The Legacy Letters: How Trauma Affects Our Lives 9781988286105, 1988286107

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What reviewers say of Janice Landry’s books In The Price We Pay, Janice Landry offers us a straightforward and compassionate discussion of trauma and PTSD among first responders and others involved in shock events. Landry’s narrative is a delicate balance of journalistic inquiry, tempered by a respectful and protective treatment of the men and women who shared intimate and often painful details of their lives. This is a much-needed human and hopeful story during an age where scientific jargon, unfortunately, continues to mystify our understanding of the cause and recovery from the effects of terrible and unexpected events. The book contains a gentle caution about the power of secrets in contributing to lingering personal turmoil and suicidality among those who have been traumatized. – Dr. John Whelan, Psychologist, Author, Military Veteran Janice’s interviewing skills from her years as a journalist show in both her books, The Sixty Second Story and The Price We Pay. She lets her subjects tell their own stories in a way that puts you there in the situation with them. Emergency first responders, and those who have gone through traumatic events, can read Janice’s books knowing they’re not alone. – Paul Greene, former journalist The Price We Pay is so well-written with many incredible stories between its covers. Each story spoke loudly to me, both as a first responder and a human being. I really believe there is no single audience for this book; anyone who reads it will connect with its words in one way or another. The interviews are candid, intimate, and, at times, very deep, raw and emotional. This book contains many stories of traumatic events and the vicarious trauma that affected those who lived through these events. But a much stronger message of hope and resilience, in the face of trauma, permeates each and every page; it left me feeling even more privileged to be a member of the first responder family and of humanity. This book is an absolute masterpiece … – Christopher Boudreau, Paramedic, Emergency Health Services Nova Scotia

Fair Warning There are many traumatic incidents discussed in this book. The descriptions are detailed enough so the reader can have a clear understanding of what has taken place; however, care has been taken to not be overtly graphic for the sake of sensationalism, or to possibly trigger readers who may live with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), other mental health issues, or operational stress injuries. Despite that, this work is not appropriate for children or youth, as it discusses violent crimes, including murders, war, abductions, rapes, plane crashes, workplace accidents, an earthquake aftermath, a riot and hostage taking, shootings, and one case involving a pedophile. Please take care while you read. Triggers are unique for each person. It is impossible to omit all of them for every reader. The aim of my work is to educate the public, encourage discussion and awareness around mental health, and to ultimately help people impacted by trauma. I do not want, or intend, to revictimize readers. Take heed of what is said by all the people in these pages. Start discussing and debating mental health and trauma before people deploy, respond, leave the workplace, classroom, or newsroom.

The Legacy Letters How trauma affects our lives

Janice Landry

Pottersfield Press, Lawrencetown Beach, Nova Scotia, Canada

Copyright © Janice Landry 2017 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used or stored in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying – or by any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any requests for photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems shall be directed in writing to the publisher or to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (www.AccessCopyright.ca). This also applies to classroom use.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Landry, Janice, 1965-, author The legacy letters: how trauma affects our lives / Janice Landry. ISBN 978-1-988286-10-5 (softcover) ISBN EPUB 978-1-988286-26-6 1. Psychic trauma--Canada--Case studies. 2. Missing persons--Nova Scotia--Case studies. 3. Murder--Nova Scotia--Case studies. 4. Criminal investigation--Canada--Case studies. I. Title. BF175.5.P75L36 2017 616.85’21 C2017-902767-0

Cover design: Gail LeBlanc Pottersfield Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities. We also acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Province of Nova Scotia which has assisted us to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians. Pottersfield Press 83 Leslie Road East Lawrencetown, Nova Scotia, Canada, B2Z 1P8 Website: www.PottersfieldPress.com To order, phone 1-800-NIMBUS9 (1-800-646-2879) www.nimbus.ns.ca Printed in Canada Pottersfield Press is committed to preserving the environment and the appropriate harvesting of trees and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

This book is dedicated to those who have lost their lives to or who have been affected by trauma, emergencies, accidents, and crime. It is for the victims, their families and loved ones. We care about you. This work is also for the people, across professions, who selflessly and repeatedly try to help others in the face of adversity, conflict, and danger. Thank you. Lastly, my writing is always dedicated to my immediate family: Rob, Laura, Theresa, and Betty, and especially to my late firefighting father, Captain Basil (Baz) Landry, M.B. Love you all.

Contents Phonse Jessome’s Foreword and Legacy Letter The Birth and Evolution of the Letters Prologue: The Power of Eight 1 The Looking Glass 2 Andrea King: Roses in the Woods 3 Ann King: A Long-Distance Admission Ann King’s Legacy Letter 4 Where is Kimberly McAndrew? 5 Forced Self-Reflection 6 Dave Worrell: Full Course – Gone But Not Forgotten Dave Worrell’s Legacy Letter 7 Kate Lines: From Patrol Cop to Profiler Kate Lines’ Legacy Letter 8 Elder Joe Michael and Morgan MacDonald: Comemmorating The Ultimate Sacrifice Morgan MacDonald’s Legacy Letter 9 Angela Gevaudan: White Eagle Dove’s Wisdom 10 Erin Alvarez: Family Focus Erin Alvarez’s Legacy Letter 11 Bill Sandford: The Memory Box Bill Sandford’s Legacy Letter 12 Dave Ralph: First, First Responders Dave Ralph’s Legacy Letter 13 John Bredin: Pushing Boundaries to Effect Change John Bredin’s Legacy Letter 14 Al Tweten: Balancing Trauma with Beauty Al Tweten’s Legacy Letter 15 Michael and Tracey Hilliard: The Other Firefighter Tracey Hilliard’s Legacy Letter Michael Hilliard’s Legacy Letter 16 Monique Bartlett and Lucie (Rouleau) Giocondese: The Search for Monique-Lucie Monique Bartlett’s Legacy Letter Lucie (Rouleau) Giocondese’s Legacy Letter Postscript Acknowledgements Investigative Tips

Phonse Jessome’s Foreword and Legacy Letter When Janice gave me the opportunity to introduce this book, I was thrilled and intimidated. Her understanding of trauma and her ability to write clearly on such a difficult topic are gifts she shares willingly. My own battles with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) make trauma a topic I fear, even as I care deeply about it. We hear about trauma in the news quite often now. We see stories about PTSD and tragically much of it is about suicide, a topic we try to avoid. In this book, Janice points a bright light into the dark hole that is traumatic injury. She lets us see beyond the headlines into the very nature of trauma and those affected by it. The Legacy Letters is much more than a book about trauma, though; it’s also a true crime fan’s treasure trove. Janice reviews many of the crimes she covered as a journalist, and even breaks new ground in one of Halifax’s oldest unsolved cases. That alone makes this a good read, but I believe her treatment of trauma elevates it to greatness. I’ve known Janice for more than twenty years. We were adrenaline junkies back then, chasing trauma from the old ATV newsroom. The cliché about TV news is that if it bleeds, it leads. Trauma is drama, and drama is story. A good story is what TV news thrives on. Besides, with trauma there was always plenty of blood. Janice worked exhaustively on human trafficking stories. It was a trauma-filled beat to cover. I chased the drug war the Hells Angels were waging with a former club member. It gave me nine bodies and the trauma that comes with murder. We worked side by side, but we were in competition for that lead slot every day. We joked recently that, in all that time, amid all that blood and violence we never asked each other a simple question: How are you holding up? We weren’t insensitive – we were addicted to the adrenaline, and neither of us understood the danger of trauma. Now I do, and as you’ll see in these pages, so does she. I believe trauma is a physical force of nature. You can’t see or touch it but you certainly can feel it. Janice’s approach in The Legacy Letters is to revisit and update traumatic stories. In each she allows one of those left with the invisible scarring of trauma to write you a letter about it. Janice has made it her mission to champion the cause of those injured by trauma, especially first responders and their families. Here she looks deeper at how trauma affects a wider group. Why is that so important to me? Because I played with that fire for thirty-three years and it cost me my future. I believe people need to understand trauma and the darkness it leaves in its wake. I offer my own legacy letter as an example. This letter is not intended to shock you, but parts of it might. The worst of my experience will remain off the page. The doctors tell me not to write about those things, not yet. If what you read causes something to stir inside, that’s important. I’ll explain why a little later. The first time I felt the iron claw of trauma reach inside my chest and squeeze shut, it flooded me with adrenaline and fear. I was nineteen years old and reporting for CJCB radio in Sydney, Nova Scotia. An abandoned house fire had me parked among the fire engines. I worked there, tethered to my radio truck by the tiny wire that let me broadcast live. I was rooted on the sidewalk near the house, when everything changed. Once they had the fire down, firefighters found the blackened bodies of five homeless men in that house. They carried them out silently, laying them on the stretch of sidewalk next to the one where I was working. Those twisted and deformed bodies smouldered in front of me. It was my first exposure to the reality of sudden, violent death. I was filled with unease and wanted to leave. I looked to the police and firefighters who continued their work. This was 1981 before the arrival of yellow tape, when journalists were given full access. Nineteen or not, I was a working journalist. I copied the first responders and kept busy. I learned a trick that night. I could funnel all that adrenaline into my work. Live reporting is a high-pressure, fast-paced job. Adrenaline helps. It was a trick that served me well in much worse scenes over the years, but eventually it took its toll. When you ignore trauma, just work through it, that iron claw in your chest pierces your soul and leaves a deep scar that never heals. My next exposure came soon afterward. I watched as the battered and broken body of a two-year-old girl was carried to a waiting ambulance. She’d been tortured and murdered in a thicket beside her house, her own little play area. The sight of her tiny body forced that claw back into my chest and ignited the fight or flight response. With no one to fight and nowhere to run, I began interviewing neighbours who stood watching the slow procession. I decided the trauma was theirs, not mine. I was a professional observer and there was no room for feeling in my world. I channelled the energy into my work again. I carried that attitude with me to murders, fires, drownings, every kind of violent death. I watched and worked as broken bodies were pulled from car wrecks. When the body of a girl I had dated was pulled from her crushed car, I was almost knocked over by the shock. I forced myself to ignore what I felt and work on her story. Someone once joked in the newsroom that death was my thing. It wasn’t, but I rose to it every time. Exposure didn’t always involve seeing the dead. Some of the most traumatic interviews I’ve done were with those left behind. I remember standing beside an impossibly small coffin talking to a mother whose days-old infant boy was inside. The boy’s father had smashed him repeatedly into their apartment wall for crying too much when he arrived home from the hospital. That mother’s howling anguish was a physical force that I felt deep inside as she begged me to explain “why.” In 1992, I felt a different kind of trauma when I saw the bodies and blood in the kitchen where they made my daughter’s Happy Meals. I felt a sickening calm. No adrenaline, no fight or flight. A flatline of emotion marked my first episode of dissociation. I immersed myself in the trauma of the McDonald’s murders for the next three years, covering all the trials, seeing all the evidence, befriending the victim’s families, and finally writing a book about it all. I was changed forever. In the years afterward, I began to crave danger as well as trauma. I needed to feel that rush of panic to feel alive. I pushed my luck so far on the crime beat, I was held at gunpoint three times. Each time I walked away and used the fear as fuel. I went to Bosnia and saw what no one should see, what modern weapons can do to a human. As I walked among the burned bodies and severed heads and limbs of the dead soldiers, I was back to myself, channelling the energy and working on how I would report what I was seeing to a TV audience back home. I did the same among the bloated bodies and starving children in Haiti and the 20,000 dead left by Hurricane Mitch in Honduras. I remember in June of 1998 watching a Mountie cry outside a house where two young boys had been shot to death in their beds by a father who then turned the gun on himself. His tears made me wonder what was wrong with me, as I simply continued to work, flatlined again. I thought I’d seen it all by then. I knew I’d seen too much. Three months later I found out it could get worse. I was thrown into trauma on a massive scale that September. On the waters off Peggy’s Cove, I saw what is left behind when a packed jumbo jet crashes into the ocean. I interviewed the families of those who died, felt their pain. It was after covering the crash of Swissair Flight 111 that I first heard the term posttraumatic stress disorder. It came a full year after the crash when I interviewed a psychiatrist who was reporting a large number of PTSD cases among the recovery workers who were on the water that night and in the days afterward. Tears rolled down my face as I drove away from that interview. I knew I had every symptom the doctor described, and I’d had them for a long time. I refused to believe I had PTSD; I was just an observer. None of the trauma I covered was mine to claim. I sucked it up and went back to the newsroom where no one ever asked, “How are you?” Television news, the way I practised it, was a game of shock and reward. I’d rush to a traumatic scene where I’d be shocked by what I saw. I’d record everything I could, rush back, and slam together a story. Then, still high on the deadline adrenaline and the shock of the latest trauma, I’d be rewarded with a slap on the back and a quick “Great work” from the boss. The PTSD symptoms got worse when I arrived at work each morning. I couldn’t hold the first cigarette of the day without shaking. I had a short temper that was new, and my sense of humour was gone. I decided to change networks and go where people didn’t know me and wouldn’t notice the small changes. I also wanted to work alone as a VJ, doing my own camera work. Years later, in reading Judith Herman’s Trauma and Recovery, I learned the desire to work alone and continually expose yourself to trauma were classic signs of PTSD, as was the refusal to acknowledge it. Flashbacks and tears behind the wheel of my truck became routine as I raced across the highways of Nova Scotia chasing trauma. In 2007, I finally went to see a doctor. By then, I was beginning to take unnecessary risks at work and especially on my motorcycle. I needed adrenaline. The doctor told me I had PTSD and had to quit my job and go into therapy. He said it that bluntly and I ignored it completely, and went back to work the next day. I told no one. I was ashamed. I was just an observer – how could I have PTSD? I stayed in the chase for seven more years, until one day, after covering a

mildly traumatic story, I just couldn’t pick up the camera anymore. There was more PTSD than there was me. I found my limit. I was done. I’m in treatment now, but the flashbacks, the fight or flight response, and the adrenaline I craved so much are constant companions. So is an icy, clawing terror deep inside, a fear of people, public spaces, sudden noise – everything. I went from a full-throttle, go-anywhere reporter to a shut-in, because I ignored trauma. When you do that with trauma it doesn’t go away. Your subconscious holds onto it and eventually forces you to relive it over and over. Relive, not remember – there’s a big emotional difference. It’s unlikely anyone will be exposed to the volume of trauma I was during those thirty-three years on the road. Still, this is a cautionary tale and one that highlights why Janice’s book is so important. It shows why we need to know more about trauma, and recognize what it is capable of. I made my mistake with my very first exposure. I stuffed it, ignored it, used it to fuel my work, but never allowed myself time to feel it. Never. That’s why the doctors say I have PTSD, a failure to properly process trauma. I mentioned earlier that some of you might feel something inside as you read my letter. If you did, that’s trauma reaching through time and space, from my office where I wrote this in the past to you where you read it now. Trauma can be passed on, even to those who don’t have direct contact. As I said, I believe it’s a physical force in our world. I know it is in mine. Today, as governments struggle to cope with PTSD among soldiers and first responders, Janice Landry is giving us a better understanding of that complex issue. The Legacy Letters throws the doors on trauma wide open. Reading it will help you develop empathy for the people who suffer traumatic injuries such as PTSD, and give you context for the debate over how to help them.

The Birth and Evolution of the Letters The Legacy Letters examines stories of the families of crime victims, as well as stories of firefighters, police and RCMP members, emergency dispatchers and managers, EHS/EMS workers, 911 operators, parole officers and corrections employees, airport managers and staff, photojournalists and reporters, public relations and communications professionals, and Canadian medical and military personnel. The concept for this book originated from a conversation with the mother of a young, female British Columbia murder victim. We met when I was a television news reporter in Nova Scotia during the late 1980s and throughout the 1990s and covered the tragic story. We had not spoken in nearly two decades, until this project. When we reconnected, Ann King still lived thousands of kilometres away from where her daughter, Andrea King, went missing and where her remains were found, in Nova Scotia woods. Ann told me she wished she had thanked the public for the help, support, and comfort shown to her family during the exhaustive search for Andrea and following the horrific discovery that her daughter had been murdered. Andrea’s homicide remains unsolved. This book marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of Andrea’s disappearance and murder. It is my way of reinforcing to her family, and the loved ones of other victims of murder, abduction, rape, torture, and other heinous and unsolved crimes, that, despite the passage of time, we still care about them and their loved ones. We still seek answers. We still seek justice. We have not forgotten. I suggested to Ann King, during one of several frank interviews in 2016, without any planning or forethought, that she could write an open letter to express exactly what she wanted to say to the people of Nova Scotia, and that I would ensure her letter and message be printed, verbatim, in this book. Open letters appear frequently in newspapers and on various social media platforms as a way for the author to communicate specific messages to the wider public. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines an open letter as “a published letter of protest or appeal usually addressed to an individual but intended for the general public.” The fifteen letters in this book are not letters of protest. There are appeals within them. A few are addressed to specific individuals. All are intended for a wide audience. My rationale for the offer of writing one, given to each person, underlines the fact that people impacted by, working near, or associated with some form of trauma, have typically lost control over a circumstance or horrible situation which alters the course of their lives. This book is my way of attempting to give a voice and power back to Ann King and the other letter writers; they have had complete control over their words. The Legacy Letters is meant to be empowering – for them and for you. The letters are written by a wide assortment of people of varying ages, cultural backgrounds, and professions. They are from six Canadian provinces: Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Ontario, Quebec, and British Columbia. The letters are addressed to different groups of people, or specific members of the public, for reasons that become apparent after you read the interviews that precede them. All the letters appear separately in their own chapters. They stand alone and receive the respect and attention they deserve. They have only been slightly edited, mostly for spelling and grammar. Otherwise, they appear verbatim as the contributors have created them. There are powerful messages within both the letters and the interviews. It is my honour to share these letters with you and to introduce the extraordinary people who have so eloquently and bravely written them. The Legacy Letters is also intended to educate the public about mental health, laud the professionals who work around emergencies, and finally, to support family members and loved ones of victims of crime and trauma. The incidents described take the reader across Canada, including Canada’s far north in Alert, and internationally to Haiti and Bosnia. The discussion includes family members who have also been affected or traumatized, either because of their loved one’s work or by a crime that has occurred within their family. PTSD and critical incident stress (CIS) are not the only results/diagnoses of working around trauma. Vicarious trauma, cumulative stress, and compassion fatigue are three other terms that will be discussed; they affect many people. To be clear, no correlation should be drawn concluding all people who work around trauma will eventually be diagnosed with something. That is simply untrue. Every person is different. Every occupation, work history, and support system is unique. So is mine. Many people have asked me why I left television and if I will return. I started my own company, Groundhog Productions, in 2001, two years after I decided to leave the television news business. I wanted more control over my hours and the nature of my work. I was also a new mother at that time and I craved flexibility. For the record, after twelve years, I no longer wanted to cover crime and stories about trauma in a daily spot news format. I believe it negatively impacted me for a period during the late 1990s. I remember sitting in the newsroom and physically dreading being assigned to cover another murder or criminal case near the end of my television career. There were many sleepless nights while covering harrowing stories. I witnessed numerous traumatic events and listened to painful conversations as a reporter in my youth. Today, after years of interviews and research for my books, I know leaving spot news, primarily as a crime and court reporter, was absolutely the right choice for my family life and my own mental health. While I continue to discuss crime, trauma, and violence in detail in non-fiction books, how, when, and why I create these projects is controlled – by me – with specific messages aimed at educating and helping people. I will not return to spot news. I respect the people who are out there right now working to inform us. Many of them are my friends and peers. Theirs is an important and difficult job, which I highly respect and value. I often caution them to take care while they are working on difficult stories and cases. There are important lessons I have learned from researching and writing my books, and after thirty years as a seasoned journalist, about the impact, on me and others, of how I previously did my job. I hope discussing my early work, which has been difficult material to share, may help educate those either working within, alongside of, or considering joining the media. This book includes the stories of Canadians who have wide-ranging backgrounds, yet who are connected by their empathy and willingness to try and help the public. The trauma they have encountered and experienced does not define them. You will read, in their words, what, and who, has shaped their lives. The legacy letters are raw, honest and poignant. The lessons within each are priceless. I felt I owed this work, and my own frankness, to a significant number of people, from many professions and backgrounds, and from across Canada, who continue to reach out to me, both publicly and privately, about their own trauma, struggles, mental health challenges, and journey to wellness. As stated, my previous crime reporting work had impacted me. I am happier and healthier today. After writing this book, I am more at peace. The people in these pages will never leave me. Trying to forget them or what happened would be a disservice to the victims and their families. I had to start this book by making the fact public that years of crime reporting had eventually taken their toll. Eighteen years after leaving television, I can see that more clearly. I was mentally and physically exhausted at the end of 1999 when my daughter was born. Laura’s birth came at the perfect time in my life, for so many reasons.

Fair and ethical means full disclosure. Working on the first part of this project, about the unsolved crimes, has been extraordinarily difficult. Full disclosure means I had to do it. It has been cathartic. The crime reporting was traumatic for me right up until the end of my television career. The very last story I did, right before I went on maternity leave, to never return, was in November 1999. It discussed a young woman from Nova Scotia, who went missing and was later found to be working underage in a strip club outside of Atlantic Canada. She was rescued and returned to her family. How do I know this was my very last story? I kept the notepad from it for some reason. Maybe I knew I would have to revisit it, and some of the other traumatic stories, some day, for some reason. That reason is this book. I owe it to these families to try, again, to help motivate someone, anyone, to come forward with a lead or a tip. There is a contact phone number for Crime Stoppers at the end of the book. If you can, please call. The people who stand on the other side of the police tape are professionals like me. There are more of us – across varying careers. What about the people who you literally call for help – the emergency communicators and dispatchers? What about the person driving the ambulance who responds? The list of traumarelated professions is long. I have tried to represent some of them, in order that readers will start to better understand and think more broadly about the ripple effects of crime, trauma, and emergency, as well as the importance of mental health for those who work around challenging and dangerous circumstances. This book underlines a variety of jobs and roles: people who are on the sidelines and the periphery of incidents, and those who face danger full-on, in varying first responder roles. You will also meet some of Canada’s first, first responders. In the end, we are all in this together.

Prologue: The Power of Eight

We forget the power of our words, spoken or written. On the very last day of 2015, eight words became a symbolic tipping point; they helped me weigh the pros and cons while determining whether to proceed with this writing project. The message arrived on my computer at 11:42 a.m. on December 31, 2015, twelve hours and eighteen minutes before people rang in 2016 and a New Year. Revellers made plans to celebrate with loved ones. They dreamed and made resolutions for a better year ahead. They officially shut the door on the 365 days that were about to end. For the person who sent me the message, 2015 had been a significant year. I had worried about the impact that year would have on him, a concern that began in 2014. The messenger was Halifax Regional Police (HRP) Chief Jean-Michel Blais. His message to me from his Twitter account @JMBlais1 read: “Thanks for asking the question Janice and listening.” What did he mean by that, exactly? The question I had initially asked him at the start of our June 2014 interview was about how the chief had been personally affected by his work and most recently, at that time, by the deaths of three New Brunswick RCMP officers who had been killed by a gunman on June 4, 2014. During a frank and in-depth interview for my book The Price We Pay, Chief Blais revealed to me, and publicly for the first time, he has been diagnosed with PTSD. For more than two decades, he had experienced a significant amount of trauma on the job, as a high-ranking RCMP officer. He has worked across Canada and assisted in the 2010 earthquake aftermath in Haiti. Chief Blais’ PTSD admission has been significant. He is the chief of the largest police force in Atlantic Canada. He is, to my knowledge, the only chief in Canada to have ever made such an admission, while in office. Since speaking out, the chief has been widely congratulated for his leadership. He has spoken nationally about the mental health of first responders at various public events. Despite the toll the emergency work has taken on Blais, and countless others, his actions have clearly underlined three key elements. A person diagnosed with PTSD can function at a high level within society. Management and brass at the top echelons of agencies and departments are starting to better support their members. By talking about it, our conversations are helping to break down the significant stigma and barriers surrounding mental health issues, across all occupations. How did I feel reading Chief Blais’ tweet? I felt hopeful. Those eight words brought me a huge sense of relief. I had frequently wondered if he had regretted telling me about his PTSD diagnosis. During the months between his June 2014 admission and the debut of my book in November 2015, I had experienced a significant amount of stress and worry about the impact his statements would have on the chief, his loved ones, and his fellow officers. People talk about their fear of writing. I still have it. But the anxiety and fear I felt after the book’s publication stemmed from a deep concern over hurting the people involved, letting them or their families down, or revictimizing a person after they had already been hurt. When you work as a journalist, writer, or storyteller, you frequently take people back to a time and place, to personal experiences they have kept to themselves or have only shared among their inner circle. In speaking out, they, and you, as the messenger, do not know how the wider public will receive what they have to say. That eight-word tweet told me a lot. Blais’ message spurred me on to begin this book in the way I have, after some soul-searching. The words also revealed, despite the significant stress involved, all the work and worry thus far had been worth it. His message underlined the importance of continuing the conversation about mental health, across mediums, relationships, and professions. It was with that mindset, and following his message, that I cautiously, and with some trepidation, began working on The Legacy Letters. This project began with me purposely staring into the looking glass.

