NONE DARE CALL IT CORRUPTION (CANADIAN NIGHTMARE PART 4)
Salt in the Wound: The Tale of B.C.'s Disastrous Missing Women Commission
Hey Folks,
This is the final instalment of Canadian Nightmare, a series in which I explore the aftermath of the Pickton case, which I believe is the one of the biggest scandals which has occurred in Canada during my lifetime.
The reason that I’ve spilt so much ink writing about this one story is because it speaks volumes about Canada. Specifically, it shows how profoundly corrupt the B.C. RCMP is, and how far Canadian authorities are willing to go to protect the guilty.
I think that there is a degree of corruption that your average person finds understandable, even acceptable. People tend to cover for their friends and colleagues, for instance. People pad expense reports and funnel money towards people they like. I think most people would concede that this kind of behaviour is to be expected. But when it comes to the Pickton case, we’re talking about a type of corruption that goes above and beyond anything like that.
When it comes to the Pickton case, however, we’re talking about some of the most despicable criminals imaginable. We’re talking about people torturing vulnerable women for fun, then chopping up their bodies and feeding them to pigs. This was allowed to continue for years, and in subsequent years law enforcement has shown much more interest in covering for the police than in holding serial killers accountable.
This represents a departure from human decency, and that is what this story is about to me. Do you really want to live in a society where the police let serial killers chop women up and feed them to pigs? That’s a pretty extreme level of fucked up. I’d really rather not live in such a society. I think that if they get used to this, Canadians will become despondent and nihilistic as the problem gets worse and worse. It’s like that song: If you tolerate this, then your children will be next. I know they say that people can used to anything, but if we get used to the police covering for bikers murdering vulnerable women, we’re in for some dark days. This is not normal, folks. The world isn’t supposed to be this way.
There was a time where I believed that, for all its flaws, Canada was a country of mostly decent people, most of whom could be counted on to do the right thing, if only they had the right information.
I suppose I still believe that most people are pretty decent, but I definitely underestimated the depravity of law enforcement, the reflexive adherence to government talking points by the press, and the seeming desire of the power structure to sweep everything under the rug.
The Pickton Case showed us the horrible reality of power in Canada, and most people weren’t willing to run the system upgrade necessitated by the revelations. They’d rather live in a world of illusion. They’d rather believe that Canada is a liberal democracy and that their government is a benevolent protector and provider. But this belief is becoming a luxury that fewer and fewer people can afford. At a certain point, people are going to have to face the reality about corruption in Canada.
Since Pickton was busted, there have been a series of inquiries into Canada’s historic oppression of indigenous people. Despite this, nothing has changed, because part of the problem is major police corruption and ineptitude. That’s what no one is talking about - this is a case about corruption - specifically, the lengths that the government went to protect the truth from coming out about the close relationship between the RCMP and the Hells Angels in B.C. That’s what this case is about. As horrifying as the crimes of Robert Pickton were, this case is important for other reasons. I’m writing about this upsetting subject matter because it shows the reality about what is going on in Canada.
THERE HAVE NOW BEEN THREE HUGE GOVERNMENT COMMISSIONS INTO CANADA’S MISTREATMENT OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLE
In fact, there have been three government commissions which has studied the issue in great detail.
They are:
Truth and Reconciliation Commission
Missing Women Commission of Inquiry (B.C.)
National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls
To help orient the reader, I think it will be useful to provide a brief synopsis of each of the three commissions.
Missing Women Commission of Inquiry (B.C.)
The Missing Women Commission of Inquiry in British Columbia was announced on September 27, 2010, and it began its hearings on October 11, 2011. The final report was delivered on December 17, 2012.
The budget was $10 Million.
Truth and Reconciliation Commission
The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) of Canada began its work in June 2008 and concluded with the release of its final report in December 2015.
The TRC was not focused exclusively on missing women and girls. Rather, its focus was on Canada’s historic oppression of indigenous people, notably residential schools.
However, it is definitely not coincidental that it was convened after the Pickton Case brought Canada’s history of colonization into public awareness.
It was the most successful of the three inquiries, and succeeded in bringing much of the true history of Canada’s residential school system to light. On its conclusion, many truly felt that something had been achieved.
The budget was $62 Million.
National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls
The National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls (MMIWG) in Canada was announced on December 8, 2015, and it formally began on September 1, 2016. The final report was released on June 3, 2019.
The budget was a whopping $92 Million, and culminated with a report in which the government of Canada found itself guilty of active participation in an ongoing genocide.
Where do you go from there? Isn’t that the equivalent of a psychiatrist declaring himself insane?
YET NOTHING HAS CHANGED…
So, Canada has spent over $164 Million excavating the skeletons in its closet. Yet nothing has changed. By and large, things are the same as they were before Pickton was arrested. There are still a huge number of unsolved disappearances and murder cases in B.C., and multiple serial killers are believed to be at large. But the RCMP continue to show shocking ineptitude and disinterest in investigating these cases. Why is this? Who knows? But given that there was a sex trafficking ring in Prince George which is believed to have included at least ten members of the RCMP as well as judge, I don’t think that it’s implausible to posit that some of the Highway of Tears murders were committed by Mounties. This could explain why the RCMP have never solved the crimes - because to solve them would be against the political interests of the Mounties. After all, if doing your job involves creating problems for your boss, you’re probably not going to be super-keen on turning in the best possible work you can. You know what I mean? I’m not even necessarily saying that any Mountie deliberately killed any of those girls. But maybe a thorough investigation didn’t happen because it would have reflected badly on the Mounties for another reason. For example, if a girl was known to police as someone to engage in sex work (willingly or otherwise), perhaps some members of the force might have had sex with a woman or girl who later wound up dead. That gives a plausible reason not for certain people to ask too many questions, isn’t it?
A thorough investigation into the disappearances of indigenous women in B.C. must seriously consider the possibility that the RCMP have been covering for the guilty. This doesn’t necessarily mean that the Mounties were the killers. But if there was pedosadist sex trafficking ring in Prince George that included both a judge and members of the police, we can guess that there was somewhat of a scene of pedosadist abusers in Prince George. Perhaps the police are restrained by blackmail - perhaps they are afraid that if they were to arrest a certain killer, he would release information that would incriminate the Mounties. Corruption leads to these kinds of problems, folks. That was a big part of the lesson from the Epstein case. He thought he was untouchable because he had dirt on everyone. And U.S. politicians are clearly afraid to step out of line. This is a huge problem. It’s what Whitney Webb calls “government by blackmail”.
Realistically it is very plausible that the police will be less likely to solve crimes if solving them will reflect badly on the RCMP by bring certain truths about the dark not-so-distant history of B.C. The fact is that there are plenty of reasons to believe that law enforcement throughout Canada’s westernmost province is irredeemably corrupt. Furthermore, the problem appears to be getting worse.
And that’s the thing about corruption. It’s a degenerative societal illness. Once enough people see others blatantly gaming the system, it becomes easier to excuse one’s own selfish and greedy motives. A feeding frenzy ensues, soon leading to disaster. This is what the Bible is referring to when a people is said to have become wicked. And wickedness tends to lead to disaster, most often caused by being conquered by neighbouring people who are tougher and more disciplined.
The problem with corruption in Canada is severe. It is no exaggeration to call it “out of control”. There may be a level of corruption that most people are willing to excuse, but we aren’t talking about politicians spending $300 on a glass of orange juice or something. We’re talking about cops covering for gangsters who kill people, sell drugs, extort businesses, and do all kinds of horrible and despicable things.
Furthermore, this case has exposed the close relationship between the Hells Angels and elements of the Canadian state. What does this relationship mean? Are the Hells Angels a paramilitary arm of the Canadian state? Why are the Hells Angels allowed to exist in Canada? After all, they are a legal organization. Different chapters own properties. The police know who the Hells are what they’re up to. And they play some kind of weird game in which the bikers get busted sometimes, but the club houses never get seized and the chapters never get dismantled. Why are the Hells Angels allowed to legally exist when they are so clearly a criminal enterprise? Easy - they’re a paramilitary arm of the Canadian state.
Everything makes a lot more sense now, doesn’t it?
What you are about to read is an excerpt from That Lonely Stretch of Hell, a 2015 book written by Vancouver detective Lori Shenher, who was put in charge of the VPD’s Missing Persons Unit in 1998. It focuses on the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry, which specifically focused on the Pickton case.
The Missing Women Commission eventually published a five-volume report called Forsaken: The Report of the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry.
WHY WAS WALLY OPPAL CHOSEN AS COMMISSIONER?
The problems with the Missing Women Inquiry began long before the first hearing.
In her book, Lori Shenher explains that she had a bad feeling about the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry pretty much from the moment that former B.C. attorney general Wally Oppal was named commissioner.
She explains:
On September 27, 2010, the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry was formally announced, and the year that followed proved challenging. Even after the many years of investigation, the painstaking search of the farm, the intermittent discovery of new victim DNA over months and months, and the long Pickton trial and appeal process—it still wasn’t over. When would it ever truly be over?
I hoped I could survive the inquiry and triumph over this nightmare, but my doubts remained. In 2010, I'd eagerly awaited the release of [VPD Deputy Chief] Doug LePard’s report—released to coincide with the government's expected announcement of an inquiry—hoping that finally people would begin to see what a serious tragedy this investigation had been and to understand why a public inquiry was so sorely needed. As it was, the report was leaked mere weeks before the announcement of the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry, but it didn’t matter. At least it was out, and the inquiry would finally take place.
My anxiety level reached new heights as I anticipated the announcement of the inquiry, and when I learned that former B.C. attorney general Wally Oppal would be the commissioner, I was overwhelmed by mixed feelings.
That evening, I sat at my computer and composed a letter to Fazil Milhar, editorial page editor of the Vancouver Sun. I detailed my concerns about Mr. Oppal as commissioner, given his past roles as the provincial attorney general who once announced there would be no public inquiry into the missing women and as previous head of the B.C. Criminal Justice Branch when the 1997 charges against Pickton in the [Wendy Lynn Eisletter] matter were stayed. I explained that I felt no animosity toward Mr. Oppal; on the contrary, I knew him a little from playing basketball at the police station and liked him personally and professionally. I merely felt he was the wrong choice, encumbered by too many conflicting roles in this case over the years.
I copied the email containing the letter to Deputy Chief Constable LePard and Paul Patterson of the VPD Public Affairs Section, because I didn’t want them completely blindsided in the morning press briefing. I hit Send and then went straight to bed. I fell straight to sleep for the first time in years.
The next day, Shenher woke up to a call from Doug LePard, who persuaded her to contact the press and convince them not to print her letter about Oppal, which they did.
I managed to get the Sun to pull the piece, but not before the editorial staff had read my little manifesto. I worried whether I could hold it together and keep my mouth shut throughout the inquiry. I told the story to my friend Lindsay Kines, now a reporter for the Victoria Times Colonist, who made me promise to duct-tape oven mitts to my hands whenever I was at the computer and wanted to send something like that again. Or if I was determined to hit Send, he suggested I address the email to him, and he promised to put it straight into his trash.
