Uncategorized

Monster

It’s that time of year again when the danger of wildfires is ever present. Many of us in this country live near wooded areas where we enjoy a variety of activities. Camping, fishing, hunting, hiking, photography or just enjoying the peace of nature are enjoyed by many in Canada and so it should be. However, this can quickly change, endangering the safety of the environment as well as the people, property, and animals who live in or around our forest. A fire can start by accident, carelessness or in some cases intentionally. Last year the people of this country suffered tremendous loss due to fires. It was the second worse wildfire season surpassed only by those in 2023. Over seven million hectares of forest land was destroyed impacting communities and their economy.

In the province of Newfoundland where I live, the most serious fires were in Conception Bay North affecting several communities there destroying and damaging 203 structures and displacing hundreds of residents. Last year while reading one of the news articles on these fires, it reminded me of a wildfire in the Grand Falls, Newfoundland I attended when I was a young member in the 1970’s. Grand Falls was no stranger to wildfires and this was one of my first experiences with this type of castastrophe. The location of this one was on New Bay Road and fortuneately for me there was an old firefighter on the scene when I arrived. He had seen more of these fires than I ever would. The following is a poem I wrote about this experience.

Monster

The tires crunched on

The gravel road as I

Rolled up behind the

Fire truck blocking further access

Closing the door of my cruiser

I walked through the

Heat to the fireman

An older man with

Eyes of experience

Watching the fire

Smoke curled low and high as

Slowly the blaze devoured

The brush and trees in front of it

Some tall giants falling

Splashing embers silently in

The roar of crackling wood

Hypnotized by this scene

I stood there in my youth until

The chief, dressed in bunker gear

Touched my shoulder

I turned to face him as

He spoke calmly

We need to move back now

We backed down the

Road about a hundred meters

Moments past as the beast

Licked the blood from its lips

Before rising into a gigantic

Ball of orange blasting us

With its heat before swallowing

All oxygen in the air

Surrounding it as it

Rolled across the road

Where we had stood

Consuming, destroying

Uncategorized

Trail Blazers

I wrote this poem in late 2024, the year the RCMP marked fifty years of women in the force. They entered a male orientated world where they were not always welcome. I came to know some of those members during my service as well as many other fine female officers. My sister, Heather Northrup followed their example and was a member of the first co-ed troop in 1975. She was one of the best. (Please note I may be somewhat biased here). All these women made and continue to make inroads in the policing world and we are better for it.

Trail Blazers

They were young, looking

For adventure when they

Graced the grounds of depot

Nervous because they were

The first and they would be

Judged, some judgements made

Before they started

Their uniform designed by

A man’s image made them

As different as they were

Standing in formation in

The drill hall

Tested in every area

Yet the question hung like

A sign over every door

They entered

Could they do the job

They passed through the

First step, training and

Then onto the field where

The real proving began

They struggled every day

Their failures highlighted

Their successes downplayed

Despite this it was heads up

Facing each moment with

Courage and determination

Now fifty years later they are

Recognized as the ones

Who wore the red serge

Doggedly leading the way for

All those others that followed

Their efforts showed others

It could be done and

Their contributions would be

Remembered as they had opened

The doors of Respect

Uncategorized

The Oath

Sgt. Joe Sobel at Remembrance Day 2011 in St. John’s, NL

I swore an oath that August day

So many, too many, years ago

To perform the duties expected of

A police officer in this country

I swore to do these duties without

Fear, favor, or affection of or towards

Another person and I affirmed this with

So help me God

I was young and I skimmed over

These words when I signed

The document with a theme

I did not fully understand

It would take years to realize

Despite these words I would experience

Fear, loathing, hate, and other

Emotions from the darkness

I would understand the perfection

Everyone wants is unattainable as

We are imperfect beings

Living in an imperfect world

People do not like to be told

They are wrong and lash out

At the conveyors of that message

To reverse their perceived abuse

Police actions video-taped and judged

Before any court has a chance to convene

Convicting with little evidence and

Showing superiority over the lowly blue

Still when there is trouble they reach out

To those in uniform to take care of it

But do not do it wrong and

Bring it back wrapped up in a bow

Years after I left that suit behind

I watch the news and feel sorrow for those

Still working to maintain law and order

Only now I fully understand that oath

It is swearing to do the impossible

To strive for unachievable perfection

Being set up for most certain failure and

Signing nevertheless on the dotted line

Policing

Will You March For Me

Will you march for me?

By Wayne Hebb

I marched through this country

Keeping peace, maintaining the right

For you to be safe and free

Sometimes with a gun or with fists

Scars, maybe one or two

Would not stay in the past

Now, that I am through

My time comes at last

When they play last post,

Sending me home with dignity

The thing I want to know is

Will you, yes you, march for me

Uncategorized

Late Night Thoughts – Garden of the Mind

I was in the yard a few days ago, digging the flower beds, cleaning up the debris left from the late fall and winter, spreading mulch, just trying to make it look presentable. When I am working like this, I often think about things in my past and roll them over in my mind. Perhaps I am doing the same with my brain as I am doing with the yard. The following story is one that came to light during my tillage of yard and soul. I have changed the names and locations due to the sensitive nature of this matter.

The boy came up to me as I entered the gym of the Carlton Elementary School. A few days earlier, I got a few of the members of detachment to join me for a game of floor hockey with the students at this school as part of the Police week celebrations. The school was in the small town of Carlton which is about a half hour from the RCMP detachment located in the town of Bufferton which is responsible for policing in this area. The boy was about nine-years old and he was smiling at me as he said,

“Hi Constable Hebb. I’m Ronnie. Do you remember me?’

“Why, yes, I do, Ronnie. How are you doing?” I said without hesitation, while I searched my memories.

It finally clicked that he was a victim of abuse I had investigated about two years prior. I got the call on a cold day in March 1986, the day after my birthday. I am a believer that something special happens on your birthday and while this report was not on my birthday, I think the incident happened on it. Ronnie’s mother had cut him with a razor blade. It certainly was not special because of that, rather it was the message or lesson I learned because of meeting this child. The young boy standing before me was shy but had come out of it when he recognized me. He was excited to see me and I do not know why, because when the police were involved in your life, it is most likely not a good memory. We were getting ready to start the game and not knowing what to do, I took off my watch and I gave it to him. I asked him to look after it for me while I played in the game. He looked at the watch and then back to me and swore he would take good care of it. He ran off to the side where the other students were gathering to watch the game. Perhaps I could stop here, and you might think, what a nice thing to do, and then you would include that in your frolics down your memory lane. Unfortunately, I do not know when to shut up when I am ahead, so I will continue.