1 The Looking Glass January 22, 2016, was a Friday. This book began that day, when I went back to where I had started my first full-time job as a journalist in May 1987. I was twenty-two years old. It was the same month I had graduated from four years of study in Honours Journalism at the University of King’s College, Halifax. I had originally been hired to fill in during the summer of ’87 for Yvonne Colbert, a seasoned and respected journalist who was scheduled to start maternity leave with her first son, Gregory, in late June of 1987. She is now one of my best friends, a confidante and mentor. There was a transitional, on-the-job training period before Yvonne took her maternity leave. The first story I ever covered was bizarre and challenging. It was a feature for Live at 5, now called CTV News at 5, about a funeral director’s conference at the Halifax World Trade and Convention Centre. It was unsettling to be walking and videotaping among dozens of caskets and other death paraphernalia at that novice stage of my career. I was less than thrilled with the subject matter as a first-ever assignment, especially with an inaugural deadline looming – five o’clock the same day. I was not used to daily deadlines. They terrified me for a long time. Death as a business is a challenging subject. Death as a subject is unnerving. Death as a subject, on day one, was an omen. CTV cameraman Al Eastman worked with me that day. I feared missing my deadline and was unsure of what to say on-camera. It was Al’s guidance, support, and professionalism that ensured my job, besides his, got done. I could not have completed my first story without him. We worked together countless times over my tenure, shooting stories and later editing them. I will never forget Al’s kindness and support. Despite that first unusual assignment, I had not experienced a lot of death. That would quickly change. After paying my dues as the maternity leave fill-in for Yvonne, a permanent full-time reporting job opened. I was asked if I would move to New Brunswick to replace a staffer who had been given the chance to relocate to headquarters in Halifax. I accepted and had told my parents. I was young and willing to go wherever the work took me. At the last minute, the more senior journalist changed his mind and declined to uproot his family. He stayed home and so did I. January 22, 2016, was kind of like coming home for me. More accurately, it was coming back to where I had first started covering trauma. I began the research for this book at CTV Atlantic. I wanted to watch many of the stories I had done over the course of my twelve years with the broadcaster. People think they accurately remember tiny details, but our memories fade. I wanted exact words and images. Andy Leblanc, who was then CTV Atlantic News Director and a long-time friend, granted me permission to visit. I had told him outright it was research for my new writing project. Producer, writer, and director Leo Carter, another long-time colleague and friend, arranged the date and time, and retrieved a stack of now outdated threequarter-inch videotapes that house my old stories. The technology videographers and camera operators use now to record digital images is vastly different than three-quarter-inch videotape from the 1980s and ’90s. The video viewing area, which Leo had set up for me, was located on the lower floor of the television station. It was one of the few playback machines of its era left in the building. Leo assured me no one would need it the day of my visit because the old library tapes were rarely required. The whole process felt a little like digging around in your grandparents’ attic or basement while uncovering old treasures. I was also assigned to the provincial and federal courts and the police beat for years. Besides murders and missing persons investigations, I covered rapes, home invasions, youth homelessness, drug use and trafficking, biker gangs, violence against women and children, prostitution, robberies, fires, car accidents, drownings, and stabbings. It is disturbing to reflect on it all. How can a person hear, write, and talk about traumatic cases and experiences, in detail, over many years, and not be affected, touched, or moved? At this stage of my research and career, I do not believe it is possible. We are human beings no matter our training, experience, and profession. When I say “affected,” let me be clear. I have not been diagnosed with PTSD or anything else. That does not mean journalists are not diagnosed, as Phonse Jessome’s foreword and legacy letter reveal. Phonse is a dear friend, as well as a respected author and journalist. He not only lives with PTSD, but advocates for others, discussing his own journey to find help. He is one of the bravest and most talented people I know. Phonse Jessome is the creator of the first legacy letter which appears in this book. One thing I have learned, over years of research, is that people who work around trauma are a tough and caring breed. Being resilient helps, but being human trumps everything. You cannot escape your own humanness, and why should we want to? Despite all the training and experience in the world, there is no textbook that can precisely pinpoint, for example, how a police officer will react after delivering a devastating next-of-kin notification. How do emergency aid or relief workers deal with what they must endure seeing, hearing, and smelling after responding to a mass casualty scene? What steps should firefighters take to protect their mental health after detaching a mangled body from a car crash so a family can grieve? How do we support ER staff when a child dies, despite the valiant efforts of an entire medical team? How can we support the professionals, family physicians, dispatchers, social workers, counsellors, therapists, journalists, researchers, writers, and others who repeatedly listen to trauma? One incident can affect millions of people, as is the case with the joint attacks of September 11, 2001. People who experience death, trauma, and loss deserve answers, solutions, and, ultimately, retribution, if needed. But what if the answers never come? What if a missing person is never found? What if a homicide case remains unsolved? The files remain open. Cases go cold. Cold case investigations have become popular series on television. What may be entertaining for some is devastating for others. As reporters, photographers, and journalists, we try to be as objective as possible and build upon years of on-the-job-training. We do not forget certain scenes and conversations, some of which never make it into public consumption because the details obtained through our own investigative work can be disturbing. It can also be unethical and damaging on many levels to report them. These details can be inflammatory, sensational, result in defamation, or serve no real purpose. Journalists must be careful not to damage a police investigation or court case with what news organizations put out for public consumption. Prior to spending time at CTV Atlantic to view my old reports, I went online, researching and reading other journalists’ stories about the Andrea King and Kimberly McAndrew investigations. I knew all the older material inside and out because I had also reported about both young women until 1999, when I left television news. I have never stopped thinking about them or their loved ones. I have also listened to, read, and watched everything about what has happened since 1999, over the eighteen years since I stopped working at CTV. Working on this book has forced me to look at why, after eighteen years, I still often think about them and the other victims. When I arrived at CTV’s front door that morning at ten a.m., staff welcomed me warmly. I took my coat, purse, lunch, and notepad downstairs to where Leo had created a work station for me. He had also gathered together all the archival tapes housing my news stories. I was floored by the actual physical number of my old library tapes; there are forty-seven in total and forty-six of them were packed in big cardboard boxes. The first one in the series was missing. Each library tape contained approximately twenty to twenty-five stories. That means, from 1991 to 1999, when I left CTV, I completed approximately 940 to 1,175 stories that are still in the library morgue. There are four years the tapes were not kept for my work: from when I joined ATV in 1987 to 1991. During those four missing years, I would have produced approximately 400 additional stories, prior to the start of my work being archived. That means from 1987 to 1999, the twelve years I worked at ATV, I would have filed, at minimum, 1,340 to 1,575 stories.

I had always wondered how many television news stories I had written and produced. Now I know. A great percentage of my old stories involve some form of crime, accident, emergency, or other trauma. On that first missing tape, which started in 1991, there were four stories I wanted to see. How do I know they were on a tape that is missing? Every archival tape has one or two sheets of lined paper enclosed with it which are logged by hand and catalogue the name of the story, its air date, and the “time code” or time on the tape where the story is located. Leo, who is highly organized, had photocopied all the log sheets for me so I could read and scan them and determine which stories I wanted to view, instead of having to physically search through more than 1,000 stories on forty-six tapes to find specific items. Since a lot of time had elapsed since I left CTV, I was not 100 percent certain of what I would find, or what the impact would be on me of revisiting the old stories. I arrived at ten in the morning to begin the arduous research task. Seven straight hours of viewing and note-taking later, I left at five in the afternoon, just as CTV News at 5 was beginning to broadcast from the newsroom above me. My hand ached for days after the constant handwriting of thirty pages of notes. I still hand-write all my notes; I commit them to memory better than if I type them on a computer. I ended up having to stand towards the latter part of my research session. My hand hurt so much, I had to record some of the stories on my phone for future reference because I could no longer physically sit down and write. The initial physical effects were expected, but what was not as clear-cut was the emotional impact of the process. It is hard to express how drained I felt after watching hours and hours of my previous work, but the word “sorrow” comes to mind. The sheer amount of trauma I had been around as a young person was significant. In the cases of archival videotapes, there were plenty of light-hearted and uplifting stories I had covered in those twelve years. Many of them were basic news items and annual occurrences – like snowstorms, power outages, gas prices, budgets, and other day-to-day news coverage that, over the years, tend to slip from memory. I did not come to view them. I came to watch the stories about the families and investigations that have lingered. It was jarring to view and listen to those stories, and to watch the footage discussing missing or murdered young women, the crime scenes, if there was one, and to see my younger self covering those stories. There were many victims whose faces popped onto the viewing screen as I made my way through the mountain of library tapes. As each name appeared, a flood of memories came rushing back: Shelley Denise Connors, Andrea Lynn King, Carla Gail Strickland, Jean Hilda Myra, Kimberly Ann McAndrew. The first four women are victims of unsolved Halifax murders which I covered between 1989 and 1993. Kimberly McAndrew is still listed by Halifax Regional Police (HRP) as a missing person. Her disappearance was the first major police case of any kind I can remember covering. During my time in daily news gathering, I always took the task of interviewing people to heart and did my best with the life experience and knowledge I had at that time, being only young myself. People often spoke to me on the condition their identity be protected, because they feared for their lives. In a few instances, without anyone’s knowledge, I would even take raw videotapes home with me for fear some crucial interviews, where I had promised anonymity to sources, would be edited improperly when I was out of the office. In the unedited footage, you could see people’s identities plain as day. I never felt comfortable leaving them behind when I left the station. I always returned the videotapes to work, because they were not my property. I apologize to my former employer for doing this, without approval. The only people who knew I did this were my parents, but only years after I had left television. It made my mother nervous, which is why I did not tell her when it was happening. In editing, I would work with an editor to alter or distort the faces of the people being interviewed or even change the sound of their voices in post-production, before the stories aired publicly, to protect the people speaking with me. The complexity of the stories and criminal cases, as well as the physical risk to the interviewees, or possible damage to court cases, was significant. I did not want to be responsible for someone being hurt or killed, or a case being thrown out of court. No story is worth that risk. The night production crew was always able to use my edited versions of the stories and clips when I was not in the office. Those were the versions where the faces and voices were changed. This concern over my videotapes especially happened during murder investigations and cases involving young Nova Scotia women and a prostitution ring which involved sex trade workers from Nova Scotia being moved, with the use of force or coercion, by pimps to Toronto and Montreal. A Juvenile Prostitution Task Force, which was set up in the 1990s to combat the issue, received local, regional, and national media attention over many years. I covered it almost nonstop. I interviewed many people who told me a variety of reasons why they worked in the sex trade. I valued meeting and speaking with them, many of whom granted me interviews on the condition their identities remain protected. Their faces were not shown and in some cases their voices were altered. They would have been harmed or killed for speaking out. One of the key reasons people talk to journalists during or after a traumatic incident is because the interviewees want to help others avoid experiencing the kind of pain they have, or to learn from that pain. And speaking with members of the media can also lead to tips which could solve a case. During this time, I also interviewed a pimp who was serving time in a Nova Scotia prison. The interview was done under strict prison supervision in a general meeting room at the correctional facility. One of my male colleagues in the newsroom accompanied me to the interview, but did not speak. He was there in a supportive role, which I appreciated. It was one of the most difficult interviews I have ever done. I grappled with whether to give the man a platform and a voice, given why he was serving time. In the end, I decided to proceed with the interview in order for people to hear about the world of prostitution from as many viewpoints as possible, even if one of those participants made money off the backs of other people. It was a tough call. This is one example where being objective and ethical as a journalist is tested. The pimp did not hide his face like the prostitutes who spoke to me felt they had to for their safety. Admittedly, it was difficult to be impartial with him, but I tried my best. He was polite. He was well-spoken, even charming, if you can use that kind of descriptor for someone in his work. Our conversation gave me a better understanding of how he and others can manipulate people. During this time frame, in the 1990s, I also visited the Red Light District in Amsterdam, while travelling in Holland, for anecdotal evidence about the sex trade in a city world renowned for it. What I learned from that 1995 visit and all the interviews is we must see sex trade workers as people; they are human beings. Many of them, who selfidentified as female, told me they were supporting their children. Many said they had chosen this profession because being at “home” was more dangerous or abusive. Others were coerced. Drug addiction played a big role in many of their histories and rationales. Today, with the advent of the Internet, most of the sex trade has gone underground. When I covered it, there were still people working the various “strolls” in Halifax, Montreal, and Toronto, the three Canadian cities about which I primarily reported. You could walk up and talk with them if you chose to – which I did many times. I was in my twenties and the sex trade workers were about my age. Many were younger. I never considered the impact of that time and experience until much later. Most of the time, those involved in prostitution readily agreed to speak with me on- or off-camera. I was only threatened and chased once, in downtown Halifax, near Barrington Street. A very tall figure ran at me, screaming, when I tried to approach them. The cameraman and I had to flee or they would have attacked us. Today, reflecting on our intrusive nature, and not knowing their whole story, I cannot say I blame their reaction. That was the only time over many years I was physically threatened by someone on the street, although I have been verbally threatened many times. Another young person, working down by the Halifax train station, not far from Barrington Street, showed me the knife they always carried with them. It was revealed in a manner that was not threatening. It was shown as the prostitute made a clear point about the dangerous nature of their work and reality. To try and capture their viewpoints as ethically as possible, I always told the sex trade workers who I was and that I had a cameraperson with me, so they understood exactly what we were doing. I never walked up to anyone with a camera rolling and started asking questions. The camera operator always stayed behind at a fair distance and I would approach people and ask for an interview. Most of the time they agreed to speak with me. At that time, there were not a lot of other Halifax journalists out on the streets at night researching and interviewing to the extent I did.

On one occasion, I was talking with sex trade workers in an area of Halifax, ironically, not far from the police station. One woman, in her twenties, walked sideways towards me in a drug-induced haze. She literally could not walk a straight line. She told me, in a garbled voice, she had a crack addiction and was working to support her children. Given her drug use, which was very apparent that night, I was not certain she understood who I was and what the conversation meant, so I never used her interview. It never saw the light of day. Another night, a cameraperson and I were invited back to a woman’s residence to talk privately with her. It is one of the most disturbing conversations I have had in my entire career. I have not discussed the following scene with many people. It haunts me. It was a small apartment up a flight of wooden stairs, on a nice, residential side street, behind the former Victoria General Hospital emergency entrance in the city’s south end. We did not bring our camera. We sat in her small, tidy kitchen as she proceeded to explain, without any emotion whatsoever, what, exactly, people paid her to do to, for, and with them. The list was long and included sex acts that were degrading. I will not name them. I will not be part of her degradation. I hurt for her. I have never used any of our verbatim conversation in any story I have ever told or written and nor will I here. It is not for sale. Our short time together in her home has had a lasting impact. I will never forget the vacant and distant look on the young woman’s face, or the monotone sound of her voice, as she described other people’s requests and demands. They had paid her to humiliate herself for their entertainment, power, control, and/or pleasure. The price she had paid was obvious. It was so painfully obvious, the cameraperson and I vowed to never tell people the exact details of what was said. She never gave me her name or age but we would have been close in age. The memory of her has never left me. I hope sharing the pain and hurt with us helped her in some way. She was in control that night. She was in the safety of her home. She basically spoke without being asked much, if anything at all. She needed someone to listen and not judge her or ask her for anything. I am honoured she chose me. However, no matter our profession, training, or experience, we cannot un-see or un-hear things. If you could have seen her face or heard her speak, you would have witnessed the impact the trauma she had repeatedly experienced at the hands of strangers has had on her. We are all affected, to varying degrees, by our work, as wide-ranging as it may be, and no matter our profession or background.

2 Andrea King: Roses in the Woods My first archival tape is missing, so as soon as I placed Tape 2 into the playback machine, the story which immediately started playing was about eighteen-yearold Andrea Lynn King of British Columbia. Andrea’s face was the first image I saw that day. I immediately pressed “stop” and had to collect myself. The memories started flooding back. Andrea flew from New Westminster, British Columbia, to Halifax on January 1, 1992, on a work/travel trip to Nova Scotia. She called home from the airport to say she had arrived. It was the last time anyone heard from her. The Halifax Regional Police website states: “On January 4, 1992, Ms. King’s family reported her missing to the RCMP in Surrey, B.C. Despite a year-long missing person investigation being conducted in both Halifax and New Westminister, [sic] B.C., no trace of Andrea was found and police were unable to positively identify anyone who had contact with her after her arrival in Nova Scotia. On December 22, 1992, the skeletal remains of Andrea King were located in a wooded area in Lower Sackville, Nova Scotia, near the Sackville Business Park.” The story I was viewing was called “King Family Leaves Halifax.” It aired, according to the log sheet, during March 3-6, 1992. Andrea’s mother, Ann King, and her sister, Debra, came to Halifax for two weeks in late February, early March 1992, a few weeks after Andrea had been reported missing – nine months before she was finally found in the wooded area in Lower Sackville. I had interviewed the King family often during that time frame and beyond. Like other journalists, I had reported the RCMP had tracked Andrea to a downtown Halifax hotel where she had been dropped off by a shuttle bus. My story said she was expected to stay at a hostel about six blocks away and at that time, police said her trail ended at the hotel. But she might not have reached downtown because her remains were found in woods not far from the main highway into Halifax from the airport. At the end of that archival story, Ann made an emotional plea to the public for help and sent a direct message to her then missing daughter. “I would like to say that if there’s somebody who knows anything about Andrea’s whereabouts, please contact the police or the media. And if Andrea’s out there: We’ll keep looking, sweetheart, ’til we find you,” Ann said. Listening to Ann say the last sentence, with such hope, forced me to stop playback of the story a second time. During that first visit to Halifax, Ann and her daughter, Debra, searched all over downtown Halifax for leads and for Andrea herself. On my archive tape, there is also a story listed by reporter Jonathan Kay, who used a video clip of the Kings as they visited the YMCA, a place a young person on a tight budget may stay or visit. The YMCA was then located near the now demolished CBC radio building, near the Halifax Public Gardens, on South Park Street. This video exchange occurred as part of Jonathan’s story. I do vividly remember being the reporter at the YMCA with the Kings, so it is likely he used parts of my interview in his re-cut story. News items are routinely re-edited for different shows using footage and interviews obtained by all staff on a single story or topic. You do not see me in the exchange. You only see the Kings and the YMCA staff person. The YMCA staff knew who Andrea was and agreed to keep a photo of her at the desk, in case anyone had seen her. The public was affected by what was then still a missing person’s case, as they are in all such cases. People wanted to help the Kings. Time passed during that first King family visit and their hopes faded a little, which was evident in another interview quote from Ann in the Kay story. “When I came [to Halifax], I used to look for Andrea everywhere. Now I don’t think I expect to see her walking the streets or she would have phoned. I think now I’m just looking for clues, so our hopes are pretty low at the moment. But we’re going to keep up the good work,” Ann said, before she and Debra left for British Columbia. Nine months later, word came from police Andrea had been found. The case switched from a missing person’s file to a murder investigation. On Tape Seven, there is another story from January 29, 1992, one week after Andrea had been located in woods. “Nova Scotia RCMP is practically back to square one in the Andrea Lynn King case. Dental records confirmed last week it was King’s body discovered in woods in Lower Sackville by a hunter. RCMP still don’t know how she died or got into the woods, above a small rock face,” the story said. An RCMP officer, Constable Brian Carter, former media spokesperson, said authorities were waiting for the medical examiner’s report following an autopsy. Questions like cause of death and time of death were to be determined, if possible. Neither has been released, which is standard in police investigation. Only the murderer or their accomplices know those details. It is not known whether the location where Andrea was discovered is the place where she was actually killed, or if she was placed there afterward. The possible false lead about the shuttle bus was also discussed in my story immediately following the discovery of her remains. I said this on-camera as a follow-up: “It was originally thought King made it into Halifax to a hotel on an airport shuttle. RCMP will now have to go back to see if that was actually the case, and they say they will have to re-interview many of the original witnesses, so, they say, no stone is left unturned.” Constable Brian Carter confirmed, at that time, “RCMP would have to look at the possibility King entered the woods, not from the area where her body was recovered, but from the opposite side, the highway that leads to the airport where King originally arrived.” No confirmation of this has ever been definitively reported. Which way did she enter the woods, or was she carried into the woods? The path of lesser resistance would have been over the rock face, which was only a few feet high and not too far from the street. In 1992 the street was an undeveloped cul-de-sac. It was primarily a wooded area. Through the woods from the highway side would have been much tougher, but not impossible. Some questions surrounding the nature of her death were answered by the medical examiner. It was the subject of my next story, “Andrea King Update,” done the following week after she was found. The exact cause of her death has not been released, as the investigation remains open. My story stated, “It’s been just over a week since the body of eighteen-year-old Andrea Lynn King was found in woods just outside of Halifax by a hunter. Today, RCMP confirmed they are treating her death as murder.” I asked Constable Brian Carter on-camera: “Why make that statement?” [about it being a murder as opposed to a medical emergency or something else]. “Part of it is as a result of the autopsy,” he replied. What other information or evidence did RCMP have week one, besides the autopsy, that led them to believe she was murdered? Constable Carter stated they would be withholding the cause of death for several reasons: “… including the fact only the murderer or murderers know how she died and RCMP don’t want that information to encourage false confessions. Meanwhile, RCMP say further forensic tests will be done on the remains. And authorities expect the case to be a lengthy one. Why? In part because of the time that has passed between when King went missing, one year ago, New Year’s Day.” One year after she was found, the RCMP installed a telephone line, in January 1993, solely for generating tips for this case. At this point, it was also confirmed by authorities they were examining similarities between the King case and other recent investigations involving missing or murdered young women in Nova Scotia and, in particular, within the Halifax area. I reported, on January 4, 1993, “… RCMP will look at the case of twenty-year-old Carla Gail Strickland originally from Mahone Bay, whose body was discovered in woods in Dartmouth in June of 1991. And authorities will also look at the [then] three-year-old missing person file of Kimberly McAndrew of Parrsboro, who was last seen leaving work at a Halifax Canadian Tire Store.”

Constable Carter addressed why police were looking at multiple cases involving young murdered or missing women. “There may be suspects who come up in other cases that may be of benefit in this case. We have to look at everything.” One suspect did come up in multiple cases. He has made national headlines. He is currently listed as a Dangerous Offender in Canada and is serving time in British Columbia. He has not been charged with any murder or in any missing person’s case in Nova Scotia, as of September 2017. A week after the phone lines opened in the Andrea King murder, police also kept up the pressure and brought in two members of the military with metal detectors who searched the site where she was found. We videotaped them, from a distance, combing through the woods in Lower Sackville, but no details have ever been provided about what they did or did not find. The story I finally had to face was located on Tape 8. It is called “Andrea King’s Parents Here.” The story was done January 25, 1993, five and a half years into my reporting career. Of the approximately 1,500 stories I have told for television, this is one that still haunts me. In hindsight, it was too voyeuristic for my liking. I now wish I had chosen another way to tell it. Andrea’s parents had returned to Nova Scotia after she had been found by the hunter. They arranged to visit the wooded site, accompanied by members of the RCMP and the media. We were invited to attend. All involved hoped it might spark someone to come forward with tips or a lead. The site where Andrea lay has drastically changed since 1992. That area of Lower Sackville, off Glendale Drive, near the Sackville Business Park, has grown and expanded. It no longer exists the way it did. During the early 1990s, it was a quiet street without much activity. You could drive to the end of the road, get out of your car, and walk a short distance through the low scrub and bushes up a small rock face or ridge into the woods. It took about five minutes to walk to the location. I was thinking, as I crawled up and over the rock face, that it would have been difficult for someone to move Andrea to where she was found, unless they had help, or unless Andrea walked into the woods, under duress, or of her own will. The media, including myself and a cameraperson, followed the officers and Ann and Wayne King, to the exact spot where Andrea was found. I opened the story this way: “Ann and Wayne King say they had to come, had to be at the last place where their daughter Andrea had last been alive. Today they visited the site where she was found …” We watched and videotaped her parents toss four long-stemmed white roses onto the ground in the woods. A likeness of one of those roses and the woods appears on the front cover of this book as a way to honour Andrea and her family. It was gut-wrenching then and it was still heart-wrenching to revisit the videotaped scene for this work. I stopped playback for a third time. I will never forget the image of the roses or the deeply anguished look on the Kings’ faces. “Anytime we drive by a wooded area, we think, Gosh, she was just lying in the woods, and it’s dark, and she was alone. What could have happened? I wish I could turn the clock back and know,” a distraught Ann said, on-camera, as she wiped away tears. I am still moved by the Kings’ combined strength of character in the face of senseless tragedy. They allowed us to be part of their fragility. I have never been part of something quite like it since. “If there’s anything more we can do for her, as we did while she was alive, then this is what we can do for her. Also we needed to see where she was killed. We’re going to have to live with that,” Ann said at the site. There, in her own words, is part of the rationale for the media being allowed to join them in the very private and painful moment; it was one way they could try to help their daughter, in death. They also wanted to spark tips, leading to answers. Ann’s husband, Wayne, did not speak to reporters in the woods. His wife spoke on the family’s behalf. Most of the time, it was Ann King who gave interviews to me and the other journalists. I developed a relationship with her, even visiting her and her daughter, Debra, at a Lower Sackville motel where they were staying during one of their visits to Nova Scotia. The motel was located on Sackville Drive, near where Andrea was found. I remember sitting in the room with them and talking. They were no longer strangers. On the trip, which included the visit to the woods, Debra was not with her parents. After we finished at the site, Wayne and Ann hosted a media briefing at a nearby RCMP detachment. “The pressure and the emotion of the past year, since Andrea went missing and her body was found, broke through today during a meeting with reporters,” the archival story said. At the media briefing, Andrea’s father could no longer contain his anguish. In the RCMP station, in front of the cameras, Wayne burst into sobs and punched his right fist into the palm of his left hand. He looked up at the ceiling and back down again before saying to the assembled group, “Ask me, one at a time, and I’ll tell you [pause, tears], I guess I want other kids to be safe as a [pause] little measure of why we lost her,” he explained, of the family’s public reveal of a highly emotional and personal day. Despite their utter despair, Andrea’s parents wanted to help other families avoid the grief and pain they were experiencing. Their strength is admirable. It is also unforgettable. Wayne dissolved into tears. He and Ann were seated at a small conference table set up at the front of the room in the RCMP detachment. No one spoke. I distinctly remember being in my seat and watching Wayne’s reaction and starting to cry myself at the media briefing. I had never broken down at work in public before. I struggled to regain my composure because I did not want to look unprofessional or upset the King family. Journalists are not supposed to show emotion while at work. They are expected to be impartial. However, we are human first, and it would have been impossible to see Wayne break down in public and not feel for him and the whole family. Investigators hoped the parents’ emotional plea would result in a breakthrough in their daughter’s high-profile murder investigation. It is standard procedure in murder cases, or cases of missing persons, for families or loved ones to make statements through the media. “It may not seem very relevant, but every little piece may make that jigsaw puzzle fit a little better. There’s so much good in Nova Scotia, but just one little piece of evil. I’d like to find out what that is,” Ann concluded that day. More exactly, who is the “little piece of evil”? I noticed, while watching the archival footage, Ann King wore a sweatshirt with a large panda on it the day of the visit to the woods. Andrea must have loved pandas because a stuffed panda bear toy was also present at a Halifax memorial held on January 28, 1993, for the murdered teenager, three days after the emotionally charged media briefing. The stuffed animal was placed on a table with a framed photo of Andrea and a single red rose in a vase. I later learned from Ann, during our 2016 interview, that Andrea had visited the Calgary Zoo a couple of years before her death and fell in love with the panda bears she saw there. She had a collection of panda bear memorabilia and stuffed animal pandas that she had bought and also received as gifts. The story, filed from the memorial, began, “Hundreds of people filled St. Paul’s Church today in Halifax. They came to pay tribute to Andrea King.” Ann King had said at the media briefing that there was “so much good in Nova Scotia,” to the point where the public filled a church for a memorial for a complete stranger. The intense media coverage had allowed the public to get to know the Kings. People felt strongly about the family’s loss, and cared about Andrea herself, so much so that many in the church were reduced to tears, even though they had never met the young woman or her parents. Reverend John Newton, the officiating clergy, said, “Although none of us has had the privilege of knowing her, over the past year, she has profoundly touched our lives. We come together today, in the acknowledgement, too, that an injustice has been done; that a young woman who looked ahead to so much of life’s promise has had that life violently taken away from her.” Ann King also spoke at her daughter’s memorial. She read a passage she had written describing her daughter. “Admired intelligence, liked family gatherings, strove to be nonjudgemental, and above all, loved unconditionally. Andrea: we will always love you, unconditionally,” her mother said. As the memorial drew to a close, many people were crying as they approached the Kings. People hugged them and spoke to them as they exited the church. “Ann and Wayne King say they’re overwhelmed by the support, especially since they didn’t know anyone in Nova Scotia, until Andrea’s death,” I reported that day, also asking people afterwards on-camera why they felt they had to attend Andrea’s memorial, even though they did not know her. “I think we should support the family … it’s a terrible thing, what has happened,” one woman answered. Trying to discover exactly what had happened to the teenager had also led the police, on April 1, 1993, to release a new photograph of Andrea, taken just a couple of weeks before her disappearance, as well as pictures of two of Andrea’s personal belongings she had carried with her when she arrived in Halifax from British Columbia. One is a handbag with an array of bright colours embroidered on it by hand. It was woven and soft-shelled. The other is a backpack. Both items are unusual. The backpack would stand out because it is large and made of green canvas with an aluminum frame around it, the kind a hiker would take on a long journey.

