatory. It was the middle ground and given my character, the Purgatory Afterlife Resort seemed like a good fit for me. These days, Purgatory does not get much attention. Apparently, the word Purgatory it is not even mentioned in the Bible which does not disprove it, but it does not do much to bolster your confidence in its existence. Perhaps with all the cutbacks in recent years, it may have been discontinued. If someone can enlighten me on this issue it would be appreciated otherwise, a note to those of you at the back of the line. The gloves are off!

I had lots of religious experiences in my youth, but I never realized its deep-seated influence until I began policing in Newfoundland (later to become Newfoundland and Labrador). In many outport communities, the church, regardless of what denomination, plays a significant role in the everyday lives of the people who live there. Sometimes as a police officer you get to see just how significant that influence is.

One of the first things you learn as a police officer is that your job is a search for the truth. A noble ideal indeed! Right up there with, ‘The truth is out there’ on the X-Files TV show (I might be testing memories here). You soon get brought down to earth when you find that not everyone wants to tell the truth, especially when there is a possibility they might get charged with a criminal offence. Lying, you discover, is not a lost art. In fact, it is very much alive and thriving, at least in the police world.

It was 1974 and I was stationed in St. Lawrence, my first posting. We received a call of a break and enter at a local business in Lawn. I attended the scene with the senior member. Soon after our arrival we came up with a suspect for the offence. I do not remember who he was so I will reference him as Johnny. We did not have much to go on, but we picked Johnny up anyway. It was denial all the way as soon as he got in the police car. Johnny had not done overly well with his education but in the school of lying he was an ‘A’ student.

I was just out of training so to say that I was inexperienced at interviewing, would be kind. I soon got into a heated, ‘You did it.’ ‘No, I didn’t.’ argument with Johnny but my partner was not concerned. Perhaps it was that he had a good deal more service that me, I do not know. He just drove on, content to let me do my broken record interrogation. Suddenly, the car came to stop. He put the gear shift in park.

I looked around to see we were parked on the empty parking lot of the Roman Catholic church. ‘What is he doing?’ I thought as he spoke,

“Johnny, I’m going to ask you once and I want the truth. Did you break into that store?

Johnny hesitated. He looked around at his surroundings. I noticed an obvious discomfort on his face. His forehead and his upper lip were beading with sweat as he grasped his hands. He stammered,

“I…I…” Gone was the earlier confidence in his voice.

My partner shifted slightly in his seat and said firmly,

“Johnny?”

Johnny looked at the square jawed Mountie and then looked out the window.

“Alright, I did it. I’m the one you want.” He hung his head and stared at the floor.

Utter amazement flooded over me. This captain of liars was incapable of lying close to hallowed ground. We could drive the police car back and forth over the boundary line of the church and the street and see the difference. ‘Yes, I did it. No, I didn’t.’ would be the responses depending, where you were when you asked the question. I had visions of building an interview room on the church parking lot and opening old files to clear them. ‘Did you do it? Yes, I did. Next.’ Our clearance rate would go through the roof.

I never tried this type of interview after this incident as I soon became aware it does not work with most people. I was disappointed over this piece of information, but it was probably for the best. The easy way is not always the best way. Truth is difficult to obtain and maybe it is better if it comes out on its own. I guess confessions on the church parking lot should be left up to the ‘Boss”.

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Licence

Many police officers see many instances of children living in horrible conditions during our duties. Living with incompetent parents who often don’t want the children or the knowledge and common sense to raise them. There is no training, no requirements to be a parent. Most people have good upbringings with parents who were responsible adults. Others, however, have no qualifications other than the have the necessary equipment to create a life. The beauty and joy of the birth of the child to parents such as these is swallowed up in a mire of desparation and ignorance. Poverty adds to this making the chance to lead a normal life a hard struggle for each child.

Poverty compounds the problem but it is not the problem. Parenting requires a certain skill set. A parent must be a protector, a teacher, a provider and a Mom and a Dad who love them. Children deserve the best that we can give them. We don’t have to be perfect. Everyone is broken in some way but a child’s life depends on parents who are willing to take on this challenge.

The preceding poem is one I wrote a few years ago along these lines. It is about my early days in the province of Newfoundland and Labrador. This poem contains profanity and some harsh descriptions for any readers who might be affected by such things.