Hmm. Kinda seems Shenher is furiously backpedalling after getting in trouble with her boss, doesn’t it? That’s some crystal-clear Canadian-style passive-aggressive bullying if you ask me. Sometimes you don’t need to say “…or else.”
To be fair, she doesn’t give a compelling reason as to why she objected to Wally Oppal’s appointment. But clearly she was onto something, because the commission was a complete failure.
Many family members felt that politicians, the police and the press were all collaborating to cultivate a certain perception on the part of the public. The goal seems to have been to “restore public confidence in Canada’s institutions”, or something like that. This was happening as Vancouver was going on a major PR campaign by spending billions of dollars on the 2010 Olympics. In retrospect, this commission seems like an attempt to sanitize the unsanitizable.
PR definitely seems to have been a higher priority that ascertaining the facts of the matter. According to Shenher, the commission ran the clock at the beginning of the hearings by laboriously cross-examining witnesses on trivial matters. Latter, the commission ran short on time when it came to hearing witnesses who had testimony damaging to the police interests who were represented by an army of high-powered lawyers who could basically write a blank cheque from the government. In retrospect, it looks like a recipe for disaster. But let’s not jump to conclusions - I don’t doubt that many people employed in this project did so with good intentions, resulting in the curious combination of care and cruelty that characterizes Canadian colonialism. I’m pretty sure that whoever said “the road to hell is paved with good intentions was talking about Canada.
In 2012, following the inquiry’s final report, the B.C. Civil Liberties Association published a report called Blueprint for an Inquiry, which examined the failures of the commission.
Yep. There was a report which examined the failures of the inquiry which was convened to examine the failures of the entire justice system. Welcome to Canada.
The executive summary of the report states:
From the perspective of the hundreds of marginalized women who protested the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry (“the Inquiry”) every morning for the first month of hearings, the Inquiry was an absolute failure. This perspective is shared by the B.C. Civil Liberties Association, Pivot Legal Society, and West Coast LEAF, the human and democratic rights organizations that produced this report.
The Inquiry was set up to examine the problems arising from investigations of the disappearance and murder of dozens of women in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside (“DTES”), and particularly the investigation of serial murderer Robert William Pickton. Out of the failures of the Inquiry, which are well-documented and understood in the affected communities, the hope of the authors is that a positive legacy can still be uncovered.
If nothing else, this Inquiry demonstrates what should not be done in conducting a public inquiry involving marginalized communities.
Elsewhere, it states:
Conflicts of interest and interference were prevalent from the outset. A former Attorney General who had suggested there would be little to learn from an Inquiry was appointed as Commissioner.
This Commissioner appointed a former Vancouver Police Department officer as Executive Director, a staff member who would go well beyond the role of Executive Director by participating in the preparation of an "independent" expert report prepared by Peel Regional Police Department.
For those of you who aren’t Canadian, Peel Region is in Southern Ontario and is part of the Greater Toronto Area, the most densely-populated part of Canada.
Although this might seem like it would make Peel Police qualified to author an independent report, there were complicating factors, as members of the Peel Police were under investigation by the RCMP for corruption at that particular moment of time. Could the two agencies have come to a “you scratch my back, I scratch yours” sort of arrangement?
This "independent" report, in part examining RCMP conduct, was prepared by Peel Police, which itself had officials under investigation by the RCMP for corruption. To cap these real and perceived conflicts, the Province directly interfered with the Commission by refusing to fund the full participation of parties the Commissioner identified as central to ensuring the fairness and efficacy of the Inquiry.
Another issue was has long it took before the Inquiry began. After all, Pickton was arrested in February 2002.
For more than a decade, the families and friends of the missing women, alongside a broad range of community organizations, demanded a full inquiry into the failure to adequately investigate the disappearances of women from the DTES. In reply, the B.C. government argued that it could not hold an inquiry until the criminal proceedings against Robert Pickton were concluded.
This is a dubious claim. In fact, there was no real reason that the inquiry couldn’t have been held sooner. You have to keep in mind that many of the relevant witnesses in the Pickton case were hardcore drug addicts, many of whom engaged in high-risk activity to fuel their habits. Several died before being able to give testimony.
Remember - what we’re talking about major police corruption. That’s not a problem that you want to let fester. Hells Angels-connected serial killers were allowed to get away with murder right under the noses of the B.C. RCMP.
There would be much focus on racism during the commission, as if racism was the problem. Racism was a significant risk factor, and that’s meaningful, but the problem wasn’t racism. The problem was violent crime. The problem was the Hells Angels. The problem was the police. But the inquiry was determined to avoid actually finding any specific person or people responsible. That’s the scandal - it means that the government is officially too corrupt to investigate itself. That’s a problem, folks.
In retrospect, it is clear that the Commission was part of a major exercise in narrative control. Soon after Pickton was arrested, a publication ban was put in place that made it illegal for the press to report on many details of the case. What it basically did was make it illegal to report anything other that the government’s approved version of the story. Meanwhile, preparations for the Olympics involved a major compaign of patriotic advertising, which I think is the last time Canadians could find any zeal for nationalism.
In 2010, the Vancouver Olympics were a tremendous success. Also in 2010, the publication ban expired. Around this time, momentum was building towards a public inquiry. It’s also as if they planned it this way.
It’s worth noting that the Missing Women Commission was specific to women who had gone missing from the DTES between 1997 and 2002, meaning that the experience of marginalized women from other parts of B.C., such as the Highway of Tears, would not fall within the scope of the Inquiry, nor would the cases of those women who went missing from this area outside the specified time frame.
THE FAILURE OF THE COMMISSION WAS LARGELY DUE TO THE GOVERNMENT FUNDING LAWYERS TO ADVISE POLICE ON HOW TO AVOID EXPOSING INCOMPETENCE, NEGLIGENCE, CRIMINALITY, AND CORRUPTION
I don’t know if the structure of the inquiry was set up to be a disaster or whether the shitshow it became was due to lawyers. Part of the problem was caused by every police agency “lawyering up” big time. One thing is sure - the extremely heavy participation of lawyers advising police basically ensured that the version of the truth that came out would be heavily censored to downplay government corruption, incompetence, and deceit. And that’s what happened. The presence of lawyers made hearings adversarial in nature. Survivors would be cross-examined by hostile lawyers, something that survivors of sexual assault sometimes call “the Second Rape”. Is this the right want to “restore public confidence”? I think not.
Meanwhile, the police who took the stand benefitted from the support of well-funded legal team. The playing field was ludicrously uneven. The whole thing began to seem Kafkaesque and cruel.
I include the following passage so you can understand how exactly this happened:
The Commissioner received 23 applications for participant status and 13 applications for funding recommendations. On May 2, 2011, Commissioner Oppal handed down his ruling that granted full or limited participant status to all of the applicants, recognizing that each group met one or more of the noted criteria and that their participation would lead to a comprehensive and effective Inquiry. For many groups, however, participant status was meaningless without the necessary funding for legal representation. Despite the Commissioner’s review of the financial circumstances of each organization and his finding that these groups could not participate without government funding for counsel, the Government of British Columbia announced it would not provide financial support to any of the community organizations that had been granted participant status. The Province agreed to fund counsel for the coalition of families of the missing and murdered women but would not provide any support to the Aboriginal organizations, women’s groups, sex workers’ groups, and human rights organizations that had been granted full or limited standing. There was widespread shock and profound disappointment among participant groups. This was the first time anyone was aware that a government denied funding to participants who had also received a funding recommendation from the Commissioner.
A number of organizations and individuals noted that the refusal to fund recommended participant groups was a direct attack by the Province on the independence of the Commission. The Commissioner had identified groups that were required, in his opinion, to assist in fulfilling the mandate of the Inquiry. By refusing to fund those groups that the Commissioner had deemed essential, the Province was effectively refusing to give the Commissioner the resources he required to fulfill the duty the Province had placed on him. As a result of this decision, these groups were effectively shut out of the process, while the public had the illusion that the groups had been allowed to participate. Without legal representation, it was simply impossible for under-resourced nonprofit organizations to manage the enormous volume of document disclosure, months of hearings, and the complex legal issues that would arise. Adequate funding for legal counsel was particularly important because the process would be highly adversarial, as police and government interests were well represented by teams of publicly funded lawyers from some of Canada’s largest law firms.
The provincial government agreed to fund counsel for the coalition of families, represented by Cameron Ward and Neil Chantler. However, two lawyers—no matter how competent—were not enough to bring forth the breadth of issues and perspectives represented among the participant groups. Nor was this the assigned role of these two counsel: they were there to take instructions from their clients, the families of the missing and murdered women, and did not have a broader responsibility to advance the systemic concerns of the community at large. Raising such systemic issues is precisely the role of intervening organizations—those who were denied funding to participate.
Instead of resigning in protest or consulting with these groups on how best to proceed, the Commissioner appointed two independent lawyers: one to represent "the Downtown Eastside" and one to represent "Aboriginal interests." It is perhaps trite to note that these "client" groups are incredibly diverse and have formed their own associations and organizations that have decades of experience working with and representing the various, and sometimes divergent, perspectives within those communities. Several organizations that represent "Downtown Eastside" interests, for example, have differing views on the laws regarding sex work, on the efficacy of harm reduction, and on what remedies are required to deal with the challenges of the impoverished neighborhood. As a result, this step was insufficient to ensure that the range of relevant perspectives was canvassed in evidence and in final argument.
Further, by hiring "independent counsel" on their initiative and without consultation, the Commission denied the organizations counsel of their choice. These groups were now shut out of the process, and official legal spokespeople had been appointed in their absence to speak on their behalf, without the benefits and protections of a solicitor-client relationship. Both of the lawyers appointed by the Inquiry spoke in media interviews of the challenge of proceeding in an Inquiry without being able to gather instructions from a client or even know who exactly their clients were.
For government organizations and employees, counsel was paid from various public funds. An expert former Vancouver Police Department officer said that he would not attend unless counsel was paid for to assist him as a participant. The Province paid the bill. Ultimately, at least 25 lawyers would be publicly funded to represent police and government interests. Ten of those lawyers would represent the direct personal interests of individual police officers. The full cost of those lawyers to the public has yet to be disclosed and likely never will be given the diverse array of government funding sources levied to cover the final tab.
When, after the closing of the evidence-gathering stage of the Inquiry, media announced that Commission lawyers had billed almost half a million dollars each for ten months’ work and further that a Commission lawyer with one year call to the bar had billed almost $200,000 for ten months’ work, the public outrage further undermined not only the Commission’s work but also the work of future commissions to earn public confidence that Commissions of Inquiry can be money well spent.
The cost of a single senior Commission lawyer could have easily funded most, if not all, of the legal representation sought by affected communities. The salary of a single senior Commission lawyer could have also funded, for a year, a drop-in center for women most at risk of being murdered or disappeared. As this report goes to press, the only women’s drug treatment center in the DTES faces closure due to lack of funding. The wages of Commission counsel, including the most junior counsel, grossly outstripped the salaries paid to those lawyers appointed to represent community interests, on an order of more than three to one.