The purse was one of two police knew existed. Ann told me Andrea and her girlfriend had each bought one while travelling in Mexico. Neither of Andrea’s bags was common, and investigators hoped people might recognize one of them since they were both unique. Neither bag was discovered with Andrea or has ever been reported to have been found. On August 2, 1993, an article appeared in The Chronicle Herald newspaper called “King’s mother questions search,” written by journalist Rick Conrad. In it, Conrad discussed two other items Ann King mentioned that are still unaccounted for “such as one of Ms. King’s boots and a favorite ring.” Ann wondered in the Conrad article why the RCMP had returned to search the area where Andrea had been found. Then investigating officer RCMP Constable Bruce MacDonald said police “have searched about 500 feet into the woods and 1,000 feet on either side of the scene,” Conrad reported. Concluding the article, Conrad said Ann King planned to return to Halifax in about eight weeks to “teach school kids how to be safer, which she’s been doing in Vancouver.” That matches the timeline of the last entry on my library archival tapes I could find about Andrea King. My final story about her is located on Tape 37 and is dated October 16, 1997, more than five years after the young woman had gone missing. Ann King had indeed returned to Halifax, this time to attend a conference put on by Our Missing Children. My story explained those involved in the group were working “with partners that aim to locate abducted or missing children at international borders and airports.” The Government of Canada, on its “Canada’s Missing” webpage, lists “The Our Missing Children” program as being “comprised of four Federal Government Departments – Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s NCMPUR [National Centre for Missing Persons and Unidentified Remains] Operations; Canada Border Services Agency; Global Affairs Canada; and Department of Justice Canada. Although each Department has their own function, the four departments work together to effectively and efficiently locate and return children to their parents/legal guardians.” The program started seven years before Andrea King went missing, according to the dates listed on the federal government website. “In 1985, the Canadian Ministry of the Solicitor General of Canada announced a multi-faceted program to help police investigate missing children cases in Canada. One component of the program was the establishment of the Missing Children’s Registry which was officially opened by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in August of 1986. In 1986, at the same time that the RCMP established the Missing Children’s Registry, now known as National Missing Children Operations (NMCO), Canada Customs (now known as Canada Border Services Agency) was developing a missing children program. A training course on techniques to identify and intercept missing children was then developed and implemented. Collectively, the partnership that forms ‘Our Missing Children’ provides a unique and powerful force in locating and recovering missing children,” the website explained. My story about the conference, filed October 16, 1997, opened with this grim statement: “Ann King arrived in Halifax early this morning at the same airport where her daughter disappeared in January of 1992 … 52,000 children go missing in Canada each year. Most are runaways, but several thousand are stranger abductions. The goal of this conference is to cut that alarming statistic.” Andrea was a missing child for almost one year before she was found in the woods. I often think of Ann, Wayne, Debra, and Andrea, and the day I spent in the woods with her parents, when I drive down Highway 102 near the Halifax Stanfield International Airport. It is also unnerving to travel on Glendale Avenue in Lower Sackville and remember the gruesome scene which played over and over again in my stories. In that video, a group of police investigators carefully maneuvered Andrea’s remains down the rock face and through the woods. They carried Andrea’s body out of the woods on a large, thin, square, wooden frame covered with a tarp. Dental records were what led to her identification. Twelve years after its inception, Ann King became a strong voice for Our Missing Children and was speaking nationally to help warn families and protect other children from falling victim to predators. Ann travelled across the East Coast during that visit, speaking to school children and anyone else who would listen. The Kings did exactly what Wayne so poignantly had alluded to at the media conference. As time progressed, they worked through their pain to help others, in the face of monumental adversity and trauma. In this way, they also honoured Andrea and kept her memory alive. That 1997 visit by her mother to Nova Scotia was my last story and interview with Ann King, a silence that lasted nearly twenty years. Our next conversation occurred on April 19, 2016.

3 Ann King: A Long-Distance Admission On April 18, 2016, I finally worked up the nerve to call Ann King in British Columbia. I had worried for weeks about this call. I was not sure Ann would remember me. My predominant fear was what her reaction would be after nineteen years since we had last spoken for the 1997 story. I worried about dredging up the past for a mother and family who had already suffered more than anyone should have to in a lifetime. I knew I had to reconnect with the King family and explain my work-in-progress and this book’s purpose. I did not want them to hear about it or read anything without a warning from me. I also wanted to give them a chance to talk about the years that had passed. I called twice. There was no answer either time. I did not leave a message. Trying to explain my book and multifaceted rationale for writing it and for including Andrea would take some time. It could not be done in a one- or two-minute recorded phone message. That would be callous and unprofessional. As soon as the answering machine kicked in, I knew I had the right home and person as I recognized her distinct accent. Ann’s voice actually made my pulse quicken. I was nervous and anxious to proceed, since I had finally worked up the courage to follow through. I decided to try again the following day. Prior to the calls, I had lucked out by finding an old file folder about Andrea at my home. Among other notations, on the file was the Kings’ home phone number, written in ink on the upper left-hand portion of the folder. The file had old photocopies of various stories I had written between 1992 and 1997. The television scripts matched the videos I had viewed from the archives at CTV. Unbelievably, the same home phone number still worked, nineteen years later. That is how I found Ann King in 2016, from files I had kept since the 1990s. I am not sure why I kept Andrea’s folder. I had dozens of them ongoing over the course of my twelve years as a television reporter. There were other story files, about fifteen of them, in a blue plastic storage container that had been stuffed away on an upper shelf in my garage. I had not looked in the box for many years. I had no idea what was inside it. It had a thick layer of dust coating its top. While I had no clue about the contents, I did remember having the actual container itself, and as I had been writing about Andrea, thought there might be something of value inside. I had asked my husband to root around for the storage box. It had been nagging at me while I was researching this part of the book. Of all the murder cases I have covered, I discovered, after searching through the contents of the storage container, I have only kept files for three of them. This was one. Two of the other fifteen file folders contained material about Kimberly McAndrew, the young woman who went missing in Halifax in 1989. It was surprising to me that one-fifth of the remaining few files I had decided to keep at my own home would cover the King and McAndrew cases, the exact two investigations about which I decided to discuss in this long-form examination of the impact of trauma across professions. Why had I kept those files in particular? They had sat unused and unread for years. The answer is: despite the long passage of time, the people involved in them have never been far from my mind. The following day, April 19, 2016, I called Ann King for a third time. It was 12:30 p.m. Halifax time. I did not take the time zone difference into consideration when I called. I just felt a strong urge to try again, so I followed my hunch through without looking at the clock. It was 8:30 a.m. in Surrey, British Columbia. If I had thought of that, I would have waited to call and I may have missed her again. This time Ann answered. I now had to move forward, regardless of what unfolded. She later explained I had caught her while she was getting up in the morning. She was in her bedroom, seated on the bed. She said she did not mind the early hour. Despite the time, and being completely taken off guard, she was pleasant and gracious. I reintroduced myself. Ann immediately remembered me. I was relieved and a bit surprised. I explained that I had left television after my daughter was born and I was now working as a freelancer and author among others jobs. The first thing she asked me was, “How can I help you?” Here was the Ann I remembered: open and caring. It helped me relax a little further. I asked her if she had a few minutes so I could properly explain myself. In that explanation, I told her about my ongoing work writing about first responders and people affected by trauma. I briefly discussed my other books. I explained this book would expand on the concept of trauma across backgrounds, ages, and professions, including some jobs, like my own, readers may not have immediately considered as having an impact on people. I told Ann I had never forgotten about Andrea, or her and her family. I wanted to tell her, personally, despite the passage of time since Andrea died, people still cared. It is far easier to type a synopsis of what I said in those first few minutes than it was for me to actually say it to Ann King, a woman who has endured years of pain and heartache. The floodgate had opened. I broke down and struggled through tears trying to tell her. I apologized and tried to regain my composure. I had never broken down in the process of asking someone for an interview, or trying to explain my approach and rationale. My reaction took me off guard. I composed myself in about one to two minutes. She told me not to worry or feel bad; my reaction was totally fine. She did not interrupt me as I spoke. She listened. After I calmed down, I continued our conversation. I asked if I could include what we had discussed in the book to let people know how the King family has been doing since we last spoke. She agreed. Ann was seventy-three years old when I interviewed her in April 2016. That made her forty-nine when I initially met her. I was fifty-one when we spoke in 2016. That similarity in age, me now and her then, made her hardship hit home even more. I am very near the same age Ann was when Andrea went missing. I have a teenage daughter who is now only a year younger than Andrea was when she was murdered. Ann could not initially remember the last time she was in Halifax. I reminded her about the date of the story I filed in October 1997, when she had come to the Our Missing Children conference and to tour the Maritimes speaking in schools. That was the last time, as far as she can remember, that she has stepped foot in Halifax. “I’d like to come [back] but there is no reason for me to,” Ann said. “They [police] believe the main suspect in Andrea’s murder is incarcerated.” As a mother, reflecting over the quarter-century since Andrea died, my heart ached for Ann and her husband Wayne, their other children, and the thousands of people who must endure this level of trauma inflicted upon them. They are all victims. The violent death of a child or loved one is among the worst pain a human being can endure – perhaps the worst. What about the disappearance of a child or loved one? Add to that the frustration of not knowing the answers surrounding what has happened to your beloved, or in other criminal cases, not having the person’s physical remains to grieve over, or never ever knowing where he or she is. It is unfathomable anguish. Ann King told me the trauma over Andrea’s disappearance, murder, and the fact the case remains open after twenty-five years, has taken a significant and heartbreaking toll on her family. It has literally taken another life. Not far into our conversation Ann asked me, “You didn’t know I lost another daughter, did you?”

Ann started talking about her eldest daughter, Maria. I had no clue, whatsoever, there are actually four other King daughters: Maria, Debra, and two foster children, daughters Erica and Nicole. Andrea King had four sisters. The Kings’ first child, born December 14, 1962, Maria Ann Wilkinson, died by suicide November 15, 2007, at the age of forty-four. The pain of trying to endure fifteen years of coping with Andrea’s murder became too much for Maria, according to Ann. Coincidentally, Andrea’s birthday in 1973 was just one day after Maria’s. Maria was eleven years and one day older than Andrea. She adored her little sister, and when Andrea went missing, the two had been living together in New Westminster. Ann said Maria started drinking heavily in the years after Andrea was killed. Her use of alcohol became progressively worse as the years passed. Her obituary mentions her “long fight with depression.” Because Andrea and Maria had lived together at the time of her disappearance, I wondered if Maria was the person Andrea had called from the Halifax airport the day she arrived. Media reports, including mine, had repeatedly stated Andrea called one of the King family members from the airport to confirm she had arrived safely. That phone call was the last time anyone had heard from her. However, according to Ann, it was not one of the immediate family that Andrea called, but a friend of the family. The Kings were attending a New Year’s celebration when Andrea called. The sad reality is no one in the King family ever spoke to Andrea again after she left British Columbia. Before Maria’s passing, at some point during the police investigation, Ann said authorities in Halifax sent photographs of “a bunch of stuff,” primarily jewellery and cosmetics, to the family to study. The police wanted to know if the Kings could confirm anything as having belonged to Andrea. Ann said Maria did recognize a pair of earrings in a photo as Andrea’s. They were unusual because they were made of leather, shaped like butterflies, and were colourful. The police never told the family where the items were discovered. Whether the earrings were found with Andrea in the woods, or in a suspect’s home, vehicle, or workplace has not been confirmed. They obviously have significance because otherwise the family would not be subjected to this kind of request. Another personal item of Andrea’s has been returned by police to her family: a gold necklace. Ann explained it was a simple gold chain and its links had been damaged. Still, she appreciates having this personal reminder of her daughter. Since we had started down this path during our interview, I asked Ann about the two unusual bags police had shown the public through media reports: the purse from Mexico and the aluminum-framed hiking backpack. Ann has no idea if either has ever been found. She did say the unusual green backpack with the frame had been Andrea’s father’s bag, borrowed by the daughter for her trip across Canada to Nova Scotia. Ann confirmed Andrea’s mustard-coloured jacket, which she was wearing at the time of her disappearance, had been found with her daughter in woods in Lower Sackville. That fact had initially been reported by ATV back in December of 1992, not long after Andrea was found. Ann asked police to send her a photo of Andrea’s jacket. She had requested the photo, but upon reflection, she said seeing it bothered her because “it [the jacket] didn’t look good.” The jacket is part of the evidence. I did not ask Ann King about the nature of Andrea’s murder or any probing questions about her death because that was not the purpose of my call and primarily, I do not want to jeopardize the ongoing police investigation. When the public watched the heart-wrenching story with Ann King tossing the white roses into the woods where her daughter was found, viewers would have assumed incorrectly, as I did, that the King family or Ann herself had bought the flowers for that purpose. She did not. A woman, a stranger, had given her the flowers. Ann does not know the woman’s identity, but she said it was one of many examples of caring shown to her and her family by the people of Nova Scotia since 1992. “We would go to a restaurant and the bill would be paid for us,” Ann offered, as another example of the generosity of complete strangers. A Nova Scotia artist did an oil painting of Andrea, which was about two feet wide and three feet in length, as a gift for the King family. Ann met the painter at the church where Andrea’s memorial was held. It was not during the memorial but another time when Ann had been praying. The woman approached Ann and offered her sympathy and the gift. The artist had the painting shipped from Halifax to British Columbia. In the painting, Andrea is seen at her father’s birthday party, a family gathering held at the house about eight weeks before she went missing. The artist worked up a sketch from a photo of the birthday party and then painted the portrait. The birthday party was the last time the family was together as a group. In another show of solidarity and support, a couple from Truro, Nova Scotia, gave Ann and Wayne the use of their car while the Kings were in Nova Scotia on one occasion. Ann explained she had sat next to the woman on a plane ride from British Columbia to Halifax. The woman told Ann she was returning from seeing her son in university. Ann told her about Andrea and the fact her then missing daughter had come to Nova Scotia to scout universities. Once they landed, the couple immediately gave the Kings their own car for the duration of their stay. “The people of Nova Scotia were wonderful,” Ann concluded. There has been some lightness in the bleakness. But the blackness has been excruciating. “In my mind, I want to meet that man incarcerated [who is a suspect] to see what kind of person would do this, if he did it,” Ann said. As one method of continued support, the entire family goes for counselling: Ann, Wayne, Erica, and Nicole, the youngest of the four girls, who still live at home with their parents. “I am a caregiver at heart. I still like to look after things,” Ann explained. Nicole was born in 1987 and Erica in 1990, which means Ann and Wayne had to cope with a missing daughter and then eleven months later learn Andrea had been murdered – all while caring for the two youngest girls, who were then only five and two years old respectively. They were also trying to assist the two older daughters, Maria and Debra. “It affected [Erica and Nicole] in various ways, because it affected us,” Ann said. I did not ask how it has affected the two young women, or any of the other family members, in any detail, and Ann did not offer. Ann did explain daughter Debra has coped well over the past twenty-five years. In our interview, Ann expressed a desire to communicate her gratitude to the general public. Without any preplanning, an idea immediately popped into my head as we spoke on the phone. As mentioned, I suggested she write an open letter which I would include, verbatim, in this book. That way she could have control over exactly what she wanted to say, in the face of so much lack of control over many years. Ann immediately agreed to write one. She responded via email the following day. Her words about hearing from me again gave me great relief. I had worried I may have caused her or her family upset by opening the lines of communication. “Thank you for contacting me, Janice. It is that kind of call that strengthens my faith in humanity. I will write the letter this week. Blessings, Ann,” she responded. When Ann eventually sent her letter, which arrived via email within one week, I reread it multiple times; her frankness about her own struggles is moving. Ann said she only has one regret, which has to do with timing. “It [the letter] is twenty-four years too late.” She wished she had told the public back in 1992 exactly how she felt about their unwavering support. Outwardly, Ann may have appeared to be weathering her trauma adequately, or even well, but privately, she had admitted she had times of profound anger, which she wrote about in the letter. Ann’s Christian faith may have wavered but it has never disappeared. A woman of deep moral conviction, Ann has worked through her experiences to speak about Andrea and her family at conferences, schools, and churches; her charitable nature has also extended to me, and to you, twenty-five years later. Perhaps the most telling aspect of her strength and character was her immediate reaction to my first call to her home, when I got her out of bed. When I asked what she thought of my reaching out to her, after so many years, she immediately responded, without missing a beat, “Gratitude; immediately, gratitude. Thank you, so much. She’s not forgotten.” Ann said her husband Wayne has been incredibly supportive and still “looks after me.” She said her husband is a key source of strength for her. Ann now has arthritis and limited mobility. As time passes, the continuing lack of answers weighs heavily. “I am seventy-three. I am afraid I am going to die and I may never know [what happened],” she said in a quiet voice. The uncertainty and trauma has been insurmountable for some, like daughter Maria. “I can deal with the truth. I can’t deal with not knowing,” Ann King concluded.

Ann King’s Legacy Letter A big thank you to the people of Nova Scotia. Are you discouraged at times and losing faith in humanity? Well, here is my attempt to uplift your spirits, and share how I have kept my positive attitude about how good, kind, and perfect we humans really can be. As you know, we are all born with the ability to make choices, and sometimes those choices are not in the best interest of others or ourselves. Such was the case in 1992, when our daughter Andrea King came to Nova Scotia to study. You may remember she arrived at the airport and was never heard from or seen again. Her skeletal remains were found eleven months later. She had been murdered. Someone had made a bad choice. We, her family, were devastated and spent many hours in Nova Scotia talking to police and being interviewed by the media. Now, twenty-four years later, we still miss Andrea and her murder has not been solved. We coped; well, not all of us. Our oldest, biological daughter, Maria, couldn’t cope. She sadly took her own life eight years ago. In many ways, the effects on our family have been many and varied. Yet so often I have been asked, “How are you holding up?” “Where do you get your strength?” Firstly, I want to sincerely thank the people of Nova Scotia, so very much, for all the support. From the police to the unknown persons who gave us hope, encouragement, and their love. To the people who anonymously gave money, paid for our meals, sent flowers, wrote letters, et cetera. To the artist who painted a lovely picture of Andrea. To the lady who gave us white roses to put on her gravesite. To the hotel [management] who gave us complimentary accommodation. To the family who loaned us their personal vehicle to drive around. To the families who gave us their willing hospitality. To the many police officers who were so understanding and sensitive to our needs. To the media who interviewed us with compassion. To the generosity of Victims Assistance for hours of counselling. All this has helped us deal with our loss. For these acts of pure kindness – we thank you. However, there is something I need to share with you all. I have a strong Christian faith and know that God has been by my side each step of the way. When I couldn’t cope, I asked for His help and somehow He lifted me out of the depths of despair. Oh! Yes! There were times I considered taking my own life just so I would see Andrea and Maria again. I am not perfect, and my faith was shaken terribly during some of those years. Yet it has been that faith, and the kindness of the human race, that has carried me through. Thank you, and God bless you all.

4 Where is Kimberly McAndrew? Kimberly McAndrew’s disappearance haunts and disturbs many, including me. It is etched into our memory and psyche, a mystery that is painful to revisit and, most importantly, heartbreaking for the family. Kimberly is still listed as a missing person on the Halifax Regional Police website, twenty-eight years after she was last seen, in Halifax, August 12, 1989. What we do know is that Kimberly finished her shift a little early that day at a Canadian Tire store and clocked out, according to an old Halifax Regional Police press release which I have kept in my files. The release stated: “On August 12, 1989, 19 year-old Kimberly McAndrew disappeared without a trace after leaving work at the Canadian Tire Store on Quinpool Road. ‘She punched out at 4:21 p.m., walked out the back door into the parking lot, and that’s where the trail ends,’ says Sgt. Mike Spurr, one of the lead investigators on the case. ‘There isn’t a week that goes by without our group meeting to talk about this case. We still receive leads and each and every one of them is followed up.’” My first archival tape was missing when I visited the CTV station. It had three stories about Kimberly’s disappearance on it dating from 1991, two years after she went missing. The first stories I did, in 1989 and 1990, have not been kept, according to the records I viewed in 2016. I do not have the scripts for those stories in the two remaining files about Kimberly I have kept and later found when I was researching this book. It has been widely reported that Kimberly was last seen leaving work at the Canadian Tire Store on Quinpool Road in Halifax, August 12, 1989. The first story of mine I could find about her dates from the third anniversary of the day she disappeared. “Third Year Anniversary” opens with an interview clip or quote from Kimberly’s father, Cyril McAndrew, a former Nova Scotia RCMP officer who died in 2004, at age seventy-two, without knowing what happened to his daughter. That fact is devastating and when I saw his face come up on the television screen in the playback area my heart dropped. I had met and interviewed Cyril and his wife Audrey at their home in Parrsboro for the 1992 interview. They were gracious and welcoming. We sat in their living room. Watching the old story immediately took me back to being there with them. Hearing him speak was heartbreaking. It was then. It is now. “It’s been a long year. We’ve had our ups and downs. We all remain positive, all the four girls and James, the youngest boy. We still believe she’s out there,” Cyril said. By all reports I have read, from family interviews, police statements, and media reports, Cyril never stopped believing Kimberly would be found. He was a veteran police officer and would have been well aware of theories and possibilities. But as a father, he always remained hopeful they would get answers. That did not happen during his lifetime, but for the benefit of the remaining family, it is time for someone to step up and talk. By the time that interview had occurred, the family had already been through a horrific roller-coaster ride, which included a mistaken report in 1991 by a missing persons’ agency in Canada that Kimberly had been located in a London, Ontario, hospital. Before it was confirmed whether or not it was the missing teenager, I was sent by ATV to London to see what I could confirm. I tracked down two Halifax detectives working on her case at the hospital. Neither would talk to me on-camera, but both allowed me to videotape them at the hospital as a confirmation of their presence in the city and the Halifax/London investigation. The missing person’s agency publicly apologized, through the media, to the family. “The important thing is to keep looking, and if you keep looking, you just can’t keep looking back to see mistakes that were made, you have got to go on,” Cyril McAndrew said in one of my reports. The story went on to explain Kimberly had one thousand dollars in her savings account, which she had set aside to attend Dalhousie University in Halifax. At that point, it had remained untouched for three years. Her family said it was a clear indicator she was not a runaway. “There’s no doubt in my mind that she was abducted,” her father said in 1992. Her sister, Megan Adams, also appeared in the story and confirmed they never believed Kimberly left of her own accord. “She has nothing to run away from or to, so we never even considered that at all,” Megan said. The last part of the story includes edited footage of the family showing me a homemade videotape of Kimberly, taken four days before she went missing. In it, the beautiful young woman is smiling and looking happy. As the video plays, my story concluded this way: “Unlike you might think, members of the McAndrew family say, as the days go by, their hopes aren’t really fading. They do believe the police will solve this case and they will know what happened to Kimberly.” Two years later, the media, including myself, ran stories on the fifth anniversary of Kimberly’s disappearance. Her family said they were basically in the same place where they had started in 1989. They vowed they would never give up until they had some proof, one way or another, of what exactly happened to Kimberly. As part of my broadcast, the late Constable Gary Martin, with the Halifax Regional Police, and its media spokesperson at the time, said on-camera, “It’s agony for the family. I know the investigator(s) who’s handling it for our department has gone through a real rough time trying to solve this disappearance. And we’ll do anything we can now to solve it,” Martin concluded. Besides the false report of her being found in the London hospital, the McAndrew family has had to endure more false leads and reports, both originating from prison inmates. One involved an informant telling police Kimberly’s remains could be located in Halifax’s Fleming Park, referred to by locals as The Dingle, near the Northwest Arm. On November 7, 1995, the media covered the Fleming Park search. I was there. It was grim. No one wanted Kimberly to be found there, but at the same time, everyone wanted answers for the family. It was excruciating waiting for word. I cannot fathom what it was like for her loved ones. The search and excavation went on for three days. Constable Martin did regular media briefings. When it concluded, with not a shred of evidence of Kimberly being found, on November 9, 1995, the constable gave me an interview at Fleming Park which started with this exact exchange: JL: “Very disappointing outcome.” GM: “It’s very disappointing, it’s [an] extremely disappointing outcome.” According to my report, the inmate “… from a central Canadian prison maintains McAndrew’s body was buried in that park. Police have gone to great lengths to protect his identity, releasing very little information about their informant, including what role he may have played …” Police said they realized that given where the information was coming from they may not find anything. Police also said they felt the informant’s information was good. I also broke a story that the inmate had passed a polygraph test and had visited Fleming Park three times with officers as part of the search for an exact site. Asked why he had come forward so many years after the disappearance, the inmate had claimed he wanted to clear his mind and that it had been bothering him for a long time. Another of Kimberly’s sisters appeared on-camera, a few months later, in January 1996, discussing the family’s pain and suffering. “I would have to say things are kind of day-today dealing with it,” Carla Roberts told the media at a briefing at police headquarters in downtown Halifax. “The inmate coming down and saying that he was going to find a body, I mean, nobody wants to think they they’re going to find the body of their child or their sister. I mean, that’s just something that’s so difficult to think about, especially after six years, you know, your family still having to go on and hoping that you’re going to see that person,” Carla said.