I started the investigation by interviewing witnesses to gain information and finally I felt I had enough to have some degree of understanding about what happened. The boy lived with his mother and younger sister in an apartment in one of the low-rental housing areas which were nicknamed Section One and Section Two. He and his family lived in Section One. His mother met me at the door. She was a single mother and there was no evidence of even a remote fatherly interest in this little family. She was on social assistance, welfare it was commonly referred as, and the stress of raising two children on her own had driven her to alcoholism as well as searching for love in all the wrong places, to coin an old phrase. She was combative at first, saying that I was not talking to her son without a lawyer, but I talked with her and after a while she reluctantly agreed to accompany me to the detachment office for further investigation. Once at the office, I brought Ronnie and his mother into one of the interview rooms and as they sat down, I could see Ronnie had three small cuts, about an inch in length, on his cheek just below his left eye. Some other members were assisting me, and they updated me with the information they had obtained. The mother was placed under arrest for assault causing bodily harm. She told me that Ronnie’s injury was the result of his getting hit with a snowball and she denied anything about razor blades being used. She was later remanded and placed in the detachment cells to appear in court on the following morning.

Social Services had arranged to have Ronnie’s grandmother look after the children until they could sort things out. While we were waiting for the grandmother to arrive, I gave Ronnie and his sister a drink and some cookies I found in the coffee room, as well as some paper and pens so they could do some drawing. Before their grandmother arrived, they came out to me and gave me their drawings. They both had drawn a house and Ronnie’s was quite big with a small door and too small windows near the roof. No doubt some psychologist or behavioural expert could tell you what mental processes were at work, but I just saw a child’s drawing of a home. They both wanted me to have these drawings and I accepted them with a smile. It was their gift to me, I do not understand why they wanted to do this for me, the man who arrested their mother, but I kept them all these years.

When Ronnie’s grandmother arrived at the office the children were interviewed in her presence. Initially Ronnie had denied the existence of the razor blade, insisting, like his mother, that his injuries were caused by him getting hit with a snowball with ice in it. Now with his mother no longer present, he related he had been hit by a snowball and when he came to his mother for help because his cheek was red and swollen, she used a razor blade on his injury. His mother, in her drunken stupor, got the razor blade by breaking open a disposable plastic razor. Ronnie told us his mother had thrown away the razor blade, but she had put the remainder of the plastic frame in the pocket of her housecoat. A search was conducted of the house and the plastic remnants were found in the house coat as Ronnie had described. I do not remember if the razor blades were found.

The matter went to court and the mother plead not guilty and a trial followed. The star witness for our case was less than stellar on the stand. Very much so. I can definitely say, it wasn’t the only time that I had seen a witness chew gum while giving testimony but it was the first time I had ever seen one pull it out of her mouth and swing it around on her finger. And…she did it more than once. The defence lawyer was able to convince the court that the mother’s actions were not assault but a misguided attempt to relieve, what she thought, was pressure on her son’s injury. I can accept that I guess, the court has to insure it gives the accused the benefit of fairness in assessing the evidence, but I always wonder where that benefit is when it comes to victims, especially children.

Yet, that is it, isn’t it? There are no rules as to what parents you get when you come into this world and there are no requirements for being a parent other than the physical ones. You cannot drive a vehicle without a licence from the government, but you can raise a child, a delicate human being, without any conditions. That is an old thought and I am sure you have heard it before, but it always gives me reason to pause.

Now back to the floor hockey game. We played valiantly against the grade six students, but they outscored us in the end. The children cheered for their fellow students and for the willing losers and it was one of the better memories of my policing life. Except, that after the game, I looked for Ronnie and then he showed up holding my watch out to me and I felt bad. You see, when, I gave him my watch I had this thought that maybe I would not get the watch back. It was only a forty-dollar Timex so I do not know why the thought even entered my mind. Yet, I do. Police officers are suspicious in nature and the more experience you have in policing, the more suspicious you become. This was a child and the only reasons I had this thought was because he was poor and because of his upbringing. It was only brief but so is saying the F-word out loud at a church service.

I thanked Ronnie and patted him on the back in front of his classmates. It was a big thing for him, to have held this watch for the policeman. A lot of young boys back then, (not so sure if that is the same today) had an image of the police as the hero in blue but on that day, I silently trashed that image with a single thought. A thought that has never been spoken or made audible but shame rings inside my skull all the same.

My shame has faded now but I learned a valuable lesson from this little encounter. Everyday, millions of thoughts are processed through our brains and not all are good or helpful, but we are in control. We direct what we act on. We are all imperfect people living in an imperfect world expecting perfection, but that perfection is different for each and everyone of us. Each day we must pay attention to the notions occurring inside our heads. Examine them carefully, for the lazy gardener reaps many weeds.

Uncategorized

Late Night Thoughts – Suit of Blue

Suit of Blue

The old man hobbled over to the park bench and sat, leaning his cane against the metal arm rest. He closed his eyes, sighed, and breathed in. Children were riding their bikes, skateboards and scooters and even more children were on the swings and the monkey bars in the playground. He smiled at the sounds of life around the bench where he rested. Trees full of leaves offered shade from the strength of the early June sun. Parents sat or stood watching their children and some scolding the little ones for being a little too active. Music played from the snack bar a hundred feet away from him and folks and their little ones were coming away with a plate of fries, a hot dog or just a big old, double scoop ice cream cone. He felt the sun on his face, and he leaned his head back, awash in the idyllic day.

His eyes still closed, he daydreamed of the past, his past. He had been a cop, a police officer but he liked cop better. It was less formal, more down to earth, but then, who but anyone who had worn the suit of blue, would ever analyze this. He had retired during the summer of 2020 with twenty-seven years. Thirty-one years ago. He would have worked longer but the events of that year were just too much. The bush fires in Australia, the corona virus pandemic, the Black Lives Matter movement and the second wave of the virus, two weeks after the protests, erupting into three million cases in the United States alone and the death toll rose over 300,000. To call it tumultuous would be an understatement.

