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.
Tag Archives: investigations
Something Special
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 26th 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.
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.
wh-ebb.com 