The baby drowned in a slop bucket

The older cop stopped for a minute

A slop bucket!

Not all the houses had septic tanks

Or sewage hookups in the

Early seventies

Often you would see or rather

Smell these buckets when

You entered the houses

He continued

There the little fellow was

Headfirst in a pile of his

Family’s shit

Naked except for the

Worn diaper

His rattle on the floor near

The bottom of the bucket

Pulled him outa there and

Had to hold him over the

Bucket for a bit to let the

Chunks of crap slide off

The smell, Oh Jesus,

Just horrible

Put the little fellow in the

Body bag, God what a

Shame for a little angel

To die this way

Where were the parents

You know, like what were

They doing?

Father said he was in

The shed getting some

Wood, probably smoking

A joint, but he had his alibi

The mother wasn’t feeling well so

She was lying down

Hung over most likely

Judging by the empty beer

Bottles in the kitchen

Pausing for a second as

His fist crashed on the dash and

Through his teeth he hissed

Some people shouldn’t have kids!

The pathologist confirmed the

Cause of death was drowning

Drowning alright,

Nose and throat choked by

The family turds, fuck

That was four years ago and

I still think of that

The parents, oh they

Got right back at it

Couldn’t miss out on the

The cheques, could they now

Had four more, a twin of boys

And two girls

Surprisingly, those kids are still alive,

Out wandering around the yard and

The street by themselves while

Mom and Dad sip their beers

At the kitchen table

No child deserves to live like that

You need a license to drive a car but

Nothing to have a delicate little child

The young cop nodded

Wondering what burdens would

Be his to bear

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Circuit Court

Circuit court was a common event back in the 1970’s and 1980’s in the province of Newfoundland and Labrador. The judge, court reporter, prosecutor, and defence lawyers would travel to designated communities to hold court in service club and community halls, usually once a month. It was a big occasion for the local folk, and many came to watch the proceedings. They could see what was happening in their community and hear first-hand, the details of some of the crimes occurring in their neighborhood. Some were just rubber-neckers, trying to see what kind of trouble their friends or neighbors had gotten into, but some were just interested in seeing how the justice system worked.

Justice represents fairness in our society. Fair treatment for all, offenders, and victims alike. It is a high ideal; whether it is an achieved is always open to opinion. Victims of crime argue they have no rights in our system. An offender has the right to silence, to a lawyer, to be tried within a reasonable time, and many more. However, a victim of a crime must provide information to the police, must testify in court before the accused, must be subjected to cross examination by defence lawyers, must wait months and/or years for the resolution of a case. Otherwise, there likely will be no charge and the lawbreaker walks free.

That discussion has been ongoing for years, and hopefully, at some point it will be fully resolved, until then, we will have to take things as they come. The circuit court continues today but they do not travel to as many communities as they once did. Today it has been more centralized, and modern technology has opened new doors in serving justice to the masses, such as closed-circuit television to facilitate proceedings like bail hearings, witness testimony, and other similar hearings. It might be working better, but I think we lost something when the courts stopped going to these small towns. These forums of justice might not have been as polished as what we have today and in some cases, they may have been somewhat backward. However, it was where justice was served best; it was justness closer to the bone. People are human and not just another number on the docket.

The Newfoundland and Labrador court system in the 1970’s did not have many lawyers on the prosecution side outside of the St. John’s area and in some places the RCMP policed, a police officer took on this duty. When I was in Grand Falls there was a sergeant who was the operational non-commissioned officer. He reviewed all the investigative files and supervised the members on the general duty shift. Part of his duties was overseeing the prosecution of cases that went to court. This sergeant knew the criminal code inside and out. I would say he had a better knowledge of criminal law than most of the lawyers, and some I think were a little afraid to face him. He was deadly.

He did not only intimidate lawyers, most of the police officers on the detachment did not argue any legal points with him. You could not bullshit your way through a file. If you tried that, when he reviewed your file the red ink would be flowing like a severed artery. And, if the Montreal Canadians lost a game, you better choose your words wisely if you were stupid enough to speak to him. Those who did not follow hockey much, often made the mistake of commenting on the game. Those folks quickly found out how it felt to have your bare brain spanked with a leather belt.

