by Ian Parsons
The mid-’60s was the muscle-car era in North America, and the “big three” manufacturers were competing to determine who could squeeze the most horsepower under the hood of the sportiest vehicle. It was particularly frustrating for the RCMP, which was loath to spend the extra dollars to equip police cars with more powerful engines. The young dependants of prosperous farmers in and around the community were buying Barracudas, Mustangs, Pontiac Grand Prix and Camaros. Returning home from jobs and universities on weekends, they terrorized the streets and highways. These rambunctious drivers virtually ignored the highway patrol, knowing they could simply accelerate away from an underpowered pursuing police car. Finally, in the late 1960s, the Force acquired high-performance vehicles that surpassed almost anything else on the road. We received our first hot rod police car with great satisfaction. Tucking in behind speeding muscle cars, we would swiftly overtake them and activate our emergency lights. The offenders would put the pedal to the metal, expecting to pull away, and were shocked when they realized their nights of wild freedom on the roads were a thing of the past. Now that they knew they could no longer outrun the police, high-speed pursuits became less common and a large measure of tranquility was restored to local streets.
Police work brought many lessons in tragedy and irony. On long weekends, we deployed extensive radar operations at strategic locations. It was not unusual to issue over 100 speeding citations during an eight-hour shift. On a typical long-weekend evening, the radar operation was set up on Highway No. 16, the busy east/west provincial highway. Corporal Tetzloff operated the radar unit while two of us occupied the interceptor car and stopped offending vehicles. After an exhausting eight-hour stint, we pointed out to Corporal Tetzloff that our hands and pens were wearing out. He finally relented, congratulating us on again writing over 100 citations. We dismantled our operation, feeling we had made a contribution toward reducing carnage on the highway. As we relaxed in the corporal’s residence sipping coffee and enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done, we received an urgent call about a serious accident just east of town. Arriving at the scene, we found two vehicles that had been involved in a head-on collision. Two young men were dead in one vehicle, and an entire family of seven perished in the other. No alcohol was involved, and it was suspected the young male driver of one of the cars had fallen asleep and veered into the path of the other vehicle. The irony became evident when we discovered the accident scene was no more than 100 yards from our recently concluded radar operation.
Another fatal accident brought an interesting visitor to the community. In the early ’60s, Japanese cars were a rarity on Canadian highways. The driver of an unusual car called a Toyota was travelling at a high rate of speed and apparently fell asleep and wandered off the highway. The car flipped end over end, coming to rest on its wheels. The body of the driver was found lying on the highway in front of the car. It was a mystery how he got there, as the windshield of the vehicle was intact. The traffic analyst surmised that as the car flipped several times, the driver was ejected out of the now-broken rear window precisely as the vehicle catapulted end over end. There were severe injuries to the victim’s face and head. The closest next of kin available to identify the body was none other than Sergeant Bill Thorne, one of the most feared and disliked physical instructors in the RCMP training division. Many of us had memories of Thorne positioned on a large scaffold in the RCMP gym, grinding recruits through their paces. The more intense the training session became, the more he enjoyed inflicting anguish. He was perhaps a legend in his own mind, but many decades of recruits resented him.
When Thorne arrived in our community, we were surprised by his humility. Completely absent were the arrogance, sarcasm and cruel comments. Curiously, this instructor had never served in the field, and he appeared to observe in wonder the varied and difficult situations that confronted us. It was obvious his reason for visiting was intimidating him, especially when he encountered our mortician. As I escorted Sergeant Thorne to the funeral home, he looked like he was about to face the gallows. He was extremely pale and unsteady on his feet, and appeared nauseous. Although the mortician was often compassionate and caring, full of sympathy for the bereaved, his demeanour with the police was much more pragmatic. When Sergeant Thorne arrived at the viewing room and the sheet was pulled back to reveal his deceased nephew, Thorne blanched, turned abruptly and rushed out, stating that it was not his relative. It took some encouragement to persuade him to return and have a closer look. The mortician explained that most of the facial bones had been broken. While Thorne looked on, the mortician attached a pair of forceps to the deceased’s nose and pulled. There was a squishing noise, and the face of the deceased took shape. The former terror of the gym shrieked out his positive identification and ran from the room. To soothe Thorne’s jangled nerves, we took him out for a beer to help him regain his composure. He spoke to his former students in wonder, repeatedly saying he could never do their job.