Okay, so basically, the police were “lawyered up” big time, which explains why the Commission failed so dramatically. Police were being advised on how to avoid incriminating themselves and their employers. And basically, no one was found guilty. Everyone just agreed to blame it on racism and call it a day.
For context, Blueprint for an Inquiry explains:
It has been common practice for public inquiries to provide funding for not-for-profit agencies that provide valuable input into their processes, especially those that are granted standing as parties. For example, seven of the seventeen parties granted standing in Phase I of Ipperwash requested funding to assist with their participation; all seven were granted funding. The Arbour Commission into Certain Events at the Women’s Prison in Kingston granted standing and funding to support the participation of individual inmates, the Inmate Committee, the Canadian Association of Elizabeth Fry Societies, and the Citizen’s Advisory Committee. At the Frank Paul Inquiry, the B.C. Civil Liberties Association, the Union of B.C. Indian Chiefs, the Assembly of First Nations, the B.C. Leadership Summit, United Native Nations, and the Pivot Legal Society all had funding to participate in the Inquiry.
So, basically, the government was heavily funding the police, who had a vested interest in concealing their own corruption, and strategically opted to withhold funding from the grassroots people who wished to expose the failures of the system. It’s easy to see why many people felt the whole thing was a cruel sham. After all, the system was putting itself on trial… and opted to spare no expense in defending itself.
Really, this is a glaring example of how the police in Canada consistently put their own interests above those of the communities they are supposed to serve.
But I haven’t even mentioned the clincher yet.
THE HEART OF THE MATTER: THE COMMISSION REFUSED TO HEAR EVIDENCE ABOUT THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THE PICKTON BROTHERS AND THE HELLS ANGELS
According to Blueprint for an Inquiry:
The Commission then refused to hear evidence about possible connections between the Pickton brothers and Hell’s Angels or to look into other allegations of corruption and connections with organized crime that may have prevented vulnerable women from approaching police for fear of retaliation.
When connections to organized crime were raised as a barrier to women reporting violence on the Pickton farm, the Commissioner halted proceedings and invited the Department of Justice to object to the question. When they declined to object, the Commissioner himself then objected to the line of questioning and prevented it from advancing.
The question of whether women were prevented from coming forward to police with information about Pickton because they were intimidated by organized crime connections was highly relevant to the purpose of the Inquiry and should have been fully explored.
Um, no shit that should have been fully explored. It’s an open secret that the crux of the whole scandal is the close relationship between the RCMP and organized crime.
It should be noted that there is a word for the phenomenon of police being in bed with gangsters. It’s called corruption.
If the Missing Women Inquiry wasn’t the right time to explore the possibility that the police were corrupt, then when is the right time?
The purpose of a public inquiry should have been to expose and to route out this corruption, but that’s not what happened. Ultimately, the Commission’s final report ending up blaming police incompetence and “public indifference”.
WHY IT’S SO INFURIATING THAT THE COMMISSION ENDED UP BLAMING EVERYTHING ON “SYSTEMIC BIAS” AND “PUBLIC INDIFFERENCE”
Now, I’m obviously not a fan of the police, but the Commission’s finding that the RCMP’s refusal to raid the Pickton farm was due to “systemic bias” and “blatant police failures” is an insult to Vancouver cops like Lori Shenher, Dave Dickson, and others, who wanted to raid the Pickton farm as far back as 1998.
As for Oppal’s claim that the murders continued due to “public indifference”, that’s what really makes my blood boil. The truth is that the public has been far from indifferent. Thousands upon thousands of people have marched in the streets. There have been educational events about this issue for years. Family members have held vigils. Artists have created art to honour the missing women. A man named Wayne Leng created a website and a 1-800 phone line so people could leave tips. Doesn’t seem like he was indifferent. I guess he must not be part of the public.
A man named Bill Hiscox volunteered for an undercover operation, offering to help police detectives infiltrate the Picktons’ social circle. Given how dangerous the Hells Angels are, this would have had been at great personal risk. Kinda seems like he was the opposite of indifferent. I suppose that’s proof he’s not a member of the public either.
A woman named Christa Fox walked across Canada. There’s an annual walk to bring attention to the women who have gone missing along the Highway of Tears A woman named Sue Martin occupied Victoria Island in Ottawa and created a ceremonial space for many months.
Podcasters, documentarians, and journalists have done their part to tell the stories of the missing women. People have written books about it.
What is this “public indifference” that Wally Oppal is talking about?
Is the public supposed to do the police’s job? How? Citizen’s arrests? D.I.Y. search warrants? Vigilantism?
We’re talking about highly dangerous, violent, biker-connected killers here. Was it the job of “the public” to intervene? How? You’d need a small militia to take on a biker gang.
Remember, when the Commissioner talked about “the public”, he was talking about you and I. We’re the public. Apparently it’s our job to solve crimes, and we shouldn’t be mad at the government because the real problem is that we didn’t care enough.
The public was indifferent, and the system was biased. Case closed.
Does it make more sense now why I find this all so infuriating?
THE MISSING WOMEN COMMISSION OF INQUIRY WAS PART OF A GIANT COVER-UP
The reality is that the Commission didn’t expose the truth of what happened is because it wasn’t trying to. In reality, it was a giant exercise in narrative control. It was meant to “restore public trust” by making a big show of pretending to care about the families of victims. But in the end, no real improvements have been made.
After B.C.’s Missing Women Commission of Inquiry concluded, there was a national inquiry, which was also a disaster. After spending more than $90 Million, the National Inquiry into MMIWG concluded by declaring Canada guilty of active participation in an “ongoing genocide”. Unfortunately, the use of this term sent off a debate about semantics which ultimately led nowhere.
Worse, the national inquiry suffered from the worst kind of mission drift. It also was released at the height of the woke era, and placed the blame for the failures of the system on vague abstractions such as racism and sexism. It also drifted into all kinds of tangential subjects, all wrapped in the fashionable progressive buzzwords du jour.
I suppose that I will probably investigate the failings of the national inquiry at some point, but I think that I’m ready to take a break from thinking about these horrible crimes for a minute.
I extend my gratitude to everyone who has followed read Canadian Nightmare. Each and every one of you is proof that the public is not indifferent towards these crimes. If you’ve taken the time to read this far, you clearly do care about Canada’s missing and murdered women.
You and I are not the problem. The problem is the police and the deep state that enables them. The problem is the lawyers, politicians, judges, and bureaucrats who oversee the system. The problem is that organized crime appears to work hand-in-hand with the Canadian state, and that corruption is endemic in Canada.
Simply put, the problem is the system.
Where do we go from here? I don’t know. Presumably, it is only a matter of time before this issue captures the hearts and minds of Canadians once more. Some tragic story will remind everyone that the problem of predators preying on indigenous women has never gone away.
What will they do this time they get caught with their pants down? Call for other inquiry? Spend more money investigating themselves without ever laying any charges or actually making any real systemic changes? What’s the point? According to its own government, apparently Canada is guilty of ongoing genocide… where do you go from there? What’s the point of even attempting to reform anything if the Canadian state is by definition genocidal?
Unfortunately, I think this case has contributed to the widespread demoralization of Canadians. I really think that it made a profound impact on a lot of trouble. It was unsettling, horrifying, deeply unnerving. This caused Canadians to look in the mirror and confront their true history. And honestly there were really good parts of this era. That’s probably the most positive part of the legacy of this case. I kind of don’t think the Truth and Reconciliation Commission would have happened if it wasn’t for the genuine soul-searching that occurred in the aftermath of Pickton’s arrest.
I know that a lot of people have a lot of complicated feelings about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, and I do too, but I think that many thousands of people engaged in good faith. It was painful to learn about the dark side of Canada’s history, but we’ve got to remember that the pain of disillusionment is nothing compared to the traumatizing things indigenous children were subjected to in residential schools. It was either face the truth or live in illusion. We faced the truth, and it wasn’t easy. But we did it, and it felt that something historic had been accomplished.
All that was under Harper, by the way. When Trudeau came to power, things kind of went off the rails. When the rubber met the road, Trudeau showed his true colours right quick.
A SPECIAL MESSAGE TO LORIMER SHENHER
If Lorimer Shenher happens to be reading this, by the day, I truly do appreciate the service that you have done to the world by telling your story. What you went through was horrible, and my heart goes out to you. Anarchists have a saying that All Cops Are Bastards, but you’re living proof that there are exceptions to every rule.
I hope that you appreciate what I have done in attempting to make sure that your message to the world is not forgotten.
And to any people who might be tempted to get their hands on a copy of Shenher’s book, I encourage you to do so. A big part of it is about PTSD, and it shows the toll that this kind of thing can take on a person. This story is a story of tragedies upon tragedies upon tragedies, and one of them is that Shenher’s life was basically wrecked by this nightmare.
What That Lonely Stretch of Hell shows is that the B.C. RCMP are rotten to the core, and drastic measures will be necessary for true change. So what is to be done?
Well, I don’t know, but I can tell you what we definitely shouldn’t do, and that’s call for the government to investigate itself again.
The next time this issue flares up, the government may well start talking about another inquiry, because that’s all that politicians really know how to do at this point.
But both the Missing Women Commission and the National Inquiry were fucking disasters. They were both abysmal failures which solved nothing.
If we want to solve the problem, we should be looking at forming an organization with a budget which can hire private investigators. That organization would ideally serve as a clearinghouse of information related to serial killer investigations as well as a guide for family members who are searching for a missing loved one.
Such an organization would need to be fully independent from any level of government, meaning that it could not accept funding from any governmental agency. Likely, it would depend upon volunteer labour.
That said, I think that people need to realize that detective work is a specific skill set, and we can’t necessarily expect volunteers to do as good a job as professionals. Furthermore, the type of work I’m talking about is very difficult emotionally. It’s unreasonable to expect people to do this work for free in their spare time.
I’m well aware that this is a tall order, but the fact of the matter is that the government hasn’t showed the slightest sign that it has any intention of changing its ways.
In other words:
Option A: Do nothing
Option B: Demand that the government do something
Option C: Create an independent organization with a mandate to fund private investigations
To me, Option C is the best available option. But let’s be clear what we’re talking about here. We’re talking about someone voluntarily taking it upon themselves to subject themselves to some of the most upsetting work imaginable.
In other words, Canada needs a hero. Or better yet, a whole squad of heroes.
First and foremost, however, Canada needs one single heroic visionary who wishes to take this Herculean task upon themselves. If we had that, I don’t doubt that a lot of people would support him or her. I am of the firm belief that Terence McKenna spoke the truth when he said “Nature loves Courage”.
That is to say, the universe is not static, neutral, or inert. I believe that whoever takes this on will be supported by mysterious spiritual forces. I believe that the truth wants to come out. I believe that justice wants to be done. This story isn’t going away.
But the biggest takeaway I’ve got comes from Dr. Seuss, of all people.
As he put it:
Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.
I know that this series hasn’t exactly been fun reading, but I hope that you have gotten something of value from it.
The fact of the matter is that the government is too corrupt to investigate itself, which means that there is no point in applying political pressure through state-sanctioned means.
It’s D.I.Y. or Die at this point, folks.