Tensions rose in early January when an American drone strike killed Iranian security and intelligence officer, Major General Qasem Soleimani, followed a couple of days later by Iran pulling out of the 2015 nuclear deal. A Ukrainian Airlines flight 752 was shot down by Iran a few days later and all 176 passengers and crew, 57 of whom were Canadians, died. The possibility of war was on the minds of many North Americans as this played out. It fizzled out by the end of 2020 with a change of leadership in the land of the free. Joe Biden won the US presidential election in November of 2020, but it was March of 2021 before he was inaugurated because the former president, Donald Trump, refused to leave the oval office and relinquish command. It finally took a Supreme Court order served directly by the Attorney General and the presence of armed troops for Trump to realize the time for his rule had passed. Trump supporters rose up in angry protests resulting in the killing of hundreds of people, most of them police officers as they were targeted by the protestors. Targeted because police became the focal point of public hate.

During an arrest in May 2020, a police officer, had knelt on the neck of a black man for almost nine minutes, snuffing out his life while the officer watched with his hands in his pockets. Horrible. The old man shook his head. It was not George Floyd who had changed the world, you could not put that on him. It was this piece of shit, in uniform that was responsible for the change. Not entirely, it had been coming for a while, he was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The job, that everyone knew how to do right except the ones doing it, was becoming obsolete. No one liked to be arrested or to be detained, so often, you had to struggle, to fight, just to earn your pay cheque. Arresting a non-compliant person cannot be made to look pretty by any stretch of the Imagination. Even when justified, it never looked swift and smooth like in the movies, and perception made you the bad guy. People wanted pretty.

The George Floyd incident brought all the recent deaths of black people at the hands of the police to a head. People could not take it anymore and they started protests, protests which were supposed to be peaceful, but erupted into violence, with people and police being killed and injured in the name of peace. There were many who blamed the violence on white supremacists and that might have been true, but it was not all the truth. The truth was never laid out as very few were charged or found responsible for those crimes. Hate smoldered in the eyes of protestors as police were tarred as racists, bullies, liars, and all things negative. Several police officers tried to quell the hatred by kneeling with the protestors in a sign of solidarity and that did sway some in their thinking, but not enough, as ‘defund the police’ surged across the US and other countries. The media reported police brutality was rampant and reported incidents daily to prove this. To stamp it out, to get rid of it, defunding racist law enforcement organizations became the only answer and the only logical next step was to disband the police. ‘We can do it better’, was the slogan on some of the placards the old man had seen while holding the line in front of businesses.

It was shortly after that duty that he put in his retirement papers. It was July 2020. Officers who had retired previously told him the day would come when he would know it was time. It did; but it was not an instantaneous thing that flashed into his head. He had known it for a long time, yet he hung on until, like the protestors, he could not take it anymore. He could not take the hatred, the disdain for a profession which was built on mottos like Serve and Protect. His official date had been October sixth, but he had taken the remainder of the leave he was owed so he finished up on August the eighth. The protests were still happening in many cities but with less looting and violence. That may have been due to the protestors anger being quelled, or it might have been due to many of them getting sick with the virus due to lack of social distancing practises. Either way, he left his gun and badge on his supervisor’s desk, signed his termination papers, and walked out the door. He was done.

Shortly after his retirement it started. Force after force was disbanded in the United States and in Canada until 2030. By then only a few policing agencies remained yet with vastly reduced operating budgets and limited duties. Those in power formed Community Response Teams (CRT) and resourced them with people with education in mental health and social, poverty and gender specialists. Civilianized police organizations, CPO’s, complemented the CRT’s and they were comprised of unarmed, non-uniformed personnel with skills in de-escalation techniques. Police officers were refused applications unless they underwent a six-month decontamination process which supposedly eliminated all previous police thinking. Not many opted to go through this and out of the few that did, most failed miserably and either left or were fired.

The new system was welcomed with open arms by all the civil liberties groups and they were included in the civilian oversight of these new agencies. It was all congenial at first and it seemed even the criminal element was co-operating, or at least holding back to see how things played out. The leaders, despite their strong dislike of Donald Trump, were unrelenting in their Trump-like support of the CRT’s and the CPO’s and how they were an overwhelming success over the old way of policing. Many police officers were out of work and moved on to other things, but some did speak out against the new order only to find themselves and their families targeted with hate mail, vandalism, and violence. Soon they stopped speaking and faded into society. Now, twenty years later, few even spoke of their former careers, while the leaders of the new world of public order, continued to profess how much better things are.

The old man stirred as a gust of wind brushed past his face. An aluminum can clunked its way down the concrete sidewalk. He opened his eyes. Gone were the images of happy children. Surrounded by reality he realized he had been dreaming. The youthful laughter was replaced with silence and the far off swearing of someone, intent of no good. The charred remains of the once bustling snack bar loomed in front of him, the standing walls choked with graffiti. The park, once a haven for citizens, now an overgrown, garbage strewn abandoned lot. He looked for the statue of a police officer and a child that had proudly stood in the center of this wonderful escape and saw only headless figures covered in a mess of paint and garbage. A large spike had been driven through the heart of what was left of the policeman and below it was written ‘Fuck the cops’ in red paint. He stared at this former icon of policing for a long time, remembering. A tear swelled to the edge of his eyelid, then trickled down his cheek.

Policing, Uncategorized

Something Special – Notes

I would just like to make a note here about this story. Due to the sensitive nature of the incident in the second part of this story I have altered some of the details and gave fictitious names for the locations and persons to respect the privacy of the victim and her family in this matter.

Policing, Uncategorized

Something Special

DSC_4500-Edit-2 Your birthday is an important day in your life. It is the day you came into being, the day you began this great journey of life. Most of us celebrate this day and we receive a gift or two, blow out the candles on a cake and maybe go to a favorite place for a meal. It is a day that is unique to you. I know we live in a world of almost 8 billion people and there are only 365 days in a year with exception of a leap year, so you are likely sharing this day with millions of people. While that is true, it is also true that each person in this world is unique and the fact your birth occurred on a certain day, marks it as yours.