Two significant events occurred while I was posted at Valley Bluff. In December of 1965 our son, Liam, was born, and in 1966 I attained my five-year anniversary with the Force. To recognize the five-year milestone, the RCMP awards a single star, to be worn proudly on the upper left arm, designating a journeyman policeman. A five-year member is perceived as an authority figure by those with fewer years of service, and management considers him capable of serving in positions of leadership. There was minimal celebration of the star, but it gave me great satisfaction to receive this badge of accomplishment.
During this era, there were regular occasions for great celebration and camaraderie within the RCMP. In the spring and fall, promotion lists were released across the country. Potential recipients would await these notifications with bated breath. Many would provision the liquor cabinet, anticipating hosting a promotion party. On the day the lists were publicized, members travelled to the nearest detachments, where impromptu celebrations materialized. These events would vary depending upon the magnanimity of the promotee. Some would be frugal, whereas others spent hundreds of hard-earned dollars on lavish parties.
Another annual event that brought the membership together was the rifle and revolver competitions. All RCMP members had to compete in qualifications to maintain their proficiency with issued weapons at operational levels. A central location was designated for annual shoots. Candidates travelled in groups of four via police transport to what was most often a bona fide weapons range. Although a serious endeavour, all personnel delighted in gathering for the day to see old friends and catch up with news within the Force. Every division and subdivision headquarters housed at least one former or wannabe drill instructor holding the title of discipline NCO. Among his many duties was conducting the annual shooting qualifications. While much socializing and tomfoolery would occur after hours, the actual protocol on the shooting line was strictly observed and enforced by the range master. Members who attained a score designating them as marksmen would receive further badges of prestige featuring crossed rifles and revolvers. These badges of excellence were hotly pursued, and those who earned them were granted the right to wear them for the following year.
Rural detachments like Valley Bluff were just beginning to receive secretarial services. Up until the late 1960s, members were expected to do their own typing and filing. One surprising day, we were introduced to Elaine Pasoula, 19, fresh out of secretarial school and our first detachment stenographer. Our bastion of maleness was ill-prepared for the presence of a woman. The first priority was cleaning up the colourful language commonly used in the office. The detachment commander introduced a cuss box to which miscreants contributed a fine, and it regularly filled to capacity.
At first, no one was prepared to surrender his carefully assembled thoughts to some woman who knew nothing about police work. Elaine, initially timid, shy and inexperienced, sat unoccupied, witnessing members busy themselves at their typewriters. Finally, disgusted with our intransigence, she sauntered over to a member busily committing the details of
his investigation to print, tore the paper from the roller of the typewriter and demanded to be put to work. Quite taken aback at her pluck, the member ceded his seat at the typewriter and watched, transfixed. From that moment on, Elaine began inexorably to take control of the office. Soon we were squabbling over her availability. She was an amazing asset to the operation, quickly learning the mystique of crime reporting and organizing our paperwork as never before. Within a year, it was difficult to tell who ran the entire operation—the sergeant or Elaine.
MUSKRAT RAMBLE
Bob Connell was the owner-operator of a Valley Bluff auto body shop with a tow truck service. He was well known to the detachment, partly because he and his tow truck were a common presence at accident scenes and partly because he did all of the custom work on our cars, repairing any that were damaged, applying police decals to doors and generally keeping our fleet in good condition. Bob was a Second World War air force veteran who had flown bombing missions over Germany in a Lancaster aircraft. Highly respected for his wisdom and integrity, members frequented his business socially as well as professionally.