The province started staffing more lawyers for the prosecution in the late 1970’s and members did not have to fill in this role as often. If you were a senior member (five years of service or more) back then, chances are you would have taken on this function at some point in your career. I never liked performing this duty. At no point in my life did I aspire to be a lawyer. Just give me what I need to enforce it was my attitude towards the law. Despite my feelings, I had to represent the prosecution on occasion. You never received a lot of notice when you had to do this. Sometimes it was the night before and sometimes you found out the morning court was held.

Most of the work did not require a lot of effort, reading the details of the offence on guilty pleas but occasionally there was a trial. This did not happen often, but when it did, you had to suck it up and do the best you could do. The circuit court when I was in Wesleyville was held in the community hall in Pound Cove. It generally had more spectators than provincial court sites in bigger centres, a lot more. There was a tendency for the audience to become a little unruly and if the judge did not exercise his control immediately, it could easily get out of hand. Generally, it was just a lot of talking during the proceedings but sometimes the community residents would take a more active role. On one such occasion, I was managing the direct examination of a witness in a trial of theft, I believe. I had just asked the witness a question and before he could reply, a member of the audience jumped up and shouted, “Objection!”

The judge who was present that day was a mild-mannered man who was just trying to perform his duty. He did not control the court room and things got off the rails. He did manage to explain that people who were viewing the proceedings had no right to interject in them. This did work to a certain extent but there was still a lot of low chatter which made it difficult to concentrate on the proceedings.

There were two judges from Gander who oversaw the Wesleyville circuit court on a scheduled basis. The mild-mannered one and one I will reference as the gruff one. He was a big man with a deep voice and when he opened court you could hear a pin drop. No one dare speak for fear of spending a night in jail. This was the judge in attendance when I had one of my more memorable prosecutions. It was an incident of assault that I had investigated a few months previously. It involved an altercation between two fellows at a bar in which one was struck in the face with the other’s fist.

I presented my case, and all was going well. I did not have a defence lawyer to face as the accused was defending himself. I had the upper hand, things were proceeding smoothly to a win, but then I called my star witness, the victim. He swore to tell the truth with his hand on the Bible and sat down. So far, so good. I then asked him to tell the court the events of the night in question. Expecting him to relay the date, the location, and his surroundings like he did when he gave his statement, I was taken aback when he said in a squeaky voice,

“Well, he give I a flick and I give he a flick.”

I was speechless. The courtroom was silent as this man’s words hung in the air. How could I respond to this? The victim had now included a consent issue to the altercation. He had taken part in it which was not portrayed in his statement to the police. How could I resolve this? My mind was whirling with these questions when I looked to the judge.

Upon hearing the witness’s comments, the judge’s jaw dropped. He remained with his mouth open in disbelief for a few seconds before slowly responding in his loud gruff manner,

“Sir, what in the hell, is a flick?”

The witness made a waving motion with the back of his hand, causing the judge to utter a painfully loud sigh.

Sensing the judge did want any more of this foolishness, I conceded that I had no further questions for this witness. I stated unnecessarily,

“That concludes the case for the crown, your honor.”

“I guess it does. Case dismissed.” The judge replied abruptly.

He then proceeded to give me a lecture regarding police evidence and court room procedure to the delight of the audience. Court ended shortly after, thankfully. The witness came to me as I was leaving the court, enquiring about his witness fees and expenses for gas. Through my teeth I advised him to attend the detachment office for this.

The witness followed me down, and once inside, I got the advance to witness receipt book and paid him. He shook his head as he said to me,

“I guess things didn’t go well.”

I did not say anything. I just stared at him, my eyes piercing through him. After a few seconds, he backed out the door sheepishly. I continued to stare as he departed with one sole thought,

‘I should give he a flick!’

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Still Life

Six years ago today (July 28, 2020) my Dad passed away. He was 93 years of age. He was an RCMP officer for 34 years reaching the rank of Staff Sergeant. He served in communities in Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia where he retired. I knew him as a quiet man who rarely spoke of his work. In 2017 when he visited my wife and me in Newfoundland I decided to interview him about his life. I made recordings and took many notes of his life growing up in Hebbville, Nova Scotia and of his life as a police officer. This is one of the stories I wrote some time after that. It is my tribute to him. He wasn’t perfect but he was my father.