I have believed for years that something wonderful will occur on your birthday. Sometimes it will be obvious like coming into some money but more times it is something minor. It does happen and if you don’t see it, just be patient it will show up when the time is right. This belief originally started in 1982 which I will allude to later, but I didn’t really think of it as special until after I won a large sum of money in 1987. At the time, we lived in Marystown, Newfoundland and Labrador, a small community of around 5,000 people. I was in my fourteenth year of working with the RCMP and I was stationed at the detachment which was responsible for policing not only Marystown but all the communities from Frenchman’s Cove to English Harbour East. My sons were 8 and 10 years of age at the time and they played basketball at school. As with many school activities there was fundraisers and, in the fall of 1986 both my sons had to sell tickets to raise money for the Newfoundland Basketball association.

First prize was ten thousand dollars, certainly a wonderful prize but as with many fundraisers you are only donating your money because the chances of winning are very unlikely. Our boys only had a few tickets to sell but like most children they weren’t great salespersons. Finally, the time came to turn in the tickets, and they had two left so rather than let them go to their coach empty handed we bought the tickets. The draw date was early in January 1987 and that date came and went so we figured we had made a charitable donation again.

On the morning of my birthday, I was sleeping on the couch. I had worked the late shift and went to bed when I got home. A few hours later, I got up with the kids to get them off to school and when they left, I was still tired, so I plopped down on the sofa. I was awaked by the phone ringing and I answered it. The man on the other end identified himself a being with the basketball association. He explained they had made the draw in January but the person who had the winning ticket could not be found. He further stated the Lottery Licensing Board had advised the association that due to a winner not being found they had to make the draw again and my name had been drawn. He then asked for my mailing address and after a few pleasantries were exchanged we hung up. I had mixed feelings about this as I felt it could be someone from the office playing a trick. I often played tricks on my co-workers so it was not beyond comprehension that they would try to get me back. Sharon got up a few minutes later and she asked who was on the phone and I told her. She started to get excited, but I told her of my suspicions and suggested we wait until we got the cheque before we jump for joy. She told me not to be so foolish, how would your office workers know about those tickets. She was right but the suspicion wouldn’t let go. My suspicions were ended a few weeks later when the cheque came in the mail. The money was a great windfall and it went to pay a lot of bills. We were a young family and had just bought our first house. Money was tight and this was a nice little boost to our financial state. That was probably when I began thinking there was truth to something extraordinary, related only to you, occurred each year on your birthday. However, as I stated previously, this originated in 1982 when a more somber event happened.

The thing with being a police officer is at some point maybe early, maybe late you realize what it is to be a cop. Pretty obvious you are probably thinking and while I won’t deny that, it is something more. Enforcing the law, responding to calls and lots of things come to mind when you talk of policing and the people behind the uniform. These things are part of it but what ‘being’ a policeman or woman is that feeling you get when you ‘get the bad guy’. When you drag their sorry ass to court so they can ride the wheels of justice. Funny thing is, for the most part there are no bad guys just people who made bad mistakes and processing them through the justice system is one way of maybe helping them back to the right side of the law. Sometimes you get this early in your career, sometimes later, and some get more of it but no mater when or how much you get, it is your reason for going in early, for staying late. Unfortunately, policing is not a nine to five job. The criminals don’t quit at five. I say unfortunately, because it is… to you and to your family. When I was working It was a constant internal battle to maintain a balance between family and work. You realize when you are older which one is more important, but I am speaking as a young man now. When you make an arrest on a case you are working on, it is like all is right with the world for just a few moments. You’ve done something that counts, that maybe changes something in some small way. That you have mattered just a little in this big world. I am not the greatest police officer, far from it but I have had this feeling a few times during my working life.

This brings me to my story. I received a call on the 26^th of January 1982 regarding an assault in Tudor Harbour however with few details. I had been posted to Shallow Harbour, Newfoundland and Labrador since September of 1981. The detachment area covered the communities from Woodsmith to Tudor Harbour with a population spread over these communities of about 7,000. Tudor Harbour is about an eighty-minute drive from the detachment office. When I got there, I tracked down the complainant who advised she was not the victim of the crime and did not know any details. She introduced to me to another woman, a few years older than her. She gave me her name, Marion (not her real name) and I interviewed her. Marion was about twenty-five and somewhat mentally challenged but she was articulate enough that I could understand her. She related that her father, Charles (not the real name) had hit her with his hand in the head. There was no indication of any bruising or marking and she told me that no one was around when this happened. I was not hopeful for any prosecution, but I continued to press her for details. Out of the blue, she said, “I’m lucky cause that’s all that happened to me because my sister, Gwen (not her real name) had a baby for him and the baby died”.

Her remarks stunned me for a moment. A daughter had a baby for her father. I was not unaware of this type of thing happening, but it was the first time I was close to it. Incest was something that would stain on the mind of the victim forever. I gained my composure and I asked for more details, but she could offer little other than she thought the baby had been born in the hospital in Trout Port. I wanted to speak to Gwen but I didn’t want to go to their house for fear I might alert the potential offender pre-maturely so I asked her if she could get Gwen to meet me. It was Saturday and so I suggest she have Gwen meet me by the school parking lot in an hour. There were no cell phones at that time, so I had to roam around the area to kill time until the meeting.

I parked on the school lot about ten minutes before the scheduled meeting and spent the waiting time wondering if this Gwen would show. The hour completed and no sign of anyone coming. I decided to wait for a bit, and I was rewarded for this when I noted a solidary figure approaching on the road. As she neared the police vehicle, I could see she was a petit teenage girl with shoulder length straight hair. Her face showed stress and nervousness as she quietly spoke. “I’m Gwen.” I asked her to sit in and she did obediently. I told her about my conversation with her sister, Marion and asked what she could tell me about this.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice was low and shaky.

“If this happened to you, I can help.” I spoke in a confident tone but inside I wasn’t sure of what I could do.

“I know but I don’t want to talk. I am leaving here soon so it will all be behind me.’’ She said. The tone of her words could not hide that she knew this was untrue.

