That Lonely Section of Hell

by Lori Shenher

  “No, not at all.” He smiled. “Maybe one day I will find the time.” We stood and talked a little longer, until he was called away by an assistant to prepare for the medal presentation. He shook my hand again, we exchanged pleasantries, and he was off.

  After the senator left me, I found myself near the bar talking to the guys from my program. I felt a tap on my elbow and was surprised to see a retired VPD inspector beside me.

  “Lori!” He wrapped me in a hug, then released me to shake my hand. “It’s so good to see you.”

  This was a man I had worked near for years but didn’t know well. He had been good to me in our interactions, and he was now working outside of policing. I know he meant well, but he launched into a monologue of how badly he felt for me during the inquiry, what a raw deal I got from the VPD, how it was garbage that my investigation hadn’t been supported, and so on. It was clear to me he had no idea or hadn’t considered why I was there or in what capacity.

  I froze. In all my years of PTSD and policing, I had never frozen in place, unable to move or react. My feet stayed rooted to the floor, even as my head was screaming Run! My chest was tightening like a fist. I’d been doing so much work on myself, but I hadn’t yet figured out how to talk about it. I felt desperate to escape, but I could not move. I just nodded and uttered the occasional “Thanks for saying that” or “I really appreciate that” as I struggled for a proper breath. A part of me wondered how he couldn’t see or notice I was having a meltdown right in front of him.

  As he spoke to me, another VPD inspector joined us, someone I’d worked more closely with but did not know very well either. He’d been in Afghanistan recently, a secondment the VPD allowed its members to voluntarily participate in whenever Canada had peacekeepers or active soldiers deployed anywhere in the world. He was a harmless guy, but I knew I didn’t have the energy for him that evening.

  “Lori!” He clapped me on the back.

  The first inspector welcomed this second one into our conversation. “I was just telling Lori what a shitty deal she got on the missing women thing,” he said. And the two of them began to talk about me as though I weren’t there, which wasn’t all that far from the truth, because I couldn’t even talk at this point. They channeled all their own anti-VPD bitterness through the vent of my failed investigation.

  Stan, the one other participant from our VTP program, saw me and came to my rescue. People with PTSD seem to recognize each other, and, certainly, when we already know each other, it’s easy to see when someone’s in trouble. Stan and I were pretty good pals, and I felt a flood of relief when I saw him coming. He came to my side and whispered in my ear, “You okay?”

  “No, I can’t move,” I whispered back. Stan steered me by the elbow with a casual wave back at the other two.

  “Sorry, guys, she’s all mine, now!” I managed a wave that they probably thought was intended to be faux tragic and helpless, but I was not acting. Stan had to pull me a little to unstick my feet from that spot, and we moved far away from the noise. A few minutes later, we were asked to line up to go out into the auditorium to receive our medals. I thanked Stan, and we silently walked to our seats as the formal speeches and presentation began. Senator Dallaire spoke and then gave each of us our medal—a challenge coin bearing the VTP insignia. Challenge coins have a long history in the military, dating back to the Roman Empire. Members of individual units or divisions can challenge their comrades to present their coins, often in the form of a drinking game. Military units also present them to outsiders for outstanding service or performance of duty in aid of the unit. When the Senator presented me with mine, he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I hope you publish your book.”

  The event exhausted me. I resisted the urge to run out to my car without saying any good-byes, but it was very difficult. My conversation—if you could call it that—with the two VPD inspectors left me anxious and overwhelmed. I felt I had somehow failed by not handling myself with more grace and aplomb. Was I ever going to get better? It felt like a significant setback. As I made my way out, the first VPD inspector I’d encountered earlier caught up with me and invited me out for drinks with the others. I thanked him, told him I needed to get home, and wished him well. I walked through the dense fog back to my car, my heart racing with pent-up anxiety. Once inside, a feeling of safety slowly returned, and I drove home.