Another false lead came later that same year. In the spring of 1996, police received a tip from another inmate that Kimberly would be found in Point Pleasant Park, deep in the city’s south end between the harbour and the Northwest Arm. Police dug in a well at the park and brought in a forensic specialist from New Brunswick. Again, no trace of Kimberly was found. As part of a 1996 media briefing, also involving the family, police released a composite sketch of a man seen following Kimberly out of the Canadian Tire store parking lot. A female eyewitness claimed she had seen the suspicious person following closely behind, as the teenager crossed the street at the lights near the site of the former St. Patrick’s High School. Kimberly allegedly then turned to walk along Quinpool Road towards the Willow Tree, the nickname of a multiple-lane intersection near the Halifax Commons. That lead was also followed. It also did not lead to an arrest. Detective Sergeant Dave Worrell, a respected and now retired police investigator and forensics expert, who worked extensively on the McAndrew case, said in 2016 he does not believe this lead was solid. He thinks Kimberly never made it out of the parking lot, that she was either abducted from that area or left willingly with someone. As part of the investigation in the McAndrew case, HRP even went as far as having a re-enactment done of the day Kimberly went missing. The re-enactment was performed for the media in 1997 by Megan, Kimberly’s sister, who bears some resemblance to her missing sibling. After the re-enactment, Megan told reporters, “Obviously the past eight years have taken a toll on our family. But we remain hopeful that this is going to be solved. There’s people out there – someone out there knows something – and hopefully they’ll think about their own family and think, ‘Nobody, nobody should be put through this,’ … eight years is a long time.” Megan Adams made that statement twenty years ago, as of 2017. The pain these people have had to endure is beyond cruel. No tip or lead you can offer in 2017 is too small. The 1997 re-enactment story and interview with Megan was the last story I filed on the disappearance of Kimberly McAndrew and its investigation. It was produced two years before I left television. I cannot find any other scripts, files, or stories about Kimberly in my records. I do not remember any others. That final story ended this way: “As to whether she is alive, no, we don’t know that. But I’m not going to say I really believe my sister is dead, because I owe her more than that,” Megan concluded. We still owe it to Kimberly McAndrew and her family to keep pushing for a conclusion.

5 Forced Self-Reflection The final story I wrote about Kimberly McAndrew’s disappearance was done in 1997. The next time I reached out to her family was for this book, nineteen years later. I had deliberately avoided requesting that interview for six months. I tried to get around it in my research and writing as long as I could. I was afraid, terrified of their reaction. I dabbled with the idea I did not need to ask for the interview. My training, experience, and empathy undercut any thoughts of avoiding the request, because dodging it would only benefit me and no one else. It was also unethical not to give them the opportunity to speak should they wish to; that chance had to be given. In my gut, I knew from the outset I would have to ask and who I would invite to speak, regardless of her answer. I had stopped working in the daily news media and no longer covered these traumatic cases where I had to interview the family and loved ones of deceased or missing persons the way I used to in this earlier part of my career. Revisiting that part of my work was like ripping the scab off an old wound. If that was what if felt like for me, I worried, and still do, about what my contacting the families would mean for them. Because I was discussing their loved ones in this book, I wanted them to know about the project one year in advance, to allow them ample time to digest the knowledge and prepare for any discussion about either case during media interviews I may be doing when the book was launched. I also wanted to request an interview or some form of communication with the families to go along with this book. In my old file folders, I found the contact phone number for Kimberly’s sister, Megan Adams. I noticed from reading stories online that Megan had spoken to the media within recent years. I had also interviewed her before. It made sense she would be the person I would try to contact. I doubted it still was the right phone number. It took weeks before I worked up the nerve to call her – the first time. No one answered. The message centre kicked in and I recognized her voice immediately. I did not leave a message. I did not want to take her off guard without speaking with her. Days passed. I called a second time with the same result. I went on with my writing and research. Several weeks later, during the summer of 2016, I called a third time. A man answered who identified himself as Megan’s husband. He was very pleasant and said he would pass along my contact information. I heard nothing. One month passed. I wanted to call back, thinking her husband may have forgotten to give Megan my message or, with it being summer, vacation may have interrupted my request. I called back on August 17, 2016. This time Megan answered. It was five days after the twenty-seventh anniversary of Kimberly’s disappearance, August 12, 1989. I tried to explain who I was and why I was calling. I did not do a great job. Our conversation lasted about fifteen minutes. My heart was pounding the entire time. I stumbled over my words. I tried to not become emotional. That she even took my call is something for which I am grateful. What follows are my notes, in raw form, which I wrote immediately after our call. I was not recording the conversation. I did not ask her if I could and it was not an interview. It was an interview request. The notes give you a sense of what that call was like for me. I would never presume to speak for Megan or anyone else in her family. She spoke for herself in a follow-up written statement. My phone call notes read, in part: • I explained who I was and that I was writing a book for next year … writing books in a series. • Told her my late father was a first responder and my work primarily honours first responders. • This work would include first responders and others … (gave examples) of people impacted by trauma. Purpose = to try and help others. • Explained I was starting it with anecdotes stemming from the cases I covered as a young reporter, including Kimberly’s. • I told her I still care and people still care about Kimberly and her family. • I told her I had never forgotten about any of them. • I did not do a sufficient job of explaining myself. I struggled to explain many people would be interviewed about how trauma has impacted them, in the hopes of helping others. • She wanted to know the purpose of the book. She asked about it a few times … • Told her I have always cared and would still like to help get them the answers they deserve … • Told her I was not naming any suspect(s) and would not be adding to their notoriety with my work. • I did most of the talking. • I was agitated and nervous trying to explain myself. • She said the family would always want to be notified if anything was being written about Kimberly. • I apologized for calling out of the blue. • I apologized for taking her off guard and possibly upsetting her. • Reminded her I had spoken to her husband and left a message with him more than a month previously. • My primary purpose for calling back: 1. For ethical reasons, to let her specifically hear me say I was writing the book which would mention Kimberly – which I may be interviewed about and be discussing in 2017. 2. To let her and the family know I still care and people still care. 3. To ask if she would speak to me. • She gave me her email address and asked me to send the formal request in writing which she would review with the family within two weeks. • I told her I would include my bio, links to my previous books, and an explanation of what I was doing. That day I sent my short biography, publisher’s name, book titles, website addresses where my books could be viewed, and a multi-page synopsis about The Legacy Letters, its purpose and approach. Megan Adams emailed back the same day with one question for clarification: she asked where the proceeds of my books go and whether any portion of them went to charity. I explained non-profits, such as the Tema Conter Memorial Trust, which supports first responders and their families, are promoted and frequently appear in my work. I wrote her back clarifying, “The proceeds made by me from these books, being very frank, would never come close to covering the hundreds of man hours I put into research, writing, editing and promotion/discussion. I do this because, as a storyteller, I try to use whatever skills I have to try and help people at this stage of my career.”

Her response came one week later, August 24, 2016. It is reprinted here verbatim with Megan’s permission. “Thanks for letting me know. I spoke with my mother who remembers you from the early days after Kim went missing. She reminded me of when one of the many false leads had come up and you called the house and my father asked you to wait before attaching Kim’s name to the story, since we were told it was probably not related. Well the story was run anyway (I’m certainly not saying this was up to you), and we were subjected to another firestorm of ‘how do you feel?’ calls and questions from more media outlets, and as predicted, it had nothing to do with Kim. This was not the only time we requested media to hold off and were ignored, only to have it come to nothing. “I’m not relaying this story to be rude or hurtful in any way, but to hopefully speak to the continued trauma family and loved ones are subjected to by media outlets that they cannot turn their back on, for fear of people forgetting the case, but are held at the mercy of a business where the story (real or imagined) always trumps the personal trauma caused. “So yes, we all live with the trauma of Kim going missing and never being found, but we were all traumatized so many more times by [the] media throwing her name in the mix, not based on solid leads and information, but guesswork and unreliable sources. I guess that’s my two cents. “As I said earlier, this was not meant to point a finger and blame; but to give more clarity to the Catch 22 that the media is for families in situations such as ours, and the effect is long-lasting. “Thanks. Megan” I have reread the first paragraph countless times trying to remember the call with Mr. McAndrew. I do not. I am not denying its occurrence. I just cannot remember my employer and me ever going against a request for an embargo. However, I can say, without reservation, I did cover most of the twists and turns in Kimberly’s disappearance during the years I worked in television. I have discussed a number of them here. I thought I had been careful and ethical when I was covering them. To be clear, I am not throwing anyone I worked with “under the bus,” so to speak, but the embargo request in question has slipped my mind. Perhaps that is also telling. I have decided to share Megan’s response, with her permission, so professionals working in newsrooms now, and people training to enter them, can have a frank discussion about the ethics around covering highly sensitive traumatic cases. As Megan said, “… we were all traumatized so many more times by media throwing her [Kimberly’s] name in the mix, not based on solid leads and information, but guesswork and unreliable sources.” I am urging people to carefully read, reread, and read again what Megan Adams has said, to all of us, on behalf of the many families like hers who have no choice but to deal, long-term, with both the media and the horrific trauma that has been forced on them by circumstances beyond their control. However, journalism is essential in society. It requires trained professionals who are consistently accurate, ethical, fair, and balanced. It requires care and compassion. The field, like all careers, is made up of human beings who still, even though they may not intend to, get it wrong sometimes. I did not know I had inadvertently hurt the McAndrew family. I would like to publicly apologize to Megan Adams and the entire McAndrew family for any hurt caused by my work. At this juncture in my career, I am committed to trying to help people. I wrote Megan back after reading her response, thinking it was sent on behalf of her and her whole family. I asked for permission to share what she had written with my readers and the public. She replied: “These are my words. I never want to make those representative of my whole family, but they can certainly be attributed to me. You are free to use them in whatever manner you see fit. I know ours is not a unique experience with the media, and my heart breaks when I see families subjected to similar difficult situations. Thank you for sharing the fact that Kim’s disappearance has impacted you personally. We have heard from many caring individuals over the years, which helps to keep a person’s heart open and hopeful. I hope your book offers some perspective and comfort to those who need it, as well as yourself. Thank you and best of luck with finishing up the book and whatever else the future holds; feel free to use my words in whatever way you feel may assist others.” I felt relief. I could sense she understood my communication was sent out of concern and compassion. What stood out for me, in the second email, is the fact Megan hoped what she had said, and this work, will help someone, a sentiment echoed by Ann King. That speaks volumes about both women and both families. I promised Megan Adams I would not contact her or her family ever again. It is my hope her firm and poignant message will spark discussion and also spur someone who has not previously come forward or who remembers a fact, no matter how small or irrelevant you may have previously considered it to be, to finally speak out – please – to help the McAndrew family and others like them.

6 Dave Worrell: Full Course – Gone But Not Forgotten Retired HRP Detective Sergeant Dave Worrell was one of many police officers who followed up tips and leads about Kimberly McAndrew’s whereabouts for years. Dave was twenty-six-years-old when he joined the RCMP in 1980, in Vancouver, British Columbia. While on the west coast, he worked in the Drug Section and later Major Crime. While in Major Crime, and early in his career, one of the highest profile cases he worked on during his British Columbia stint involved a pedophile, a school principal who moved around and targeted victims across the whole province. The RCMP ended up with more than two hundred victims. It was a challenging start to a multi-faceted and distinguished policing career spanning thirty-five years, which has taken him from coast to coast. Dave relocated to Halifax nine years into his policing career, in 1989, to join the Bedford Police Department, the same year Kimberly McAndrew went missing. As a Bedford Police constable, Worrell was promoted to sergeant in 1992. While with Bedford, he started that force’s Major Crime Unit. Because he worked with the Bedford force, he was not initially part of the Halifax Police/RCMP McAndrew investigation. The Bedford force was eventually grandfathered into the current Halifax Regional Police after the amalgamation of four municipal units in 1996, which resulted in the creation of the Halifax Regional Municipality and one large policing entity. While at HRP, he worked in its Major Crime unit for fourteen years. This unit covers all violent crimes and highprofile criminal cases. He was part of Major Crime and the General Investigative Section (GIS) from 2002 to 2012. Dave cannot count the number of files he has worked on in his career. It numbers in the hundreds. He has been called to thousands of crime scenes because of his later work, and knowledge, in forensics and identification, commonly referred to as “IDENT.” His work with the Forensics section began in 2002. “Back in those days, Major Crime went to every death. When we first started as HRP that was the decision: that Major Crime would be called to all death scenes. You may be in and out, but you had to go … of course, when I went to IDENT, you go to all the autopsies, right?” Dave explained. He provided no other details and I left that latter statement alone. Suffice to say, he has witnessed and experienced his fair share of death, trauma, and the results of violent crime. He has also kept every single notepad he has ever used. They fill two storage tubs. As he has a vast working knowledge of numerous older case files, HRP members still call him for his expertise when any new lead comes in. Dave retired from policing on April 15, 2015, approximately one year before our interviews. He now owns and operates Worrell Consultants and Investigations. “I work primarily on all types of litigation matters, civil and criminal, missing persons, cold cases, and equivocal death investigations. I also do corporate security and bodyguard work.” For the record, Detective Sergeant Worrell never spoke to me beyond a “hello” or other casual remarks during the years he worked in either Bedford or with the HRP/RCMP. We attended many of the same crime scenes; I remember seeing him on the investigative side of the police tape. Dave and I would have been adversaries. I made reference to this fact when we first sat down to talk in his home. I knew I had been a thorn in the side of many police officers. It went with the territory as a journalist, especially one who specialized in crime coverage. He admitted our interviews would never have taken place while he was still an active member. Police and journalists have an unusual and tense relationship. We both have jobs to do. Sometimes we need each other, like in the exchange or relaying of information for a purpose. In the end, we all want justice for victims and answers for loved ones. Dave is an avid student of the behavioral sciences. It is a passion of his and one of his specialities. He worked with that particular section within the Nova Scotia RCMP before his retirement. Specifically, he worked with the Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System or VICLAS. He was sent to work with VICLAS, seconded from HRP to the RCMP, and ended his lengthy career with the very force he started with, on another coast, thirty-five years earlier. “It was a good way to finish out. I enjoyed it,” he said, of the concluding part of his career with VICLAS, from 2012 to 2015. “VICLAS … deals with all violent crimes, in our case, for the Atlantic Provinces,” Dave explained. “Violent crime took in any and all sexual assaults, attempted murders, and murders and kidnappings.” Dave would take a file and analyze it from a behavioral sciences perspective. For this part of his work, he initially trained in Ottawa for three weeks, later in Toronto, and also completed about a dozen online courses, most of which were offered through the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) in the United States. “I really enjoyed it [behavioral sciences]. I wish it was something I did earlier in my career,” he said. Dave confirmed, even in retirement, he still gets calls from police colleagues when a lead arises about an investigation he has worked. That was also the case when he was working with VICLAS and a tip led authorities to do an extensive search of a Shad Bay, Nova Scotia, property in the spring of 2013. According to Dave, the property was owned by a family member of the incarcerated man who is the primary suspect in the Kimberly McAndrew case, among others. Police spent several days searching and digging. The McAndrew family had to be notified, once again. Dave said he was contacted before the 2013 search was done after a tip came in to police. He will not discuss the tip or what exactly was done at the Shad Bay site, because the investigation remains ongoing. However, he does confirm, since Kimberly McAndrew went missing in 1989, no conclusive piece of DNA or personal belonging owned or worn by her has ever been found, up to and including April 2015, when he retired. The evidence to date is, therefore, mostly circumstantial. To be clear, there is evidence. But until 2015, when he retired, there was not enough “hard” evidence, either DNA or forensic in nature, to warrant a charge being laid in this or any other case examined by a combined 1990s Halifax police/RCMP operation called Full Course. Full Course ran from September of 1997 to the spring of 1999, lasting approximately one and a half years, according to Dave. He confirmed Full Course “looked extensively at sixteen unsolved homicides and/or missing persons believed to be homicides” in Nova Scotia. He was the officer in charge, with then HRP Superintendent Frank Beazley (and later HRP chief) as its supervisor. While the media has reported on the joint operation, its actual duration, number of officers, number of cases investigated, estimated costs, and general findings have never been revealed, until now. Dave was also the person who started HRP’s Cold Case Squad. “You’ve got to take one [unsolved/cold case] file and you got to go through it start to finish,” he explained. The concept of the Cold Case Squad is to leave no stone unturned, examine every piece of evidence and basically go back to the start from square one, which he and others did, exhaustively, based on the numbers and facts, which our interviews have now revealed. When he started Cold Case for HRP in 2000, Dave studied how policing agencies in the United States had set up their own Cold Case Divisions. In 2000, he had four officers working with him. “Basically, the principal is you take one file at a time and you just rip it apart, and at the end of the day, you can say, ‘There is literally nothing else we can do with this file,’ or take to management a business plan to do an operation, if you get a good suspect or whatever,” he explained. With Full Course, he said they did not have a main suspect when it began in 1997. At its height, he confirmed fourteen officers worked on the investigation: seven from the RCMP and seven from HRP. Over time, as evidence was collected and interviews conducted, one person emerged as a primary suspect. Dave said the same suspect was linked by investigators to multiple victims. One main suspect was found to have connections to approximately six of sixteen victims in the cases investigated by the members of Full Course.

The main suspect who emerged from the Full Course operation is the same person incarcerated in western Canada. He is also the prime suspect in both the Kimberly McAndrew and Andrea King files, according to Worrell. Those cases were two of the sixteen Full Course files and two of the six which were linked to the same suspect. Not all of the cases involved young women; some also involved men. “The focus [of Full Course] first started with missing or murdered … women. But it expanded to the point that we were looking at males as well,” Dave said. The six cases, with one linked suspect, led to an important avenue in our discussion which has been speculated about for years. In the 1990s, a number of Halifax journalists, including Phonse Jessome, had reported that HRP was investigating the possibility of a serial killer operating in Halifax and Nova Scotia. Sources were cited in stories done by several reporters, including Eva Hoare, who is a friend of mine. Eva used to work for a Halifax newspaper but now is employed by allnovascotia.com. We often covered the same crime stories from 1987 to 1999 when I worked at ATV. Despite the pressure by Eva, Phonse, and others, no one in police management would ever confirm, on the record, that a potential serial killer investigation was ongoing or had ever happened. Dave said the Full Course team had been investigating a potential serial killer, in his opinion. Keep in mind, there is no conclusive DNA evidence linking the suspect to any of the Full Course cases. That is why the word “potential” is carefully and purposely being used. Some of the evidence linking the man to multiple investigations and people involved the suspect either knowing the victims, being seen with the victims, having been in the company of the victims, or having some other association with them, like through his work. Again, that is not the only evidence, but that is all Dave would explain because the files remain open. In fact, he confirmed there is a lot of evidence in the cases. The retired detective sergeant provided no details or examples of any evidence because no one has yet been charged or convicted. During the year and a half when Full Course was operational, Dave confirmed that HRP/RCMP ended up with “over a thousand exhibits [which] were originally seized during Full Course.” A staggering amount of evidence exists in these cases. That begs one crucial question: if police have more than one thousand combined pieces of evidence, why have no charges been laid in any of the sixteen cases? It is appears not to be for lack of effort. It is because of the lack of a definitive forensic match. The exact answer lies in what happened during the final years of Dave’s policing career, when he was seconded to do a full evidentiary review of Full Course. “Those 1,000 [exhibits] were again reviewed between 2012 and 2014,” he said. One, unnamed, police forensics specialist worked with him during the evidence review. He credits that person with doing the bulk of the work. During the review, Dave was tasked with determining whether any evidence from the sixteen Full Course case files would be suitable for retesting in the lab, due to technical advances that had occurred since the 1990s in DNA and forensic testing. He confirmed 325 pieces of evidence collected from Full Course were retested during 2012 to 2014 as HRP/RCMP looked for a possible DNA match and definitive forensic evidence. He said the retesting/lab process involved looking for either suspect or victim DNA, depending on the nature of each individual piece of evidence. Dave attempted to estimate the significant costs involved, including the DNA retesting. He explained the estimates in a series of three follow-up email interviews and fact-check sessions. “Of those … [325 pieces of evidence deemed appropriate for retesting], 23 were not suitable for further examination at the RCMP Lab, but were suitable for examination at a private lab which did mitochondrial DNA analysis. Those 23 were examined at a cost to HRP of $65,000,” he confirmed. But what was the cost of the other 302 samples retested inside the RCMP lab? “We always went by [the] estimate of [a] minimum [of] $500/sample, depending on the work [that] needed to be done; i.e. how degraded a sample is, or if [the] exhibit is teeth, it can go as high as $1,500/sample. So I think $250,000 [for the overall retesting] is a fair estimate for the … exhibits, because there was a wide variance of samples: degraded teeth, etc. But [it] is only an estimate,” Dave said, particularly underlining the fact his numbers are estimates and not a confirmed tally. Since Full Course began, up to and including 2015, HRP and the Nova Scotia RCMP have committed hundreds, if not thousands, of man hours, as well as hundreds of thousands of dollars in investigators’ salaries and lab testing to try to get definitive answers about these sixteen victims: to either locate the missing people involved, bring a suspect to justice, to help the families and their loved ones, or protect the public. Not one of the 325 pieces of evidence retested, in either lab, came back as a solid forensic match to any suspect. “There were no conclusive results on any of the tested exhibits; RCMP or private labs,” Worrell confirmed. It is hard to believe there has not been one single DNA match after all that work. But that is exactly what happened, according to the officer who was in charge of both Full Course and its evidence review. It is now clear why no charges have been laid – yet. I asked Dave if he thinks a second retest could ever happen, based on further advances in DNA technology. I dislike playing the “what if?” card during an interview. It is impossible for anyone to know for certain what will happen in the future, but his answer is worth considering. “Back in 1998, I probably said there wasn’t a hope for further testing in the future, but there was. That’s hard to say, depending on technology. The best I could say, on that point would be: there is still, in some cases, sufficient DNA left on the exhibits for further testing. You know what I mean? We haven’t used it all; in some cases I think we probably have … years from now, somebody should really look at that [testing again].” The door remains open. Dave has met with and interviewed the man who emerged as Full Course’s main suspect. The man was not initially co-operative. I asked about the evidentiary links discovered by officers during Full Course: that one man became the prime suspect in multiple cases and what that discovery meant, officially, for the record. JL: “You have links to [at least] six cases with one main suspect, which would mean you were investigating a [potential] serial killer?” DW: “It does to me. I’ll be frank with you; HRP, at the time, just did not want to use that term.” I did not ask which cases, besides the two I was researching, were linked to one suspect and that information was not provided. Other journalists put a lot of pressure on HRP to confirm what Dave Worrell is now publicly stating, for the record, in 2016/2017. According to Dave, HRP and RCMP were investigating a potential serial killer operating in both Halifax and in Nova Scotia in the late 1980s and 1990s. DW: “The case, anybody who worked on the file or the operation [Full Course] knew that’s exactly what we were potentially dealing with.” Dave cannot say authorities were investigating a serial killer because no conclusive DNA evidence has definitively linked someone to any of the Full Course files and no charges have been laid. Worrell has stated neither Full Course nor the evidence review provided any conclusive DNA evidence. DW: “You can’t give any person that label [serial killer] unless you’re able to lay a charge, from an investigative point of view. It’s the same as saying he’s a suspect; he’s a potential serial killer based on the evidence we have, so far. I use that word potential in there, because, you’re right, you can’t confirm he is a killer if you don’t have any evidence to charge him.” Given how hard some journalists worked to try to get the serial killer fact/investigation confirmed over the years, I asked Dave again, in our second interview, to be crystal clear, once and for all: JL: “You were the officer in charge of Full Course, and in your opinion, you were investigating a potential serial killer?” DW: “Yep.” JL: “You don’t have any problem with me saying that?” DW: “No, none whatsoever. Absolutely.” JL: Because that will get attention, Dave, you know that, right?” DW: “Yep. If you want to put a label on that ‘other’ evidence, it would be circumstantial evidence. He [the suspect] knew these people; we proved that he knew certain ones. We proved he was in their company or he was seen with them or [had an] association to his work, that kind of stuff. That’s exactly what that is – circumstantial. It’s not forensic and it’s not hard-core evidence, it’s circumstantial.” That includes one thousand pieces of evidence police have amassed, as of 2015, when Dave retired. He cannot and will not comment on what is currently happening with evidence or with any murder or missing person files – because he no longer is operational and the files are open. “To me, it’s a no-brainer. If you’re investigating someone for three or more homicides, then he’s a potential serial killer. I don’t see the room for argument there,” Worrell concluded. “I was okay back then [saying it] and I stand by it now. I mean, that’s my opinion as an investigator.” The detailed information revealed publicly for the first time in this book by retired Detective Sergeant Dave Worrell required a joint response from the Nova Scotia RCMP, H Division and Halifax Regional Police, who equally staffed Operation Full Course. I developed thirty detailed fact-checks and questions for both policing agencies to review and respond to over the course of the fall of 2016 and sent them to their media relations officers. Their responses were variations on the same theme: “We are unable to answer these questions as they are in relation to an open file and answering them might harm the ongoing investigation and