And please, please, please, if you hear people calling for a public inquiry, please pass along some of what you have learned from Canadian Nightmare.
Thanks for reading.
Love & Solidarity,
Crow Qu’appelle
MY PREVIOUS ARTICLES ABOUT MISSING AND MURDERED INDIGENOUS WOMEN IN B.C.
August 13, 2022 - Ten Things You Need to Know about the Drug War Right Fucking Now
August 20, 2022 - Indigenous women are still being murdered in Vancouver, and the police are still are covering it up
August 21, 2022 - Will Five Billion Dollars be Enough to Cover Up Vancouver’s Dirty Little Secret?
October 3rd, 2023 - Robert Pickton is Eligible for Parole in 2024
March 1, 2024 - Robert Pickton is Up for Parole
May 2024 - Who Killed Robert Pickton?
June 19, 2024 - The Never-Ending Nightmare
June 20, 2024 - Canadian Nightmare (Part 1)
June 20, 2024 - “Canada’s Epstein Island” (Canadian Nightmare Part 2)
June 23, 2024 - KICK DOWN THE DOOR FOR JUSTICE! (The Case of Chelsea Poorman)
June 26, 2024 - THE RCMP IS TRYING TO DESTROY EVIDENCE FROM THE PICKTON PIG FARM - Canadian Nightmare (Part 3)
July 1, 2024 - How Many Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women are there in Canada?
July 2, 2024 - Canadian Nightmare (Part 4)
The Missing Women Commission ofInquiry
by Lori Shenher, excerpted from That Lonely Stretch of Hell (2015)
I FEEL SO ALONE on my first day of testimony, January 30, 2012. The preparation throughout the weeks leading up to it winds me tighter and tighter as I relive so much of the work I'd done on the file with the commission, Vancouver Police Union (VPU), and City of Vancouver counsel, reviewing documents and memos I'd written begging my supervisors for more resources. Reliving the ineffectual nature of our work, the helplessness in imploring the RCMP to investigate the Ellingsen tip—all of this is like going back to a crime scene for me. The lawyers I work with treat me so well, and I feel grateful for their professionalism and interest.
In the first weeks of the inquiry, witnesses such as VPD Deputy Chief Constable Doug LePard, Peel Regional Police Deputy Chief Constable Jennifer Evans, various experts from the criminology and sociology worlds, and family members of the victims testify for days on end, time a seemingly endless commodity. I become increasingly anxious, fearing I will be on the stand for weeks if people with far less to answer for are taking several days to testify.
I follow the testimony from the commission’s start in October 2011, and even listening to that evidence proves difficult for me emotionally. As I listen one day, lawyers for the Vancouver police begin talking about Cara Ellis, a woman who'd gone missing in 1997. Her sister-in-law, Lori-Ann Ellis, first reported Cara missing to the Vancouver police in 1998, when the Calgary woman’s own search of the Downtown Eastside turned up nothing. Cara’s DNA was found on the Pickton farm in 2004, her blood on a prayer card featuring the words of the 23rd Psalm, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” located in Pickton’s slaughterhouse.
I’ve known about Cara Ellis as a victim of Pickton but not the timeline of her disappearance; I’ve always assumed she had gone missing after my time working in Project Amelia because I'd never heard of her until the last few years. Her file was somehow misplaced, abandoned in a drawer in the Missing Persons office, and Cara’s information hadn’t been entered or retained in a manner that would have enabled her case to be investigated further. Physically sick at the thought that I missed this entire case, I contact Sean Hern, a lawyer representing the City of Vancouver, during a break in the testimony I have been watching from my office.
“Sean, tell me I didn’t have anything to do with Cara Ellis,” I blurt. I’d seen Lori-Ann in the press and read about Cara for years since Pickton’s arrest, but I’d never had any dealings with the file. Suddenly, I find myself questioning my memory and sanity. Sean, a quiet sea of calm in a noisy, stormy legal world, has become used to my excitability throughout the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry.
“No, her file was lost in a drawer somewhere in the Missing Persons office. You never would have seen it,” he reassures me, his voice even and calm. “It’s a mess, but you had nothing to do with it.”
“Thank God,” I say. “I mean, I wish I’d seen it, but I knew I hadn't. Oh my God, this is awful.” Sean agrees.
The days of my preparation are long, and the constant immersion in those events of 1998 to 2002 shakes me deeply, as though I am experiencing all that grief and loss freshly a second time. In small part, I feel excited and energized that finally, after more than twelve years, this inquiry is happening. I feel hopeful that when this is done, I can move on and take all I've learned and use it for good. Working with the commission lawyers and my own counsel encourages me. It is refreshing to be among people who agree that the events of 1999 regarding Pickton and Ellingsen are murky at best and need to be better known and understood.
Each day before my testimony at the inquiry, I walk to a 6:00 AM yoga class to calm myself and physically prepare for long days of sitting. Strict personal routines have been my friend and lifeline as well as my prison since 2002, and this week of testimony further intensifies my need for a regular, predictable daily regimen. I’ve been practicing yoga since 2005 when I sought it out in desperation, unable to cope with my PTSD. Historically, I've dealt with stress through running and other exercise, but I’ve reached a point where I ache all the time and my old strategies aren't working. Now, I cling to my yoga like a life preserver.
My class ends at 7:30 AM, after which I walk down the street, drop into a juice bar, and buy a double shot of wheatgrass with an OJ chaser. I am terrified of illness and worried that touching the handholds on the Canada Line trains might cause me to contract the flu or something worse, and I hope that wheatgrass will boost my immunity. I have become a compulsive hand washer and obsessively use hand sanitizer.
Wheatgrass is the strongest thing that passes my lips these days.
The juice bar guy recognizes me from the news, and I feel grateful to have him to chat with over these four days. I continue to the grocery store for a couple of bananas and an energy bar, but I stop going there when I see with shock my own image staring out at me from the cover of the National Post in the check-out line. When I feel ready to enter the VPD building—an act I’ve found more and more difficult to perform since 2002—I shower and dress for court.
I brought my court clothes for the week down early on the preceding Saturday morning, hoping not to run into anyone. Since 2002, I've had a great deal of difficulty being in and around the VPD offices and officers, and straying from my normal worksite and routine causes me a lot of anxiety. My isolation is self-imposed, and I push people away and distance myself more and more from the police world over time. I mistrust the police in general and the entire institution’s ability to protect or save anyone in need. Berating myself for having these limitations makes me feel even worse. Suck it up. Go into the office, for God's sake. It’s just a workplace. It isn’t the damn farm. It isn't your old project room.
This first morning, I step onto the elevator and run into an inspector I know who says, “So, all ready for your big day?” I nod. There are a couple of other policemen in the elevator I have never met, and one speaks up.
“Why? What’s she doing?” asks the young policeman.
“She’s testifying at the missing women inquiry,” the inspector answers.
“Oh, jeez, is that thing still dragging on? What more do those people want?” the young cop says, rolling his eyes. I just raise my eyebrows at the inspector and step out of the elevator, thankful we are at the bottom. Welcome to my world.
“Good luck,” the inspector calls. “Is anyone driving you?”
“Nope.” I say, walking out of the building toward the Canada Line station.
When I arrive at the federal court building, I ride the elevator to the eighth floor, grateful to be the only person inside. As the doors open, I scan left and right—another habit I've developed since 2002. Never do I enter a room or location without checking left and right. I have no idea why.
The hallway is empty, except for the commissionaire sitting at the entry desk. I ask her where the hearing room is, and she directs me down the hall and to the right. Maybe this won't be so bad, I think as I near the end of the hallway. As I turn right, digital cameras whirr and click, and I have no idea where to look or walk. Determined to not appear rattled, I walk up to the hearing room doors and, discovering they are locked, turn around and enter a small meeting room that I will later learn is specifically for witnesses like me when we aren't in court.
I arrive early, as instructed by my lawyers, so I leave the door slightly ajar and stand in the room waiting. I perform a self-check, asking myself, Am I okay? Do I feel anything? Do I feel weird? Strange? Anxious? I felt nothing but numbness. I expect to be hyper-aroused for these proceedings, heart pounding through my chest, as often happens now whenever I felt anxious, but I feel pretty good. I hope this is a positive sign. Sean Hern joins me, and his calm, quiet, assured demeanor comforts me, though I can’t recall much of what we say or do. The hard work and preparation are done. My Vancouver Police Union lawyer, David Crossin, joins us. I’ve lobbied hard to have him represent me separately from Fisk and Myers because I know our interests are in direct opposition. Fortunately, the VPU agrees, and Dave acts for Geramy Field and me, whereas Kevin Woodall’s office represents Fisk and Myers.
We enter the hearing room, and Sean instructs me to sit in the gallery until called. He sits with me, and I look past him and see Lori-Ann Ellis, Lillianne Beaudoin, George Lane, and Michele Pineault seated on the other side of the gallery. I know George and Michele but have only seen Lori-Ann and Lillianne in the media, and I want to greet them all. I lean over to Sean.
“Can I go talk to the families? Is that allowed?”
“Of course,” he says. I rise and make my way over to them, a little apprehensive, not knowing whether they will welcome me. I greet Michele first.
“Hi, Michele. How're you doing?” I extend my hand, and she takes it. We speak for a couple of minutes. I turn to George and shake his hand. They greet me with warmth, and I feel immediately at ease. I extend my condolences for their daughter Stephanie’s death, allegedly at the hands of Pickton. I hadn't been able to reach them the night of the arrest. Like so many people touched by this case, they have struggled over the years with how to manage such an awful tragedy. Michele and I run into each other later that morning in the washroom, and we talk more about our journeys. We share a lot in those few minutes, and I have so much respect for Michele and how she has survived so much heartache and continues to advocate for missing and murdered women.
"I only know you two from the news," I say as I shake Lillianne’s and Lori-Ann’s hands. "It’s really good to meet you both. I am so sorry." They smile, and I like them both instantly.
The entire day is a blur. Commission counsel Karey Brooks leads me through my evidence in chief, which consists of my explanation of my actions working on the file. She listens to my evidence and directs me to documents I want entered into the record. At lunch, I ride the elevator down with Sean, and we step out onto the street together, walking and talking as he approaches his office and I near the Pacific Centre mall entrance. He touches my elbow, steering me away from something, and I turn to see a huge television camera inches from my face as we stand on the corner. I feel completely unnerved, not because it is there, but because I had no idea the cameraman was following us. We part, and I walk into the mall to grab some lunch.
Television screens hang from the ceiling of the food court, and it shakes me further to see Missing Women Commission of Inquiry footage of myself on each of them as the noon news plays. I realize people are staring at me, so I turn and leave without food, too self-conscious to stay and eat. I walk out onto Hornby Street and grab a Subway sandwich, which I eat alone back in the witness room.
I note with some surprise that the intense anxiety in the middle of my chest is absent and has been since I began preparing for my testimony. In its place is hardness, a numbed-out solid mass I envision as the clay from my junior high school art class, gray and dense. I realize then that I have felt no nervousness, no butterflies in these long days leading up to my appearance at the inquiry. Although I feel surprisingly normal and very much not how I had felt for the ten years since the search, I don’t feel particularly good. I don’t feel anything. I hate this.