My Dad, Bryce Andrew Hebb, Regimental Number 15906, joined the RCMP on September 19,1949 at the age of twenty-two. At the time of his engagement the rate of pay was listed as $3.75 per day for the entry-level third-class constable. It would rise over the next three years to a staggering $4.50 per day. He was posted to Prince Edward Island in 1950 after he completed training. One of the conditions of his engagement was that he be unmarried.

This document further clarified he needed permission to marry and that would not be granted unless he had completed five years of service and was at least twenty-six years of age. It was for this reason, that my Dad left the RCMP in 1953 to marry my mother. He would later rejoin in 1955 and would serve until he retired in 1987. The following story is one that he told me about during a lengthy conversation we had when he visited me in February of 2017.

Possession and production of alcohol was illegal in Canada between 1918 and 1920. It was banned beyond that period, but most provinces removed the bans during the 1920’s. However, Prince Edward Island retained the ban until 1948. The ban did not stop drinking or the demand for alcohol, and the moonshiners stepped forward to fill that demand. This story starts in February of 1951.

The sun was cracking the horizon now, a brilliant red. The stinging in his left ear was gone. It just felt numb now. Bryce Hebb pulled the buffalo hides up around his neck as he looked at Pete Jay, who was sleeping in their makeshift lean to. He too was covered with a buffalo hide. A snort echoed briefly from Peter’s gaping mouth, and he smacked his lips together. They had been sitting in the woods watching a still they had found three days ago in the woods just outside Marshfield, Prince Edward Island. Waiting for the owner to show up.

Peter and Bryce were RCMP members who were assigned to the liquor squad at the detachment in Charlottetown. Peter was the corporal in charge of the unit and Bryce was the junior constable. They enforced the Excise Act in the province. They were constantly collecting information and conducting searches for illegal stills involved in the manufacture of alcohol. Offenders stood to have property that was used in the commission of the offence seized, receive a fine, a jail sentence or both upon conviction. Peter was from Mount Stewart, and he knew a lot of people around the province. Dad said it seemed like Peter knew everybody. Bryce liked the work, especially in the summer. He and Peter would raid a place reported to have a still, and when they finished, they would go fishing for the rest of the day. Winter was not so comfortable.

They worked out of the Charlottetown detachment which was on Prince Street. It was a three-story building that used to belong to the Boy Scouts of Canada before being taken over by the RCMP. It also served as the headquarters for the RCMP in the province. Bryce worked on the third floor which was a bit disconcerting when it came to the fire escape measures. Fire regulations were almost non-existent in those days. There were no escape stairs and if a fire did occur in that building, there was a large rope secured to the wall which would be thrown out the window. The occupants of the building would then lower themselves to the ground on the rope. A fire did not occur during my Dad’s time at this detachment, and he was thankful for that.

Peter stirred and looked around. “See anything.”

“Nothing.” Dad said. The early morning brought cool winds, and he shivered despite being wrapped in the heavy buffalo hides.

“Well, I guess they must have caught on to us.” Peter threw off the buffalo hide and stood up. “I guess we’ll bust up that old still and go home.”

They stopped across the heavy snow to the road walking the few hundred feet to the stand of trees where the still sat idly, hidden from view. They made short work of smashing the equipment and a few minutes later they were walking out to where they had stashed the unmarked police car. They had not walked far when they met a man walking in the road. Peter knew he was the owner of the still. They arrested the man and he confessed to owning it. The man later went to court and a conviction was registered. I am not certain what sentence the man received as my father was not clear on that, but it was most likely a fine. It turned out that this man, who they had sat in the cold for three days waiting for, lived next to the girl Dad was dating at the time, my mother.

My father had frozen his ear during this surveillance resulting in an ear infection. He went to the hospital to have it looked at and the doctor found a hole in his ear drum. He suffered from hearing loss later in his life due to this injury. I am sure the hearing loss caused him some problems in his old age, but he was never one to complain about anything. I think he may have secretly enjoyed his lack of hearing on occasion, when he encountered those gabby people who blather on about nothing.

I am glad I took the time in 2017 to talk with my father about his past. It seemed before that I never had time or interest, to sit down and talk with him about his life. It did not seem like it was important then and even after that conversation I did not realize its significance until he died in the summer of 2020. It was then it struck me that when we come into this world, we are a fresh canvas; each of our lives a work of art and we are the creators of that art. Yet, art is nothing, unless it has someone to appreciate it.