Although Bob’s operation was thriving, it was anything but neat and tidy. He often came in late in the morning, wading through reams of invoices and assorted paperwork that lay strewn about his congested little office. One cool, bright spring morning, one of his staff discovered a muskrat in a culvert near the premises. He captured it and placed it in a cardboard box. I had arrived at the shop in advance of Bob and was met by the chap with the muskrat. He was unsure how to dispose of the creature, and it was obviously getting angrier and angrier in its confined state. I suggested that we address the package as though it had just arrived via courier to the auto body shop and set it on Bob’s already cluttered desk. Soon after, Bob arrived to commence his daily tasks, one of which was to open newly arrived mail and auto parts. As he rubbed the sleep from his bleary eyes, Bob spotted the box and remarked that these must be the parts he was waiting for to finish a job. As we stood by, he removed the tape from the box and reached inside. Suddenly, a very angry muskrat, all teeth and claws, jumped straight out of the box. The rodent landed on the floor and scurried out of the premises, glancing back and giving us a final snarl. Bob fixed me with a baleful look, reached for a large wrench and came toward me. Seeing this, and knowing that discretion was much the better choice over valour, I too made a hasty exit. Even though I was attired in full uniform, complete with breeches and boots, I ran for my life down the street with the large, enraged, wrench-wielding man in hot pursuit.
It was not a good morning for the image of the RCMP. It took some time and talk and an offer of free coffee to bring Bob down to a rational state. Eventually he came to see the humour in the stunt, and the story lived on in legend for many years.
During my early years in the Force, general duty personnel routinely logged 300 hours per month. Municipal and traffic units worked fewer hours. Detachment or district members worked a regular day shift conducting investigations but had to respond to all calls after hours. Senior management and detachment commanders considered manpower to be a limitless resource, and there was no requirement to curtail hours. Special events, such as country dances, rodeos, exhibitions and public performances constantly required additional policing. Members were assigned to assist communities hosting these occasions for as long as necessary; meanwhile, those remaining at the detachment worked double shifts for the absentees. Time off and annual leave were deemed to be privileges, not rights, and were granted only when they would cause no inconvenience to the organization.
Even though we always had to listen for the telephone, there was time to get to know some of the community members. Father Gordon Graham, a young local priest, observed a number of fallen-away Catholics within the detachment and decided to bring these sinners back to the fold. Attending our social functions, he became friends with several members. As the months passed, it became obvious the young priest was enjoying our lifestyle to the fullest. We learned later in 1966 that Gordon had left the priesthood and found a girlfriend, and was considering marriage. His replacement, Father James Toner, a young man with world-class musical talent, also decided he would embark on saving wayward mounted policemen. Father Jim learned to appreciate the anonymity and confidentiality of our convivial happy hours. Entering our informal lounge, he would pull off his clerical collar and reach for a beer. Father Jim provided valuable support to a member who had been traumatized by the failure of his marriage and even contemplated suicide. This caring priest intervened with empathy, understanding and positive counselling and probably saved the man’s life.
Several of our group were musically inclined and gathered from time to time for an off-duty jam session at the local Legion. Our very musical cleric would join in occasionally. The local parish priest did not encourage Father Jim’s rapport with community members, youth and the constabulary. He upbraided his understudy for ungodly musical appearances at the local watering hole and largely ignored the positive relationships the young priest had established. Once again, the crusade embarked upon by this second man of the cloth became diverted, as he too departed the priesthood, married and became a professional musician.
After a year on traffic, I transferred to general duty. I preferred the diversification of detachment investigations and was pleased to return to that line of work. Our highly respected detachment commander had moved on and unfortunately was replaced by another individual with a serious alcohol problem. The operation functioned in spite of him. Each night Sergeant Walker would retire to his quarters on the second floor of the detachment, crawling inside a bottle of whisky and becoming incapable of making any decisions. Luckily, Walker was seldom seen after 5:00 p.m. During detachment social functions, he would habitually drink to excess. He utilized these occasions to single out one or more of us for verbal abuse. Even though Walker was the senior man on post, he was largely ignored due to his minimal credibility. In spite of his incompetence, the code of silence among the members prevailed, and Walker’s alcoholism was never divulged to senior management.