jeopardize potential prosecutions.” “We don’t speak publicly about criminal operations unless they have concluded with charges.” “These questions are in relation to open cases and we have to protect these ongoing investigations, so we’re unable to elaborate further.” As all these cases remain unsolved, Dave said all the sixteen victims and their families remain with him, despite the passage of time. This brought us to the crux of my wanting to interview him. I wanted to speak with him to try to capture a respected opinion about dealing with an enormous amount of trauma involving forensics and violent crime, specifically if a case remained unsolved. What is that like as a police officer? How does a person deal with that? “It’s always there [the cases and people involved]. It’s something that you live with; I think for me, personally, it is because so much of my career and my time and energy went into it [Full Course], and secondly, I personally dealt with, on one or two occasions [at least], every family of each victim. I had some contact and usually it was personal contact, other than Andrea King,” he said. Dave has never met the King family. “… some of the families would call every couple of weeks, so you get to know them fairly well. So there’s an aspect that you’re always [thinking], Geez, I wish I could have done something more, or brought somebody to justice for them,” Worrell said. How could a person, no matter their training or experience, completely shut off their emotions after retirement, or while still on the job, when a case or cases remain unsolved? During the time of Full Course, it was difficult for Dave because he had a teenage daughter reasonably close in age to some of the victims he was trying to get justice for. “I remember her [his daughter] being the age of going downtown … with the girls. I was always worried about that; I think it applies to being a police officer, in general, with kids … there’s a lot I know they don’t know.” “My theory is that Kimberly never made it out of the parking lot. How can I tell my daughter, ‘Stay out of public places,’ … how do you deal with that? You can’t keep them at home … it’s a tough area to be in, and I’d think you’d find most police officers are that way, when it comes to what they know, that most people don’t know, and trying to somehow work that into your home life with your kids … because my whole career was mostly involving violent crimes; that’s what I dealt with,” said Worrell. Dave also has a son, and grandchildren. “It [the cases and people] never leaves you. I’m a grandfather now, and I have one granddaughter and one grandson. I think about abductions and that type of thing … often I’ve said, ‘Don’t let her play out in front if you’re not watching her.’ I don’t think it’s something that’s ever going to leave an officer. It’s certainly never going to leave me.” I asked if he is “plagued” or “haunted” by the unsolved cases he’s investigated, and if those words were an accurate description of how he feels in his retirement. “From a personal perspective, I don’t let them … There’s nothing wrong with you if that is the case. It’s natural to be affected that way, in terms of dealing with it. I’m very good at compartmentalizing. You’ve got to keep it in perspective, or I do, because if you don’t, it will take over,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking about them and I can’t control that, but what I can control is how it affects me.” Dave may think about the victims, their loved ones, and the unsolved cases, but he said he is trying to live his life without being severely negatively impacted by his memories. “I could be sitting down and playing with my grandkids, and for whatever reason, something pops in my mind about one of them, Kimberly, or any one of them. You think about it, but then, get back to what you are doing; move forward, get on with life. If I let it bog me down, it would do just that,” he explained. Dave addresses a key point: he’s discussing coping mechanisms that work for him as a professional in a career of dealing with countless violent deaths and unsolved crimes. He is not saying people should try and forget what happened or that people can simply move on. That is impossible. People try to cope, with or without assistance, in their own individual way. Dave’s words will help other officers who face the same reality he does: living with more questions than answers. It is a tough burden Worrell carries; he will never forget either the victims or their families. Reminding himself of his efforts is another coping mechanism for him. “I did everything that I could do at the time. I am completely satisfied that, over the years, I completely exhausted every avenue I could look at pursuing at the time. I’m satisfied with what I’ve done, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think, Was there something else I could have done?” Those what ifs? can have a lasting impact. Given the amount of effort that has clearly gone into Full Course, including the Kimberly McAndrew and Andrea King investigations, as well as the fourteen other files and victims, I asked the retired detective sergeant what it will take to crack open one of the unsolved crimes. JL: “Is it going to take someone talking?” DW: “Yes, and as far as I’m concerned, there’s only one person … because that’s how he’s gotten away with it for so long … unless someone comes out of the blue saying they’re an eyewitness, or something that basically we don’t know about, yet.” While he deals with trauma to the best of his ability and in his own way, he said other police officers he has known have not been so fortunate. He gave no names, nor did I ask. “I’ve seen them fold under stress. An example: we used to rotate the supervisors … in charge of an investigation … I’ve seen a person break down and say they ‘can’t do this anymore.’ When you’re in charge of an investigation … the buck stops with you. So there’s a lot of pressure, especially within the first week or two of an investigation. Back in those days, we’d work thirty to forty hours straight without a break. I’ve seen one guy break down and never come back to the job.” JL: “You can have all the training in the world but you’re a human being first.” DW: “Exactly.” His coping skills are challenged when he has flashbacks, which occasionally happen about cases, scenes, and autopsies that linger. “There are flashbacks and things that don’t go away. You set them aside at the time, your feelings and emotions … to deal with what you have to deal with, or [you] go into an autopsy suite and have the person cut open, or what not, but [you tell yourself] you’re there for a purpose. That’s what worked for me, at the time. But … there are some things that never go away, and some things I’ll never forget and visualize, and I still see them.” I do not ask about any of those images. Dave offered a brief explanation. “I can visualize very clearly the first fatal motor vehicle accident I went to out in B.C. I was only on the job about two weeks and I can see it like it happened yesterday.” Except it happened thirty-six years ago, in 1980. As our second interview drew to a close, I felt I had to ask a crucial question which had bothered me since our first face-to-face meeting. That initial interview lasted several hours and left me, quite frankly, reeling. I went away and could not stop thinking about what we had discussed, the people involved and how the victims and families had impacted both of us, from two totally different professions. It left me wondering the answer to this final question: JL: “Why are you talking to me?” He paused, briefly, before answering. DW: “The answer to that is a couple of things. Number one: I know who you are and I think that you’re reliable in all aspects of the media and reporting and what not. And it’s good for me to talk about those things. I felt good after our meeting, after you left, because there’s only so many people you can sit down and talk to like that. And [secondly, for] the victim’s families. Bottom line: if I can do anything or contribute to anything that there’s even the slightest chance that something might break [in a case] then I’ll do it. There are people who I wouldn’t talk to if they approached me … I guess I still feel bad [and have] some amount of guilt that we couldn’t do more or come up with more. That’s always there.” JL: “We couldn’t have had this conversation back when Full Course was ongoing. You wouldn’t have talked to me then.” DW: “No.” JL: “I understand that and I respect that.” DW: “It’s hard, because, even when you retire, you’re still in that culture, at least I am. I feel I still have an obligation to protect the investigation, where all this stuff is ongoing. You want to try and find a balance. I don’t want to be known by the members in there today that I’m just a wild card and [have] no reliability … From that perspective, it was something I was mindful of [in giving the interviews] but I don’t have that concern with you and I.” His commitment to seeking answers for Canada’s missing and murdered has not waned since his retirement. As with other police officers, the personal cost in the face of trauma is great, but it does not deter them from pursuing justice.

Dave Worrell’s Legacy Letter To the families: I want to take this opportunity and acknowledge all of the families that I had occasion to speak with over my years as a detective, regarding the violence that invaded your families and took a loved one from you, and for which you still have no answers, and your tragedy remains unsolved. I want to thank all of you for your unwavering commitment and cooperation. I want you to know: the contact that I or my investigators had with you was not only valuable to the investigation, but, as well, was an inspiration to our team, and solidified our reasoning for trying to solve these mysteries. I will always cherish that relationship with you, even given the circumstances that pushed us together. My goal was always a simple one: to bring you answers to your tragedy, and, in some cases, bring your lost loved ones home. When I was in charge of the task force into missing persons or unsolved homicides in 1997, I came up with a motto which we hung in our office: Gone But Not Forgotten. All of my detectives were committed to that. This motto was carried on when I started the first Cold Case Squad in the Halifax Regional Police in 2000. I always tried to ensure each and every one of your cases received equal attention. There are cases that have stayed with me with more resilience than others, due largely to my dealings with you, the families. You know who you are. To all the families of lost loved ones whose cases I dealt with, I apologize, and I will forever carry the guilt that I [have] let you down, and I was not able to give all of you the answers you so desperately wanted and needed. I don’t use the word “closure” because I personally don’t believe there ever is any closure when a loved one is lost, either to violence or otherwise. But you all deserve answers. I want you all to know that I, and I know other investigators as well, will forever carry the burden of not giving you the answers to your tragedies, and that I think almost daily of your cases, and wonder what else I could have done, and what else can still be done to make some sense out of senseless acts. As with you, your tragedy will be with me always. If I can give any advice to you, it would be: never give up hope of getting the answers you so deserve. Police agencies react to public pressure. Never let them forget who you are and who your loved one was.

7 Kate Lines: From Patrol Cop to Profiler Sixty-year-old Kate Lines has been part of some of the most high-profile missing persons or murder cases in Canada, including the abduction and murder of Kristen French in Ontario, as well as the disappearance of Michael Dunahee in British Columbia. Kate was a member of the Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) for more than three decades, rising through the ranks from a uniformed patrol officer to chief superintendent. When she retired in 2010, she was in charge of the OPP’s Investigation and Support Bureau with more than 500 uniform and civilian employees working on major criminal investigations. She also played a critical role as officer in charge of “researching, developing, and implementing Canada’s sex offender registry,” according to a 2013 media report. She is now a licensed private investigator specializing in workplace harassment and violence and human rights investigations. Kate broke major ground in policing as Canada’s first female criminal profiler. She said, as of 2016, there were four female criminal profilers in Canada, including her, with the other three being employed by the OPP. She estimates there are about one dozen profilers working across the country. Kate is intelligent, witty, and does not mince words. I admired her immediately when we met in Vaughn, Ontario, near Toronto, in February 2016. We were invited to speak about our writing and work at a symposium for first responders in Canada called Common Threads, presented by the Tema Conter Memorial Trust, a leading non-profit support and educational group in Canada for first responders, emergency personnel, members of the military, and their loved ones. She was one of two keynote speakers at the event. The second was Halifax Police Chief Jean-Michel Blais. Kate joined the OPP in 1977, when women in policing were still a relatively uncommon sight. In her book, Crime Seen: From Patrol Cop to Profiler, My Stories From Behind The Yellow Tape, Kate explained what the environment was like for a fledgling female officer. “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.” That type of candour and humour also permeated her speech. But what really captured the audience’s attention at the conference in Vaughn, and what is also compelling in her book, is what Lines accomplished during 1990-1991. In September 1990, the young OPP officer travelled to Quantico, Virginia, to study at the FBI Academy, not far from Washington, D.C. She had applied for a new position within the OPP: according to her book, “the successful candidate [was] required to attend a violent crime course hosted by the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) at the FBI Academy …” The training, people she met, and experiences she had while at the FBI have collectively altered the course of her life and career. “I was going to be trained to be a criminal personality profiler … whatever that was,” she wrote. Kate was not the only person who had limited working knowledge about criminal profiling back then. The public was also unaware of the concept, for the most part, but had its curiosity peaked after a blockbuster Hollywood movie about the FBI, Quantico, and criminal profiling premiered when Lines was studying there. The Silence of the Lambs was released in February 1991. The movie starred Jodi Foster, who played Clarice Starling, a junior FBI agent in training at Quantico, and Anthony Hopkins, in the role of imprisoned serial killer Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Starling seeks Lecter’s advice while the FBI tries to hunt down another serial killer dubbed Buffalo Bill. During the opening scenes, Agent Starling is seen running through the trails at Quantico, which was shot on location. The movie grossed a staggering $272 million worldwide and was a smash hit, impressive because it was made on a $19 million budget. People were mesmerized by the performances, characters, direction, and concept of criminal profiling used to ultimately capture Buffalo Bill. Kate was studying with the FBI in a class with six other police officers from around the globe when the buzz about both the movie and profiling was at its height. Lines told the conference in Vaughn the movie “helped her career because people were inquisitive” about profiling afterwards. The other officers, five men and one woman, were from the United States, Australia, and Holland. She was the only Canadian. At that time, she was just the second police officer in Canada to be trained in criminal profiling by the FBI. “It was the worst of the worst of man’s inhumanity to man, in what we were dealing with in the FBI,” she said at the Vaughn conference. It was at Quantico when she first heard about resilience and coping skills and the effects of stress on a person involved with trauma and violent crime. One of the coping skills she still uses is to refer to offenders by their surname only, while she refers to the victims and their loved ones using their first names. Throughout our interview, she always referred to people this way. “You have some belief systems or thoughts that you do, or aspects of your personality that you never really talk about, until you start to write and explain yourself. Like, if you said ‘Paul Bernardo’ to me right now, I would say ‘Bernardo’ back to you. I would not use his first name. To me, a first name is deserving of a victim, because they’re the innocent. They’re the ones that we should feel compassion for and the ones you use the last name [of] are the ones who deserve no compassion, they deserve no notoriety, and I don’t want to like them because they’re the ‘bad guy.’ So you got to get through your day somehow, so that was just one of the stupid little things I did, but I think that helped,” she explained. I asked the retired superintendent about the after-effects of more than three decades of being around highly violent and dangerous offenders and investigations, including those that remain unsolved: JL: “Does it linger [the cases]?” KL: “No, it doesn’t. Not as long as I know I did everything that I could [to try to solve it]. Whether it’s a doctor with a sick child [saying], ‘We did everything we could to try and do our jobs; the best we possibly could.’ I wouldn’t feel that way if I gave something a half-hearted effort. Doing these types of cases is not a half-assed job. It’s a fully engaged job. The compartmentalization is: How do you measure success?” she explained. That explanation is reminiscent of a key exchange Kate was witness to at Quantico while training with the FBI. She and her classmates trained at the Behavioral Sciences Unit (BSU). There they met and were instructed by some of the most esteemed experts and specialized FBI investigators on the planet, including then Unit Chief John Douglas, a globally respected criminal profiler and best-selling author, Supervisory Special Agent Roy Hazelwood, who was one of her primary instructors, and world-renowned child abuse expert Ken Lanning, who, Kate wrote, was brought in “to teach the behavioral aspects of sexual exploitation, abduction, abuse and other crimes related to children. Ken was already recognized as one of the world’s leading experts in this field of victimization that he has dedicated his career to since 1973.” Kate has referred to a very specific conversation with Ken Lanning more than a dozen times over the course of her lengthy career. The conversation was between Lanning, the child exploitation expert, and a group of Canadian investigators who had travelled to Quantico for help on the widely reported unsolved missing person’s case of Michael Dunahee, then a four-year-old boy from Victoria, British Columbia. Michael disappeared on March 24, 1991, at 12:30 p.m. He was with his parents and baby sister at a school sports field where his mother, Crystal, was supposed to play touch football. Michael asked his parents if he could go to the children’s play area on the side of the school, which was in plain sight of the field and no more than a hundred metres away. It was the first time his parents had allowed him to go to the playground alone, according to Lines, who travelled to British Columbia to interview Michael’s family for her book. The boy was instructed not to wander off and to stay where his parents could see him at all times. Michael set off for the playground as his mother got ready to play and his father, Bruce, settled his baby sister, Caitlin, into her stroller. Bruce stepped up onto a large rock to have a better view of Michael. Less than one minute had passed. When Bruce looked over towards the play area, Michael was not visible.

Word quickly spread that Michael was missing. The game was immediately stopped and people started to help with the search. A neighbour was asked to call the Victoria Police Department. “By morning it has turned into a search by over a hundred officers for a little boy who has surely been abducted. Michael, three feet tall … blond hair, blue eyes, freckles on his cheeks, and wearing his favourite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt, was never seen again,” Lines wrote in her book, stating, “Michael Dunahee’s disappearance rocked Victoria and the wave of anxiety and anguish it created quickly spread across Canada.” It was the British Columbia detectives, nine of them from several different provincial police agencies, who flew to Quantico for the FBI’s help in finding Michael. Kate requested to be involved in the Dunahee investigation because it was the first case from Canada being reviewed by the FBI when she was there for training. “That was the first Canadian case I was looking at through the lens of a profiler in training,” she said. She went to the airport to pick up the investigators. “I remember them getting off the plane and they had banker’s boxes, and they had briefcases, and the tubes that would have maps, photographs, and that sort of thing. They were bringing the whole case to the FBI to see if there was anything they might have missed, for a new approach to the case, whatever [could assist in finding the boy].” She will not discuss any of the FBI consultation because the case remains open. Michael has never been found. But she will say the investigators left with a possible Unknown Offender Profile and investigative suggestions following the consultation. She also explained the gut-wrenching circumstances faced by the FBI investigator assigned to be the case lead. “The [FBI] agent who was assigned … who was responsible for the western U.S. … got the [Dunahee] case file because he could do western Canada, too … but he had just come back to work because his three-year-old daughter had died and he had been on bereavement leave. This was his first case coming back,” Kate explained. “I went and interviewed him [for the book]. His wife was pregnant when his daughter was very ill. She [the ill child] had a heart defect. But it [the child’s passing] was still unexpected [as] she was just having some surgery.” On the day the FBI agent’s baby daughter was born in one hospital, his other daughter died in another medical facility. The investigator had to go back and forth between two hospitals to deal with the two extremes in his family’s life on the exact same day. “[There was] one year difference in the age of the child he’s just lost [and Michael]. I asked him [how he did it] … and he said his faith got him through that,” said Kate. Despite his own anguish, and the fact the first case he worked after his daughter’s death involved a young child similar in age, the investigator and his peers pressed on to help the B.C. officers. The initial few weeks of the Dunahee disappearance and investigation had taken a toll on the Canadians who visited Quantico. Kate took them to meet Ken Lanning. She wrote about what happened. “They presented all the evidence gathered over the last twenty-nine days in the case, and at the end of their presentation, there was a good understanding of victimology, the abduction location and neighbourhood demographics. There had been no eyewitnesses. There was no physical evidence. But for the person who took Michael, there had been a high risk of being seen.” The initial twenty-nine days of trying to find Michael, without success, had affected the investigators. “They were really hurting. You could tell they were just exhausted – so tired, so disappointed. It was just like they had the weight of the world on their shoulders. They just needed that pep talk that Ken Lanning gave them,” Kate remarked. The pep talk with Lanning is something she clearly remembers and has used and referenced many times in her life and work. At the end of the FBI consultation, the British Columbia investigators were starting to pack up their boxes and briefcases when Ken Lanning asked them to sit back down. She said he had only been with the Canadians that one day, but he was highly perceptive about the officers’ collective fatigue, concern, and frustration. Kate wrote in her book, and discussed with me, what Ken Lanning said to the Canadians. “‘Just listen to one more thing I have to say. There will come a time when this case will end for you … All leads will have been followed up, and in the end, the person responsible for what happened to Michael Dunahee may never be found. Michael may never be found.’ The room was silent. ‘If that is what happens, you are still great police officers who did a great job. You are doing everything you can to solve this case. You will never let down the public, the Dunahee family or Michael. Remember that, please.’” She added, “The thing I admire about Ken … [He] is a guy who has worked all over the world doing cases and training and that kind of thing. But you could tell, he obviously sensed in these officers, I won’t say despair, but it was fatigue and frustration. They’re just so afraid they’re going to make a mistake. They wanted a new set of eyes. ‘Did we miss something?’ ‘Is there something we could have done or can do?’ History is history. ‘Is there anything we could do that you can see?’ They were very open to new ideas and they were provided with some new ideas. Not that they made any mistakes, but they left with what they came for; there were some things that potentially could advance their investigation.” She interviewed Ken Lanning for her book and he told his former student he has no recollection, whatsoever, of his conversation with the Canadians as they packed up to leave. It is ironic, because what he had said has affected Kate so much that “I gave that talk probably fifteen times throughout my career, because I’d seen the effect it had when Ken [did it],” Kate said. “I don’t proclaim to say it verbatim, but basically, they’re packing up all their stuff. There was some enthusiasm because they had some new ideas, but obviously he [Lanning] could detect fatigue and frustration. That consultation was probably four to five hours long. Everybody’s tired at the end of the day.” It is unfathomable to truly comprehend the pain, for everyone involved, when people touched by crime and trauma, especially the families, never get the answers they deserve. That is, sadly, the harsh reality for many. Michael Dunahee would be thirty years old in 2017. He has been missing for twenty-six years. The lingering questions over his west coast disappearance and whereabouts have impacted countless people, just like Kimberly McAndrew’s case on Canada’s east coast, and the thousands of missing person’s cases in between. We often think about the victims and their loved ones, and rightly so. But we may not always think about the counsellors, social workers, first responders, teachers, forensic experts, medical staff, and many others who dedicate themselves, at all costs, to helping the families of the dead, injured, or missing. A solution does not always come and its impact has a profound ripple effect. “The anxiety of a missing child never goes away,” Kate said. Kate talked about several investigations during both our interview and at the Common Threads conference. She told the crowd of two hundred that, after decades of working as an officer, “Everybody’s problems [of trying to lead a typical life] seem so trivial.” For example, she addressed the people she routinely meets who complain about their teenage children coming home late. “Well, at least your kids come home.” The conference crowd went silent. People nodded in agreement. She told the audience she felt “so guilty” when, later in her career, she finally realized she could not work in the manner she had been anymore. “When I was at work, I could handle anything,” she said. Long before her time at Quantico, she remembered coming across a double fatality on a roadway and pulling up to the scene alone. There were “grapefruits all over the road,” which one of the vehicles had been transporting. She could still visualize the fruit, which was a trigger and immediately transported her back to the trauma. In thirty-three years on the job, she was, somehow, involved in approximately one thousand cases primarily involving violent crime. The youngest murder victim she dealt with was two months old; the oldest was eighty-three years old. “Children[-based] cases are the worst of the worst,” she said. One of the thousand files she worked on involved her tipping point. “The armour was off. I wasn’t in the zone,” she told the conference crowd. “My trigger was unusual,” she said, of the 2003 case. The nature of the case is disturbing. Please read with care. I have tried to keep the details to a bare minimum. In our interview, after her speech, I asked Lines about the trigger and, specifically, how her work has impacted her. She discussed both and started with the 2003 case, which involved a pedophile and animal sexual abuse. She was the head of OPP Behavioral Sciences at the time. “I do talk about a particular incident that just kind of blindsided me. I’m used to working with human beings, and all of a sudden, I get presented with a case that has to do with a pedophile who was watching children play – obviously looking for sexual stimulation, sexual relief – and starts to, in his car, sexually abuse an animal. I couldn’t believe it,” she explained. Kate was not present at the scene. She was, as a senior officer, asked to review a videotape brought to her by a junior officer who wanted her professional opinion. The video depicted the scene of the man in the front seat of the car abusing the animal while he watched the children. She could not finish watching the video.

