No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP (8 page)

THE COMMUNITY OF
Willmore was located squarely in the oil patch, with up to 20 oil rigs operating in the district at any one time. Each rig was a small industrial enclave headed up by a foreman, known as a tool push, and three drillers, each with a contingent of roughnecks working round-the-clock shifts. Approximately 24 people lived in bunkhouses at the isolated rig, which also had a mess hall doling out gourmet meals. Many of the rigs were classified as “tight holes,” which meant security was strict and access to the site closely controlled. Rival drilling companies hired spies called scouts, who were paid large sums of money to infiltrate the rig site and gather information. Scouts would scale trees and view the premises with binoculars in an attempt to count the lengths of drill pipe, which would indicate how far down the rig was drilling. Scouts plied off-duty riggers with drinks and even cash to garner information. Occasionally, security staff would detect these spies and pursue them on Ski-Doos and four by fours in wild chases that sometimes ended with apprehension and assaults. It was an extremely dangerous lifestyle, filled with hard physical work and adventure.

Off-duty rig crews frequented bars and restaurants in town, leaving huge amounts of money and havoc in their wake. Any disturbances they caused invariably came to the attention of the RCMP, generating hours of work. The oil companies considered good relations with local police to be paramount, so their cooperation was a valuable tool. If off-duty employees created problems for the police, a well-placed word with the tool push would send the worker packing. Drill crews were aware of this and avoided confrontations with police during their sometimes raucous off-duty activities. Unexecuted warrants for transient rig employees were received from all parts of Canada, so regular patrols were made to the rigs to ensure fugitives were not part of the workforce. RCMP members were always welcomed on the rig site and often treated to a much-appreciated meal while conducting these patrols.

A major provincial highway crossed the town and detachment area, bringing many transients into Willmore. Constable Kenneth Giblin, one of the members of the highway patrol, possessed an uncanny ability to detect crime and criminals. As a result, he was often at the centre of potentially dangerous incidents. Highway patrol members routinely work alone and often find themselves far from backup. Most of them are acutely aware of the risks and use care and discretion when they find themselves in vulnerable positions. Giblin was fearless under any circumstances and seemed to have an invisible shield of protection. This was evident one night when he stopped two men driving down the highway. They looked nervous, so Giblin examined the car more thoroughly. Under the driver’s seat, he discovered a sawed-off, double-barrelled shotgun, with two rounds in the firing chambers. Giblin arrested both men for possession of an illegal firearm. They each received sentences of six months in prison. Unhappy with the penalty, they appealed their sentence, at which time the appeal court doubled their incarceration to one year.

A short time later, we received a bulletin describing two American men sought for a recent murder. The armed fugitives were considered two of the most dangerous individuals at large in the northern USA and could be heading our way. Constable Giblin spotted a vehicle with American licence plates travelling through the area. After pulling the vehicle over and seeing two male occupants, he sensed danger and drew his revolver when he approached. Giblin saw drug paraphernalia inside the car, so with his gun still drawn, he handcuffed one man to the steering wheel. During the process, the other man tried to jump the constable. He was soundly smacked by the barrel of an RCMP .38 Special revolver and then handcuffed. Giblin then turned to the other culprit, who viciously kicked him. The constable released his assailant from the steering wheel, and the man was suddenly confronted by what he later referred to as a maniac in a Stetson hat. His only recollection was being knocked senseless and waking up in handcuffs. The pair was transported to the detachment, where a more thorough search uncovered an arsenal of illegal weapons in the vehicle. The fugitives were returned to the US and stood trial for three counts of murder. Giblin’s bravery proved that the spirit of resoluteness and confidence displayed during the early years of the Force still lived on.

I had only been in the field for a few months when I was dispatched to my first sudden death. It was the dead of winter when a call was received from a concerned citizen who had not seen his neighbour for some time. The missing person was a solitary trapper who lived in an isolated cabin some miles from the nearest habitation. The temperature hovered around -30°F when I headed out to investigate. I approached the cabin at dusk and found a set of tracks leading off into the bush. Following the trail, I found the missing man lying dead beside a small lake. The circumstances were not suspicious, and the victim appeared to have died of natural causes while inspecting his trap line. I returned to the police car to contact the detachment via police radio. The corporal explained that the coroner had been informed but would not attend since the death seemed routine and the weather was frigid. An ambulance had been dispatched, and I was instructed to bring the body to an accessible location. The light was fading, casting a rather ominous and spooky aura over the scene. Hastily returning to the cabin, I located a toboggan and returned to the body, which was frozen solid, arms and legs akimbo, making it very difficult to move. I manoeuvred the body onto a toboggan and headed off to where I would meet the ambulance. The corpse caught on trees and slid off in the snow, and I was beginning to hear strange noises as darkness settled in. Visions of wolves competing for my charge danced in my brain. Finally, after wrestling the body through a half-mile of bush, I spotted the ambulance with the very welcome presence of the driver. Together we loaded the body in the ambulance and returned to town.

