by Ian Parsons
I found it eerie that these very welcome and necessary sanctuaries existed in every rural community in which I was stationed, and what is more, the personalities and settings were all very similar. As personnel changed at a detachment, incoming members gravitated to the same locations; however, it was not unusual for new members to discover other hospitable residents who offered similar places of refuge from public scrutiny. All of these kind and supportive citizens should have received recognition for the care and nurture they extended to the Mounted Police. Seldom were they publicly honoured; it seemed enough for them to enjoy our company and sometimes hilarious antics. Bulls got ridden, songs got sung and people got horse-troughed. Much spiritus fermenti was consumed and never a word uttered to the always curious public.
IN MANY COMMUNITIES across the country, local town and city councils have opted to have their own police force. At the same time, many of these communities contain an RCMP detachment. RCMP members police the outlying areas under the provincial contract agreement. They also have jurisdiction in the town, but defer to the local municipal police. In countless cases the local chief of police will call the RCMP in to assist when a serious crime occurs. Historically, RCMP members would be assigned these tasks with no worry or concern about who was going to pay for their hours. There existed a mutual understanding that RCMP members would assist whenever requested. This came to a grinding halt when the Force implemented overtime payment.
A five-man municipal force policed the town of Willmore. These officers received little formalized training, donning their blue uniforms and learning while they earned. They depended heavily upon RCMP assistance, particularly in the event of a serious crime. There was a healthy spirit of cooperation between Chief John MacDonald and Corporal Russell and none of the professional jealousy that permeated many RCMP–municipal police relationships. The chief was very aware of the advantage of having extra bodies at the local detachment, especially when transient oil-rig crews from outlying areas, flush with money, would come to town to drink at the two local hotels. Occasionally their antics would explode into melees in the downtown area, and the RCMP would be summoned to augment the town police. Much later in my service I would learn that this level of cooperation between forces was not always present.
One notorious individual in the district occasionally caught the attention of the police community. He was an interdicted person, banned by provincial statute from consuming or possessing liquor. I recall clearly his daunting physical size; his driver’s licence described him as six foot six inches tall and 312 pounds. Occasionally, “Tiny” would ignore his interdicted status and consume large amounts of booze. One sunny summer’s day he did just that and entered a local hotel’s beverage room with his Metis common-law wife. Before the bartenders could alert the police, someone hollered, “Squaw man!” and all hell broke loose. The town police were called and, realizing who was involved, asked for RCMP assistance. When the Mounties arrived, the hotel looked as though a cyclone had hit it. Windows were broken, chairs lay out on the main street and injured bodies were strewn on the ground, while the assailant was still holed up inside the bar. Slim Gordon of the town police sidled up next to the giant and coaxed him out onto the street. Gordon, a tall, rangy cowboy, ordered Tiny into a police car, but Tiny declined. Slim took a little hop and placed his target in a headlock. The titan simply swung his arm and slammed Gordon against the car, where he crumpled to the ground with several broken ribs. Rob Drucker, one of the RCMP members, had a measure of rapport with Tiny from past encounters and spoke to him calmly. After some persuasion, Tiny meekly followed Drucker into the police cruiser. This incident exemplifies why the town police relied upon the RCMP and is just one of countless times I experienced when respect for the RCMP uniform helped to settle a dispute peacefully.
As the sole single man at the detachment, I lodged in the barracks for $15 a month. However, the privilege came with some disadvantages. Once in a while I was asked to babysit the detachment commander’s children. I was compensated for this service with occasional and much-appreciated home-cooked meals. The other disadvantage was having to answer the phone after hours. For a while after my arrival at the detachment, another member would accompany me to after-hours calls, but as I became more experienced, I responded to calls alone, much to the relief of my married co-workers.
Once I received a 3:00 a.m. phone call from the town police. An intoxicated man was in custody at their office, but refused to go into the cells without a fight. I dressed in uniform and headed over to the town office. When the recalcitrant arrestee observed an RCMP member enter the office, he immediately entered the cells on his own. In his drunken logic, he explained that he would comply for a Mountie, but not for any blankety-blank town cop.