Kate does not believe she has PTSD, but she has been affected by the grotesque imagery. She is supportive of her peers who have been diagnosed with PTSD. She has also supported and assisted in developing mental health initiatives while she was a senior officer within the OPP. “I worked with our forensic psychiatrist that we had, to develop [initiatives],” said Kate. “PTSD was not on my radar at the time, but that’s what we were seeing with some of our different officers … in the OPP and undercover people who worked in very unstructured, unsupervised circumstances. [They] needed some support and their families need some support, especially in long-term undercover projects. So I know all about that; I certainly was empathetic. I tried to be a good boss … if someone was being transferred in from another unit and they had PTSD, they could work in my area and I would support them. So I thought I was doing really good with the boss stuff.” She never thought her own mental well-being would be negatively affected by her work. “So when this happened [her reaction to the videotape], I knew exactly what it was. I am watching this videotape and I have this visceral [reaction]. It was a full-blown panic attack. I was familiar with this because I have friends and family who had issues in the past. I knew what they told me was what I was experiencing. And in hindsight, I got blind-sided. I had a shield for human suffering. I didn’t have a shield for animals suffering,” she explained, of the horrific case. “That was the first time I’d seen an animal [being abused]. I’d heard about it. I certainly had cases which talked about it. But I was actually seeing it happen before my eyes, which I had never seen before. I don’t know why that was it [the tipping point],” she said. The videotape incident and fallout did not lead to a specific diagnosis. Kate retired in 2010. Now working as a private investigator with her own firm, Lines investigates corporate crime, criminal harassment, workplace issues, and online crimes. Her work on her book has also been an important, yet unexpected, part of her healing journey. “[The] experience was fulfilling and cathartic to be with [the] victims without your police armour on,” she explained via email in a followup interview. As writers, we discussed the impact of writing about trauma, as people who had worked around it extensively, when we spoke in person. “Who would have thought writing a book would put it all to rest? It’s done. I don’t think about it anymore,” Kate concluded. JL: “So you feel the process of going through your book was so cathartic for you that you have been able to put it [the tough cases] to rest?” KL: “Yes. You [she or someone else] may go to a doctor or a counsellor who would say, ‘You have PTS[D].’ I don’t know. All I know is I’m okay. I don’t have nightmares. I don’t have anything that leads me to believe I have anything after the fact.” Spending time interviewing, researching, and writing her book, while focusing on the victims and their families instead of the perpetrators, has helped Kate Lines, the first female criminal profiler in Canada, heal and move forward. “And that’s when I go back to the words of Ken Lanning. ‘Did I do the best possible job I could?’ And the answer is ‘Yes.’ So I don’t bear guilt that the case is unsolved, nor should anybody else involved in it, because there’s just going to be those cases,” she said. Kate was also involved in another Canadian case that has been solved, but continues to be enormously painful for many. The retired profiler said, in her opinion, the Paul Bernardo case was a “failure.” “It was a failure in that we didn’t catch him quick enough. If DNA samples would have been tested earlier, no one would have been killed, because he would have been identified as the Scarborough Rapist,” she explained. The so-called Scarborough Rapist persona of Bernardo’s twisted criminal identity is explained this way on Wikipedia: “Bernardo committed multiple sexual assaults, escalating in viciousness, in and around Scarborough, a city in the east of Metropolitan Toronto. Most of the assaults were on young women whom he had stalked after they exited buses late in the evening.” A staggering eighteen rapes or attempted rapes are listed. The women were between the ages of fifteen and twenty-one years old. The crimes occurred over a three-year period between May 1987 and May 1990. Bernardo has admitted to more than a dozen rapes in the southern Ontario area. The killing started in late 1990. As widely reported, Bernardo and partner Karla Homolka murdered three young women during 1990 and 1992. The first, in December of 1990, was Karla’s younger sister Tammy. The year after, in June 1991, fourteen-year-old Leslie Mahaffy was abducted, raped, tortured, murdered, and dismembered. In April 1992, Bernardo and Homolka cornered their next victim, fifteen-year-old Kristen French, who was left in a ditch in Burlington on April 30, 1992, not far from the cemetery where Leslie was buried. The rapes and murders continue to horrify a nation. JL: “What was your role in the Bernardo case?” KL: “Karla Homolka’s sister, Tammy, had already been murdered or had died … with the use of drugs: a drug overdose. Then Leslie Mahaffy went missing and then Kristen French. I came in [to the investigation] after Kristen French went missing. I got a call from the lead investigator who said they’d already been to the FBI and I knew the FBI had already done a profile for them. But they wanted to do an emotional plea [on television for leads] … they got CHCH [TV in Hamilton] to do a ninety-minute special. It went all across the U.S. and Canada. It was in relation to a plea for information, in particular with Kristen, because we had a lot of information about Kristen. We had eyewitnesses [of the abduction], so there was lots to talk about on a TV show. With Leslie Mahaffy, we were pretty sure the cases were connected. But we didn’t have a lot of evidence for Leslie, except the discovery of her body. I was working as a profiler helping to develop the ninety-minute plea. It was commercial-free. It won awards.” The Abduction of Kristen French aired on July 21, 1992, and is now viewable on YouTube. Kate had returned from her FBI training in Quantico the year before. In the show, Lines held the rank of sergeant and was still using her maiden name, Kate Cavanagh. She was introduced as an OPP Behavioral Analyst and profiler. Kate was still only the second profiler in Canada when the hunt was on for then unknown offenders Bernardo and Homolka. During the broadcast, viewers see Kate three times: twice on the roadside where Kristen was found, and the last time, near the spot she was abducted. Kate reviews a number of probable offender characteristics near the end of the show with these traits appearing on the screen, among others: 1. “Prior surveillance by the offender in areas teenagers congregate.” 2. “Possible prior attempt to lure or con teenage girls to a car, asking for directions etc.” 3. “Two offenders who are close – one a leader, the other a follower – prior criminal history.” 4. “Someone who is angry towards women, who has a history of assaulting women or who is now in a relationship where a female is being abused.” Despite the fact she had only been on the job as a profiler for a short time before the broadcast, her “probabilities” describing the two offenders were eerily accurate. There was huge public outrage over Homolka’s so-called “Deal with the Devil” as it was dubbed by the media, which saw her released from prison in 2005, after serving twelve years and testifying against Bernardo. He remains in prison and is listed as a Dangerous Offender. The videotapes the duo made with each of the two murder victims were found only after the plea bargain and have since been destroyed. Reports indicate Homolka/Teale/Bordelais (she has used multiple surnames) and her family have moved back to Quebec where, as of 2016, people in her neighbourhood had voiced their disgust over her living and interacting there, whenever and wherever possible. As for Kate, her focus is no longer only on the Bernardos and the Homolkas of the world. “For the first time, in the book, I am with all of the families … I never spent time with the families when I was doing investigations,” she said. It has become a healing experience for the profiler, who ended our conversation by talking about the victims and their loved ones. Kate used one poignant example of meeting Michael Dunahee’s family in British Columbia for the first time while she was researching for her book. “Michael Dunahee’s sister has a tattoo of her brother on her arm. She never knew him. She was six months old [when he disappeared],” she concluded, softly. On March 24, 2016, twenty-five-year-old Caitlin Dunahee appeared in a Global BC news story, twenty-five years to the day after Michael went missing from the schoolyard play area. “My mom said he always liked to help out and change my diapers and play with me and was very protective,” his sister said. Michael’s parents, Crystal and Bruce, who also appeared in the story, said they remain hopeful. That may seem incredible, but clearly, what other choice do they have, except the harsh reality which has been forced upon them by Michael’s captor(s)? “We believe he’s still alive, until we get proof otherwise,” his father said. “Someone knows something and we just want that person to tell us,” Crystal said, pleading for help, again, for their son and family, a quarter-century later. As for the police involved, John Ducker, a junior detective at the time of the disappearance, said, even in retirement, he still thinks about Michael and the case every week. Trauma lingers. John Ducker retired in 2013 as Victoria Deputy Police Chief. “It’s my greatest professional disappointment,” he summarized, with Global News Hour at 6 BC. “When something this tragic happens you always second-guess yourself. But … I reconcile it from knowing the department threw everything it had into it at the time. It was the hardest effort we probably ever made into an investigation,” the now retired deputy chief said. His words echo the exact conversation Kate Lines remembered Ken Lanning having with the Michael Dunahee investigators back at Quantico. Was John Ducker one of them? If he was not, he had clearly spoken to some of the investigators who were present to hear Lanning.

That questioned lingered, so I asked Kate via an email interview if John Ducker was part of the British Columbia contingent who flew to Quantico in the early 1990s. She replied, “Yes.” Ducker was clearly still affected by what Lanning said to him, more than two decades after that conversation occurred at Quantico. It is a clear example of how our words can build others up, or tear them down. In this case, Ken Lanning’s words to the Dunahee investigators helped at least two of the people who heard them – Kate Lines and John Ducker – and perhaps others who now read them here. Michael Dunahee was taken in broad daylight from a busy school/sports field area, where the perpetrator(s) may have easily been caught, or at least seen, by someone. Perhaps that someone is you. “We want our son back with us, that’s all,” Bruce Dunahee told reporters. It is time to bring Michael back home to his loved ones.

Kate Lines’ Legacy Letter For the Good Guys: During my thirty-three years as a police officer, I worked on hundreds of violent crime investigations. The majority of them involved providing my services as a criminal profiler. An important part of my work as a profiler was to find out as much as I possibly could about “my” victim – why and how they came to be a victim of violent crime. Rarely did I meet any of them personally, relying solely on their statements and other information provided to me by the investigators. Sadly, most victims in my cases did not survive their attacks and I had to learn the details of their deaths through photographs and investigative reports. After I retired from policing, I was approached by a book publisher to share stories from my career. At first, I was hesitant, knowing that my stories didn’t have many happy endings. But as I thought more about it, I recalled how buoyed I was throughout my career by the personal behind-the-scenes stories related to these crimes. They were the stories of survivors, family members, and police investigators. These were the “good guys” and it is their experiences, along with my own, that I chose to share. In the process of writing my book, I came to realize that many victims and their families are not defined by the traumas and tragedies that took so much away from them. Some even empowered themselves to make changes to our criminal justice system that would make their communities safer and prevent others from harm. And I learned of the tenacity, patience, and commitment of police officers who never gave up on solving cold cases that were described by some of their colleagues as unsolvable – even one that took thirty-eight years to prove the naysayers wrong. Never did I realize what a cathartic experience sharing these stories would be. Time and again I was deeply struck by the strength, courage, and resilience of “the good guys.” I am honoured to have been able to share their legacies.

8 Elder Joe Michael and Morgan MacDonald: Comemmorating The Ultimate Sacrifice Another legacy, this one physical in nature, was unveiled in Moncton, New Brunswick, on June 4, 2016. It was two years to the day when three families lost their sons, brothers, husbands, fathers, friends, and colleagues, and a Canadian city lost three of its RCMP officers on June 4, 2014. Three Moncton RCMP officers died and two others were shot and wounded, in what has been the worst attack on the RCMP since the 2005 Mayerthorpe tragedy, in which four RCMP officers were killed. Two years after the incident, the City of Moncton, members and veterans of the RCMP, the media, families, friends, loved ones, and first responders across multiple professions and from across borders congregated on Moncton’s waterfront. They came for the opening of a memorial park and the unveiling of three incredibly detailed statues which honour the men who died: Constable David Ross, a thirty-two-year-old dog handler with the RCMP from Victoriaville, Quebec; Constable Douglas Larche, who was forty years old and from Saint John, New Brunswick; and Constable Fabrice Gevaudan, who was forty-five and from Boulogne-Billancourt, France. Each of the officers’ families and friends had their own specific time to privately view the statues with their own invited group before the public unveiling. Constable Gevaudan’s wife, Angela, personally invited me to attend the private unveiling of the memorial statue the night before the public event. I had never met Angela or her late husband, or the other two deceased officers or their loved ones. The personal invitation to the private event came because Angela and I share a common bond. We both support the Tema Conter Memorial Trust and are friends with the founder, Vince Savoia. Angela is now an ambassador for the Ontario non-profit. Savoia, the group’s executive director, is a former Ontario paramedic who lives with PTSD. Vince and the other Tema volunteers work across Canada to support educational and mental health initiatives for first responders. emergency personnel, members of the military, and their loved ones. Tema Conter was a young woman from Halifax living and working in Toronto at the time of her murder. Vince was one of two paramedics who attended at her bedside at the murder scene. Tema’s story and the work of her brother, Halifax physician Dr. Howard Conter, also appear in The Price We Pay. Dr. Conter’s unwavering work, commitment, and fundraising skills are a chief component of the Tema Conter Memorial Trust. Angela Gevaudan is friends with Dr. Conter and his wife Karen, as well as Vince and a large group of Tema Trust supporters who also attended the Moncton weekend and private unveiling. In that group was a prominent member of the Tema team: Director of Communications Erin Alvarez, who is the wife of an Ontario advanced care paramedic. Erin is a former television broadcaster and is vocal, both on and off social media, about the impact of trauma on the family members of first responders. We bonded immediately when we met in Vaughn at the Common Threads conference. Erin had vouched for me with Angela and I know that is why I was allowed to attend the behind-the-scenes unveiling in Moncton. It was an incredible honour. I would like to thank the entire Gevaudan family, especially Angela and their then thirteen-year-old daughter, Emma. I met Angela and Emma for the first time as they walked up the boardwalk in the Honour Garden, which surrounds the bronze monument. The Honour Garden begins not far from the RCMP station. The entrance is behind the Moncton Press Club, on Assumption Boulevard, at the Westmorland Street entrance to Riverfront Park. At the start of the Honour Garden, there are several vertical panels that mark the entrance of the walkway, which leads to the statue depicting the three officers. The memorial sits off in the distance, but is clearly visible and recognizable from all vantage points in the garden. The entrance panels read, in part: “The Honour Garden celebrates life, bravery, community spirit and resilience. Views of the Moncton skyline and the Petitcodiac River provide a peaceful location to honour the commitment of those who have made the ultimate sacrifice.” The entire City of Moncton seemed to be energized and ready to support the families and the RCMP once again. For example: as soon as I arrived at my hotel, the first thing my husband, daughter, and I noticed were two long horizontal photographs of the three deceased officers wearing their dress uniforms. The photos sat on a glass table in the hotel lobby and formed a base around a vase of red roses. It immediately set the tone for what was to come. The next thing I noticed was a large group of groundskeepers outside of our hotel room window. Across the street from where we were staying was the RCMP station. On that weekend, there were hundreds of red and white tulips in full bloom in front of and all along the side of the RCMP headquarters. The red flowers reminded me of the RCMP red serge, and the red and white blossoms combined were a symbol of the Canadian flag. It was a thoughtful and poignant backdrop, as was this inscription on another Honour Garden panel, which addressed that community spirit and unity: “Residents heeded the call to keep their porch lights on to assist police in their duties. This simple act was echoed around the world and became a symbol of hope and support. A community is defined not by a single moment, but by its people and their response to adversity. Our city’s spirit and resiliency shone though then and continues to do so.” On the evening of June 3, 2016, the private memorial event for Constable Fabrice Gevaudan was held at 6:30. The weather was warm with a slight breeze and it was partially overcast. There were a few dozen people already waiting in the Honour Garden when I arrived by myself. They stood and sat on benches near a large, white, covered tent, the kind you see at garden parties or outdoor weddings. It was placed over the statue at one end of the Garden. It hid the memorial away from public view, until the official and larger unveiling event at eleven the next morning. The small crowd present included members of the RCMP, in dress uniform, officers from other jurisdictions, retired police officers from various forces, as well as family members, loved ones, and guests of the Gevaudan family. They were of all ages and backgrounds. I mistakenly assumed when I arrived that the people present represented all three RCMP families. I did not realize until I approached a plainclothes RCMP staff member, near the tent’s entrance, that this specific time frame had been reserved just for the Gevaudan family and guests. Each of the families and loved ones had their own set time to privately view the statue with their own invited group. As 6:30 approached, the crowd grew. Angela, her daughter Emma, and the team from the Tema Trust arrived, after passing through the panels in the Honour Garden and walking up the boardwalk towards the tent. Erin Alvarez and I saw each other and I walked towards the group, giving her a hug. She had flown in with Vince from Ontario the day before. Angela was immediately welcoming to me and superbly graceful under such pressure. She made me feel comfortable. I was concerned about overstepping boundaries as a new acquaintance during such an important and private moment. As the ceremony began, Angela stood near the opening of the tent and First Nations Elder Joe Michael, a close friend and mentor of Angela’s, both of whom have Mi’kmaq heritage, asked everyone to gather around in a large circle. “What is spoken in a talking circle is kept confidential and [is] not to be spoken outside the circle,” Elder Joe Michael explained to me afterwards via an email interview, so I will not write about anything that was said by anyone present that night. We all joined hands. There were approximately 100 to 125 people present. The circle was large and it was quiet. It was warm for that time of night and year, twenty-one degrees. An on-duty RCMP officer stood discreetly behind our section of the circle. There were several members posted throughout the Garden and near the tent to make sure the private event unfolded without disruption. Other off-duty officers joined in the circle, some in uniform and some in plain clothes. Angela and Elder Joe Michael, who is the Peace and Friendship Coordinator at the Tatamagouche Centre and a former RCMP officer, made some opening remarks. The Elder started passing a “talking stick” around.

One person holds the stick and says whatever they want, either aloud, so everyone can hear, or quietly to only those near them. Once you finish speaking, you pass the stick on to the next person in the circle, in a clockwise fashion, until everyone has a chance to speak. You can simply pass the stick along to the next person if you choose not to say anything. The stick, primarily red in colour and handmade from maple by Joe Michael, was about five feet in length and had images of the three officers’ faces painted on it. It was intricate and beautiful. Joe had created three large talking sticks, one for each of the three officers’ wives. Three smaller sticks were also handcrafted by the Elder for the women to personally keep within their families. It was later explained to me the larger talking sticks were “entrusted” to the spouses. Eventually each must be presented to another person, who is selected to permanently own it, and where the presenter believes, and deeply feels, the stick truly and ultimately belongs. To receive a talking stick is an honour and is not to be taken lightly. I had never taken part in a talking circle. I was moved to tears several times throughout the ceremony, either by hearing comments or by simply observing facial expressions and reactions. It was a moving and healing experience. A smudging ceremony also took place. An Elder burns sage and other specific materials and wafts the smoke gently at the people in the circle, using an eagle feather, as they move around the people. Smudging can also be done on objects, like a statue or monument, as Elder Joe did in Moncton and also explained via email. I initially asked the Elder a series of interview questions via email, but fearing I may have offended him by that approach, I further explained my intentions and the book’s purpose on the telephone, hoping to not offend him by asking about aboriginal rituals. Of course, this all followed meeting him in person in Moncton and asking permission to contact him afterwards, to which he agreed. Elder Joe Michael was gracious from the outset and responded with a detailed email. Therefore, I will consider and refer to his writing and teachings as his own legacy letter. He shared some details of his history within his community and a number of facts regarding the deep traditions he has learned from his mentor, the widely revered spiritual leader the late Elder Noel Knockwood. I am honoured and thankful Elder Joe Michael has taken part in this book by sharing the following teachings with us: Hi Janice, I would like to tell you a little about myself. I am from the community of Indian Brook, just on the outskirts of the village called Shubenacadie, Nova Scotia. Our community reclaimed its original name in Mi’kmaq, which is Sipek’Katik … I became interested in Traditional Rituals after participating in a ceremony with the late Spiritual Leader Noel Knockwood, from the same community of Indian Brook. My teachings began in 1971. I learned about sweet grass, sage and many other ceremonies. Smudging is just one of many ceremonies. All the ceremonies are important [and are] to be done in a proper, traditional way. You might have heard the person [in the talking circle] during the unveiling of the monument in Moncton for the three fallen members of the R.C.M. Police, who were killed during that tragic event in 2014. She mentioned to the public [at the private ceremony] that no photographs [are] to be taken during the smudging; this is protocol by the elders’ teachings, to generations of traditional people practicing ceremonies. The smudging can be performed on objects or personal items, or the body, which [can] include the whole body … in this case, the monument was smudged for the spirits of the fallen members and for people to respect the monument, while they are viewing [it] … people who never knew these peace officers, who gave the ultimate sacrifice of their lives. The smudge can consist of sweet grass, sage, cider, tobacco and maybe other items that can be burnt during the ceremonies … During the smudging of individuals, they are [placed] in … a circle fashion, following the clockwise [direction] … or if there’s only one person, the same [pattern] is conducted in the smudging. The elder, or someone who is entrusted by the elder, can perform the smudging, [but] even the person who is helping the elder has to be taught [the correct procedures]. The elder will be in possession of an eagle feather and a shell, with the sage, sweet grass, or tobacco [in it] as they are fanning the smoke towards the individual. Here’s a brief teaching: The mind is first to clear … your ears to hear good, your mouth to speak good of people, your heart for many reasons, your arms to reach out to people, in friendship or to help people, your legs … travelling on the red road. This is just a Reader’s Digest version, just to give you some idea, Janice Landry. The talking stick is [a] personal item for individuals. [There are] many images on the talking stick; some people request what they want on the talking stick, to be used in the healing processions … What is said in the talking circle remains there and [is] not to be spoken outside the circle. These are personal conversations and will be respected as confidential discussions. Who can be entrusted with the talking stick? Anyone can be entrusted, if the proper protocols are followed. Stephen Covey, one of the best speakers, so I was told, has a talking stick that was given to him by an aboriginal from the United States. I have talking sticks from Italy, U.S.A., and Pakistan, and many areas across Canada. There is no limit in the length of the talking stick; however, smaller ones are generally used for this purpose. I like to use maple trees; however, other trees can be used … You mentioned [when we spoke on the phone] about feeling the pain of the [RCMP] members. My brother also served in the R.C.M. Police and never got to enjoy his retirement. My brother was much younger than me. He only enjoyed his retirement for a short while and travelled to the spirit world. So I know about feeling their pain. I served over twenty-five years in the force and met lots of members who were killed in the line of service; I felt their pain, also. My [RCMP] service covered many areas, in many different lines of duty … I can say: I served with pride and still continue my contact with the force. As with the unveiling of the monument, and many cross-cultural events and awareness, the [police] force has acknowledged my traditional rituals and customs and I have been asked to perform some of these rituals for them. Finally, you asked the question about being an elder. There are people out there who call themselves “elders”; some are of elderly age, and some are young – a true elder will not call themselves “elder.” Not all elders have to be practicing traditional rituals. Their wisdom and being respected in the community, by helping people, then they are called “elders” by others … In conclusion, to your final questions: How did I meet Angela? Not only her, but several members in New Brunswick involved with this tragic event, this might be some mystical connection, maybe? Someone was aware of my past experiences in the well-being of others … I met her [Angela] and her friends, the wives of the other [two] husbands who were killed, and the fire department members who were involved during that night. The healing process takes time. I still mourn the loss of family members and friends who I worked with in the past. I always keep their memories alive in how they lived, and how they made a big difference in my life. Janice Landry, this is healing. All my relation, Joe Michael

Elder Joe’s wisdom about healing, history, and helping others is powerful. His willingness to share his insight, culture, and teachings, combined with his humbleness, always shone through; he never once referred to himself as an Elder either via phone, email, or in person. However, he clearly is one: a man of humility, grace, ability, and great substance. Angela Gevaudan said it was Joe who reached out to her, in the fall of 2014, wanting to help the RCMP families. “He saw the need to do something to honour the boys and to help us heal,” she said. Joe also travelled to the Gevaudan home in New Brunswick where he met with Angela, Nadine Larche, and Rachael Ross to perform a “Feeding the Moon” ceremony for them. Angela said the ceremony is done to create, promote, and underline hope in times of despair. I did not ask her any further details as it was a private moment with the Elder. Besides Joe’s handmade gifts of the three small talking sticks, one for each RCMP family, plus the large talking sticks each wife would eventually entrust to another person, Angela said Joe also gave her another enormous gift, which she considers an incredible honour and a “big responsibility.” The Elder has graced Angela with the spirit name White Eagle Dove, for which she said she feels very “privileged.” Angela told me she will work hard not to “dishonour” her new name. The spirit name is perfectly fitting for her, a woman who courageously helps others in the face of her own pain and loss. As Elder Joe Michael’s talking circle and smudging ceremony concluded, we started to file inside the tent, in the Honour Garden, one by one, in a line, to see the statue for the first time. As the tent side was drawn back for us to enter, I was immediately struck by the size of the statues – they are life-size. I had not expected them to be so large and detailed. As we went inside, the long line slowly made its way around the perimeter of the monument, as people stood in awe and admired its intricacy. People spoke with reverence and in hushed tones. Everyone was respectful with their time inside the tent. Angela and Emma stood in one corner of the tent talking with people. I mentioned to a woman standing beside me, whom I did not know, how much I loved the statues and the work of the artist. She said to me, “You’re standing next to him.” By chance, I happened to be standing next to thirty-five-year-old artist Morgan MacDonald, from Logy Bay, Newfoundland, who works with the Newfoundland Bronze Foundry. Morgan revealed his father, sixty-eight-year-old Bill MacDonald, is originally from Woodstock, New Brunswick, and was a member of the RCMP. Morgan said his father joined the force in New Brunswick but after graduation was immediately stationed in Newfoundland where he served with the RCMP until he retired. Morgan’s father told him many stories about his time as an officer, but all of them were light-hearted and funny. Working on the Moncton monument and getting to know the families and officers has led the artist to have a revelation about his own father. “I’m beginning to suspect, as I get older, there’s some terrible stories, too, that he doesn’t really share.” Inside the tent, I started asking Morgan questions about the monument. He politely answered each one, but at the same time was also shaking hands and nodding at people as the Gevaudan family’s many supporters came up to congratulate him for his work. Morgan was clearly relieved and moved by their reactions. During the course of its creation, each of the three families took turns flying to Newfoundland to meet with Morgan. They visited the bronze foundry and watched him work. They told him stories about their loved ones, the officers, and in turn, he worked tiny details of those stories and their private lives into the monument. Some of those details have been explained publicly, in the many media stories which accompanied the unveiling. Morgan said other details remain private between him and the families. CBC New Brunswick reporter Todd O’Brien filed this web story June 5, 2016, the day following the public unveiling. It reads, in part: “Newfoundland sculptor Morgan MacDonald touches the arm of one of three Codiac Regional RCMP officers he has immortalized in bronze. ‘My hope is that it brings some peace, some healing to the community,’ he said … “What MacDonald has created is a life-like portrayal of the officers and an intimate look into what was important to them in their lives. “The men stand in a circle, back to back. Larche is in formal serge, while Ross and Gevaudan are both wearing their daily uniforms. “Const. Douglas James Larche’s three young daughters are represented by ballet slippers at the base of the monument. But it’s when viewers look down that they learn about the men behind the uniforms. Larche, who was a jogger, has an imprint of his running shoe at the base of his statue. Near his boots are three tiny ballet slippers, with a sprinkle of glitter dust. ‘His three daughters were so special to him and so there’s three ballet slippers in the monument representing each one of the girls,’ said MacDonald. “As viewers walk around the sculpture, their eyes are drawn to the hat in Gevaudan’s hand. On the inside of the hat is a picture of a smiling Gevaudan and his stepdaughter. “… Ross was a dog handler and outdoor enthusiast. The footprints of his dog, Danny, are there, along with those of his two children and wife. There are also footprints of animals, such as deer. ‘The theme around that is prints – prints that we leave in our lives and the experiences we have, and the legacies that we’ve left.’ “The most special part of the process for MacDonald was when the … widows and some of their children came to visit his foundry. Nadine Larche made the imprint of her husband’s running shoe by pressing it into the base of his statue. “The other widows also added their own personal touches to the public tribute, including some of their late husbands’ service medals … “‘It’s just been a life-changing experience, having met these women and having shared the experiences of coming here in the foundry and [having] been entrusted with creating this,’ MacDonald said. “‘I’m going to look back at this as a moment in my life. This is a huge chapter.’ “In a circle around the three life-size figures are maple leaves. MacDonald travelled to Moncton and had the officers’ family members, their fellow Mounties, school children, and citizens imprint their fingerprints on wax versions of the maple leaves, which were later bronzed. “He hopes the monument becomes ‘basically the heart and soul,’ of the tragedy and helps ‘people of the area really recognize the sacrifice that these men have made and what it means to be a police officer.’” When I was inside the tent, Morgan kept giving people permission to walk up onto the sculpture’s large platform and stand among the officers, to get a closeup view of the tiny details. People hesitated at first, not wanting to seem crass or out of line. But at the artist’s urging, both children and adults started walking up to and around the three officers. It was moving and extraordinary to witness. People carefully examined everything. They seemed in awe. They touched it. Pointed. Gasped. Cried. Smiled. Sighed. Hugged. Morgan urged me to go up and look inside Constable Gevaudan’s dress hat, which the officer is holding in one hand. As this was before the public unveiling, I did not know the exact details of the memorial. I carefully walked up onto the statue platform and went around the back of Gevaudan’s likeness. I bent down and looked inside the hat and was immediately moved – actually, blown away – by what I saw depicted. It is a picture, a snapshot, Constable Gevaudan always carried with him, of himself with his daughter Emma. The cast-in-bronze representation of the photo is placed inside the hat’s bottom, facing outwards. In the picture, the father and daughter are beaming and smiling and look happy. It was crushing and beautiful all at the same time. Morgan explained to me that many officers, members of the military, and first responders carry photos of their families with them, either in their hats, or on their person while they are working and serving. Fabrice and Emma’s smiles continue in perpetuity, as does our love for someone beloved when they die. Morgan’s ability to capture the three officers’ essence is extraordinary. That is another crucial aspect of this artwork that is special; each person who views it will see something different, a detail meaningful to them, even though we all view the same monument. That is the true beauty of art: it represents something unique for each person. Morgan has created a masterpiece and a legacy. The bronze sculptures and Honour Garden give the three families, the New Brunswick RCMP, the people of Moncton, and the wider community a unified symbol of peace, hope, and gratitude. It is a location where people can weep, contemplate, grieve, reunite, meditate, talk, and pray; where they can simply just be in the moment. It is a place to honour those who have paid the ultimate price and made the ultimate sacrifice, while protecting others. Angela Gevaudan gave her large talking stick, the maple masterpiece handcrafted by Elder Joe Michael used at the private event, to Morgan. The Gevaudan family talking stick has found its permanent home in Logy Bay, Newfoundland. Angela gave it to Morgan at the public unveiling event, a surprise the artist was not expecting and one that occurred in front of the massive crowd of hundreds of onlookers.