Karey continues leading me through my evidence the rest of that afternoon and Tuesday morning. During our preparation the week before, she asks me if I’d be comfortable telling the commission how the investigation has affected me, personally and professionally. I feel no hesitation in answering yes, but immediately after she asks me in our preparation session, I feel fear and uncertainty. Can I keep my emotions in check? What will it mean to my testimony, my credibility, if I break down and expose myself for the raw mess of grief that is my mind these past ten years? Does any of it matter? Is my suffering even relevant? You're the cop, not the victim here. Keep your shit to yourself. Still, I cannot discount the impact the case has had on me, and I want the commission to know. I want the RCMP to know what their inaction has done to me. I want the VPD to know what their lack of investigative support has left me with.
Karey asks me the question just before the lunch break. "So, I understand that this investigation has affected you in both a personal and professional way. So, if you could tell us about that." I start hesitantly. "Well, before I begin, I want to, I just want to be clear that whatever impact this has had on me I think is very minor compared, in comparison to what the families and friends of the missing and murdered women have gone through, and I’m very cognizant of that."
What the transcript doesn’t show is how I break down in gulping, wracking sobs as I croak out the rest of what I have to say, all broadcast via the Canadian Broadcast Corporation live feed of the proceedings. I divide my comments into how I was coping at work before the search of the Pickton farm and after.
I mention how VPD Chief Constable Jamie Graham’s assignment (I mistakenly say Chief Chambers on the stand) of Doug LePard to chronicle the VPD side of the investigation is the first—and only—acknowledgment of the seriousness of the file I ever saw from the VPD. I speak haltingly and far less articulately than I would like to, but I am desperately trying to hold myself together to speak the words I need to say.
I conclude by saying, “I don’t want anyone to go through what these families have gone through, you know, or what I have gone through professionally. So, that’s really all I have to say, and I thank you all for your indulgence. Thank you, Mr. Commissioner." I sit there, head hanging, wiping at my tears with the tissue I am thankful someone has passed me at some point.
Commissioner Oppal responds. “I want to thank you, Detective Shenher, for sharing those thoughts with us. You have given us an indication of how much of an impact, on a personal level, this tragedy, this horrific tragedy, has had on you, and I think it helps us understand what happened. And your comments—I am sure by everybody in the room—are very much appreciated. I want to thank you for doing that.” He pauses and then reminds us we are to return for 1:30 PM to resume my testimony.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to stay there, but I can't imagine going anywhere for lunch, not that I have any appetite. As I sit, head down, in the witness box working hard to collect myself, a line silently forms in front of me. Wrapped up in my own misery and shame for breaking down when I'd hoped I wouldn't, I don’t see it.
When I finally look up, there they are. Karey is first to approach and hug me. After her comes an Indigenous woman I first met that day named Marie, then family members Lori-Ann Ellis, Lillianne Beaudoin, Michele Pineault, and a couple of people whose names I don’t even know—friends and strangers who feel compelled to share comfort with me, even when I am complicit in their own incomprehensibly painful loss.
Two court-appointed social workers sit with me in the witness room over lunch, and Karey generously brings me a sandwich. Normally, I would chat with the social workers—they are so kind—but I have little to say. I feel laid bare, exhausted, and unable to even feel embarrassed at everyone's obvious reluctance to leave me alone, but the social workers are lovely and don’t feel the need to fill the room with chatter. I am completely spent. I can barely think about the challenge that still lies ahead of me that afternoon: cross-examination by less friendly counsel than the commission lawyers. I don't care; I feel the worst is already behind me.
The week continues with each lawyer taking turns cross-examining me on my evidence. I find the majority of the lawyers respectful and professional; indeed, I have pleasant conversations with many of them during the breaks when it is appropriate, careful not to discuss any details of my evidence.
I lose my patience and objectivity responding to the questioning by Darrell Roberts, an experienced lawyer representing Marion Bryce, the mother of alleged Pickton victim Patricia Johnson, touting his theory that the murdered women were victims of “kidnapping by fraud.” His position is that we should have been pursuing a kidnapper in our investigation. He argues that this would have somehow changed the manner in which we approached the investigation and given us grounds for a warrant to search Pickton’s farm far sooner.
Although I admire his creativity, I fail to understand how you could kidnap someone who willingly entered your vehicle. His “Kidnapping by Fraud” theory extends to me insofar as he feels I had grounds to apply for a warrant to search Pickton’s property as far back as 1998, when Bill Hiscox first came to me with his thirdhand information about women’s clothing and purses seen in Pickton’s trailer.
Roberts applies this theory to his questioning of every police witness in the inquiry, bent on proving we somehow ignored the possibility that the women were kidnapped. Obviously, if Pickton’s intent was to murder the women at some point in the interaction, that interaction was fraudulent in that it was not the simple sex-for-money transaction he led the victims to believe, but how would that change how we investigated him? How could you prove there was fraud in the transaction without the statements of the victims? I simply cannot understand how we could be expected to get inside Pickton’s head to know his intentions.
Roberts seems to not understand how police officers speak or work, continually asking me what criminal charge I was pursuing at any given time in the investigation. It is far more intuitive work than that; I knew there was a serious crime committed, probably murder. I expected to uncover the physical or witness evidence to prove it. I can grasp his reasoning in some ways, but it just doesn’t come from a place of reality, in my view. He asks me several questions about my knowledge of kidnapping, and my answers are frustratingly inadequate, and I know it. Of course, I know what the crime of kidnapping is, but in trying to keep my annoyance in check and my answers brief, I realize I am not fully explaining myself or my experience with kidnapping, and that is a mistake. It is not my finest hour.
My anger rises to the surface during my cross-examination by Kevin Woodall’s second chair, Claire Hatcher, who is acting for VPD constables Fisk and Myers. She attempts to defend them as hardworking and earnest investigators, unfairly ostracized from Project Amelia and single-minded in their desire to catch a killer. Each time she tries to steer me toward agreeing that they had been merely misunderstood and their efforts had been laudable, I remind her and the commission of the manner in which they withheld vital information from me and the rest of Project Amelia by failing to report that women on the Downtown Eastside had picked Pickton’s photo from their “lineup.” Hatcher attempts to have me say that I documented no tangible evidence that Fisk and Myers kept secrets from Project Amelia. I feel this is a critical issue for the investigation, and I refuse to be caught in her web. It is difficult for me, however. I fear testifying against colleagues, no matter how badly I feel they might have performed. Every evening for months after giving this testimony, I look over my shoulder in the darkness as I walk my dog around my neighborhood for fear—albeit irrational and unsubstantiated—that one of them will confront me. To be clear, neither of them ever threatens me, nor do I believe them to be bad people, but I know a small percentage of VPD members condemn me for speaking out against Fisk and Myers.
“You haven't ever documented a secret that you've discovered they've kept from you?” Hatcher asks.
“Yes. The fact that they didn’t acknowledge to me that three women, three sex trade workers, had identified Pickton from the photographs that they showed around the Downtown Eastside,” I reply.
“Regardless of how you feel that came to be or regardless of your beliefs about that, there’s no evidence that they deliberately kept that from you?”
“All I can tell you is I never saw any notes and they never had any conversation with me coming back to the office saying, ‘Hey, guess what, we think Pickton is in the Downtown Eastside. We found three sex trade workers that know him.’ That was never communicated to me. That's my evidence.”
“That's clear. But as far as, aside from that issue, you haven't been able to find in all your interviews with LePard and Evans, you haven't identified any tangible example of a secret that they kept from the team?”
“I think I’ve testified to what I believe is the secret they kept from the team.”
I look at her hard, thinking, How many more times do you want me to say it? Is prompting me to repeat this really helping your clients? “Aside from that issue”? That issue is THE issue. No matter how hard Fisk and Myers might have worked or how misunderstood they might have been, I feel they committed an egregious error by keeping this information from the team. I understand that she doesn’t have much to work with, but I just will not agree to something that isn’t the truth.
Commissioner Oppal would determine the following after hearing all testimony and documenting it in his report: “In April, several women in the DTES (Downtown Eastside) identify Pickton from a group of photographs shown to them by Det. Cst. Fisk and Det. Cst. Myers. Other members of the MWRT (Project Amelia) are not advised of this information. Shortly after, the two constables go to Lethbridge to arrest the suspect they had been investigating.”
On February 2, 2012, a familiar bittersweet sensation comes over me at the completion of my first week of testimony. My friend Tim Timberg, himself a lawyer, waits for me in the gallery as Commissioner Oppal tells me I am free to go. Tim sweeps me up in a big hug, and, as usual, I choke up. He returns with me to the witness room and we close the door and talk for a long while. Once he leaves, I begin collecting my various binders and notes. As I do, there is a knock at the door. I open it, and there stands Commissioner Oppal, no jacket, shirtsleeves rolled up.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course.” I motion him in and close the door behind him.
“How are you doing?”
“Okay.” He smiles. “I’m doing okay. How are you?”
“Pretty glad this week is over,” I say. We both laugh.
“I wanted to thank you again for your testimony.” He looks at me fixedly. “You brought a high level of integrity to your testimony and your contributions have been very important to this inquiry.” I see his eyes tear up. “I know you've had a really tough time of it all these years.”
I swallow hard. “Thanks, Wally. You're going to get me crying again.”
I never seem to know when I might break into tears. He gives me a hug, and I remember that despite all my criticisms of the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry and the choice of him as commissioner, I’ve always felt that he cared about the women. I feel he is a good person, trying to do his best, like all of us. He steps out and leaves me alone.
So many times over these nearly fourteen years Ihave hoped the case might finally be over, but I fear and sense another step remains for me. The topic of my manuscript arises several times in my first week of testimony, and Dave Crossin advises me to prepare so that I can return to testify to its contents. Once again, I am done but not finished. From 1998 until mid-2012, this case continues to hold me in its grasp.
[…]
Defending My Writing
IT IS APRIL 4, 2012. I am once again sitting in the witness box of the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry.
I have returned to the federal court to testify today and tomorrow, answering lawyers’ questions about the contents of the first draft of a book manuscript I wrote after the search of the Pickton farm began in 2002. A manifesto of bitterness and regret, a venting of the spleen that never would have seen the light of day had my fear, anxiety, and compulsion not spurred me to try to publish it. I feel sick. How many times have I written these three words?
Sick that I have somehow become the focus of this inquiry, which has morphed into a parody of itself. Sick that this nightmare is never really over. Sick that my manuscript joins the many other red herrings, which, like the investigation itself, have distracted attention from finding these women and learning why we didn’t find them sooner. Sick that my attempts to survive this tragedy have now taken valuable time and attention away from the real issues that few other than the lawyers for the families seem interested in exploring. Sick of the ass-covering, including my own. Sick that my candid comments about some of my coworkers now form the basis for cross-examination. Sick that my analysis of the events that led to this tragedy remain much the same today. Sick of reliving this entire tragedy over and over for years and years.