THE CRIMINAL CODE includes many obscure provisions. Among its many sections and paragraphs is a portion forbidding bestiality. It is a criminal offence for a Canadian to have sexual relations with an animal. Bill McCoy seemed to have a vested interest in this part of the statute, as though he was assuming personal responsibility to protect all animals from human amorous intent. As it happened, the remote far north of our detachment area could have been used for the setting of the movie Deliverance, and a few local residents wouldn’t have been out of place in that bizarre film. Among them was a bachelor sheep rancher. Constable McCoy had received intelligence that the man was having relations with his woolly ewes, a blatant contravention of the Criminal Code. Bill was determined to catch the culprit in flagrante delicto, so when we had reason to be in the area, it was always on his mind.
One day Constable McCoy told me to be ready to depart for the area before day-break the following morning, as we were going to place the good shepherd under surveillance. I was not overly enthusiastic about getting up early to travel to this out-of-the-way location, but as the subordinate I was ready the following morning to accompany my partner. When we arrived, we abandoned the police car and thrashed our way through heavy underbrush to arrive at the scene of a possible crime. As we lay on the wet ground awaiting developments, I queried Constable McCoy as to who our target might be corrupting if in fact he had a sheep for a girlfriend. Bill looked at me askance, remarking that I was one sick puppy. After several hours of patient observation, we abandoned surveillance and went on to grander pursuits. We were never able to catch the shepherd in the act. He and his sheep continued to lead an uninterrupted and perhaps blissful life.
I was soon to learn of a much more troubling case of man’s capacity for depravity in a small community in the eastern portion of our detachment area. A distraught woman in her 30s arrived at the detachment wishing to speak with a member. She told Constable McCoy that she had been sexually abused by her father when she was a preteen. A lengthy and sensitive investigation ensued, revealing that not one, but four daughters from this family had been sexual abuse victims. There were three sets of two sisters who were close in age, each pair about five years apart. The eldest sister had just learned the youngest girls were about to be victimized and approached the detachment in the hope that police intervention would prevent further offences. I was horrified as I followed the senior constable through the complex steps of the investigation. When all the data had been assembled, the father was confronted with the evidence. Amazingly, he admitted to victimizing four of his daughters and confirmed his intent to assault the remaining two. He justified his crime by stating that a father needed to properly introduce his daughters to the physical act of sex. Equally shocking was the fact that his wife had full knowledge of what was going on and supported her husband in his twisted premise of sex education. The father was arrested and charged with multiple counts of incest. Much to the disappointment of his daughters and the investigators, the court sentenced him to only four years’ imprisonment. To those of us who were directly involved in bringing this heinous offence before the court, this sentence made it appear as though society regarded the crimes as almost acceptable.
My initial three-year stint on detachm
ent duty was perhaps the best grounding that any young man could have asked for during that era. The variety of police work I experienced was nothing short of astounding, and I had the best of coaching from all six senior members. Percy Keyes, the magistrate, was a former member of the RCMP who did not suffer fools gladly. If I erred presenting my evidence in court, he would openly express his dissatisfaction. Calling me into his office at the conclusion of court, Magistrate Keyes would debrief me, explaining where I had gone astray and how I could improve my performance.
The area policed by the detachment consisted of large ranches, marginal backwoods settlements, oil fields, vast foothills, parkland, a Metis colony and abandoned coal-mine communities. Each of these presented their own law-enforcement challenges, ranging from minor thefts and break-ins to murder. Life’s ironies often became evident in the course of law enforcement. Ed Zerba was an oilfield worker whose marriage had failed due to his transient lifestyle. Zerba frequently became delinquent in his support payments, which resulted in his ex-wife laying charges against him. On two occasions Zerba was arrested in BC and held, awaiting the arrival of a police escort. Both times, I was detailed to bring him back. The escort involved long periods of return travel, both by road and air, which gave me the opportunity to get to know Ed and precipitated a kind of offbeat friendship and rapport between us. Ed was an infamous oilfield derrick driller and a roustabout. He had a reputation as a fighter and was physically intimidating, which earned him the respect of his peers.
