by Ian Parsons
After establishing the subdivision office and bringing the two largest operations up to standard, I turned my attention to other administrative duties. As I would not have an assistant NCO, I knew I had to secure the services of a capable secretary. Lorna Lawson, a local woman with previous RCMP experience, won the competition. She became clerk, secretary, personnel officer, section NCO, chaplain, social convener and receptionist, in addition to being girl Friday. She also found time to introduce me to the woman who would become my wife. Lynne was a nursing instructor in Winnipeg who fulfilled all my hopes and dreams of a life mate. We were married in our backyard in Carman, with Lorna proudly looking on.
Lorna very capably ran the subdivision office and coordinated my movements, allowing me to remain on the road. Like most detachment stenographers employed from coast to coast to coast, Lorna was the mortar that held the bricks of the organization together. She remained in her position long after I departed, performing wonderful work and providing continuity between subdivision commanders. I will be forever indebted to her loyalty and her dedication.
WHILE POSTED IN Manitoba, I became involved in a conflict originating in a Hutterite colony. The Hutterite people have lived on the Prairies since the turn of the 20th century, when they settled on large tracts of land in the Canadian west. A communal religious sect, they exemplified how people could live in harmony and forgo many of the frivolous trappings of North American society. They are extremely law abiding and good citizens, though they lead a rather closed existence. Hard-working and successful farmers, they take advantage of bulk purchasing to buy tractors, trucks and farm implements at substantial discounts. Everything is owned by the colony. For many years the system has functioned effectively, allowing Hutterite colonies to expand and prosper; however, during my tenure in Carman subdivision, rifts were beginning to appear within some colonies.
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
When I first married Lynne, she knew very little about the inner workings of the RCMP. It was an interesting learning curve for her, and she was bemused at the manner in which members of my command deferred to me, addressing me as “Sir” or calling me by my rank. I spent some time explaining the hierarchy to my new wife. With tongue in cheek, I told her that it would be appropriate for her to call me by my first name in private, but when in the company of other members she should address me as “Sir.” She stared at me briefly in amazement, then realized the subtle tug on her leg. In retort, she assured me that she would be calling me “Sir” on appropriate occasions. However, I was to be clear that when she called me “Sir,” it meant “shithead.”
I paid dearly in years to come. Whenever we were in RCMP company, either socially or professionally, she would take every opportunity to call me “Sir,” knowing full well that she was giving me a cruel jab.
I’d had contact with the Hutterites over the years, as the colonies were always great places to buy produce, but I had seldom dealt with them from a police perspective. One of the largest colonies fell under my purview, and I received a visit from the leader. He told me that he had attended the detachment responsible for his colony, demanding they take action against a thief. The detachment commander had deemed the incident civil in nature and said no police action could be taken. When I asked him to describe the details of the alleged theft, he explained that one of his sons had left the colony, taking a truck and two tractors worth over $1 million. I asked him who had title to the vehicles, and he said they were part of the colony and accordingly owned by all. His son was still considered part of the sect even though he had left the colony. When I outlined the problem of determining ownership of the vehicles, the colony’s leader refused to recognize that the matter was of a civil nature and not criminal. Unaccustomed to having his authority challenged, he became angry and assured me that he would carry his complaint beyond my level. Travelling immediately to Winnipeg, where Division Headquarters was located, he demanded action from the commanding officer. After receiving a response identical to mine, he voiced his displeasure to the commissioner of the RCMP and the attorney general of the province.
The dilemma culminated in one of the largest and lengthiest civil hearings in Manitoba history; however, the decisions of the court resolved little, as true ownership of communal property was almost impossible to identify. Many Hutterite colonies were experiencing similar fragmentation. Some young colony members, disillusioned with a conservative lifestyle based on religious beliefs, had begun to rebel. They were leaving the colonies and seeking their share of communal holdings. This dispute carried on for years with little or no resolution, and to my knowledge these intra-family conflicts have not been finally resolved.
The initial complaint from the Hutterite leader to the police exemplifies the dilemma faced by law-enforcement agencies. Many civil disputes cannot be solved by police intervention, yet police are still bound to keep the peace between dissenting parties. Police frequently find themselves intervening when physical confrontations result. Some Hutterite colony disputes have resulted in conflict exacerbated by the presence of firearms.
Working in small prairie communities, I rarely rubbed elbows with the criminal elite, but my rural routine was interrupted when senior management informed me that I would be the officer overseeing an operation involving a group of high-profile Hells Angels. The chapter presidents of this infamous outlaw biker gang were gathering in Winnipeg, and these crown princes of mayhem planned to take a ceremonial motorcycle ride along the Trans-Canada Highway. Their custom bikes, many valued in excess of $30,000, were flown into Winnipeg from Europe, Britain and the USA. As they gathered at the most expensive Winnipeg hotels, the RCMP and local police forces conducted surveillance. We intended to intercept the group just west of the city in order to fly the flag, establish control and generally show our authority. As the operations commander, I had at my disposal an arrest team, an investigational team and a heavily armed emergency response team. The Identification section would also be on hand to take photos and videos of the group.