I asked her if she would come to the office to talk about this, telling her I could get her some place safe to stay. She looked at me with those puppy dog eyes, and I knew the answer before she answered.

“I can’t.”

Desperately, I tried to convince her that I could help but she just looked at me with those eyes. Those trapped eyes pleading for rescue but her voice unable to aid in her escape. I got her full name and her date of birth. She was 18 years old. After a few moments of silence, I wrote down my phone numbers including my home number and gave it to her. She took the piece of paper and stared at me as she opened the car door and left the vehicle. She walked away turning back and looking at me. Don’t give up I seemed to hear in my head and unknowingly I spoke aloud ‘I won’t’.

But I did, I am ashamed to say. Not right away. I did try to get information from the Trout Port hospital regarding this, but I was reminded quickly by the doctor I spoke to that I didn’t have a consent. He was shocked that I would even make such an inquiry. Some investigations don’t give you a lot to work with, so you have to fly by the seat of your pants and hope for the best. Sometimes it works and like in this case, sometimes it doesn’t. I didn’t let that stop me and I later spoke to a physician friend who unofficially let me know Gwen did have a miscarriage within the past two years. I had something to corroborate the truth of the incident but that was no where near enough without a victim or witnesses. I would maybe interview the father at some point giving consideration first to the safety of his family but at this stage, I had little more than nothing.

Shallow Harbour was a busy detachment and the calls did not stop because you had a serious case in your file load. I got tied up in other investigations for the next few weeks but in the silent times I frequently thought of Gwen and racked my mind for ideas to move forward with this. The night before my birthday our two small sons were in bed and my wife and I were in the living room. She was reading and I was watching TV (we only had two channels back then CBC and NTV and NTV was snowy at best if there was no wind and you had the antenna was in the right direction). I drifted off thinking about this file. It was three weeks old and I needed something to report as the diary date was due but what. At twelve midnight, my wife, Sharon came over to me and gave me a kiss. “Happy birthday.” I came out of my daze, smiled and thanked her, quietly grateful for her and my sons.

The next morning, I can’t be certain, but I believe it was early, the phone rang. I answered it quickly, knowing it was work. A timid voice spoke, “I’m ready, ready to talk.” It was Gwen and I asked where she was, and she told me she was at a friend’s house. She had gone there last night for a sleep over she had told her father which was true, but her motive was much different. I wrote down the address and told her I would be there within the hour. I dressed immediately and told Sharon I would be gone for most of the day. I took a quick peep in the boys’ room where they were still sleeping, and I left the house. At the office, I grabbed the keys to the police vehicle and rushed towards Tudor Harbour. Butterflies invaded my stomach as I turned onto the highway.

I found the friend’s house and Gwen was waiting outside with a small tattered overnight bag. She got in the front seat and I asked if she was okay. She was. We drove in mostly silence exchanging a few pleasantries along the way. I explained what would be happening once we got to the detachment, I would interview her and after I would see she had a safe place to stay. She looked small in the seat beside me, but I could feel the courage she had found. I wrote page after page of her account of the horrifying events she recounted over three hours or so. How her father had made her wash and shave him in the kitchen initially but then moved this to the bedroom. How her father had threatened her, her mother and her sisters with knifes and a shotgun many times over the years. Lining them up in the kitchen while he raged about the wrong, they had done him while threatening them with the shotgun and or the knife. The ‘sex’ started after they moved the ‘washing’ to the bedroom with her father forcing her to fondle him. Sometime later it evolved into intercourse. She was maybe 13 when this began, and it continued for years. Then one day sometime after she turned 16, she was pregnant. She stressed over this, knowing she had to tell her father because soon she would be showing, and others would know. When she did, he blew up and spewed his anger at her for being so stupid to let this happen. A day or so later, he came to her and told her he wanted her to go in the basement and jump off the stairs continually to stop the pregnancy. Fearing reprisal, she obeyed. She was not certain if this did anything but the spring of 1981, she was having pains in her abdomen. When her father found out he drove her to the hospital in Trout Port and she went in. A few hours later she had a miscarriage. She told the medical staff she did not know the father; he was just some guy that she met. They believed her, she guessed and shortly after she was released to go home with her father. It was a silent trip. Her father never spoke on the trip home and thankfully, after that the sexual encounters stopped.

I called Social Services and once I explained what I was investigating, they quickly got a place to stay for Gwen and I drove her to the house they had arranged. I stood with her for a few moments while she met the people of her new abode and then I extended my hand to her. She grasped my hand tightly and looked at me again with those eyes. They were not pleading now; they were cautiously optimistic. I spoke breaking the silence and said.

“Now you got my numbers. Call me if you need anything.” She nodded and I left her on the steps. She was closing the door and I drove away.

___

The next day I called the Trout Port GIS (General Investigation Section) and they came down to assist me. We attended the residence and found the father. He had gotten wind of Gwen’s actions not long after she left the community and he had faked a suicide attempt in order to garner sympathy from the family and of course, Gwen hoping she would reconsider her actions. He had rigged some PVC pipe and some rubber hosing to the exhaust of his truck and then into the cab of the truck. The idea was to gas himself with the exhaust, but it was only an attempt to guilt his family and save himself. The miserable excuse for a human being admitted to having sex with his daughter but said she consented. He wasn’t a very intelligent person but smart enough to know what he did was terribly wrong, yet his warped mind justified his cruel deeds. He would later force this matter to a trial and drag his family through his crap. Despite that he was eventually convicted and sentenced to over four years in jail. Hardly seems like enough, does it.

___

Back to the night that I had left Gwen on the steps of her temporary residence and drove home in the darkness. It had been a long day. As I drove, I felt the rawest emotions that I had ever felt welling up inside me. I pulled in my driveway and parked. I sat with the engine running for a few moments to regain my composure before I went into the house. Packing everything in a little compartment deep within your brain because that what you do, right. I breathed deeply and thought as I walked up the stairs, ‘This day was special.’ The door quickly opened, and Sharon and the boys were there singing, “Happy birdday to you…” Special, more than you could ever know.

Policing, Uncategorized

Regrets

They were playing on the front lawn. Two brothers age six and eight years, kicking a soccer ball when the dark coloured car stopped in the middle of the road. The driver, a scraggly haired youth, opened the door of the older model car and stood with one leg out on the pavement.