“As soon as I got back from Newfoundland after working with him [at the foundry] I felt this is where the stick needed to go,” Angela said. Angela Gevaudan described the Moncton Honour Garden and Morgan’s accompanying statue as a “peaceful place [where] people can take from it what they need.” It appears from the initial reaction that is exactly what is happening. The enormity of the public response, welcome, and gratitude Morgan had received for his work was just beginning to sink in when we spoke. “I’m sure if you went there now … there would still be a group of people looking at it and soaking it all in. I’m just flabbergasted [with] that outpouring [of support.] It goes back to why I wanted to have those thumbprints and those leaves [on the statue’s base]. In a small way, it reflects what everybody was going through – the community outpouring of support. It’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like that before,” the artist said, of the overwhelming response from the people of Moncton and throughout Canada. As mentioned, the base of the monument is surrounded by twelve maple leaves. Each maple leaf has thumbprints on it. Morgan travelled to Moncton in February 2015 to visit several spots where people could come and place their own prints in wax, which would, in turn, be sculpted in bronze around the foot of the statue. Morgan collected 1,500 thumbprints at several New Brunswick locations over the course of a week. He went to Dieppe City Hall, Riverview City Hall, and three different schools. Additionally, each family of the three fallen officers also had their own private thumbprint sessions, as did the RCMP. Morgan collected so many thumbprints he worried about being able to fit them all on the monument. He said many people were visibly moved when donating their prints. “They were breaking down in front of you; brings it home what it all means. It’s amazing. Again, I’ve never experienced anything like that.” He realized there were stories behind the thumbprints. He never asked anyone why they donated theirs, but he had a strong sense that some were residents who lived in the area where the tragedy and lockdown occurred, or they were officers not in uniform. “There were certain people, you could tell, they were holding it together, but out of the corner of your eye, after they were done, you could see them shedding a little tear on the side,” the artist said. The RCMP detachment visit was especially moving, according to Morgan. “The people who came there, it was intentful. There was purpose in it. There was an anticipation of doing that. There was a lot of care of wanting to get the prints, and people would take care after they gave the prints. The whole thing had gravity to it.” The tiniest details hold power and weight. People have taken ownership and wanted to be part of the legacy. The artist does approximately one public statue unveiling per year. He has grown accustomed to presenting in front of government officials, business leaders, and other dignitaries. What made him nervous about the Moncton unveiling was anticipating the reactions from the three RCMP wives, families, and their loved ones. Morgan said he wanted everything as perfect as possible for them. “My nervousness came from the wives seeing it for the first time; this is it – this is the final work of art. Even though they have been in the foundry and participated in the process … they see the visual of it in clay, but that’s not the bronze. To have them see it for the first time, you want to do it justice. You want to do the memory of the guys the best you possibly can. My worry is, Am I doing the best as I can, given the circumstances?” he said. Morgan tried his best to make each family as comfortable and as welcome as possible when they travelled to Newfoundland to the foundry to help in the creative process. “If you can imagine, I am a total stranger to them at this point, and to do something so personal. ‘Your husband has passed away and you are trusting this situation – that is so painful,’ that’s what was going through my mind, the pain of this … I opened the foundry up and if they wanted to be there alone, totally fine by me. … I let them guide the process, as opposed to me saying, This is the agenda.” JL: “Is there a part of you in that memorial?” MM: “Artwork is like your handwriting … how you write, your personality comes through and your soul and spirit is encompassed in the artwork itself. Just the act of doing it, it just encapsulates it; it’s infused with who you are.” Morgan’s answer is beautiful and true of any creative process, whether the craft is sculpting, painting, writing, cooking, dancing, singing, or playing a musical instrument. “You can’t separate yourself from it … that’s what art is, that unique expression that comes from the person who creates it,” he said. Morgan was also concerned about the tight project deadline and having everything ready for the June 4, 2016, unveiling. He began the actual construction process in September 2015. He had only nine months to complete it, a staggering timeline that resulted in him working seven days a week, for twelve to thirteen hours a day. Some days he worked longer, into the early morning hours. “On the odd third or fourth day, I would be staying up in the foundry until two or three in the morning to keep ahead of the project,” he said. He took pictures every day of his progression. “Any small error in casting of the foundry process, and I’m talking a minor error, if I forgot to order a certain material or it’s not arriving on time, an equipment failure or a million variables that goes into creating a statue, if I wasn’t on the ball with it, it would be delayed by a week or two weeks.” That was never an option because the unveiling took place two years to the day when the officers died. “The weight of this is not lost on me – the importance of getting it done,” Morgan said. “It’s a million emotions in me. It [the tragedy] upsets me the way it upsets other people … when the wives are telling their stories and through the project you get to know them, they become friends, and then you’re at the unveiling and you see the kids interacting with it, it’s just like a dagger through the heart.” After the success and emotion of the unveiling and the memorial weekend, the artist returned to the Honour Garden the day after, on June 5, 2016, to get portfolio pictures of the sculpture. These are photos of the artwork in its final location and home without anyone in the shots. There was such a crowd, even the following day, it was impossible for the artist to shoot professional pictures of his artwork. “I’m literally there for hours and I can’t find a moment, literally two seconds to get an unobstructed view. The hush over people just looking at it – this is insane. I’ve never see that; the emotion of it, it’s just awe. It’s incredible.” Morgan tried his best to encapsulate and summarize the legacy he has dutifully and painstakingly created for generations to come: “They [the individual statues] exist in a public place now; a likeness of them that people can go and see … for a very, very long time. [It’s] who they are: their essence, their biography. Their lives are going to transcend our generation. After I am gone, after you are gone, after your children are gone and your grandchildren, [the statue will stand]. So that, in and of itself, is comforting for the wives – to know that, as long as they are here on the planet, they’re going to be able to go down and see them be honoured in such a way.”

Morgan MacDonald’s Legacy Letter To the people of Moncton: From the outset of creating the RCMP monument for Doug Larche, Dave Ross, and Fabrice Gevaudan, my goal has been for this to be as positive and meaningful as it could be for the families of these men. I have been chosen to create many pieces in the past for communities, but nothing so raw, emotional, and present as their stories. Knowing how important the moments I would spend with the wives, in the years to come, and for their own family history, would be, I wanted to ensure they had every opportunity to tell the stories they felt mattered. This has been a difficult project to accomplish. This is true not only because of the physical act of creating a bronze sculpture and all its intricate detail, but for the story, the events, and the reason why it was being created. Most of all, the difficulty was in the challenge to evoke and encapsulate the spirit of who these men were. Its goal: to give meaning and closure to the community, and a space to reflect on their sacrifice. In doing this, I had the honour of sharing in the story of their lives. These three men were complete strangers to me. I have never met them, and unfortunately never will – in this lifetime. For me, I had the unique opportunity to walk in their footsteps and see first-hand the legacy they have left behind. Whether it was friends, co-workers, or close family, you could get a sense of what it may have been like to meet them. After so much time focused on the piece, what I’m left with is an unexplainable feeling as if I knew them. In this respect, through the work, I think I may be like every other person who will experience this monument in the years to come. Every time someone visits the work, and takes the time to experience the piece, they will discover a part of them, they will get a sense of their story, who they were, and maybe walk in their footsteps for a while – to know what it is they have given to the community. The community is safer because of them, and they represent what is good. As time goes on, I believe what will endure is their spirit, the good they represent, and all else will fade away – in time. I don’t think we have any concept of who and how many people this will touch, in the future, as it will be there for a very long time. In the end, I hope others can find strength and purpose in Doug’s, Dave’s, and Fabrice’s story. Realize that every moment, however seemingly insignificant, as long as we are here – is important – and that we can achieve much in our own lives.

9 Angela Gevaudan: White Eagle Dove’s Wisdom (Angela Gevaudan has generously shared the speech she gave at the public unveiling ceremony of the RCMP monument in the Moncton Honour Garden in 2016. It follows in full.) My name is Angela Gevaudan. My spirit name is White Eagle Dove, bestowed upon me by my Elder Joe Michael. We are very fortunate to have Joe with us today. Thank you, Joe, for your offering. Joe entrusted this talking stick to me some time ago. A talking stick is considered sacred in Mi’kmaq culture. When holding it, you must speak the truth and speak from your heart. Speaking your truth is also a Reiki principle Fabrice and I shared as a core value. Being open and honest with each other even when it was uncomfortable to do so is the main reason our relationship was so strong. We trusted one another implicitly. It’s been difficult for me to relinquish the relationship I shared with Fabrice. The word “relinquish” actually came to me from a definition for a synonym of “widow.” I’ve never liked the word “widow.” For me, it conjures up images of a woman, dressed in black, face covered with a veil, completely defined by the loss of her husband. If you look up the word “widow,” you will find sentence examples like, “… she lived alone, with her cats, like a much older woman, a poor widow.” I have read about women who are actually ostracized in some cultures when their husbands die. These women are seen as vulnerable. Many are abused and discarded. You can appreciate my reluctance to accept this … label. The words and definitions we accept as truths greatly impact the way we feel about our experiences. I ended up continuing my research to see if there was another word I could relate to a little more, when I came across the word “relict.” “Relict” is listed as a synonym for widow in the sense that you “… relinquish what once was.” I suppose there isn’t one word that can fully describe this experience for me. There are so many different aspects to it. But that definition got me thinking about the idea of letting go. It’s not easy to let go of someone you love, to let go of the life you knew and cherished, but what is the alternative? Is it a disservice to their spirit and, more importantly, to us, when we try to hold on to what is no longer? If someone offers you a gift, and your response is “… but I want more,” what are you really saying? Fabrice, Emma, and I never took one another for granted. We were grateful to be together, to learn from each other, to appreciate each and every experience and moment we shared. We never felt “entitled” in any way, but understood that every intimate relationship we are able to share in this life is a precious gift. For these, and so many other reasons, I do not carry the burden of regret. The time we shared is the gift. We are disillusioned with the expectation of having a certain amount of time on this Earth. When an elderly person passes away, we may be sad, but tend to be more accepting. When a younger person dies, we say things like, “They barely had a chance to live, it isn’t fair; they were taken far too soon.” The truth is: none of us really knows how much time we get. I believe we each have a different amount of time to be able to accomplish what we are meant to accomplish in this life. There are people who live for a hundred years, but never really do anything with their time. There are also people, like Fabrice, who, at the age of forty-five, had travelled the world, lived on nearly every continent, felt the thrill of adventure, educated himself, worked in many different fields, realized his dream of becoming a peace officer, and gave of himself fully to me and to Emma. Fab would often credit his parents, Laurence and Jacques, for the values they instilled in him. He was proud of their approach, a delicate balance of nurturing and discipline. From their teachings, along with his curiosity and determination, Fabrice chose to live a heart-centred life. Perhaps in some way, Fabrice, Doug, and Dave will continue their roles as protectors by having their lives shared in a way that will help break the stigmas surrounding policing, and replace the hate directed at them with the love that has been shown to us – their families. Perhaps those who visit this monument will see that these men, like all police officers, are, at the end of the day, human. Maybe this incident will help show that each one of us is solely responsible for our current circumstances, and that only by “doing the work” can we make any real change. I hope each person who visits this space will be able to feel what they feel and get from it what they need. I feel the energy of the words of so many kind souls that have been etched into the panels. I feel the meaning behind the personal details that tell a story of three highly esteemed men. I feel the valour of those who sacrificed everything for their fellow man – a sacrifice such as this that can only stem from love. That love, with the pure intentions of Carolyn Longaphie, Jim Scott, and Morgan MacDonald, inspired this Honour Garden. Thank you to you, and your teams, for this telling tribute. Let us honour Doug, Dave, and Fabrice and those who walked before us, our ancestors, by honouring ourselves. Let us be truthful, hold ourselves and each other accountable for our choices, for our words and actions. This is my truth. This is how I feel. Speaking my truth is one of the many ways I honour Fabrice, as I honour myself. Morgan, I know you are a very humble person, but I must take a moment to thank you from the bottom of my heart for honouring our families with your devotion in creating a representation of these “heroes in life.” We, their family members, are their keepers. We hold their love and stories within our hearts. We have entrusted many of those memories to you. You have become one of their keepers. This talking stick was carved from the same tree as the talking sticks Joe made for us. As you have created something tangible for us to cherish, this is for you to keep. Please accept this token of gratitude.

10 Erin Alvarez: Family Focus Erin Alvarez, Director of Communications for the Tema Conter Memorial Trust, was key to my invitation to the private Moncton event. Erin has never worked as a first responder. Despite that, she has been a different kind of witness to trauma for more than a decade. Erin does not respond to accidents, fires, murders, suicides, or other horrific incidents, but she frequently hears about them – both at home and at work. Erin is the spouse of Richard (Rich) Alvarez, an advanced care paramedic and faculty member at Humber College in Ontario. Erin is also a vocal advocate for the support of our first responders, emergency personnel, members of the military, veterans, and their loved ones. We kindled our relationship in Vaughn when I spoke in February 2015 at the Common Threads conference, the largest symposium in Canada for first responders, focusing on mental health initiatives, education, support, and training. Erin is a passionate advocate for change and support, to the point that she willingly discusses her own challenges, as she assists others. She tries to spark discussion and efforts to invoke change, especially around helping and supporting spouses, partners, families, and loved ones of people who work around trauma. Being the partner of a first responder or front-line worker has its challenges, according to Erin, who has this message for men and women entering into relationships with emergency personnel: “I think a lot of us go into marrying a first responder just seeing the uniform and thinking that it’s hot, and it is, and … I certainly did not expect what came along with that uniform. I had no idea … and I would say to new spouses to educate yourself, so that you don’t get thirteen years in and realize, ‘Oh shit. There’s been a lot of damage happening.’ Whether or not your spouse is suffering yet, just be aware that they could. Educate yourself and remember to take care of yourself as well. It’s a little bit of a dance. You have to take care of yourself, you have to take care of your spouse, and then, when children come into the mix, that’s another thing … my kids are pretty young. Our son, who is six, is starting to ask questions because he knows I work with Tema [Trust], so trying to explain PTSD to a six-year-old … it’s all about awareness, education, and communication – those three things.” Erin is a master of all three. A video she shot on her smartphone and uploaded to YouTube on February 4, 2015, garnered far more attention than she expected. She recorded it to try to get more people to attend the Family Information Night at the Common Threads conference where we met. Alvarez thought it might get one hundred views, but it ended up garnering 15,895 as of August 28, 2017. The video is approximately three minutes long. Its message is the reason I approached her to be part of this book. It’s called “Wife of Paramedic Urges Other Spouses to Pay Attention.” A simple YouTube search will bring you to it. In the video, Erin is seated in the front seat of her car. She is alone. Traffic moves in the background. Her words are delivered with passion and conviction. Here is what Erin said in her video that has captured the attention of thousands of people: “It feels like almost every day we’re hearing about another first responder, another military member, another communications officer, another corrections officer dying by suicide. “PTSD has become a household name, and public awareness is the highest it’s probably ever been; change is happening within services and the government, but people are still taking their lives, leaving behind families and spouses who think they’ve somehow failed their loved one. “And this issue – of helping the spouses of those men and women, who risk their lives and their sanity every single time they go on shift – this is something that needs to be talked about, too. “Like me, most of you probably don’t know who to talk to, how to help, how to differentiate between, and what to do, when your spouse exhibits signs of acute, cumulative, or post-traumatic stress from the job they’ve dedicated their life to. “When my husband puts on that uniform, people look to him to save them. He walks into a call, not only with the expectation of the people who have called, but of himself, to take control of the situation, to save a life and then move on to the next call. “First responders will tell you they are more resilient than most people, and maybe that’s true. My husband lives for the ‘bad’ calls, so he can utilize the skills he’s worked so long and so hard to perfect, and some of the bad ones do turn into miracles. “But when that life can’t be saved, when family members are screaming at my husband to do something to save their loved ones, when he knows there’s nothing more he can do, and then he has to come home to the chaos of our young children, of our daily life and assure me that he’s okay, and sit down for a meal and talk about mundane and meaningless stuff – when does he have time to process this loss? “How do I process it? “I have spent the last thirteen years hearing about my husband’s calls. My head is filled with these stories. And while I wasn’t there to see them with my own eyes, I’m disturbed because my husband, a human being, has had to be there in the middle of all of them. “Is it fair to say it’s been difficult to listen to? Does it make sense that I’m affected? “I think so. “Being married to a first responder carries a certain weight of responsibility. As spouses, we need to arm ourselves with tools to recognize, not only signs and symptoms in our spouses, but in ourselves. “Vicarious trauma and compassion fatigue can happen to us, too. We need to pay attention, and we can’t do it alone …” Erin’s YouTube video message has resonated with a lot of people; it may resonate with some of you. Many responders, emergency and military personnel do not talk about the calls, operations, and incidents they are part of, but not all people remain silent. The act of hearing or listening to trauma, or helping care for others, especially the critically injured and acutely or terminally ill, can and does impact people. Vicarious trauma is defined by the Vicarious Trauma Institute as “a transformation in the helper’s inner sense of identity and existence that results from utilizing controlled empathy when listening to clients’ trauma-content narratives. In other words, Vicarious Trauma is what happens to your neurological (or cognitive), physical, psychological, emotional and spiritual health when you listen to traumatic stories day after day or respond to traumatic situations while having to control your reaction.” Compassion fatigue is defined by author and researcher Dr. Charles Figley as “a state experienced by those helping people in distress; it is an extreme state of tension and preoccupation of the suffering of those being helped to the degree that it is traumatizing for the helper. The helper, in contrast to the person(s) being helped, is traumatized or suffers through the helper’s own efforts to empathize and be compassionate. Often this leads to poor self-care and extreme self-sacrifice in the process of helping.” Erin has received significant feedback after the video went live. “From family members and spouses, they’re like, ‘Thank you for saying something.’ A couple of people said to me, ‘We felt that guilt … for thinking this is going to impact us. Our jobs are nowhere close to what it’s like to be a first responder.’ ‘It felt like the job, as a spouse, is to take care of our spouse, forget about us.’ ‘We’ll just put our stuff under the rug. But no, we need to be healthy to keep them healthy, so thank you.’” She has also received accolades from first responders who are looking for tools to assist in supporting and saving their marriages, in some cases. “It can ruin marriages. Communication is key … I don’t think us spouses will ever fully understand what they do, or what they go through, but if they have a little bit more understanding and at least have those tools to recognize signs and symptoms of a bad day or ultimately PTSD, we’ll both be healthier,” Erin said, of why support is crucial for all involved.

“Unfortunately, there is no manual [which states,] ‘If she does this, point your finger down here [for what steps to take].’ It’ll never be like that. I don’t think arming ourselves with these tools is going to stop the development of PTSD, but I think it could stop someone from [dying by] suicide, if we stop it in its tracks enough to treat it.” Family members, loved ones, and others can face vicarious trauma and/or compassion fatigue, commonly referred to as “secondary trauma.” Just because a person is not physically present at a traumatic scene, disaster, or emergency does not mean they are impervious to its effects. In Erin’s case, she lived with a paramedic and heard about all of her husband’s calls, and she also heard about trauma, in detail, at work. Erin originally worked on a television show called Always Good News. It was during 2010, while taping a segment for the program, that she met Tema Trust founder Vince Savoia, who was showcased during one episode. She was instantly attracted to Savoia’s passion for helping first responders and their families. Erin volunteered with the charity and rose to become its director of communications. Before the 2014 Heroes Are Human cross-country educational tour began, Erin asked Vince if she could do some interviews with people living with PTSD as part of the collateral materials to be used during the national tour to educate the public and raise awareness about the mental health of front-line workers and their loved ones. She interviewed four people, beginning with a police officer and paramedic who attended the same traumatic call. Both responders had been diagnosed with PTSD, but neither knew the other was also suffering, even though the same call had affected both of them. The two men appear in a trailer for The Other Side of the Hero, a 2016/2017 documentary involving the Tema Conter Memorial Trust. “I interviewed both of them … It [the call] was about a baby that had been found in a toilet and they had been told it was a miscarriage, but it was a full-term baby in a toilet. The grandmother and the mother just hadn’t told paramedics or police anything. So the two of them had to deal with this, and unfortunately, the baby passed [away]. So I’m hearing in depth about this call from two different perspectives.” Erin also interviewed a police officer who attended at a murder-suicide scene which involved another baby. The infant had been shot through the head. “And she’s explaining this to me, what she saw when she walked in,” Erin explained. No details about either call were shared and I did not ask for any. The fourth person she interviewed was an officer who had attended at multiple suicides. In one case, he had dealt with one woman several times who had called police for assistance. Erin said he thought he had helped save the woman. “And then, the final call [was] when she had jumped out of a building.” The four interviews were gut-wrenching. The director of communications watched the interview footage over and over again, as she transcribed it, preparing it for use during the 2014 tour. Listening to the trauma impacted her. “I couldn’t sleep. I was crying all the time. I’m talking to my husband [saying], ‘This is heavy stuff.’ I didn’t think just listening to it would affect me this much. And then, I started looking back at my husband and we’ve been married ten years, and together for thirteen, and I’ve been listening to all of his calls over the years … I felt guilty because I’m having this reaction just listening to this stuff. What are these people going through having been there in the middle of those situations, being called to save people and [they] couldn’t?” The work became a Catch-22 for Erin. She knew her role was affecting her, but she also wanted to stay with Tema Trust because of the urgency surrounding mental health in Canada. “At that point, when I knew I should have stepped back, I continued with the [2014] tour. I didn’t go on the whole tour, but I helped for the tour. Then there came a point last year [in 2015] where I finally, at the prodding of some very close friends and my husband, took a step back,” she said. When we did our interview, part of which follows, in February of 2016, she had reduced her role, but was still helping with marketing, education, and promotion. JL: “You have chosen to be here [at the conference and with Tema Trust] knowing it could impact you?” EA: “I am more aware of it [the signs and symptoms.] I’m able to step back when I need to step back. This is a particularly concentrated week and I know that … I go into it knowing that, having done this for a few years. After this week, I probably will ask Vince if I can step back for a few weeks … because I know that is healthy for me. I honestly don’t know how he [Vince] does it, day in and day out, suffering from PTSD himself. It’s a strength I will never fully comprehend. I’m not a religious person, but I feel called to this; I feel called to this because I have been able to cultivate and maintain so many meaningful relationships with people. I’m not changing lives, but I am facilitating lives to be changed through the charity.” Her self-imposed break did not last long. Fast-forward to late spring of 2016. Erin’s passion for her work led her back to a second stint as Tema Trust’s director of communications. She is a brave person who willingly opens herself up to the effects of trauma, while trying to help others. But Erin has educated herself and now practises self-care. She also keeps a close eye on her husband in his work as a paramedic. “After hearing about all of the signs and symptoms of PTSD, cumulative stress, all of this stuff, having volunteered with the charity for years, I realized my own husband was exhibiting a lot of these signs, and I hadn’t seen it. He resented me, I think, because I was helping all these other people, and he’s like, ‘Hi, here I am. I’m at home. I’m right here.’ It was so many different realizations for me. I still struggle because I want to help everybody. But I have to keep myself in check.” JL: “Is it vicarious trauma?” EA: “That’s the closest thing that I have heard of that I can put a name to it. It’s the accumulation over the years of all the different things I’ve heard. It’s not just hearing those calls. Of course, I’m feeling for the families and the victims. But my most difficult thing that I need to process is my loved one, my husband, had to be there for that, and I could see how his personality and how he himself has changed. This job has changed him.” JL: “Is he still working as a paramedic?” EA: “He is; he is part-time on the road. He made a very important decision a few years ago because he got to the point [she paused], I don’t know what would have happened, to be honest, if he had not decided to go part-time. He had an opportunity to teach full-time in the Paramedic Program at Humber College. Thank God he did that. I’m happy he stayed on the road for a variety of reasons: he does love it. He loves it. It’s a real passion. But he struggles with a lot of different aspects of it; this is a better balance. He still works two to three shifts a week, while working full-time at the college. So it’s not like he’s never on the road.” Their discussions about his calls and work happened more frequently in the first part of their relationship. As the years went on, if she noticed him come home from work acting withdrawn or irritable, she made the mistake of asking her husband repeatedly what was wrong. “I had the bad habit of pushing: ‘Just tell me. What happened? What’s going on? What’s wrong with you?’” Erin took it personally if her husband would not speak about what had happened. “Something I have learned is: silence is not personal. It’s not about me. He needs to come home. He needs to do whatever he needs to do to decompress, and I need to let him know that I am here to listen if he wants to talk, but it’s okay if he doesn’t,” she said. When the couple started having children, there was a time Erin told Rich she could no longer hear about his horrific calls, something which still makes her feel guilty. “I think that was so selfish. But at the same time, it was part of my self-care,” she explained. JL: “But you were also impacted by it [hearing about the trauma].” EA: “I was, and it just sort of boiled up … I like to look at the world with rose-coloured glasses and just assume humanity is good, and there’s hope. But hearing about these horrible, evil people, and how bad things happen to good people, day in and day out … I don’t know what’s going to happen to my optimism if I keep listening. And anything to do with children, I would just become extremely paranoid, knowing what I know about the world through my husband. Talk about hyper-vigilance; I am over the top.” She literally feels a “physical heaviness” when she knows she is becoming overwhelmed. She can also feel anxious and can become overly emotional and cry often. On the day we met for our interview, which occurred during an intense week of training, education, speakers, and public scrutiny of the Tema Conter Memorial Trust charity, Alvarez said she had broken down five times. “But that’s therapeutic for me if I recognize it and let that happen. Then it’s okay. There was a time I was involved in the Tour, in the documentary and I was dissolving, and I knew I needed to step back,” she said. Knowing your boundaries can be difficult, as can finding balance, but Alvarez has managed to do both, after a few bumps in the road, education, self-care, and arming herself with knowledge and tactics for growth and healing. Part of the reason she is able to work the way she does is because of the support she receives from her husband. “He’s very aware and conscious and considerate about how it [his work] affects me. But he still has that attitude that he’s totally fine. I’ve caught him on a couple of occasions, maybe in a weak moment [saying], ‘Okay, maybe I have some shit to deal with.’ My husband would be great for peer support. He doesn’t have an archaic attitude that they [responders] should ‘suck it up.’ He just believes that he can suck it up and he’s totally fine,” she said.