  The incident bothered me for several days. My anxiety increased, my nightmares worsened, and I felt agitated. All my hard work seemed for naught. Freezing in place was new to me, and I was afraid that I wouldn’t react appropriately in similar stressful situations in the future, which could place me in danger. I had always been able to react effectively in the past.

  My partner, Dr. MacKinnon, and my WorkSafeBC-assigned occupational therapist, Natasha Coulter, all told me the same thing: this had been a significant trigger, but I’d survived, managed it, and learned from it. Such triggers would be become easier to manage over time. Reluctantly, I decided not to beat myself up about it any further. Dr. MacKinnon helped role-play similar conversations with me for the future, which helped a great deal. In time, the anxiety slowly abated.

  Dr. MacKinnon and I began to use EMDR to unravel the events of the investigation that bothered me most: the women who went missing after we’d the received the Ellingsen tip, the POI 390 investigation, my testimony at the inquiry, my grief over the murdered and missing women, the loss of my good health, and the stalling of my career in law enforcement. Slowly, as we worked through each event step by step, I became able to write about them, bit by bit, an hour or two a week. I could do it without sinking into a pit of depression or yelling at everyone around me. I began to believe I might publish this book.

  Epilogue

  • • •

  “It is not the strongest or the most intelligent who will survive but those who can best manage change.”

  HERBERT SPENCER, SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

  FOR SO MANY years, I focused on what I’d lost working on the failed missing women investigation. My belief in myself, my faith in humanity, my trust in law enforcement, my career potential, my health, my optimism, my enjoyment of my work—all had been shaken. I couldn’t think of anything I’d gained from the previous fourteen years other than bitterness. I couldn’t even identify or isolate what was the worst part, aside from the obvious loss of so many lives. It wasn’t enough to know there was a lot wrong; identifying the worst seemed important.

  Heading into my final two days of the Veterans Transition Program in July 2013, it hit me like a bolt of lightning as we were working on defining our goals: I have lost my life’s purpose. Not only had I lost it, I wondered if I ever knew what it had been in the first place. Did I have one? “Sobering” didn’t begin to describe this realization. In my VTP and subsequent therapy with Dr. MacKinnon, we did a lot of work on grief, but it wasn’t until then that I saw I needed to accept and grieve my loss of purpose. I could no longer pretend my job as a police officer gave me sense of purpose. It used to, early in my career, when I felt that I actually helped people, made a difference in some small way when tough things happened to them. But now I was battered and bone weary from trying to prove I was one of the good ones.

  One day in 2013, my partner made an observation that resonated with me.

  “You know,” she said. “I think if we can encourage the kids to pursue jobs where people are actually happy to see them, they’ll be on the right track.” Armed with degrees in social work and law and several years of experience working in child protection, she knew as well as I did how it felt to show up on someone’s doorstep knowing they hated you, everything you represented, and what you were there to do. When she first said this, I thought, I don’t need for people to like me. But just as quickly, I thought, Actually, I really do need to be liked sometimes. Or at least respected for what I try to do.

  Not since I had sold running shoes had I felt that I made a positive difference in someone’s day. Not since I had coached high sch
ool basketball had I seen the work I did bring about direct improvement in the performance of the people around me, making them better and me better. Not since I’d written a Calgary Herald feature piece on suicide prevention had I believed I might save even one life. Right then, I resolved to redefine my life’s purpose.

  My PTSD treatment continued, and I held onto the goal of returning to the VPD in some capacity, but it felt unattainable because of my panic attacks, angry outbursts, and anxiety. There are many, many police officers out there who do fantastic work in the community and as investigators, but I accept that my time is done and my faith in the criminal justice system too shaken for me to be an active participant. There is some damage that can’t be undone. I pass the torch.

  When I took my oath with the VPD, I imagined I would work there for thirty years before retiring. Never did I expect to be so deeply affected by my work as an investigator that my career would be cut short.