“Your father is a fucking pig!” He shouted at the boys and then he got back in the car, slamming the door behind him. With a screech of tires, he sped off to the dark, slimy hole that he came from.

Sharon, my wife, listened quietly as Chris and Geoff told her the story of the screaming man. They were upset and wondering why someone would say that about their Dad. Yes, upset but not as upset when she later told me when I came home from work that day. I do not remember my words, but I am sure there were a few angry explicatives, included. If he had said this to me, it would not have mattered. I probably would have laughed and told him he wasn’t the first to call me that nor would he be the last to use that term to describe someone in uniform. But he said it to my sons. That made me angry then and still does when it comes to my mind. I never did find out who this person was, but I often wish to have the opportunity to straighten him out.

When my sons, Chris and Geoff were eight and 10, we lived in Marystown, Newfoundland and Labrador. When we moved to Marystown in 1985, it was their fourth move and their second since starting school. My father was an RCMP officer, so I had grown up moving around. It was easy for me now and in fact I looked forward to moving after four to five years in a place. But, the early days of moving were hard. Leaving good friends and familiar territory to start fresh somewhere new. Trying to fit in was difficult at best but your father being a police officer just added to that. I knew it had to be rough on my sons, but they were good kids and they rebounded quickly making new friends. I did not need to worry but I did.

I served in many small communities in my policing career. Those communities were home to many good souls, and I became friends with some of those good people. However, the relationship with the residents in the places I policed was sometimes like the relationship one has with the boss of a large company. You want to be friendly with him or her yet not too friendly because others may think of you as a suck hole or the boss’s pet. That has something to do with trust, I guess. If you are too close to the police, then you just might be a pipeline of information about the people you live with so people might be careful about what they say or do around you. While I can understand the attitude, it did make you feel on your own at times.

On September 9, 1982, Chris was almost five years of age and Geoff has turned three in May. We lived in Wesleyville (Wesley Bill Geoff called it) on the northern coast of Newfoundland. This was a three-person unit which was responsible for approximately seven thousand people in 16 municipalities spread over approximately 140 kilometres of road. The nearest backup to Wesleyville was from the detachments in Glovertown, about an hour drive away, Gander, 90 minutes and Carmanville, just under an hour. The time frames are relevant to where you were in the detachment area at any given time or if anyone was free to assist you. Often, we had to work alone with your only connection being the telecom centre located (at that time) in Grand Falls-Windsor, Newfoundland & Labrador. In the 1980’s the radio communication was not too bad but there were several dead spots throughout the area.

I was working the night shift and around 10:30 p.m. I had the occasion to check a teenage dance being held at the Seagull Lounge. It was an adult establishment, but the bar was closed. It was customary during our patrols to check out these dances to cut down on the consumption of alcohol and perhaps some marijuana. I also used these as opportunities to build rapport with the young people. I knew a few of them through my involvement with the local army cadet corps. I stopped at the far end of the parking lot about 30 feet from the entrance. I spoke to a few young fellows near the entrance and I noted a few empty beer bottles on the ground close to their feet. As I spoke to these youths, a crowd gathered around me. I moved back to the police vehicle and I sat in with the door opened making notes on my night sheet.

Often teenage dances are attended by some who are in their twenties and this night was no different. One such individual Charlie (not his real name) approached me and asked if he could speak to me. I said yes and he asked me when his brother’s things were going to be returned. I had seized some items during an investigation I had been working on. I was in the process of explaining that I had no authority to return these items when Charlie’s other brother, James (not his real name) came to the police vehicle. A crowd had gathered behind him. James was recently home from Toronto, and he had a lengthy criminal record. I asked him what he wanted.

“You’re talking to my brother so I’m going to stay here until you’re finished.” He said loudly. I noted a strong odour of alcohol from his breath as I replied, “He’s talking to me.”

He raised his voice and repeated, “You’re talking to my fucking brother and I’m going to stay here until you’re done!”

I told him to keep it down or I would have to charge him with causing a disturbance, but he said, “I don’t care. I’m staying.”

Charlie tried to get him to leave but he would not go. He began shouting, “What are you going to do with my brother’s stuff? That’s stealing. All that about Ottawa is all shit. Bullshit. When are you going to give it back?” I attempted to tell him I had no authority to give it back to anyone.

“That’s fucking shit.” I again told him to lower his voice or I would have to arrest him for causing a disturbance.

“Who gives a fuck. I know all about you cops. The Toronto cops are assholes but you, you’re the biggest asshole of all.” I again tried to quiet him, but he persisted. “I don’t give a fuck! Charge me, see if I care. I got lots of charges now and one more won’t matter. But I’m going to charge you. You can’t hold those things. His hat, his coat, his money. I’m going to get my fucking lawyer and charge you!” His shouting had reached the level of screaming.

He then said something about losing his finger and he poked his fist in the doorway at me twice. I got out of the car and said, “Come here!” He started to run away but I grabbed him and told him he was under arrest for causing a disturbance.

“No fucking way! You ain’t taking me.” He shouted as he resisted me. He pushed me and I lost my grip, but I grabbed him again. I put him up against the right rear side of the police car. He was still trying to break free when Charlie took hold of my arm. I told him to let go twice. He asked me not to hurt his brother and I told him I would not and if he (James) got in the car he wouldn’t have any problems. He let go of my arm.

I attempted to open the rear door, but James continued to struggle, and he knocked it shut. I made another attempt but was unsuccessful and I wrestled James to the ground. As we fell to the ground, he grabbed my coat and hauled it over my head and was pulling on it. Despite this I managed to get one hand cuff on but could not get the other one on because of his continued resistance. He attempted to bite me as I tried to get the other cuff on. Charlie was in the background saying not to hurt his brother. Finally, I got James to his feet and had him in a headlock. I asked one of the fellows standing nearby to open the rear door for me. He did comply but James kicked it shut. James apparently knew this guy and he told him he would get him. I told this guy to open the door and hold it open. He did so and I put James in the car. James was shouting and kicking the silent patrolman as I closed the door.

