Crime Seen (2 page)

Gerry, Barb, me, 1957

One of the few activities we did with Dad was making maple syrup in our sugar bush each spring. Each day Dad hitched up a team of horses and we would go into the woods to collect the sap. All of it would be boiled down in large iron pots over a wood fire to create the syrup. We kids were given the responsibility of gathering sticks and wood to keep the fire going. It was a long process, but the end result was worth it.

The cattle, pigs and chickens on our farm were slaughtered for meat. We grew our own fruits and vegetables. Occasionally Dad would take a trip into Peterborough to sell some of our produce, eggs or maple syrup. I loved going to town with him in his old ’50 navy blue International pickup. It always made me feel special to have his full attention.

Mom was the disciplinarian in the family. Being a teacher, she had a school strap for any behaviour infractions she deemed worthy of corporal punishment, which thankfully I didn’t require too often. My father only struck me once. I had been playing in the loft of the barn where bins of grain treated with insect repellant were stored. One day Dad caught me sitting in the grain bin eating handfuls of wheat. I had been told by him many times not to eat the grain. When I saw him I jumped out of the bin and started to run but Dad took a kick at me and caught me in the bum. It didn’t hurt a bit but I cried for hours. When Dad came in from the barn that night, I sat on his knee until it was time to go to bed.

The youngest in the family usually gets fingered as the spoiled one and I have to admit I lived up to the stereotype. When I wanted something my father was a reliable path of least resistance and I can’t recall a time I didn’t get from him what I asked for. My mother’s denial of something I wanted was unequivocal, but only in round one. If I kept nagging and begging she would usually concede. It played in Gerry and Barb’s favour to have me as the frontman for any requests on behalf of the three of us. They knew I offered the best chance for success.

I started to go to public school in 1961 when I was five years old going to a one-room schoolhouse about two miles from our farm. Late that fall the school inspector paid a visit and decreed that since I would not turn six years old until January of the following year I was not allowed to continue. Mom home-schooled me during that winter and I likely learned more from her than I would have at school anyway. In my mind she was without a doubt the smartest person in the entire world and knew the answer to every one of my questions.

When I went back to school the following year, they put me into Grade 2 right away. I moved to the new larger St. Martin Catholic Elementary School in the village of Ennismore the following year. I was a good student and the only times I got into trouble were for talking in class or walking down to Sullivan’s store at lunch hour without permission. My punishment was always standing in the hall while class was on. I’d say the rosary until I was let back in. I’d got the hang of proper praying by this time and it was a good way for a Catholic kid to put in the time.

My mother was the one who taught me to read and to love books. My earliest recollection of books is the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys series, read late at night under the bedcovers with a flashlight. Girl detective Nancy did as good a job as the boys to solve these detective mysteries with good always triumphing over evil, but handsome, blond-haired Joe Hardy was my favourite.

I had to be bused into the city of Peterborough to attend Crestwood Secondary School. Since the bus ride was two hours each way, when I turned sixteen my parents usually gave me their car to drive. I was one of the few students who had a car and on more than one occasion my morning route was diverted to pick up friends and head for a day of sunbathing along the Otonabee River or shopping in Toronto. I became quite proficient at signing my mother’s absence notes to get me back into class the next day.

Like many of my schoolmates I experimented with the relatively new phenomenon of soft drugs, like marijuana and hashish, available for purchase in the schoolyard. In Grade 11, a local police officer came to my law class to give a presentation on the dangers of drug use. He cautioned us that there were particular drugs on the streets at that time that were making kids really sick. He wasn’t judgmental and didn’t lecture us on what we could or couldn’t do. The officer just wanted us to be safe and he left a positive impression on me.

During the summers when I wasn’t going to high school or later attending university, I did some waitressing and for several summers worked at a camp ground and trailer park on Buckhorn Lake, not far from our family farm. I looked after the small convenience store that was always stocked with lots of penny candy, chocolate bars, gum and soft drinks. I ensured that it was all kept in the shelves right in front by the cash register so that it was always in my sight. As a rehabilitated criminal, I knew what my high-risk items were.

When I finished high school I thought I wanted to be a lawyer. My grades clearly showed I was not a cerebral type but I did make the minimum entrance mark to attend the University of Toronto at the Erindale College campus in Mississauga. My parents were rich with love and support but there wasn’t a lot of extra money for school tuition or living expenses for the campus townhouse I shared with five other girls. Student loans, grants and working as a surveyor’s assistant at nearby construction sites got me through.