  As I write this, in 2015, in my twenty-fifth year with the VPD, I am on medical leave, hoping to find a way to work in some field outside policing. I hope to be able to one day pursue an advanced degree. I’ve never wanted to merely coast, pension intact, into my retirement years and do nothing. I hope to find fulfillment by contributing, doing something I love for as long as I love it.

  I continue to receive treatment for PTSD from my team, knowing I will have to take extra care of my mental health for the rest of my life. I’m finally at a place where I’m grateful for the things this experience has taught me about myself and about the world. Everything happens for a reason. Still, it’s damn hard work.

  Resolving to be a more present partner, a more patient parent, a more compassionate friend, and a more aware human being are enough of a life purpose for me right now as I continue to work on healing from this experience. I’m so deeply, deeply sorry the missing and murdered women and their loved ones had to endure this nightmare, but I’m no longer sorry I lived a small part of it with them. I’m glad they had me, as imperfect as I know my contributions have been. I know this will inform everything I do from now on, and I can finally accept that experience as much more than a dark curse.

  A Letter to All the Women

  • • •

  Why?

  I look at all of you staring back at me from posters, websites, newscasts and ask myself over and over again.

  Why?

  I hoped to have answers by now, but all I have are more questions, and I’m learning to accept I will always have more questions than answers. I could ask you what really went on out there and get all the sordid details people seem to have to know, but those things don’t interest me. I’ve seen enough of people like Pickton to form my own picture of what he did to you, and that is more than enough. I’m sure the truth is worse than any of us can imagine, and I don’t need that truth to see this as the complete tragedy it is.

  If I could talk to you, I’d want to tell you that you didn’t die in vain, that through your suffering—before and after you ever went to the damned farm—you raised awareness of what it means to live in poverty and addiction and urban squalor. Maybe I’d be able to tell you things had changed—the way police deal with missing persons, missing sex workers, and drug addicts had changed. I’d like to tell you people finally see you as valid, as people who matter.

  If I could talk to you, I’d ask you to sit down with me and tell me what your lives were like—really like—and what you would do to help people in the same situations you found yourselves in. Who let you down? In what ways—beyond those that seem obvious to someone like me who has never been assaulted, spat on, never wanted for a meal, a kind word, or a safe place to sleep?

  I could fantasize about you telling me not to worry about the risks I didn’t take, the times I didn’t stand up in a meeting and scream “Bullshit!” when I wanted to so badly. You would tell me I did my best and did all I could considering even you didn’t want me to find out about that place, that none of the women wanted to blow the whistle. You would tell me none of you made it very easy. What a fantasy, what a lot to ask of any of you to absolve me, to absolve us. I know to you I still represent The Man—the scales of justice, the voice of authority and of the establishment—all the institutions responsible for you meeting the kind of violent, degrading, frightening ends I know you met. Maybe you stare out from those photos and say, “Take your conscience and your left-wing, Monday-morning-quarterback analysis and go to hell.” Some of you know me—would you tell the others I was all right? That I wasn’t a power-hungry jerk on the street? That I listened, even back then?

  Maybe you’d all just say “Fuck you. Fuck you and your after-the-fact apologies and need for absolution.” Maybe I would explain to you how it is, that what I need is only for you to know that I thought about things, I asked questions beyond what you had done to get yourselves into a mess like that. I found it very hard to blame you for your situations, but a lot of police officers did just that. I tried and, in their own ways, everyone who worked on the investigation tried to some degree—to do the right thing, to figure out what that was. All I’m questioning is how much trying is enough. You guys tried—to leave the street, to get your shit together—and you know it can be hard. I don’t need your blessings, but if we could talk, I would hope we would find some common ground about where the other was coming from.

  Maybe I’d just tell each of you about all the people you had in your lives who really loved and cared for you. I don’t know if some of you knew that or felt it, especially in your darkest times. People searched for you, advocated for you, loved you. Some did more than others, but all did the best they could. Maybe we’d just talk about that.