“I’ll get you, Hebb. You fucking asshole! I’ll blow your fucking head off. I’ll kill your wife too!” He shouted as I drove to the office. He continued these threats until we arrived at the detachment building. I opened the rear door and I told James to get out.

“If you want me out, you’ll have to drag me out.” He yelled.

I tried to get through to the telecom centre to get some assistance while driving to the office, but I was not successful. I locked the police vehicle and I went to the office door and unlocked it. I opened the door and ensured I had a clear path to the cells. I then returned to the police vehicle.

“I got you now! You didn’t give me my rights. I’m going to get my lawyer and charge you.” He said as I opened the door. He was right. In the struggle I had forgotten to caution him and advise him of his right to counsel. He got out saying, “I got it made now. I got you! You didn’t give me my rights.”

He did not struggle as I put the other handcuff on. I regretted not advising him of his rights, but I was not worried. I would do this once I had him safely in the office. Given it appeared I would not have further resistance from him, I was almost glad at this turn of events. “Yeah, put it on. I got it made.” He said as the handcuff clicked around his wrist.

In the office, I did a physical search of his person as he continued his commentary. “I shouldn’t have said that about your wife. She doesn’t deserve that. But you! An asshole like you I’m going to kill! Yes sir.”

I gave him the police caution as I was searching him and then he started shouting saying that I couldn’t do that. He wanted to see Waterman (Cpl. Bert Waterman the corporal in charge of the unit). I told him Cpl. Waterman was on the mainland. (Mainland is a term used to refer to the rest of Canada.). He then started yelling “You fucking asshole!” and I took him to the cells. I advised him of his rights to a lawyer as we moved toward this area. I advised him that due to his behaviour and his intoxicated condition he could make a call to a lawyer in the morning. He continued yelling and wanted to see Waterman and to call a lawyer. He broke free from my grasp and ran down the hallway. I tackled him. He raised his fist toward me, and I punched him in the face three or four times, maybe more. I machine-gunned him with my fists. I had reached the end of my rope with him. Maybe one punch would have been enough, maybe not. I did not worry about whether I might have overstepped my bounds, I thought I exercised tremendous restraint because I did not want to stop. He was somewhat subdued now and I managed to get him in the cell and locked the door.

e continued to rant through the cell bars. “I’m going to kill you and your wife. I am going to blow your fucking heads off. I can’t wait. I live for it. I’ve got nothing to lose. It’s great to do a cop. I’m going to show this town whose boss. I can’t wait until I get out tomorrow. I’m going to get you, Hebb, and your wife. As soon as I get out of here. I better get some rest because I got a lot to do tomorrow.” He lay on the bottom bunk as he finished the last word. When the local guard arrived and I left the building, he was sleeping peacefully.

The next day, I let James out to make a call to a lawyer, but he was unable to contact one. I brought in a justice of the peace and had him remanded into custody until the 27th of September 1982, when he could be brought to court in Gander to be released on conditions. He was quiet as I returned him to the cells. When I brought him to court on the 27th, he was released on conditions to appear on the 5th of October of this same year. I cannot recall what happened after that. I believe he pleaded guilty because I do not remember a trial. I guess some of you may judge me, say that I used excessive force and perhaps you might be right. There was no Face book or other social networks then but if there had been, I may have been condemned vigorously by gangs of anonymous outraged people.

I did not have any dealings with James after that. He did not charge me with anything. He didn’t show up on my doorstep to blow the heads off me and my wife. It might have just been the alcohol talking or it might have been the look in my eye when I stopped punching him. I do not know. All I knew back then, when I was home sitting on the couch watching TV, with my two boys cuddled between me and my wife, is that, I had no regrets.

Uncategorized

Ghosts

Camp-fire-2

I believed in ghosts since my early childhood days. Back then, I relished tales of the dead because of the delicious wave of terror they brought. These creatures of the dark, the horrible kind, the hurtful kind, the Stephen King images that stayed with you for decades and some that still lurk in the shadowy halls of your consciousness. It was a world of make believe and I could stop the fright simply by closing the book. Always forefront in your thoughts was that it was fiction.

Today, my ghosts are memories. They are people, both living and dead, that I have encountered in my life. They are someone who has touched me in a special way which locked them into my sub consciousness. Shadowy figures adrift in the ocean of my mind. Different from the ghosts of horror stories in that my ghosts are people who existed and some who still exist but contact has long been lost. That being said, most of my ghosts are of the dead kind. The inevitable advancement of age brought the realization that death was an imminent part of life. It is not to be feared but embraced when your time comes because you cannot die before your time. I wish I believed that completely.

My first close up encouneter with death was when I was a teenager in Newcastle, New Brunswick in summer of 1968. I was 14 years old at the time, big for my age, and full of mischief. I was the jokester then (perhaps some of that remains today) and a challenge for my parents and teachers. I was always seeing the funny in everything I encountered. Some educated folk might say there is something more to that, some deep seated reasoning to explain it but let’s just stay with fun maker. A boy of my age, who I knew from school, had drowned. When I first heard of his death, I thought that was strange because he had been such a strong swimmer. A group of us learned of his wake, (a curious term I thought then and still today) and we decided we would go. I had never been to a wake before but as an altar boy I had served for a few funeral masses. The caskets had been closed during those services so I had never seen the product of expert embalming. I hadn’t told my parents that I was going to this wake and I suspect most if not all my friends had not informed their families either.

The funeral home was quiet as we entered and there were people, mostly adults, sitting and standing around the polished coffin in the middle of the room. Hushed whispers and soft words of prayer murmured through the room as we approached our deceased pal. He was propped up on a pillow apparently sleeping in this claustrophobic bed. I checked to see if his chest rose while we solemnly viewed our deceased friend. His skin was pale and looked waxy almost doll like. The strangeness of it was stressful and when stressed I always looked for humour.