In anticipation of the arrival of the motorcycles, we were positioned at a provincial weigh scale just east of Winnipeg, adjacent to Highway No. 1. As expected, the 40 Hells Angels presidents rode up astride their iron horses. They had been advised of our intent and obediently pulled onto the parking area, at which time I informed the lead rider of our purpose. The tension was palpable, but seeing the level of armament and personnel on site, the outlaws knew they were vulnerable. They had taken great care to avoid carrying any illicit items that would give grounds for a search. Their opulence and wealth was made evident by the display of Rolex watches, heavy gold chains, diamond jewellery and, of course, very expensive bikes. Video cameras were hard at work, operated by police, bikers and interested media. The emergency response team assumed strategic locations surrounding the group, automatic weapons at the ready. Some minor traffic tickets were issued, but little in the way of criminality was detected. After an hour of tense confrontation, the cavalcade was permitted to continue, minus two motorcycles that failed to meet the safety requirements of the Highway Traffic Act. As they moved down the highway, it was clear that they were among those in our world who profit from flaunting many of society’s laws with impunity.
LIFE AS THE commander of the Carman subdivision was pretty close to idyllic. The communities were welcoming and supportive, crime was routinely minor, and after addressing initial concerns I had few personnel problems to deal with. But although I enjoyed my work there immensely, I was disillusioned with life in the upper echelon of my beloved Force. The prerequisites for upward mobility in the RCMP were readily apparent. One had to have a compliant demeanour, frequent the officer’s mess, become fluently bilingual and remain at the ready to serve anywhere the commissioner decreed. The casual camaraderie and closeness that was so valued amongst NCOs, and especially constables, was largely absent in the officer ranks. Even though the line between commissioned and non-commissioned members had become slightly blurred, I was uncomfortable
with the elitist mindset that dominated the upper strata of the RCMP.
It was time to contemplate the balance of my career and my life to determine what was intrinsically important. I had long desired to live on Vancouver Island, where I had spent some of my youth, and Lynne and I planned to move there eventually. In 1988, while on a holiday to visit my parents in Victoria, Lynne and I travelled to Courtenay, a Vancouver Island community north of the provincial capital. We purchased a beautiful oceanview lot and made plans to build our ideal home. We returned to the Prairies, hoping that our dream of watching the sunsets over the Pacific Ocean might become reality.
CHAPTER 14
HOME AT LAST
NOT LONG AFTER Lynne and I returned to Carman from our BC holiday, I learned that the assistant officer commanding of Courtenay subdivision was requesting a transfer. I immediately contacted a former colleague who was in charge of commissioned officer postings in Ottawa, alerting him of my interest in the position. These personal requests seldom get a positive response, and I held out faint hope. I had started to consider possible business opportunities and jobs outside the Force that would allow me to relocate to Courtenay so was amazed when I received a call asking if I was still interested in the position. I felt like I had won the lottery. We arrived in Courtenay in the spring of 1989. Our new home was waiting, built on our half-acre of wooded land, overlooking the Strait of Georgia. We felt we had reached the pinnacle of our lives.
The Courtenay subdivision was a mammoth operation consisting of 350 personnel, 16 detachments, a number of plainclothes units, a dog section and a helicopter. To round out the complement, two 60-foot patrol vessels, which could be used as floating detachments when needed, were strategically placed on each side of Vancouver Island. Police personnel who arrive in British Columbia after serving in other parts of Canada experience what can only be described as culture shock. The intensity and complexity of police operations in Canada’s westernmost province cannot be compared to any other RCMP operation. Members serving in all but BC’s most isolated detachments encounter a much greater intensity of crime. Consequently, employee burnout and stress-related problems in BC far exceed that experienced in other provinces.
WELCOME TO BRITISH COLUMBIA?
Just prior to my transfer from Carman, Manitoba, to Courtenay, British Columbia, my new commanding officer, Deputy Commissioner Don Wilson, phoned to invite me to the annual COs’ conference in Vancouver. The conference was a large gathering of all commissioned officers in the province, and discussions revolved around a “state of the union” address from the CO and his administrative officers. The assembly took place in “E” Division Headquarters with about 100 personnel present.
Being a new arrival, I felt somewhat on edge. As I entered the room, the CO spotted me and introduced himself. We had a brief chat and made our way over to the coffee urn, where I offered to buy the CO his coffee. He accepted and then made his way around the room. I realized at the time that I was being watched by a dour-looking soul. He made his way over to where I was standing.