I was given the responsibility for policing Mustard, a village just east of Valley Bluff. For years, the small community had been intimidated by the members of one family. One set of brothers had inflicted their cruelty upon the populace and moved on, but now the second generation was coming of age. We were aware of the family’s reputation, and it was part of my mandate to ensure that the locals were living with a measure of tranquility, not fear. Not long after my new responsibilities were assigned, I learned that one member of this clan in his early 20s was approaching seniors on the street and demanding money. He uttered veiled threats that included arson if people did not cooperate. Many of the village’s older citizens were immigrants who harboured historic fears of police and authority figures; they did not see complaining to the police as an option.
One evening, along with another member, I conducted a patrol in Mustard. We had just checked a vehicle and were standing on the road when we heard the roar of an engine coming at us on the darkened street. As the car bore down on us, headlights out, we leapt aside, narrowly avoiding being run over. We ran to our car and gave pursuit with emergency lights on. We chased the car in and around town until it failed to negotiate a turn and ran into a ditch. Inside the car were three young men, and we found that one of them was the low-life who had been threatening seniors. Two of them surrendered, but the ringleader resisted. Perhaps he was trying to impress his friends, but he did not anticipate the wrath of those he had attempted to run down. He resisted and had to be aggressively arrested for dangerous driving, and all three men were taken to detachment cells. The ringleader continued to be arrogant and defiant, but was warned to stop intimidating the community. He appeared before a Justice of the Peace on several charges the following morning and was released on bail.
During this period, I was working with a junior member. Several nights after the Mustard arrests, he was parked in the village observing traffic. The recently releas
ed individual, again in the company of his gang, approached the lone policeman and threatened him, giving him an ultimatum to get out of his town. My junior partner called me about the predicament via police radio. I immediately drove to the village, talked to my partner and located the suspect at his residence. It quickly became obvious he had forgotten the conditions laid out for him a few days earlier. I arrested him for threatening a peace officer and violating his bail conditions. Because he was still resisting and defiant, I had to knock him to the ground and handcuff him before taking him once again to detachment cells. The following day, I was contacted by his lawyer, John Koshuta, who alleged his client had been brutalized. I knew and respected Koshuta, so I felt confident I could be candid with him. I explained how difficult this individual had been, justifying my use of force, and told him of the intimidation and harassment of senior citizens, the attempt to run us down and the threatening behaviour toward the constable. When court was convened, Mr. Koshuta pled his client guilty to assaulting a peace officer and dangerous driving. A lengthy jail sentence was imposed, and the offender did not return to the community on his release. We received many expressions of appreciation and votes of confidence from Mustard’s citizens, who were relieved that the scourge had been removed.
Unfortunately, other lesser miscreants continued to plague Mustard. A local gang was committing a chain of break, enter and thefts. Although we knew who was responsible, acquiring sufficient evidence to support arrests and charges was a challenge. On a morning following yet another invasion of a local business, we knew some kind of intervention on our part was necessary. Glancing up at a large poster of a fingerprint in the detachment office, I was seized with an idea. I met with fellow investigators and we decided who among the suspected gang was the most vulnerable. We immediately picked up our target and brought him in for questioning. We let him stew for an hour or so, then I suddenly burst into the interview room with the large fingerprint poster. I asked him if he was prepared to talk, informing him that this was his fingerprint and it was found on the glass display case of the business that had been broken into. He remained mute for some moments, finally explaining that my accusation was impossible. When asked why, he blurted that he had been driving the getaway car and had never entered the building. His face turned white when he realized what he had confessed to. Omerta—the code of silence—had been broken. He eventually gave a full statement that implicated his accomplices. They were subsequently rounded up and charged with over a dozen break and enters that had occurred over several months. Five young criminals were convicted and sentenced to jail terms.