Several months after the delinquent husband had been released after his court appearance, a call came into the detachment at 3:00 a.m. from the concerned parents of three girls who had been seen partying with a number of roughnecks from local rigs. The party was taking place at a remote location outside of town and the underage girls were apparently being fed liquor. The senior constable and I patrolled to the area where we discovered a large bonfire, several men and the wayward girls. We approached the group with the intention of seizing the liquor and arresting the men for contributing to juvenile delinquency. Four of the men challenged us, and we realized, short of drawing our weapons, that we were in danger of losing control of the situation. Suddenly, Ed Zerba, my former prisoner and travelling partner, appeared out of the darkness. He stood next to us, informing the culprits they would have to deal with him also. Intimidated, the men backed down, allowing us to carry on with our seizures and arrests. Had it not been for Ed, we could have been seriously injured. Some time later, just before I was transferred, I happened to be in one of the local hotel beverage rooms. I spotted Ed sitting at an adjacent table and sent a round over to him. He joined me, wishing me luck at my new posting and remarked that he had always been treated fairly and with respect by the detachment.
Members of the Mounted Police were frequently expected to work alone, often in situations that should have called for additional personnel. Single-man detachments frequently depended on local citizenry as backup. One evening, long after midnight, I responded to a call from a lonely hamlet located on a secondary road deep in the wilderness. It was a dusty, 40-mile trip. After resolving a family dispute in the community, I wended my lonely way back to town. Encountering a car parked on the road, I stopped to conduct a check. Inside were four young men, well known to the detachment for creating disturbances. As I stood next to the driver, I could smell alcohol in the vehicle. I opened the rear door and spied an open case of beer. As I reached in to seize it, one of the occupants stepped on my hand. The four jumped out of the car, swearing and cursing, and I suddenly found myself in a dangerous and vulnerable position. Interestingly, the option of drawing my weapon did not occur to me, even though I was running through options for self-preservation. The four men had surrounded me and I was expecting the worst when another car drove up. The driver was Peter Pambrun, the older brother of one of the offenders and a frequent client of the RCMP. Peter stood in front of me and faced my challengers. When his brother challenged him, he delivered a strong right cross to the chin, knocking his sibling off his feet. The other three immediately backed away. Peter told them that it did not appear to be a fair fight. He said that he had always been treated right by the Mounted Police and would not stand by and let one member be outnumbered. I seized the liquor, charged all four with its illegal possession and carried on. Word of Pambrun’s assistance was relayed to the corporal, who in turn thanked my saviour.
EARLY IN MY service, I was involved in an incident that starkly illustrated the importance of following the lofty phrase in our oath of office: “Without Fear, Favour, or Affection.” In the wilderness south of Willmore, Oscar Swedberg had founded a prosperous logging operation. He employed a large number of men and ran his company like the Ponderosa Ranch on the television show Bonanza. Many seasonal employees and their families lived in company cabins on the property. Oscar was a benevolent employer and ensured his hands received ample benefits and pay, but he was fervently anti-union and fought efforts on the part of outside labour unions to organize his workers. Oscar strongly supported law and order and cooperated with the detachment whenever required. Our personnel would frequently enjoy meals in the camp mess hall when on patrol in the area.
In 1964 there was considerable labour union activity in the forest industry in northern Alberta. Two representatives from a large labour union visited the logging operation. We began to receive complaints about the men verbally and physically harassing workers in attempts to unionize them. One complaint indicated the two strong-arms had entered one of the cabins and assaulted an occupant. Constable McCoy and I were dispatched to intercept the aggressive pair. We encountered them on the logging company’s property, informed them they were trespassing and confronted them about the assault. Their response was anything but neighbourly; they called us a couple of hick queen’s cowboys and told us to get lost and leave them to their union business. I opened the passenger door, pulled the occupant out, threw him to the ground and arrested him for assault and trespassing. During the heat of battle I may have uttered a derogatory comment. The driver came peacefully, and we escorted them to the detachment where they were released on bail.