“You’re Parsons from Manitoba, are you not?” he asked accusingly. When I replied in the affirmative, he jumped right into the matter that was bothering him. “You just bought the CO coffee, did you not?” I stammered slightly telling him so. By now he was visibly agitated. “That’s my job, Parsons, and don’t think you can barge in here from Manitoba and take over!” He spun on his heel and stomped off as I stood there astounded. An old friend of mine who had been watching the encounter came up to me laughing and informed me I had just been taken in by Superintendent Cam Munro, a legend in the division for his pranks. Others told me that Cam had trouble controlling his laughter as he had turned away from me. A fine welcome to my new division! I later learned that Cam was extremely affable and one of the best-liked officers in the province, but that didn’t help my initial shock.
Due to my experience working in rural detachments in other parts of Canada, I expected to take a hands-on role. When a relatively serious event occurs after hours in most places in rural Canada, the detachment commander is roused and advised. The first priority of the investigating member is to inform the man in charge. Consequently, my instructions to members had always been to call and advise, day or night. Reaching out from a deep sleep to grope for a ringing phone was part of the job. The officer commanding in Courtenay subdivision also had a prairie policing background and felt he should be told about serious incidents. It was clearly a shock to us when we arrived at our office on a Monday morning to discover there had been murders, rapes, assaults and an assortment of additional serious offences that we were unaware of. During the acculturation process, our senior NCOs assured us that this was the way things were done in BC. Many larger detachments had their own serious-crime, identification and police-dog units, enabling them to act autonomously. The sheer volume of crime precluded advising subdivision unless unique circumstances compelled additional resources. Initially, the approach was unsettling, but it quickly became evident that matters were handled quite differently in British Columbia, and the mechanisms of handling heavy crime loads were tried and true.
I also observed another interesting phenomenon. There were far fewer British Columbia senior NCOs entering the officer candidate program than those entering from other provinces. British Columbia has by far the largest concentration of RCMP members in Canada, including many very capable senior members who would excel in the officer candidate program. The anomaly was clearly attributable to the reluctance of most BC members to leave the province. Entering the officer candidate program requires mobility across Canada, and traditionally the Force has not permitted newly commissioned officers to serve in the province from whence they came. Recently, this policy has been modified, which has encouraged more members from British Columbia to participate in the officer candidate program.
North and central Vancouver Island is home to a rich tapestry of First Nations, many of which have occupied the same location for thousands of years. Their cultures—customs, art and traditions—were complex, sophisticated and deeply enhanced by the permanence of their settlements, the abundance of local food and moderate temperatures. This contrasted with the lifestyles of First Nations of the Prairies whom I had formerly worked with, who were nomadic by necessity. At the time I arrived, RCMP members had inadequate cultural awareness of Native peoples and communication with them was poor. In fact, Bob Gillen, the senior crown prosecutor based in Victoria, was so concerned about how the aboriginal community in northern Vancouver Island regarded the justice system that he proposed a committee to study the issue.
The committee comprised Mr. Gillen, a provincial judge, representatives from social services and probation and me, as RCMP representative. Our mission was to travel to various Native communities to conduct town hall–style meetings. One of the first meetings occurred on Cormorant Island, where the village of Alert Bay is situated. Our committee assembled in the local band hall, filled to capacity with villagers. I sensed quickly that the mood in the hall was less than hospitable. Shortly after Mr. Gillen introduced our panel, participants became vocal and abusive, and the meeting seemed on the brink of pandemonium. Just when I began to contemplate how I was going to safely extract the visiting dignitaries, a powerful-looking aboriginal man in the front row stood up and roared, “Quiet!” Obviously, this individual carried considerable influence with the citizens, as the noise quickly subsided. He addressed the throng, reminding them that the committee had come to the community to hear their concerns. He told the audience that he understood their frustrations, but there was no point in attacking those who were trying to resolve some of the problems. When he concluded, the audience took a more civil approach, though many complaints and concerns regarding the justice system were vented. I learned that our saviour was Bill Wilson, a noted Vancouver Island aboriginal leader and practising lawyer. Bill and I crossed paths many times in the years to follow, and we became friends. His sometimes surly reputation was well earned. He opened an
address to members of the BC Bar Association in Vancouver by stating, “We should have killed you all!” Such statements certainly rewarded him with rapt attention from his listeners but also attracted negative publicity. I never knew him as an adversary, and he was always a positive mentor to me in my dealings with aboriginal people.
Native leaders on Vancouver Island made it clear that they harboured much residual bitterness as a result of mistakes made by governments of years past. Native residential schools and the suppression of the potlatch and other cultural practices stood at the top of the list of grievances. During a session that included RCMP members and First Nations people, I made the error of encouraging the Native participants not to look back, but to look forward and guide us in how we could improve our service to them. Basil Amber, a powerful presence and respected elder, rose up and bellowed his disagreement. In no uncertain terms, he instructed me to listen and not tell the people what I wanted them to do. I quickly concluded that it was not a good time to debate the issue, so we listened for hours about the injustices and cruelty foisted on aboriginal peoples by white society in years past.