Shortly after the Pickton farm search began in February 2002, I sat down at my computer when I awoke from nightmares and couldn't get back to sleep and began maniacally hammering out the details of the investigation. The shock of the investigation shook me to the core. I felt no confidence in the police investigation that was taking place as I furiously typed out my part from the early days. I was seized by the terror that somehow Pickton would walk free and I would be made a scapegoat for this epic failure, and I feverishly tried to explain all I had done and all I had yet to learn and understand. I worried that the failure to pursue Pickton in 1999 would be covered up, and I refused to let that happen.
In some ways, writing my story felt therapeutic, but it also reinforced how messed up the entire debacle was. Mercifully, my manuscript was not mentioned during Pickton’s criminal trial, and I escaped having to testify there because my work as a detective on the missing persons cases was admitted into evidence in his trial.
However, the lawyers at the inquiry were aware of the manuscript and pressed Commissioner Oppal to include it as an exhibit. In legal terms, the manuscript constituted just another form of my notes on the case. Many of my writer friends were shocked to learn that had I written about the case in a private journal, it would be considered my notes and part of my documents from the case. A police officer’s written thoughts about the details of a case are not private. Eventually, the commissioner agreed to a compromise and allowed the lawyers and their clients to read a redacted version of the manuscript and then question me on the contents. I was permitted to redact my “private thoughts,” which I found quite funny, given that the entire thing contained my private thoughts. I blacked out very little; my lawyers went through it and removed a little more. Commissioner Oppal continued to appear disinclined to admit the document into evidence for anyone to read, despite pressure from the lawyers. Ultimately, he did not allow the manuscript to be entered as an exhibit.
Q: Did you write this? A: Yes.
Q: Did you mean it? A: For the most part, yes.
Occasionally, I am able to testify that I have since learned information that has changed my views from those in the manuscript or that it was in no way ready for publication in the state of that initial draft. These opportunities help, but they are few and far between. I admit to the areas where I was harsh or unfair to people, and I am able to assert that it hadn't been assessed by a lawyer for errors or omissions or for libel, for my protection. Over and over, I explain that this was a first draft, that these were my impressions of what went on, formed in the absence of anyone’s presenting me with evidence of their side.
Very little in this process contains a shred of concern for my protection, including my own actions. My lawyer, Dave Crossin, tries to look out for me but sees me for the difficult client and loose cannon I’ve become. I stick my jaw out like a drunk mouthing off at the biggest guy in the bar, poking my finger in any chest and hoping to be punched, to take the punishment I know I deserve. My boundaries desert me and I lay myself bare, in some misguided hope that if they see how open and honest I am about my own experience, they will think, Ah, there’s a police officer who is decent and thoughtful, different. Most of the other cops have clammed up and hunkered down; I have placed my heart on Commissioner Wally Oppal’s desk and don’t understand that this simple act is killing me. I don’t know now that I won't see that result for a couple of years. Remnants of my boundaries were still with me the first week I testified, January 30 to February 2, 2012, but sitting here a few weeks later, they've vanished.
Much has changed. I’m now seated to the left of Commissioner Oppal; two months ago, I was in a witness box to his right, before the inquiry shifted from a one-witness procedure to the more expedient and less truth-enabling multiple-witness panels, designed to move the hearings along more quickly so that the inquiry will conclude before the funding runs out. A recent B.C. provincial commission of inquiry into the salmon fishery ran well beyond its terms of reference in this same courtroom; fish warrant deadline extensions, but human beings apparently do not.
Shortly after my first stint, the inquiry’s pace began to speed up and limit opportunities for the lawyers’ questioning. Now, police officers in decision-making positions sit on panels with two and three cohorts, their time for giving evidence short and the lawyers’ opportunity for cross-examination even shorter. Police managers and decision-makers with far more to explain than me are able to hide on three- and four-person panel discussions, the ever-ticking clock their friend, whereas I’m returned here without any cover, willing the days to end. In some ways, I prefer this, because I have nothing to hide, but I have lost sight of what's best for me as a person, not as a witness.
More and more frequently, I hear lawyers express their inability to exercise their mandate on behalf of their clients because of the ridiculous time constraints imposed on their cross-examinations. Names arise of numerous police officers inexplicably not called to testify about their roles in the file. I am baffled, but lately, that is not new for me.
My mind keeps wandering as I sit here; last time, I was sharp, focused, and listened intently to every word said to and about me, not wanting to miss a thing or give anyone an opportunity to unfairly judge or assess my job performance. I felt clear about what my responsibilities were and where my own many culpabilities lay, as well as what was not my fault and what I wanted answers for. Now, I’m all about survival, but I know I’m not doing a very good job of it.
As my April 4, 2012, testimony continues, Cameron Ward, the lawyer for the missing and murdered women’s families, is reading long passages of text aloud so that they will form part of the record, because the commissioner has refused to have the “document”—my manuscript—entered as an exhibit. I suppose I should be grateful, for this will allow me theoretically to publish one day and not have any supposed thunder stolen, but this process makes me cringe. I wonder how many other writers have had to defend their work in a similarly inquisitorial forum. I tune out, because listening is excruciating.
“That damned book,” as my partner has occasionally referred to it, has caused me nothing but grief. How can I explain that I see it as both my undoing and my salvation? From those dark days in the autumn of 1999, I knew I had to write it. The circumstances of the case compelled me to write it. I began composing it in my head whenever the investigation became too bizarre to make sense of. My identity as a writer provided safe harbor when the rough waves of policing showed no sign of subsiding. Writing was home to me; policing an on-location acting job.
Throughout my policing career, I felt like an imposter—as a queer person, as a female, as left of center, as a writer, as someone who questioned the police culture and the system. I was different, and never before had I felt that as intensely as when the Pickton case broke. Far stronger than my sense of being a cop and detective was my need to be a truth-teller—a need that simmered just below the surface throughout Project Amelia but that could not be expressed for so many reasons, most relating to job security and the culture I toiled within.
Now that need was replaced by a loud screaming voice inside my head that told me I had to tell this story, my story, their story. It was not a desire; it was a compulsion, and I briefly tried to fight it, knowing there was nothing I wanted more than to just forget this whole damn thing. But as a writer, I saw no choice. As a human being, I bore a responsibility. As a person with a heart, I was driven to make sense of the insanity for myself and for those who cared. Most of all, for those women who did not deserve to be dead and for those left behind.
Although at times I questioned my own sanity, I knew I had to try to tell their story. It began to haunt me, driving me to sneak back into the basement where I’d temporarily stored the many volumes of notes and the scores of binders from Project Amelia. The manuscript, writing it and trying to publish it, was an exorcism I desperately needed to perform to survive, to stop those ghosts from haunting my days and nights. It was not a success.
It continues to eat away at me. My unpublished manuscript was the catalyst for my being the most-searched police officer involved in the Pickton investigation, which contributed to my losing my career. Although it brought my feelings of pain and frustration to the surface, it also prevented my fully processing these emotions.
When I received an offer of publication in 2004 from a small press publisher, my first reaction was giddy elation, followed by gut-wrenching fear. My giddiness returned and persisted when I received the first royalty check in 2007, small though it was. I was so out of my depth. Then I received the writ.
As the lawyer reads from my book aloud to those gathered in this forum, I wonder if this small press still has the check I never cashed. I have never seen the manuscript in this form before, not in someone else’s hands, not with others passing judgment on it. I wanted the manuscript to be a declaration of my truth, but in this cold, harsh light, it feels like an albatross around my neck.
The lawyer’s questions continue, and my answers are the same.
Q: Did you write this?
A: Yes.
Q: Did you mean it?
A: For the most part, yes.
Occasionally, I am able to testify that I have since learned information that has changed my views from those in the manuscript or that it was in no way ready for publication in the state of that initial draft. These opportunities help, but they are few and far between. I admit to the areas where I was harsh or unfair to people, and I am able to assert that it hadn't been assessed by a lawyer for errors or omissions or for libel, for my protection. Over and over, I explain that this was a first draft, that these were my impressions of what went on, formed in the absence of anyone presenting me with evidence of their side.
Very little in this process contains a shred of concern for my protection, including my own actions. My lawyer, Dave Crossin, tries to look out for me but sees me for the difficult client and loose cannon I’ve become. I stick my jaw out like a drunk mouthing off at the biggest guy in the bar, poking my finger in any chest and hoping to be punched, to take the punishment I know I deserve. My boundaries desert me, and I lay myself bare, in some misguided hope that if they see how open and honest I am about my own experience, they will think, Ah, there’s a police officer who is decent and thoughtful, different. Most of the other cops have clammed up and hunkered down; I have placed my heart on Commissioner Wally Oppal’s desk and don’t understand that this simple act is killing me. I don’t know now that I won't see that result for a couple of years. Remnants of my boundaries were still with me the first week I testified, January 30 to February 2, 2012, but sitting here a few weeks later, they've vanished.
Much has changed. I’m now seated to the left of Commissioner Oppal; two months ago, I was in a witness box to his right, before the inquiry shifted from a one-witness procedure to the more expedient and less truth-enabling multiple-witness panels, designed to move the hearings along more quickly so that the inquiry will conclude before the funding runs out. A recent B.C. provincial commission of inquiry into the salmon fishery ran well beyond its terms of reference in this same courtroom; fish warrant deadline extensions, but human beings apparently do not.
Shortly after my first stint, the inquiry’s pace began to speed up and limit opportunities for the lawyers’ questioning. Now, police officers in decision-making positions sit on panels with two and three cohorts, their time for giving evidence short and the lawyers’ opportunity for cross-examination even shorter. Police managers and decision-makers with far more to explain than me are able to hide on three- and four-person panel discussions, the ever-ticking clock their friend, whereas I’m returned here without any cover, willing the days to end. In some ways, I prefer this, because I have nothing to hide, but I have lost sight of what's best for me as a person, not as a witness.
More and more frequently, I hear lawyers express their inability to exercise their mandate on behalf of their clients because of the ridiculous time constraints imposed on their cross-examinations. Names arise of numerous police officers inexplicably not called to testify about their roles in the file. I am baffled, but lately, that is not new for me.
My mind keeps wandering as I sit here; last time, I was sharp, focused, and listened intently to every word said to and about me, not wanting to miss a thing or give anyone an opportunity to unfairly judge or assess my job performance. I felt clear about what my responsibilities were and where my own many culpabilities lay, as well as what was not my fault and what I wanted answers for. Now, I’m all about survival, but I know I’m not doing a very good job of it.
As my April 4, 2012, testimony continues, Cameron Ward, the lawyer for the missing and murdered women’s families, is reading long passages of text aloud so that they will form part of the record because the commissioner has refused to have the “document”—my manuscript—entered as an exhibit. I suppose I should be grateful, for this will allow me theoretically to publish one day and not have any supposed thunder stolen, but this process makes me cringe. I wonder how many other writers have had to defend their work in a similarly inquisitorial forum. I tune out because listening is excruciating.