  Lori

  Acknowledgments

  • • •

  THE PUBLICATION OF a book such as this requires the support and encouragement of many people. I fear that no matter the pains I take, I will almost certainly forget someone who made a big difference to me along this long road. Please accept my apologies.

  Deep love and gratitude to Dr. Joanne MacKinnon, Dr. Mike Dadson, Dr. Matt Graham, Barb Macnaughton, Natasha Coulter, Margo Weston, Dr. Art Lopes, and Tanya Chernov, members of what I like to call my “Fixing Broken People Team.” You don’t all know each other, but together, over time, you all gave me a life back. Thank you to the staff at WorkSafeBC for trying to understand what people with PTSD need.

  To all the folks at the Royal Canadian Legion, the Veterans Transition Network and all my Canadian Forces and first responder brothers and sisters who journeyed through the Veterans Transition Program with me: I wish you all continued peace and healing and thank you for sharing your experiences and letting me share mine. I couldn’t have written this without you all. To those of you I haven’t met who are struggling, please reach out for help. You are worth it.

  To my parents, Joseph and Suzanne; my brother, Paul; my sister, Jocelyn; my brother-in-law, Ken; my sister-in-law, Maureen; their families; and the rest of my Alberta crew, thank you all for standing by me. To my late grandfather Terence William Harding Thompson for teaching me to type and to write. To my Vancouver family of Audrey, Charlie, Norma, David, Catherine, Glenda, Doreen, Tim, John, Janet, Doug, Christine, and Tyler, your support, dinners, and acceptance meant the world to my family and me during very hard times. So many of these people heard my story over and over again, because I couldn’t stop telling it. For all of your patience, generosity, and grace, thank you.

  To my soul brother, Darren Lamb, thanks for putting up with my mania and being there for me all these long years. To my personal training clients from the old ’hood: Jasmine, Lauren, Louise, and Darcy, you guys get me out of bed in the morning, even though you think it’s the other way around. Thank you for all your continued hard work and the gift of your enduring friendship. You have helped me redefine my purpose and envision a future for myself.

  To Sandra Gagnon, Michele Pineault, and Cameron Ward, who have never let me forget for whom the police work. You each have my enduring respect. To e
ach and every family member and friend of the missing and murdered women, I offer my deepest condolences for your losses and my sincere apologies for my failings.

  To everyone on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside who selflessly works with and advocates for our city’s less fortunate inhabitants. Many of you have provided them with family and love when they so sorely needed it. You make a difference to many.

  To my dear friends and trusted writing pals Denise Kask, Maggie de Vries, and Rachel Rose, who have seen this manuscript through several different drafts. Your skill as writers is only exceeded by your capacity for friendship, and your critical eyes and writers’ sensibilities kept me on track through the years of planning, writing, and rewriting. Thank you Jan Derbyshire for your acceptance and encouragement over so many years of friendship.

  To Martin, Jill, Paul, Donal, Matt, and Melissa, who were the best sleuths, colleagues, and friends in my professional detective, secret spy world. You guys are true pros and made my last ten years bearable. To Steven Epperson and my many dear friends at the Unitarian Church of Vancouver, thank you for your support, notes, cards, gift baskets, casseroles, hugs, and love before, during, and after my inquiry testimony. You have no idea how much your kindness means to me.

  My VPD years post–Project Amelia were very difficult for me, and I was not an easy employee or coworker. Thanks and love to Rennie Hoffman, Rowan Pitt-Payne, Rick Smitas, Malcolm McNeight, Steve Sweeney, Max Chalmers, Rick McKenna, Adua Porteous, Doug LePard, and Mike Purdy for valuing the skills I brought and accepting they came with idiosyncrasies and outbursts sometimes found in PTSD sufferers. You all made my contributions feel considerable, even when I felt the organization had forgotten me. Thank you, Rowan and Jess Ram, for your calls to chat and for staying in touch. Thanks to Mike Porteous for calling me a good cop; it means a lot coming from you.