I didn’t know much about these kind of events but I knew that laughter would bring the wrath of God quickly down upon the laugher and He would smite all gigglers into the dirt. Yet, I couldn’t help my self. He looked so fake, so unreal, that I started to snicker. I tried to contain it but it only resulted in short snukking sounds and that no doubted turned adult eyes upon the red faced boy in front of the room. I was not alone as my friends stared with faces of strained mirth that was waiting to burst forth and be heard. Sensing I couldn’t control it, I moved fast towards the exit door with the others close on my heels. Once outside and behind the home, we all broke into gales of gut busting laughter. We didn’t know why we were laughing but we continued doing it as we walked away from the funeral home. I’m sure our muffled guffawing was heard in the room above where our belated friend rested, resulting in scowls of disgust upon the faces of the adults in attendance. In a week or so, our dearly departed buddy was the furthest thing from our minds. Baseball games, upcoming school dances, girls and exams,(did I mention girls?) filled our heads so there was no room for him.

My policing career brought me in contact with many deaths. Some were the peaceable kind, the old man dead on the kitchen daybed while the electric kettle whistled on the counter next to a cup with a tea bag in it. The elderly lady dressed in her night dress whose last dream would be unknown as she lay comfortable and cozy in her bed under the homemade quilt. Those are the easy ones, the forgettable ones. There were others, mostly children, that were not so easy. Thankfully, those were few. Many passed on to heaven, the afterlife or where ever you go when you leave this world but a few linger. Those are the ones who wake me during the twilight hours.

Not all who come are dead or at least not that I know about. The teenage girl, raped by her father and impregnated with his child, visits sometimes to replay her story. The story of how he made her jump repeatedly from the basement stairs onto the concrete floor in this attempt to destroy the life within her. The attempts were successful because she later had a miscarriage. A struggling fetus was not the only casualty of this monster who disguised himself in the love of Jesus. It took three weeks after I first spoke with her, for her to come forward, to tell this sordid tale which wouldn’t disappear with the closing of a book. I went and picked her up not far from her home, the scene of her father’s depravity. She talked for hours and then I arranged for her to stay somewhere safe for the night. The next day when she would go to live with relatives in another community. I enlisted some help from the Gander GIS (General Investigative Section) and we arrested the father the next morning. Eventually he was convicted and he was sentenced to four years in prison. I never had contact with her since the trial except in my dreams. When I wake for the day and she fades from my head, I wonder, is she okay, did her life turn out alright? Questions with no answers. But that is a tale for another time.

It is the little girl from Deadman’s Bay who I see the most during the early hours of the twilight. It was an overcast day in mid October 1982 when the call came to the Wesleyville RCMP office. Wesleyville was a small community 143 kilometres north east of Gander, Nl. I transferred there in September 1981 as a constable on this three person unit. Cpl. Bert Waterman took the call and he called me at my home at 8:30 am. There was a house fire in Deadman’s Bay and two children were trapped inside. A few minutes later, he picked me up and we drove the 30 kilometres to the scene. As we turned onto the main road in Deadman’s Bay we could see the house was engulfed in a heavy white smoke. Orange flames stabbed through the smoke as we approached. Two fire trucks were on the scene and the volunteer fire fighters were battling a hopeless cause.

Bert stopped the police car on the side of the road. I got out and walked to the closest fireman who was wearing breathing apparatus equipment. He raised his mask and told me there were two children in the house believed to be in the middle bedroom. No one could get in, the fire was too hot. I heard a commotion to my left and I turned to see a man rushing towards the house. I moved quickly to intercept him and stopped him by the front door.

“My kids, my kids…” It was all the poor father could utter as he struggled with me.

He was strong but I held my ground, all the while telling him it was too dangerous for anyone to go in. Then reluctantly he stopped. The pain in his eyes was as clear as his helplessness. His children were dying a horrible death and all he could do was stand and wait. I understood his anguish, as any father would and I think he may have seen this because he didn’t make any further attempts. Perhaps he just resigned himself to the fact that they were already dead.

I spoke to the parents and witnesses while the fire fighters continued to attack the fire. The information that I was able to derive from these inquiries and the subsequent investigation indicated there were three children in the house prior to the fire. The little girl, Patricia (Not her real name) was in the bedroom with her 10 month old baby brother, Jamie (not his real name) and her other brother, Ronnie (not his real name). The mother had left to run to the neighbour’s to borrow something, I presume. (my notes don’t indicate this and I don’t have access to the file). The older boy had found some matches and a fire ignited in the baby’s room. Ronnie ran to get his mother, his only thoughts were no doubt that she could save the day. The fire quickly spread and Patricia and her baby brother were trapped.

A couple of hours later, the fire was extinguished and shortly after Bert and I entered the charred remains of a home that had housed a young family. We found Patricia in the living room on a blackened sofa chair. She had tried to push back into the chair in a futile effort to escape the encroaching flames. Her little body was scorched and her face was cooked into a scream. We picked her up and gently laid her on the stretcher. The baby boy, we found in the middle bedroom in what once was his crib, his place of comfort. He was nothing more than a badly roasted hunk of beef. We took his body and laid it next to his sister and carried the stretcher out to the waiting hearse and I went with the driver, Eric Hoyles. We drove silently to Gander, to the morgue. An autopsy would be scheduled for later that afternoon. I don’t remember the exact cause of death but it was quite evident to me and anyone else who saw these tiny darlings on that fateful day.

It was dark when I got home that night. I was tired and still dirty from the fire scene. I was quiet when I came in the house and Sharon told me our two sons, (aged 3 and 5) were in bed. I went to the bedroom door and looked in. I listened to their breathing as they dreamed dreams of He-Man and Skelator. I closed the door and went to the kitchen where I ate a late supper and talked with Sharon. I didn’t tell her everything, I never did when it came to work.

I thought of Patricia quite often usually when I was alone. Sometimes I would wake in the early morning hours with thoughts of this little soul. She was just two years old according to my notes but my memory argues that she was five, either way she was young. It is not horror that I feel when I see the vison of her seared corpse, frozen, yelling at the fire to stop. It is sadness. Sadness for a life that would never be.

I still wake from sleep in the quiet of the night with thoughts of this unfortunate toddler. These occasions are infrequent now but always the same. The last time was two weeks ago. It was around 4:00 am, I guess, I didn’t look at the clock but that is usually when my swollen prostate dictates it is time to pee. When I came through the fog of sleep, I had that vision of her. I’d like to tell you I see her wearing a pretty blue dress with a great big smile on her tiny face but I won’t. I see her like she was the only time I saw her, in that sofa chair, on the stretcher, on the autopsy table. A life lost before her time.