“That damned book,” as my partner has occasionally referred to it, has caused me nothing but grief. How can I explain that I see it as both my undoing and my salvation? From those dark days in the autumn of 1999, I knew I had to write it. The circumstances of the case compelled me to write it. I began composing it in my head whenever the investigation became too bizarre to make sense of. My identity as a writer provided a safe harbor when the rough waves of policing showed no sign of subsiding. Writing was home to me; policing was an on-location acting job.
Throughout my policing career, I felt like an imposter—as a queer person, as a female, as left of center, as a writer, as someone who questioned the police culture and the system. I was different, and never before had I felt that as intensely as when the Pickton case broke. Far stronger than my sense of being a cop and detective was my need to be a truth-teller—a need that simmered just below the surface throughout Project Amelia but that could not be expressed for so many reasons, most relating to job security and the culture I toiled within.
Now that need was replaced by a loud screaming voice inside my head that told me I had to tell this story, my story, their story. It was not a desire; it was a compulsion, and I briefly tried to fight it, knowing there was nothing I wanted more than to just forget this whole damn thing. But as a writer, I saw no choice. As a human being, I bore a responsibility. As a police officer, I felt a duty. Sitting here in the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry hearing room, I think of the media accounts I've read of my pending testimony, of those reporters wondering how I could possibly cite burnout and breakdown and at the same time have the energy and ability to write a book. Some of the lawyers in the inquiry pursue this line of questioning, asking me how I could possibly write a book if I was so shattered by my work on this file. I struggle to articulate that writing the manuscript both tortured and soothed me. Writing was never an effort for me, but reliving the investigation was another matter.
Am I obligated to share the details of the horrific nightmares that woke me every morning at 4:00 AM in those first months after the Pickton farm search, plus several sleepless years before and after? That I'd sit in front of my computer obsessively pounding out the details of the investigation until I went to work at 6:00 every morning? That overwhelming anxiety is a powerful motor driving you forward, unlike depression, which presses down on your head and pulls at your heels like a ball and chain? Anxiety made me very productive, but its effects don’t last forever, as I would discover. I wrote like a person possessed because I felt my life depended on it.
They wonder how I could quit the investigation and then write and consult for Da Vinci's Inquest. How has this commission of inquiry become about me? Why are the brightest lights of scrutiny glaring into my eyes when so many others are much more deserving of audit? Because I had dared to put myself out there. Why should I have to publicly point out that my trauma has never been about the actual events on that farm, tragic and deplorable as they were, but is rooted in the lack of support for our investigation from the VPD and the RCMP? Why do I feel the need to explain myself and be known?
My trauma was about knowing horrible things were happening out there on that farm and not being able to convince the right people to act on it. My trauma was about lack of operational and investigative support. My trauma was about failing my oath and knowing I could never again trust that our policing institutions had the best interests and safety of the public at heart. I knew when I signed up for the VPD and set my sights on a career as a homicide detective that I would see terrible, terrible things. I felt prepared for that as well as anyone could be. I wasn’t prepared for spin and deflection of our responsibilities.
My trauma was about taking an oath to do a dirty job and finding the tools to do that job were withheld from me. Indeed, the very obligation to do that job was questioned by the people in place to provide those tools. How could I continue when I had no confidence the same thing wouldn't happen again on other cases where other people would die from our inaction? Why did I work at the VPD and do the job I was paid for when that job wasn’t supported? When my findings weren't listened to? What was the point of even being here if our inaction was allowing people to die? I exhale loudly as Commissioner Oppal calls it a day and asks that I return again tomorrow. My mind has wandered throughout the day’s proceedings, and I fear I’ve missed questions or sat there mute while lawyers and participants awaited answers from me. I scan the room and feel calmer when no one eyes me strangely. Apparently, I’ve performed adequately.
As I gather my materials, commission counsel Art Vertlieb approaches me.
“All of these lawyers are watching us,” he says quietly, a benign expression on his face, “so I know you'll understand—because you are a very sharp person—I can’t be seen to be too friendly with you.” His eyes bore into mine. He begins to wax eloquent, making various observations about my keen mind, and I feel the color rising in my cheeks.
I’m used to Art by now and I like him; his exclamation of “You are a most fascinating person!” and other over-the-top praise took me by surprise the first time we met in the commission office as I prepared my evidence. Usually, I laugh and say something along the lines of “Thanks, Art, you're killing me,” but today I stare at him, mouth agape, a little unsure of how to play my part in this pantomime he is initiating.
I’m not sure if I should nod or try to look as though we aren't speaking and he isn’t heaping superfluous compliments on me for my work as a witness. I do my best to look unaffected by his words or the feeling we are doing something wrong, and eventually, he bids me good-bye. I am overcome with sadness that the legal system makes Art feel he has to mask his desire to say something kind to me from his colleagues.
I stand there for a few seconds, feeling a little bit stunned. I am acutely aware—as I have been throughout the almost fourteen years since I began this file—that I belong nowhere. I am a person without a portfolio, an orphan of the justice system, an outsider within. Among the police, I feel like a giraffe grazing with zebras; I am mistrusted by the families and the activists advocating for them, separate and distinct from the lawyers, and unable to trust the media, of which I used to be a part.
Elizabeth Hunt, one of two new lawyers assigned to represent Indigenous interests, asks to speak with me. This is the first week back after the commissioner suspended testimony for three weeks to give Elizabeth and her co-counsel, Suzette Narbonne, time to get up to speed with the file after Robyn Gervais resigned in protest of what she believed was a lack of inclusion of Indigenous interests throughout the proceedings.
I'd felt a powerful connection to Robyn’s mandate, and I'd emailed her when she left the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry to tell her so. Her experience advocating and probing the reasons for the deaths and disappearances of so many women—many of them Indigenous—and feeling like a useless token resonated strongly with me, as did her sense that the only way to bring attention to that problem was to resign in protest. She responded to my email, even though both of us acknowledged that we shouldn't be communicating during a legal proceeding. We agreed that this wasn’t much of a legal proceeding, however, as no one else seemed to be following any rules or legal decorum, and if there weren't enough police to assign to find missing human beings, there sure as hell weren't police to investigate our innocuous breach.
Elizabeth asks me if I’m comfortable speaking on the stand tomorrow about my experience as a lesbian and a minority in the VPD. Sure, no problem. We speak for a few minutes. Dave Crossin approaches me as she walks away.
“You okay?” he asks. “Yeah.” “What did she want?” I tell him what she asked of me for the next day. He frowns. “Are you sure you want to do that?” “I'm okay with it,” I answer, thinking it’s a good thing to be forthcoming about my experiences, to shed some light on the VPD and what it’s like as an insider, as if I am one. “I’m happy to do it.”
“You don’t have to do this. I would advise against it as your counsel,” Dave continues.
“I know,” I reply. “Thanks.” I know he’s just doing his job, just looking out for me, but after today’s testimony in which we have strayed into all sorts of questions about my personal thoughts and perceptions of the investigation, I have completely lost sight of my purpose here. If today was a distraction and red herring, I worry I have unwittingly ensured tomorrow will wander completely from any relevance.
THE DAY BEGINS with lawyer for Indigenous interests Suzette Narbonne cross-examining me. Tomorrow is Good Friday, and today is my last day of testimony no matter what, because the inquiry has to move on. I hate that I am taking up time that could be used to question other police officers. Listening to Narbonne, I realize how important it has been to me that the unique needs of the Indigenous community—and the extent to which the First Nations, Métis, and Inuit peoples have been wronged historically and currently—be properly acknowledged by this inquiry, by the police, and by Canadian society. Sitting here, I wonder how I have come to this position, but I can’t help thinking back to my time growing up in Calgary, hearing and even telling “Indian” jokes, accepting this racism and colonialism as “the way it is.”
I remember working in rural Alberta as a reporter and suddenly understanding with a jolt how manifestly wrong our treatment of Indigenous people has been. Not all the missing women were Indigenous, but as I look out into the courtroom, I see so many Indigenous people who are not blood relatives of a missing woman but are here simply to bear witness. To bear witness to colonization and genocide. I decide I will no longer participate in anything that supports this dismissal of human beings.
I feel my throat choking at the realization that I am injured from bearing witness to human suffering for a living. I am damaged, yet still occupy a place of entitlement. I feel my weakness, comparing myself and the other police and lawyers paid to be here with these warriors who observe us day after day from beyond the inner circle of the court. Who among us would be here on their own time? I feel ashamed to realize that my fight—while brutal and exhausting—spans so little time and struggle in comparison with the battles of First Nations, Métis, and Inuit peoples in our country. I’ve always thought of myself as a fighter, but am I? My privilege burns like a scarlet letter.
This entire experience has eroded my strength. How will I ever regain it? Is that what the psychologists were talking about when they told me I had PTSD? I had dismissed those observations then because I couldn’t connect it to my life, but suddenly, sitting here, I can. The nightmares, the panic attacks, the anxiety, the headaches, the obsessive-compulsive behaviors, the twisted visions—this is what they were talking about. As Elizabeth Hunt begins her cross-examination, I realize that I haven't been listening. I give myself a stern talking to. I will not let this file break me again. I fought back once. I can do it again. I will do it again.
And so it goes. Several lawyers question me briefly, and I appreciate their seeming lack of desire to take me to task about the manuscript. Ravi Hira, counsel for retired Coquitlam RCMP inspector Earl Moulton, takes me through an interesting cross-examination in which he asks me if I am aware of a second meeting between the police and then-attorney general Ujjal Dosanjh—a meeting I did not attend and not the same meeting where I gave a presentation about the missing women investigation to elected officials, as I described in the manuscript.
I am gobsmacked and testify that I have absolutely no knowledge of this second meeting. This information floats out into the inquiry waters, but nothing seems to come of it, and I am unable to ascertain any more information about what went down. To this day, I am not privy to the details of the meeting or to who else was in attendance. Another behind-the-scenes mystery I can’t solve. Another secret in my own investigation.
The day ends for me, and I walk away from Courtroom 801 for the last time.
Losing my grip, again
ON APRIL 12, 2012, disgusted with what I am witnessing, I tell myself I am watching the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry live feed in my office for the last time. But in the following weeks, I find I can’t tear myself away. Before giving my own testimony, I found it easy to look away and do some work rather than remain glued to the desktop, but since the end of January, as I watch the testimony spin more and more out of control and into farce, I can’t stop.
The week of April 9 was to be devoted to the 1998 decision of the Criminal Justice Branch to stay the attempted murder and forcible confinement charges against Pickton for his alleged attack on Vancouver sex worker [Wendy Lynn Eisletter].
[Eisletter] was scheduled to testify at the inquiry on Monday, April 9, 2012, with assurances that there were strict measures in place to ensure her privacy. She was living clean and sober with her family and remained terrified of Robert Pickton and traumatized by the events of March 1997 that had left her nearly dead.
On that morning, commission counsel Art Vertlieb announced to Commissioner Oppal that [Eisletter] had reconsidered and would not be testifying out of concern for her privacy and that of her family. I could only assume [Eisletter] had concluded that she didn’t want to speak publicly about her reasons for fighting back in self-defense, for being a poor, drug-addicted sex worker, for needing the drugs she used to self-medicate to survive the ensuing weeks and months after the attack, and for using the drugs that fateful night, a decision that supposedly made her such a poor witness that the charges could not proceed to court. When I heard of her decision not to testify, I felt secretly elated for her, thinking, "Good for you. Why should you have to defend yourself and become a spectacle in front of a system that completely failed you?"
