Here is another true story, which I hope will shed light into your world, especially concerning the nature of the RCMP. At first glance it will seem I’m a lunatic for being so honest, or a fantastic liar. But if you understand the mechanics of leverage, or threat, as in chess, you might understand what I have to gain by being honest in public.

Simply put, it’s not the criminals I’m afraid of. Unbeknownst to me, the criminals have known of my acts since shortly after the events occurred. For many reasons, but mainly self interest on their part, it is my belief I am being left alone. My strategy since 1997 has been to buy my own insurance by being honest and exposing this story. These allegations have been taken to the RCMP Complaints Commission and various news organizations when they occurred. Principals are named and numbers recorded, all to no avail. The crooked cops rule in Canada.

For the bones of this story you can find a version blogged here in the first dozen or so of my posts. The whole thread is a daily diary of what I like to refer to as Creative Oracular Dysfunction in order that unique ideas might flow from enhanced lateral thinking (or whatever): http://www.topix.com/forum/world/canada/TD0OKC1AH95N4KF0E [1]

Let me recreate the scene where I was first clued in as to exactly what was being threatened. It took place in the spring of 1997. I had just returned from talking to the Editor of the Surrey Now newspaper, back to my then-favorite coffee haunt, The Joint, owned by Randy Cain who has gone to the Supreme Court over the bust of a joint found in his shirt pocket.

I had been going to various media organizations trying to get the actions of the cop who ran during the dog attack, as well as the RCMP who covered for her- and her husband who covered for her(both cops, not RCMP i believe), exposed. The Surrey RCMP were harassing me with targeted investigations (see above posts in link), because I was trying to bring this cop who left me injured calling for help to justice. I loved the activist chatter with Randy and others. That day when I returned by taxi from the Now offices, I was greeted by three demanding strangers and a very unusual setting for the Café.

One of the three strangers, a rough looking fellow, was adamant to talk to me and interrupted several times as I was trying to tell a busy Randy and others of my encounters with the press.
His insistent query was, “Have you ever worked for the railroad? Everybody in Canada has worked for the railroad, you must have!” and when he finally asked for the third time, like a biblical story, I realized that, yes, I had worked for the Railroad 13 years before in Hinton, Alberta. When I admitted it, he steered me to a table against the wall. Here is where I first became aware of the unusual setting. Flanking us at neighboring tables were obvious “biker” types.

His words as he steered me were, “Sit down… I want to tell you an important story.” His two friends, well dressed casually, a man and a woman in their 30s flanked us as I sat. I truly felt hemmed in between the bikers and the standing strangers who seemed clean cut. As he began his story it became apparent to me that this guy had what I would refer to as “the eyes of a killer” in my statements to the PCC.

He began to tell me the tale without preamble, except to say that it was a story his father,an engineer for CN, had told him. All the surrounding eyes were on us as he told it clearly and quickly.

“When my dad was an engineer for CN in the 50s,” old wall eyes began, “one night he was driving a train around a long sweeping bend, when he saw the lights of another train approaching on the single line.”

He paused long enough to have me ask the question, “What did he do?”

“He put the breaks on.” said he.

Although alarm bells were beginning to ring in my head, I played the game. I leaned into him and knowing all the physics involved, asked the question he wanted me to ask, “What happened?”

“He got the train stopped on time.”

I told him that I didn’t believe him, because I understood that if he could see the lights of an approaching train it would be too late to avoid a wreck. The message that he was trying to get through to me was loud and clear, though. He was reminding me of events which took place in the past for which I should fear the likes of the types of people I perceived were currently surrounding me: cops and bikers. Let me explain in detail so that you might research it if you wish to.

This messenger with the killer eyes was reminding me of a deed which I did 13 years before in Hinton 1983 while I worked for the Railroad. Up until that point there were only two entities which knew of the deed: The RCMP and a group of organized criminals associated with gangs. I had kept my part of the Faustian bargain, and being a non fearful person with nothing to feel guilty over, forgot about it. The original incident in Hinton is as follows:

I had been working for the CNR on an extra gang and had not long before tried to become a single parent taking my three children into my care after having had them situated in a loving family home at my expense, while I worked as a miner. The mine had laid me off before I went to the CNR. So eventually I decided to raise my three children by myself.

The first related event connected with this incident was when one of my twins came home crying about a school mate’s father who had been found murdered. Soon the papers were full of the gruesome account of the father of two, a taxi driver, being found tied to a tree with a high-powered rifle shot through his chest at close range. I never knew him.

Several months later when the children had been taken into custody on the false allegations of abuse by their former custodian/caretaker, I was being made to jump through the supervised family services route, including a court-ordered an assessment by mental health, all of which I passed.

The whole thing was an attempt by this woman (whom I forgive) to claim the children because she truly loved them. Upon reflection I might have done better if I had left them with her. Be that as it may, what happened one day when the children were gone, and my life in shambles, was that a friend from the CN gang looked me up. We were on layoff.

He asked if I wanted to go for a couple of beers and meet a friend of his. I said sure. We ended up going down to “Harley Heaven,” the local clubhouse of the chapter of those who ran the drug crime in the area. There were about seven or eight people besides myself gathered in a rec room which was done like a bar with a pool table.