As I approached the third year of my General Arts program I realized that my interest in playing a variety of university team sports, as well as being a little overactive in the extracurricular activities of college life, didn’t leave me with the greatest academic standing to apply for law school as I’d hoped. My college roommate had a cousin who was a police officer and I talked with him a few times about his work. It sounded interesting. I’d taken a number of psychology and sociology courses and particularly enjoyed the study of human behaviour. In early December of my graduating year I applied to one of the local police departments and attended their headquarters to take some tests. Before I left I was told I had performed well on all, but a psychological test that apparently assessed behaviour and personality traits had not yet been marked. On Christmas Eve that year I got a letter in the mail to say I hadn’t passed the psychological test.

University of Toronto graduation, 1977

My mother encouraged me to not give up and suggested that I talk to a friend of hers whose deceased father had been a member of the OPP. Her friend offered to set up a meeting in Toronto so that I could meet a friend of her father’s who was still an officer. I took her up on the suggestion and met him at OPP headquarters in Toronto for about an hour, and at the end he too encouraged me to give them a try. (It was some time before I realized that my mom’s friend’s dad was former OPP commissioner Edwin McNeill and the man she sent me to see was Assistant Commissioner Clive Naismith, in charge of Staff Development Division, which included recruitment.) I was twenty-one when I, along with 2,400 others that year, put in my application to the OPP. I completed the same psychological test I had taken before and this time passed it, along with all the other tests.

One of the last phases of the OPP’s selection process was a character investigation, which included a home visit to interview my parents. I happened to be at home when the uniformed officer stopped in unexpectedly. I eavesdropped on what my parents had to say, which was very supportive. Before the officer left I asked to speak to him privately in the kitchen. I remember he was leaning against the refrigerator and I was leaning against the stove across from him. I asked him a couple of general questions about the OPP and then I got up the courage to ask him what he thought of women being police officers.

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I don’t think you have any place being an officer in the OPP. I don’t think any women do.”

“Really?”

“Really. But it is just my opinion.”

“I hope, if given a chance, I can prove you wrong.”

My heart sank. And then he left. To be fair, I
had
asked him to be honest.

A couple of weeks later I got another letter in the mail. I thought I knew what it was going to say. Thankfully I was wrong. I had been successful in my application and was to report for duty at the OPP training academy in Toronto on Monday, July 18, 1977.

HIGHWAYS, TRAGEDIES AND MIRACLES

“Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.”

—Confucius

I HAD THREE WEEKS OF ORIENTATION
training at the OPP Academy on Sherbourne Street in downtown Toronto. Although about fifty women had already been hired by the OPP since 1974, there was no uniform available in my size. Until one could be made, I wore men’s extra-small blue shirts and pants that I had to cinch up so much at the waist that the red stripe down the sides spiralled around my legs. My days were filled with learning provincial and federal laws, self-defence, firearms and marching. It all came fairly easy to me except the last as I was prone to lapsing into a ridiculous-looking “bear walk” (swinging the same arm and leg at the same time). Thankfully I mastered it by the time I graduated and even made it on to the class drill team. There were two other women in my class of forty, although one resigned soon after our initial training. The remaining woman, Sue Lloyd, the daughter of a police officer, was someone I clicked with right away. Sue had been a civilian office assistant with the OPP for several years before joining the uniform ranks so was able to fill me in on what she knew might be in store for us.

My new recruit posting was Port Credit detachment just west of Toronto. It was a “traffic detachment,” meaning that my duties would consist primarily of patrolling two of the busiest highway corridors in North America, the Queen Elizabeth Way (QEW) and Highway 401. Both of these highways were policed entirely by the OPP, with Port Credit detachment responsible for the portion that passed through the city of Mississauga and the west end of Toronto.

My first day in uniform with my niece, Tracy, 1977

I arrived for duty at the detachment on August 9, 1977. My coach officer was Rick Walsh, a last-minute replacement as the previously assigned officer claimed that coaching a female rookie would create too many problems at home with his wife. Rick was thirty-two years old and in great physical condition. He’d been married for eight years and I was thankful to hear that his wife had no issue with him coaching me. For the next several months Rick instructed me on the practical aspects of policing as we patrolled the highways each day.

Rick clearly loved his job and I soon fell in love with it too. I found that our black and white car was a welcome sight to those involved in collisions or breakdowns. It was, of course, a different reaction when we pulled over drivers who’d been speeding or driving under the influence.

Rick instilled in me the importance of being a professional just as much off duty as on duty. He insisted that I attend the monthly off-duty shift parties (“choir practices”) that began at eleven o’clock after we finished our last afternoon shift. He told me it was important for a new rookie, especially one of the few women on the job, to attend work functions, have a drink with the boys and be a part of the team. Of course he was right and I became part of a shift that spent much of our off-duty time together. That shift became like family to me. One shiftmate, J.D. Cromie, actually did become a member of my family. He was a Breathalyzer operator, had the easygoing personality required for that job, and after being friends for a few years I decided to introduce him to my sister. Not only did they get married, they stayed married—a significant achievement in my profession.