The remainder of the week brought Coquitlam regional Crown prosecutor Randi Connor to the stand to discuss her decision to stay the charges against Pickton in the [Eisletter] attack and the fact that the Crown prosecution's entire file on the incident had been lost. Her testimony and the special protections afforded every Crown prosecutor involved in the decision pushed me into a deep depression I wouldn't shake for several weeks. It didn’t seem right, but all of the lawyers seemed to accept this obvious double standard in place to protect Crown lawyers.
Commissioner Wally Oppal summarized the challenges in investigating the Criminal Justice Branch in his report Forsaken: The Report of the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry: “Due to the protections afforded to prosecutorial independence, both Commission Counsel and Participants’ Counsel were not permitted to put questions to Ms. Randi Connor that asked her to second-guess her decision to stay the proceedings or to consider different evidence in reflecting on the reasonableness of her decision. Similarly, I cannot second-guess Ms. Randi Connor’s decision. Different decisions can be considered reasonable, and in these circumstances two reasonable people could make different decisions based on the same facts. In the absence of the Crown file, I have been unable to fully assess the work Ms. Randi Connor conducted on the file.”
Commissioner Oppal goes on to state his conclusions: “With respect to her circumstances as a prosecutor, Ms. Randi Connor had 16 witnesses left to prepare one week before a five-day trial. The evidence shows that Law Enforcement Notifications (LENs) were issued to the police witnesses as a routine matter. There is no evidence that Ms. Randi Connor contacted the other witnesses for the trial, therefore I find as fact that she had not contacted them.”
I found it intensely frustrating to watch and couldn't help yelling, “Oh my God!” and “Are you kidding me?” at the computer screen while my work partner, Rowan, sat toiling away in the background, empathizing with the lawyers in the hearing room who were obviously as incensed as we were. Much of Randi Connor's testimony consisted of vague references to what she “would” do as normal practice on similar files, but very little, if any, clear recollection or statements of what she actually did on the [Eisletter] file, which the Crown no longer possessed.
Had [Eisletter] died, all sixteen witnesses would have been called to testify. They would have been there if it had been a murder trial. As I had said in my own testimony, as morbid a thought as it is, had [Eisletter] died, this would have been a slam-dunk murder conviction.
Ever since the provincial government had grudgingly announced the creation of the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry, I had openly criticized it as unwanted, imperfect, and underfunded. As the hearings progressed, I found much of the testimony and the lawyers’ inability to fully cross-examine police witnesses disappointing. I was most disappointed that my questions about the inaction of the RCMP in late 1999 and early 2000 surrounding Ellingsen’s information were not answered. The Missing Women Commission of Inquiry did little for me other than make me feel even worse and more in the dark about the mysteries of the investigation.
As for the manuscript, it continued to sit in my computer. Every time I'd tried to look at it over the years, the frustration and horror of the investigation and the pain of the past years rose up like a summer thunderstorm, and lightning struck down on me, plunging me into an even darker mood and worsening my anger, agitation, and depression. I suppose on some level, rereading the manuscript provided me with some kind of psychological payoff, as though I could punish myself for all the mistakes I had made on the case by taking myself back there over and over again. Maybe I hoped that if I went back there often enough, I might get it right. But I never could get it right. All it did was keep me stuck.
The Missing Women Commission of Inquiry finally rested on June 6, 2012. I was invited to a gathering at Crab Park late that afternoon and decided I had to attend. The intent was for healing, and everyone associated with the inquiry—police, lawyers, media, Indigenous people, and families—was invited. Police were asked not to wear uniforms, which wasn’t a problem for me, since I never wore mine anymore.
I hung out mostly with Tim Dickson, counsel for the City of Vancouver, and Damon Vignale, producer of the award-winning documentary film The Exhibition, which chronicled Vancouver artist Pamela Masik’s struggle to bring her large striking portraits of the missing women—many of them depicting the same photographs I had used to create the reward poster—to exhibition at the B.C. Museum of Anthropology. There is no doubt the families would have found the exhibition difficult to view; I know I found it hard to see the paintings in the film. There was immense opposition to the exhibition from the women’s families and other Downtown Eastside activists, which created negative publicity and pressured the museum into canceling it. Damon interviewed me for the film, and despite the difficult questions it raises, it is a project with which I have been proud to be associated.
I felt the cancellation of Pamela’s exhibition was a missed opportunity for the story of the missing women—and the larger issues of poverty, colonialism, and racism—to play out on a larger stage. I interpreted Pamela's use of bold, slashing markings of dark paint across the faces in the paintings as indicative of societal violence against and suppression of women, not as any disrespect toward the victims. Although I tried to understand the concerns that the exhibition might be seen as exploitative, I felt this was yet another example of how the activists and advocates for the missing women perpetuated the very climate they railed against by suppressing their own story and not granting the issue of violence against women a wider audience.
I left Crab Park after an hour or so, hoping Commissioner Oppal’s report—set for an October 2012 release—would mark an end to the investigation and represent the start of healing for all associated. As October approached, word got out there would be yet another delay and the report would not be released until December 2012. I felt confident the report would not be inordinately critical of my efforts as an individual, but that didn’t matter much to me, and the delay did little to alleviate my anxiety and inability to function.
FINALLY, DECEMBER 17 arrived. So many times throughout those years, I'd longed to join the crowd protesting, marching, and bearing further witness to this tragedy, but I was afraid of the very real possibility that I would break down in public again. So I stayed in my office and watched the live feed of Commissioner Oppal’s press conference on my desktop. Snippets of the report were leaked via Twitter throughout the morning by media members frantically scouring the report's hundreds of pages in lockdown, so I knew most of the highlights before Commissioner Oppal spoke.
As I watched, I felt a familiar anger coupled with a sense of activism rise in me. The press conference was staged in a hotel meeting room and it was packed with advocates for the missing and murdered women and their family members. As Commissioner Oppal tried to speak, the crowd booed and catcalled for several minutes and he could not be heard above them, so he waited. I understood their frustrations, but I felt anger that he wasn't given the courtesy to speak without ridicule and interruption. Conversely, I felt pride in those present singing loud and proud, not allowing themselves to be silenced. Finally, the crowd allowed him to speak and present the report.
Again, I understood both sides, but I longed for those present to hear Wally, to give him—to give all of us in the criminal justice system—the chance to say and do the right things after so many years of getting it wrong. We all got it wrong.
I desperately hoped I would feel better now that it was truly over. I left work, drove home, and went out for a run, one of many activities I used to love whose joy continued to elude me these last several years. I ran with my iPod on, letting the music move me and touch me, and soon tears came. I found myself on my favorite hill in Queen Elizabeth Park, a quiet wood-chip trail beneath tall evergreens, and I ran up and down over and over. I let the grief and frustration and pain flow out of me, and I just ran, hoping the dam had burst. I arrived home wiped out after an hour or so, feeling somehow cleansed and deeply exhausted.
Over the following week, the exhaustion remained. On the morning of December 24, I sat alone in my office, expecting to work until noon. No one else was there, and I didn’t need to be there either, but I felt too low to be around my family and bring them down. I continued to feel like I wasn’t so much interacting with other people as inflicting myself on them. I felt it was best for everyone if they left me alone. At times over the years, I’d felt it would be better for my family if I just lived alone in a basement beneath them rather than impose this unpredictable, agitated, angry parent and partner on them. It seemed a perfectly reasonable way to live to me then.
I opened the locker in my office and gathered up all of my gear: uniform, hat, toque, gloves, socks, bulletproof vest, assorted jackets and fleece tops, handcuffs, radio pouch, earpiece, belts—everything I needed to be a uniformed police officer other than my boots. I placed it all in a huge duffel bag. Then I opened my locked desk drawer where I kept my sidearm, a Sig Sauer P226 .40 caliber, along with my ammunition, magazines, and cleaning kit. My gun hadn't been out of my desk since November 2012, when I'd passed my yearly qualification at the range.
That day, as I had prepared to take my place on the line at the indoor range, Gary Fisk—my Project Amelia teammate whom I had testified against in the inquiry—walked in and took a position several places to my right. Without warning, I began hyperventilating, and I knew I was going into a full-blown panic attack. The range officer noticed my condition and helped me gain control of my breathing. I'd been beset by bizarre fears at the range ever since working on the Pickton file, fear that I’d be accidentally shot or injured, but never anything like this, and I wasn’t about to share my true fears with him. This time, there was someone on the firing line who might actually feel justified in shooting me, but I told the range officer I was just worried about qualifying.
In a workplace of more than thirteen hundred sworn officers who each had the entire year to qualify, what were the odds Fisk and I would select the same range time and day? I wondered if he’d sought me out or asked to see the schedule, though I knew this thinking was totally irrational. I became angry and determined to not let this person and my PTSD stop me from completing my annual pistol qualification. I didn’t want to come back, knowing what it had taken to get myself there this time. I’d rescheduled twice already because of my anxiety.
Luckily, I had a few minutes to get it together during the routine safety briefing, and by the time we'd loaded our pistols, I'd situated myself as far from Fisk as possible and felt ready to go. I qualified easily, with one of my better scores, and looked far down the line with relief to see that Fisk hadn’t qualified and would have to shoot another course of fire. I rushed into the cleaning room, cleaned my equipment, and hustled out, hoping I wouldn't have to see him again that day.
As I thought back to that day in November, I imagined the furor I would spark if I handed in my pistol to Stores on Christmas Eve without documenting it or advising my sergeant. I locked it back in my drawer and made an entry in my calendar to ask him to keep it for me when we got back after Christmas holidays. He was a good guy, and I knew he would safeguard it for me without raising any unnecessary procedural alarms about my ability to work. I didn’t need a gun in my current position.
Knowing that the building would be deserted on Christmas Eve, I lugged the heavy bag over to the adjoining police station and saw with relief that the Stores window was open for business. I hefted the duffel bag up onto the counter and waited.
A young clerk eventually came to the desk and apologized to me for having to wait.
“No problem,” I said. “I just want to drop this stuff off.” He looked at me quizzically.
“Okay.” He paused and stared at my pile of gear. “That’s a lot of stuff. Are you retiring?”
“No, I’m just not going to be needing it anymore.” He looked into my eyes and I immediately realized his concern.
“Are you okay?” I felt like a jerk for causing him any worry, not wanting this kid to be afraid some twisted cop was going to do something to ruin his Christmas Eve forever.
“Oh my gosh.” I laughed uneasily. “No, I’m fine. I’m just done with this stuff. I’ll be plainclothes from now on.” I wasn’t “fine,” but I wasn’t suicidal.
“Okay.” He smiled with relief and started emptying my duffel bag. “Merry Christmas!”
“Thanks. You have a Merry Christmas, too.” He finished and handed me my bag.
I walked back to my office, gathered up my things, and went home, hoping 2013 would not be a worse year than 2012.
Much needed coverage. Well done. Kman