As is common in most small communities, the ambulance driver was both a close associate of the local detachment and a good friend. Our man, Tony Olio, not only drove the ambulance, but also ran the community funeral home. Wearing both these hats, Olio’s path frequently intersected with that of detachment members. He was from a nearby coal-mining community and apparently had a reputation as a moonshiner. We were convinced that Olio had left his distilling career far behind him; however, we were to learn from RCMP Federal Enforcement investigators that he was under surveillance for being up to his old tricks. They had received intelligence that he was transporting his illicit spirits into the city in his hearse. On one of Olio’s trips, the RCMP’s Preventive Service Section, aka the liquor squad, intercepted him. They examined his hearse and found a large amount of home brew. A further search of Olio’s residence revealed a commercial still. Our compatriot was arrested and charged with bootlegging. Shortly thereafter he appeared in local court to plead guilty and was levied a large cash fine. To his credit, he held no grudges. In fact, the following Sunday, Tony invited the entire detachment to his home for breakfast. Tony apologized for the error of his ways and hoped that it would not affect our professional and social relationship. The corporal deemed that he had paid his debt to society, and since we needed an undertaker and an ambulance driver, we continued on as if nothing had occurred. We were all slightly more vigilant, however, when it came to Tony’s activities.

Garfield was our neighbouring detachment to the west, and it was staffed by two members. Corporal Roydon Porter was the detachment commander and a member of a distinguished RCMP family, almost Kennedyesque in the tragedies that had befallen it. The patriarch of the clan had been one of the Force’s longest-serving commissioners. He was the son of a former assistant commissioner, whose lineage was directly connected to American president Zachary Taylor. The commissioner had sired three sons; one died in combat during the Second World War and a second was killed in a motor vehicle accident while serving with the RCMP. Roydon, the youngest and only surviving son, had also joined the Force. He made no secret of his distinguished background, but in spite of it his garrulous personality made him a favourite among his peers. His second man, Jack Fargey, was a senior constable awaiting his own promotion. The area they were responsible for was primarily wilderness, and Garfield was a generally placid mill community, which meant that these two experienced members only needed to deal with minor incidents. During the World Series, we expected them to appear at our detachment to watch the games on television, bringing with them a case of beer and a huge jar of peanuts.

A later encounter with a section NCO further elevated Corporal Porter’s standing in the eyes of his co-workers. The role of a section NCO was to serve as the right-hand man of the officer commanding. Section NCOs were assigned a number of detachments to inspect regularly to ensure general policy compliance. Staff Sergeant “Snapper” John Nance, our section NCO, was married to the Force, lock, stock and barrel, and expected everyone else to be equally dedicated. An officious man, much impressed by his own importance, he expected complete subservience from his minions. Time meant nothing to him; it was not unusual for his detachment visits to begin in the evening, when he would demand that the detachment commander forgo his dinner to be on hand for his inspection of the premises.

One evening, he arrived on the doorstep of Corporal Porter, who was just closing up shop for the day. Staff Sergeant Nance informed Corporal Porter that he would be commencing his review of the detachment. The corporal looked at his watch and explained he was done for the day and would return to the office at eight o’clock the following morning. He then promptly shut the door in Staff Sergeant Nance’s face. Infuriated, Nance immediately phoned Superintendent Little, the officer commanding, disturbing him after hours. Nance explained how Corporal Porter had dismissed him at the doorstep and requested authority to proceed with disciplinary action. The officer commanding was very aware of Corporal Porter’s dizzying connections within the high echelons of the Force. He astounded Nance by telling him to ignore the rebuff and start his inspection in the morning. This single brave action brought fame and glory to Corporal Porter from his detachment commander peers. It broke the reign of terror exercised by Staff Sergeant Nance and changed the oppressive working conditions that he had imposed throughout the subdivision.

During my first summer at Willmore, I was taken back to my youth when the exhibition came to town. Many of us have fond childhood memories of the excitement and magic of these travelling exhibitions. The presence of the big top in Yorkton always attracted hordes of people and required extra policing duties. I remember the midway manager’s visits to my father’s office. I had no idea why, but he always left gifts for the police and their families. The gifts took the form of free-ride tickets for the kids and certain “favours” for the adults. Amazingly, years later at my first posting, the same midway manager came to our town. I no longer cared for ride tickets, but I now learned that he had bottles of Crown Royal rye for each member of the detachment. It was unlikely that such luxuries would be bought on a policeman’s salary, so we were delighted with the gifts. Looking back on it now, I am astounded that we were so naïve. There was only one reason for the generosity: our detachment was supposed to look the other way, particularly with respect to the girly shows and the games of chance on the midway. Several years later this same midway conglomerate was charged with offences surrounding inducements and even bribery of officials. During the enquiry into the company, their books were opened for scrutiny. There in black and white was a precise account of every free ride ticket and bottle of whisky given to each policeman, including my father and me and hundreds of other seemingly innocent officials. Although the gifts were minor, it made me realize how easily one can be compromised.