When I sat down, DC introduced me to the head honcho, P, as his buddy that “hang glides.” After I took a couple of offered beers and smoked some good black hash (but declining the coke), P sidled up and stood next to me, as I sat at the bar. He asked me where I got the courage to hang glide, I answered him not really understanding what he was getting at.

“Once when standing on a the ridge at Cochrane Alberta, with my knees knocking in fear as usual, a line that I had read a few years earlier came home to me: 'A coward dies a thousand deaths where a brave man dies but once.' My knees quit shaking and a calm reassurance came over me that I was probably going to die at this, but wanted to at least enjoy it till that moment came. I’ve never been afraid of death since,” was my honest reply.

He hadn’t been listening, of course. His question had only been a lead-in to a tale he wished to tell. He looked over to DC who brought me and was sitting in the corner at the bar, then he glanced back at me, in an obvious unspoken question, “can I trust this guy?” DC shrugged, which meant that he didn’t know. That, of course, didn’t dissuade P from launching, with the glee of a sociopath, into a story which he will regret telling everyday for the rest of his life.

He stepped up and sealed his fate with these exact ugly words spoken with the inner glee of a psycho, a multiple murderer. It is here that the squeamish may wish to depart.

“Oh yeah, I know something about cowards.” P looked around once again and no one stopped him. “Yeah, I was with a guy, who, when it counted, was so scared that he sucked old “Bertha” off.

Like some kind of nosy fool I had to ask, “Who is Bertha?” Thinking Bertha sounded like a girl’s name and being curious (you know what is said about being curious), I didn’t leave well enough alone.

He, of course, was bragging a crazy account of his understanding. A story of what it meant to be a coward, of course inferring that he was brave. “Bertha is my sawed off Cooey Twelve gauge.”

He was looking deep into my eyes for my reaction, at the same time an icy shiver ran down my spine. I was mentally cobbling things together from what he was hinting at, stuff that I had read. The picture he was painting was putting me in a clearing south of Hinton, a few months before, with the father of two sucking on a twelve gauge, so that he might live to see his children again. I was afraid, but laughed in my low alpha roar just like the rest of them, when P delivered the punch line. My next question was only delivered with a glance and “what happened shrug” as if to say I’m waiting.

P nailed his ass to Millhaven with these words to me: “He was so good at it, he made old Bertha come! Ha..ha, ha.” Inside I was with the taxi driver then, I felt his last hope to see his children again. His one daughter was a friend of my daughter’s. Those were the true kept-back details of the murder.

I went home and thought hard on what had happened, the warning, and what I had promised my friend who drove me home. “What I had heard down there, stays down there.” I thought hard about my choices and my obligations. The guy was a dangerous sociopath for sure, to make me, a total stranger, an accessory after the fact to torture/murder one. The way he enjoyed telling the tale, I sensed that I might be sucking old Bertha off, sooner or later.

I had three children who were soon going to come back to me as everything was a go from family services, mental health with only a final hearing in court remaining. This was a huge ethical dilemma for me.

I went into the Hinton RCMP detachment after more than a week of mental anguish. I had no lawyer but I had made up my mind to do my duty to my community. This crazy murdering lunatic had made me an accessory to a crime I wanted no part of. When I first told my tale, the cop asked if I would tell it again and have it recorded. I said that I would never go to court and say it. He replied that all I needed to do was have it recorded, and because he had killed a crown witness who had given evidence of cocaine dealing in the back of the cab, I would never need to go to court.

He asked if he could get his Sergeant to witness the recording. I said sure. When he finished, I picked P out of the photo books. After a while I was moved by the RCMP with my children to Wetaskiwin, Alberta, before the bust went down.

The way my children came back to me was an example of who controls our justice system as well. The complainant of abuse charges against me, a character witness with the results of family services investigation along with the crown and my lawyer were waiting at the courtroom for the judge to appear. I got the kids back by actual default. The judge never showed up. Honest.

When I was leaving the RCMP detachment office, the cop who had interviewed me, asked me what I wanted for this “good deed.” I never understood that I was rubbing the magic lamp at this time, and so was being straight forward. My criminal record with nothing much in it was totally cleared, but I only found out about it by accident many years later.

“I just want my kids back, a normal life. If you don’t say anything, I’ll never say anything," was my reply.

I never did say anything to a living soul until I realized what was being said by the guy in The Joint in 1997, telling me the story about a train wreck avoided. Then I realized that if I kept quiet, the cops could set fire to my grow house and I’d be gone without anyone knowing the true reason for my demise. Yes, I thought the cops might murder me.

It wasn’t until later after a flying buddy who was an experienced private eye that I got the full details of who this guy I sent away was. He was the head of the local chapter, who was convicted on my recorded testimony of murder one. I found out that he and his lawyer would have had to have listened to the tape at the time of the trial, so it was no secret as I had believed for 13 years.

Another thing that this detective told me was that as soon as P had been found guilty in Hinton, he went to Vernon to stand trial for the murder one of a woman and was found guilty of that one as well.

Am I crazy to be telling you this? You be the judge.

I don’t live in fear. My good Karma supply is a deep well of sweet water. I’m ready to go at anytime without compromise, but feel serene and protected none-the-less. Am I a fool swimming in a tidal race, or a protected Oracle finding his place?

You decide.