I soon learned how quickly brown stuff flows downhill. Apparently our confrontation had been reported to national union headquarters. In turn, a complaint was registered in Ottawa with the commissioner, alleging the union reps had been called “Goddamn Commies.” The complaint flowed from the commissioner to the commanding officer to the officer commanding the subdivision. Our section NCO, Staff Sergeant Nance, was dispatched immediately to our detachment to investigate and obtain statements. When he heard Nance was on his way, Corporal Russell counselled me, noting that members would never call anyone a communist. Realizing I may have done exactly that, I was somewhat confused by my corporal’s direction. He reiterated, “You did not make that statement!” I concluded that he must know more than I did. When Nance arrived, I obeyed the corporal and denied any knowledge of such a statement. The staff sergeant accepted my denial with some suspicion and departed. The matter was not pursued, but after the fact, Corporal Russell and I had a lengthy discussion about the hazards of emotional outbursts when making arrests.
The topography for hundreds of miles south of Willmore is mountain wilderness, with fast-running creeks flowing down steep ridges into secluded, heavily wooded valleys. Even if one follows the game trails that criss-cross the terrain, walking in this vast area can be very challenging. Early in the 20th century, several coal-mining communities flourished in the area. When the mines were exhausted, people relocated, abandoning these towns. Several of them became true ghost towns, inhabited only by a few ancient, rugged individuals who refused to leave. In the ’30s, the settlements were in their heyday, complete with lively social activity. During one rowdy Saturday evening dance in one of these communities, a disagreement broke out between two men over a woman. One of the men broke into a house and fired a handgun several times, seriously wounding three people. The culprit ran off into the wilderness. Police were called and
a search conducted. They knew the identity of the gunman but couldn’t locate him. Although he was a local resident, he was never seen again. An investigation was pursued for several years, but the file remained open and inactive.
In 1962, while making his way through the rough terrain surrounding the old town, a hunter noticed what he thought was an unusual mushroom sitting at the base of a large Douglas fir. When he got closer and picked it up he realized it was a human skull. Holding the skull in front of him, he ran several hundred yards through the bush to his hunting partner. Totally out of breath and on the brink of collapse, he tried to explain what had happened. The hunter apparently had a heart condition, so his partner was more concerned with his friend’s medical situation than the skull. They emerged from the bush and called the RCMP for assistance. Constable McCoy and I immediately patrolled to the scene. Once we had tended to the hunter, we retraced his steps to find the skull. Amazingly, he was able to take us directly to the site. The first thing that gave us some concern was the obvious bullet hole in the skull. When we examined the area around the fir tree, we found a watch, along with a .32 calibre automatic pistol. The scene was mapped and photographed, and the two items were sent to Identification section for further tests. The revolver was too badly corroded to retrieve any serial numbers, but the watch was traced to the same individual who had been suspected of shooting the three victims 30 years before. We surmised that he had run off into the woods, stopped at this location and committed suicide. I felt considerable satisfaction at successfully concluding a file that had remained open for three decades. It also revealed to me how long the Force persevered in cases of violence.
BEFORE EMERGENCY RESPONSE TEAMS
It was the very early spring of 1964. Andy, an elderly trapper who resided alone in a small cabin in the tiny settlement of Entrance, Alberta, had not been seen by his neighbours for some time. Andy’s concerned landlord went to the cabin and knocked. The response was a shot through the door with what appeared to be a .22 calibre bullet. Hinton RCMP were called and responded immediately. They approached the cabin cautiously from the rear, stood to one side of the door, knocked and identified themselves. Another shot rang out, and a bullet came through the door. The RCMP made additional calls to the cabin’s occupant, who responded by firing more shots. The two RCMP members retreated and considered their options.