There will likely be many people and spouses reading this who are nodding in agreement with Erin about their own partners. I asked the question that had been plaguing me since we started talking so openly. I now consider Erin a friend and did not want to hurt her, her husband Rich, their family, or our relationship by writing about these personal details without his permission. Keep in mind, this whole conversation happened as a result of the video that Erin shared publicly on social media. JL: “How would [Rich] feel about you talking about this? Is he okay with it?” EA: “I’ve asked him recently and he said it’s fine. He is a real introvert and clearly I am not. I feel like I haven’t asked full permission, but he knows me, and he knows what I have been talking about and what I’ve been doing and he hasn’t said, ‘I don’t want you to talk about me.’ I wouldn’t be talking to you if I thought he would be upset.” The husband and wife are a united front in their commitment to one another, their family, and to helping others. Ask yourself: would you be willing to put your private life out there for public discussion in the hopes of educating people and ultimately saving relationships and/or lives? Erin said her husband would openly talk about the calls in a detailed or factual manner, but he never talked about how he felt about the incidents. “There’s a big difference, right? If he comes home and he tells me about what calls he’s done, and then we just go on with our night, that’s not helping at all. He’s never really told me.” That is a very powerful statement: “He’s never really told me.” We can fill hours of conversation without ever peeling back the layers to get to the bottom line of how we are really doing, and how our work and personal lives leave an impression on us. “I asked him, ‘What calls do you think impacted you the most? What sticks out in your mind?’ And he said, ‘You know, the traumas, when you’re hearing people screaming or you’re smelling blood or you’re seeing signs of death, that’s what I see in my head.’ But when I’ve seen his personality be really deeply affected is – here he comes after a shift and [for example] he’s had to tell a spouse of an elderly person that their spouse is no longer there. Specifically, those calls sadden him deeply,” Erin said, “… notifications … for spouses who don’t have anyone else. Their family is not there. The only person they had in this world for the past sixty years is this person [who just died] and Rich has had to be that person to say, ‘I’m sorry – they’re gone. You’re alone now.’ And it devastates him. Those are the ones that stick out to me.” Her voice was sombre as she discussed observing her husband’s pain. Her demeanour and facial expressions softened when she talked about him. She clearly has great respect, admiration, empathy, and love for Rich. JL: “No one wants to be that person [to do notifications].” EA: “But someone has to be that person.”

Erin Alvarez’s Legacy Letter An Open Letter to Spouses and Families of First Responders: I am not alone. Repeat this to yourself every once in a while, especially in those dark moments when you feel completely helpless. I am not alone. I am not alone. I am not alone. Because I promise you, you aren’t. I have been married to an advanced care paramedic for a decade. Over the years, I’ve come to know the signs that he’s had a bad shift, or a particularly bad call. Sometimes he talks to me about it, and sometimes he doesn’t. The important thing is that he knows I’m here for him. Our secret? He’s here for me, too. Being the spouse of a first responder carries a certain weight of responsibility, and while we are married to the ones in uniform, we also carry the burden of the trauma they’ve witnessed. Keeping ourselves in check, talking it out when we need to, isn’t selfish – it’s necessary. I admit the anxiety and the stress sometimes can’t be kept at bay. There have been many times I’ve watched my husband walk out the door and I worry he’ll never come home. The danger associated with these professions is so precarious that I wonder if preparedness is even possible. I remember watching the news on June 4, 2014, and felt a lump in my throat that didn’t leave for days. Three Moncton RCMP wives lived every first responder spouse’s worst nightmare. I remember being particularly drawn to the photo of Constable Fabrice Gevaudan, and later when I heard his wife Angela speak, I was in awe of her strength, of her calmness, of her ability to forgive. As fate would have it, Angela and I met through the Tema Conter Memorial Trust, and I now call her a dear friend. When I was in Moncton, for the first anniversary of the June 4th incident, the healing had only just begun. The wives’ sorrow was still palpable and I think all of us can say we grieved in our own way right along with them. But on the second anniversary, expecting the same cloud of grief, I walked into a light so radiant that the darkness could no longer be seen or felt. A monument for the three officers was unveiled, each statue with such immense detail and emotion that the true essence of each hero was there for everyone to experience. It was a celebratory event, one of gratitude and grace that Canada’s first responder family all took part in their own way. Angela is not alone. I am not alone. You are not alone. I won’t pretend I have all the answers, but I do feel that I am armed with the compassion, the empathy, the gratitude, and the mindfulness to help myself, to help my husband, and to help other first responders and their spouses and family members. Let’s continue the conversation. Let’s stay healthy and let’s support each other. We are all in this together.

11 Bill Sandford: The Memory Box Sixty-nine-year old Bill Sandford spent most of his professional career working alongside first responders. Bill built an exceptionally strong and respected relationship with paramedics, EMS, fire, police, and other emergency personnel while working as a photojournalist for major newspapers. He has filed for many news agencies, including the Toronto Sun, the Toronto Star, United Press International, The Globe and Mail, and Reuters. The award-winning photographer spent more than four decades in journalism and witnessed first-hand some of the most traumatic and horrific incidents in Canada: the country’s first school shooting, multiple plane crashes with mass fatalities, the Paul Bernardo case, a major train derailment, and hundreds of other fires, murders, and emergency scenes. He described some of his varied work for me prior to our interview in the following short autobiography he wrote: “I have been a journalist, more of a photojournalist, for forty-two years. For a number of reasons, I seem to have retired after moving to London, Ontario. “My last fifteen years were spent as a freelancer, working out of Barrie and covering central Ontario for the Toronto Star. After twenty years on the job as a staff photographer for the Toronto Sun, it was a refreshing change. Working with a freelance reporter, we could find our own stories, both news and features. We owned the Ontario page for a number of years before the Star revamped its front section. “I took the journalism course at Humber College, starting in 1967, when the community college system was formed. I was already an accomplished amateur photographer from my high school days, but my first visit to a big city newsroom, The Toronto Telegram, made me realize that most reporters were stuck to a desk until assigned to a story out of the office. “I knew I didn’t want that kind of job, so I found a job as a darkroom technician with a small photo agency called Federal Newsphotos in downtown Toronto. The owner let me shoot public relations photos for some of his clients and cover any news that came our way. “In July 1970, I had my first view of a really big news story: the crash of a DC-8 into a farmer’s field near Woodbridge. All on board were killed, leaving a field of debris and bodies spread over a wide area. I wasn’t prepared for the scene, as a young photographer, but I shot what I could, not focusing on any of the gruesome sights that presented themselves … “I was amazed at the co-operation of the Ontario Provincial Police that day, allowing us access to the scene, walking us around the perimeter, and basically letting news people [have] the time to do their job. Over the years, I talked to veteran officers who were working that day and they had similar [traumatic] memories. Those who were on traffic points say they had it easier than those who protected the scene and assisted in the investigation. “After leaving Federal Newsphotos, I started freelancing for United Press International, where our work was mostly covering sports for Canadian and international news outlets. “I found another staff job while living in Brampton, signing on with The Daily Times, one of those colourful Thompson newspapers … I brought the idea of chasing spot news with me, having a police scanner installed in my car. “After a year at the Times, I went to work for Inland Publishing, where we started a new paper called the Etobicoke Gazette. I chased news stories and photos in Etobicoke and out in Peel Region, where I was still living. “It was on a day off that put me on the scene of another multiple tragedy: the shooting of teachers and students at Brampton’s Centennial High School, [one of] the first of these massacres in Canada or the United States. “I went into the school following the first Peel officers on the scene … again, another scene that would stay with me and others who experienced it, for some time. “I started at the Toronto Sun in 1978, as a dreaded reporter/photographer on the police beat. Again, I preferred being on the street, but it took a year before I became ‘just a photographer.’ “I did score some brownie points one morning by being on the desk early. I was still living in Brampton and drove into Toronto early to avoid the traffic. I took my place at the police desk, cranked up the emergency radios, and moments later heard Metro Ambulance call for units at the airport. The tone of voice made me listen closely, as they started [sending] ambulances to the scene of a DC-8 that had crashed into a ravine at the end of a runway. I had to stay in the office [and] get photographers and reporters and editors moving. I didn’t get to the scene until the next day. “With my skills at covering the city and regions with scanners, I was finally free to do what I enjoyed, covering spot news. I started meeting police officers, ambulance personnel, and firefighters. A lot of them became good contacts over the years … Over the next twenty years, I photographed fires, accidents, and shootings that left memories that are sometimes hard to shake. “I filled in for the police photo unit a few times when they were busy, taking photos of fatal accidents that showed bodies. I was glad to just hand over the film and not spend any time looking at the photos. Just being on the scene was bad enough,” Sandford wrote. Reading Bill’s biography made me realize we were kindred spirits who had never met. We have much in common. We have been journalists for decades. We have witnessed countless traumatic events by working as police/crime reporters and while doing spot news. We have built close relationships with the people who attend at emergency scenes or who are victims of trauma. All three have taken a toll. “We are the witness to what’s gone on, and you can’t be there, but we can,” Bill said of the integral role of photojournalists and the media. I spoke to him via telephone at his home in London, Ontario. He graciously sent me a number of his photographs to view prior to our interview. They give a glimpse into the nature of what he has witnessed over more than forty years. “I think I’ve suppressed ninety percent of the stuff I’ve seen … quite recently I’ve unearthed this box of pictures when we moved from Barrie to London. A lot of the stuff was in boxes and we just left it in the basement. And going through the boxes, it’s all coming up, remembering some of the stuff I’ve been through and some of the stuff I’ve seen,” the veteran photographer said. It struck a chord with me after having unearthed my old files in a box in my garage and after having visited CTV Atlantic to view many of my old stories. Digging up the past can be taxing, depending on what memories lay dormant or forgotten. “I can suppress it, but every once in a while it comes back,” he revealed. “It’s so hard to explain. I never really considered myself a ‘big shot.’ I’m someone in the background. What we’re doing now is something I’ve never done before.” JL: “You’ve never done an interview with someone before?” BS: “No. Not like this and all this stuff is bubbling up.” JL: “At any time, if you’re tired or it’s too much, we will stop.” We never had to stop. However, he became emotional during one crucial part of our interview. We were discussing his first major assignment at a mass casualty disaster when he was just a novice news photographer. It was July 5, 1970. Bill had graduated from Humber College the year before. He was not prepared for what lay before him that day. Air Canada Flight 621, a DC-8, was flying from Montreal to Toronto and on to Los Angeles when, after a failed landing attempt, which heavily damaged the plane, it crashed a few minutes later into a farmer’s field, in what is now considered Brampton. All passengers and crew aboard were killed. The following news story reports one less person in the total death toll, as it was filed just the day after and the number of dead would have been fluctuating.

It remains the deadliest crash in the Greater Toronto Area (GTA) history of the now Pearson International Airport. It garnered international news coverage including this story, AIR CRASH KILLS 108 AT TORONTO AIRPORT, which appeared in The Greeley Daily Tribune in Colorado on July 6, 1970. “An Air Canada DC-8 jetliner bound for Los Angeles crashed in flames while approaching Toronto International Airport early Sunday, killing all 108 persons aboard. “Airline officials said an engine fell off and one wing collapsed just before the huge plane nose-dived into a cornfield in rolling farm country near the village of Castlemore. “The plane carried 99 passengers – 22 of them reportedly from Southern California – and a crew of nine. “A golfer playing at nearby Woodbridge Golf and Country Club, William Farmer, said the airliner’s outer starboard engine appeared to be on fire as it came in to land. “‘There was a loud bang and something fell off,’ said Farmer. ‘All of a sudden the plane veered in a very steep left turn and started heading right for us. We began to run but didn’t know where to hide. Then the plane flipped over on its back and suddenly dived into the ground so straight the pilot couldn’t have aimed it better.’ “Farmer said the impact caused a loud explosion. ‘We could see bits and pieces flying high into the air. I knew no one was going to survive.’ “The weather in Toronto Sunday was described as warm and sunny. Visibility was perfect … The jet hit the ground only 75 feet from the farmhouse of Styze Burgsma, who said the ‘tremendous blast’ blew out the doors and windows of his home. Neither Burgsma nor his family of 11 was injured. “The plane, Flight 621, left Montreal at 7:15 a.m. (EDT) and was due to arrive in Los Angeles at 1:50 p.m. (EDT) after an intermediate stop at Toronto. The crash occurred at approximately 11:15 a.m. (EDT). “Michael Matyas of Toronto was driving about a mile south of the crash site at the time. ‘We saw two fire balls going and a lot of smoke,’ he said. ‘We saw an engine fall off. We turned off the highway and walked towards the plane, but we couldn’t get close because of the intense heat. “‘There was nothing but mangled metal and pieces of bodies strewn all around. Flames were shooting up into the sky.’ “There were 119 persons waiting in Toronto to board the plane and many of them witnessed the crash. They were put aboard a second DC-8 for the flight to Los Angeles and arrived at Los Angeles International Airport at 2:50 p.m. (EDT). … “An investigation into Sunday’s crash was ordered by the Federal Department of Transport in Ottawa, but a spokesman said the burning debris made an immediate close examination by investigators almost impossible. “The wreckage of the plane was compacted in an area about the size of half a city block. The passengers’ bodies were close to the shattered fuselage in which they had been sitting. A stewardess’ red Air Canada uniform hung from a nearby tree. “Jerry Gardiner had just seen his wife and children off on another flight and before returning home decided to wander out to the airport’s observation deck to watch arriving and departing planes. ‘This plane was just coming in to land,’ he said. ‘All of a sudden there was a flash of red and white flames. A wing seemed to be on fire. Then it started to climb and pieces of it began dropping off. It kept burning all the time. I just stood there and felt sick,’” he told the reporter. Bill Sandford was working for Federal Newsphotos when the crash occurred. He said he heard “… on the radio on a Sunday morning there has been a plane crash, so I picked up my cameras and my films. I was living at home at the time. ‘I’ll see you later, Mom,’ he remembered saying, as he left for his first major assignment. “I got out there [to the crash site] and you can’t even imagine [the] body parts all over, hanging from trees. I’ve never seen that before. It’s like a battlefield. I’m twenty-three years old,” Bill said, “… what really got me was the smell …” At this point, Bill made a poignant and powerful correlation between his own work and that of his father. The late Charles Sandford was a veteran of the Second World War. Bill wondered what his father might have experienced during World War II as a member of the engineering corps, who served in France, Belgium, and Germany. Engineers were attached to combat units, cleared mines and booby traps, and liberated Death Camps. Charles never spoke about his war service with his son. Bill realized his father had witnessed a staggering amount of trauma. Bill felt most comfortable talking to people over the years “who had the same experience” as he did. Perhaps this was why we felt comfortable speaking with each other, having covered the same beats and spot news, fires, plane crashes, murders, accidents, and other traumatic scenes for years in the media. He did talk and grow close with the many paramedics who attended at the same emergency scenes he photographed. He earned their respect over many years, while showcasing to the public the nature of front-line emergency work. He retired after forty-two years, in 2014, and stills misses photojournalism. “I’m the only member of the media who’s ever been inducted into the Pioneers Group with EMS Toronto,” he said. “We meet for dinners and lunches. These are the guys I used to work with on a day-to-day basis. Now they’re either retired or passed on. It bothers me that some of the guys have died. We talk about the good ol’ days. One of the guys said, ‘Bill’s work has showcased the EMS to such an extent that we feel he’s one of us.’ I’m the only one who’s not an ambulance attendant or a paramedic who’s in the group.” Bill also spoke of the day he covered a shooting at an Ontario high school. These types of horrors are sadly happening more frequently now, but in 1975, this kind of incident was rare and unimaginable. “All this stuff is buried. You start talking about it and the memories come back. I was the first news photographer on the scene. I was in downtown Brampton, where we were living at the time,” the photographer said. On May 28, 1975, a sixteen-year-old male student shot and killed a teacher and student and wounded thirteen other students before killing himself. The Toronto Star ran a story by Eric Andrew-Gee in May 2015 called “Brampton Centennial students still haunted by shooting rampage 40 years on.” It revealed the ripple effect the school shooting has had decades later for many of those involved. “On Monday morning, some of the lockers still had bullet holes in them. Students filed in at the bell, but the beginning of the day was eerily quiet at Brampton Centennial Secondary School. “As classes got underway, the voice of principal William Springle came over the public address system: ‘In this earthly existence,’ he said, ‘we may never unravel the mystery that led to the tragedy that befell us last week.’ “Then normal activities resumed. “The previous Wednesday – May 28, 1975 – 16-year-old Michael Slobodian walked into the high school carrying two rifles in a black guitar case. Within five minutes, Slobodian had killed two people and wounded 13 more. He then shot himself fatally in the head with a .444-calibre bullet. “The attack left Brampton stunned. Apart from Springle’s speech, there was little official recognition of what had happened in the months and years to come. Many coped with the trauma in silence. “For 40 years, Slobodian’s rampage rippled through the lives of people who were there that day, leaving scars and steering fates. Some wrote songs about it, others wrote plays. Some chose their careers because of it, others their homes. Many say they suffered post-traumatic stress. Others say they emerged from the tragedy stronger. … “‘A lot of us have never even spoken about it in 40 years,’ said Pam Hand who, as a Grade 9 student, watched in horror while Michael Slobodian put a rifle to his head and pulled the trigger. ‘There’s a lot of people who need to do a lot of healing.’ “Today, the tragic pattern of school shootings is familiar. Columbine may be the most famous, but at least a half-dozen more have become bywords in the last 30 years: Dawson College, École Polytechnique, Concordia, C.W. Jefferys, Virginia Tech, Sandy Hook. “But in 1975, and in Brampton – then still many years shy of its expansion into a suburban boomtown – bloodshed in school hallways was virtually unheard of,” the Star story said. Bill arrived at the school within ten to fifteen minutes after the shots were fired. “I went into the school; something you wouldn’t do today,” he said. In 1975, the access for media at a crime scene was far different than even in the late 1980s when I graduated from the University of King’s College and started working as a journalist. The police would never allow anyone near where the investigation was still ongoing, especially immediately after the violence had just concluded. “Back in those days, there were no tactical units and that sort of thing. And I saw two things: a streak of blood down a hallway where somebody had been dragged off to the side, and down another hallway, [there] was a number of cops hanging over a body that was the shooter,” Sandford explained, of the horrors witnessed inside the school. “You still think of them,” he said.

Forty-one years after he stood in the school, Sandford can transport himself back inside as if it were yesterday. “Despite the fact I kinda suppress this stuff, looking at the pictures brings back the memories,” he said. Looking in his “memory box” while preparing for our interview had been painful. He said it will be stored away, again, in a bigger box for safekeeping. He also owns fifteen years of freelance photography shot for the Star and The Globe and Mail when he worked out of Barrie during the latter stages of his career. Bill wonders what to do with the two full boxes of negatives, in which he has captured many important cultural, political, and social moments in Canadian history. He has considered donating them to a journalism school to study, examine, and catalogue. The veteran member of the media has some sage advice for novice photographers and journalists: “You have to show some compassion.” As an example, he referred, once again, to the 1970 plane crash which killed all on board. He and other members of the media had later been assigned to go to the Mount Pleasant Cemetery to be present for an interment. There were five caskets to be buried, each containing body parts, representing five different religions, the photojournalist explained. The caskets were buried in a row. Bill covered the burial for Federal Newsphotos. Let me be clear: no one ever wants to cover a funeral. No one chooses this assignment. You are told to go. It is your job to go. It is one of the hardest assignments I have ever been given. No textbook on Earth can properly prepare you for what to do or say, or what not to do or say. I empathized with Bill because I have had this assignment on more than one occasion. People look at you with hate in their eyes; it is understandable. You try to be delicate. You try to be ethical. You try to be professional. These assignments are highly uncomfortable and difficult. You do your best, but the moments and memories linger. At this point in my career, I choose not to cover these types of stories. But someone somewhere is covering them as you read this book. In this social media-focused world, we are witness to death daily. Working around grief, trauma, and casualties affects storytellers, writers, editors, producers, photographers, and other members of the media, just like it affects anyone else, including responders and their loved ones. Bill remembered one particular moment at the Mount Pleasant Cemetery, decades ago, that brought him to tears. On the cemetery’s website, there is a short description about the crash and burial called “Air Canada Flight 621 Memorial.” It reads, in part: “A special memorial service was held on this spot on July 30, 1970 and in May of the following year the stone monument [a replica of the one erected to the memory of those lost in the Ste. Therese, Quebec crash seven years earlier] was erected. It is inscribed with the names of all 109 victims. A total of 49 identified and three unidentified victims of the ill-fated Flight 621 are buried here.” He picks up the story on the day of the burial at the cemetery. “There was a lady praying …” He paused. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice breaking. The photographer broke down but continued with his description. “… praying at one of the caskets and I shot that picture and it’s on the front page of The Toronto Telegram the next day. I’m still a young guy just starting out. I have a news sense. It’s just starting to grow. I realize I have a picture there that no one else has …” Bill had stayed behind after all the other media had left. “I didn’t want to intrude,” he explained. I did not ask exactly why he became emotional discussing the picture and moment, but being there and observing the woman’s deep pain has affected him. He also referred to a tragic drowning in the Muskoka resort area, where a mother had been photographed, not by him, grieving over the body of her dead son. Bill said he disliked the photo because it showed the woman holding her dead son’s hand to her face. He felt the image had crossed an ethical line. The veteran photographer is appalled at the graphic images he sees being broadcast and printed today, globally. He challenges himself about his own work. His frank story should be cause for others in the media to do the same. I now also wonder about the appropriateness of some of the stories I covered. Should I have been standing next to Ann and Wayne King the day they visited the site in the woods where their daughter Andrea was found? The sight of Ann tossing the roses onto the ground where Andrea had lain undiscovered for months will never leave me. The ability for self-introspection is what makes Bill Sandford a stand-out and leader in his profession. His compassion, dedication to first responders, and strong sense of ethics have allowed him to stand with strangers and bear witness on the worst days of their lives. It also has allowed the photojournalist to grow exceptionally close with many Canadian emergency personnel, whose careers he has showcased and shone a spotlight on, for more than four decades. It is to that group that Bill Sandford has decided to write his own legacy letter.

Bill Sandford’s Legacy Letter To the emergency personnel I have worked alongside of: After forty-two years as a news photographer, I still find it difficult to go back in time and view my work without feeling some measure of grief. Over the years, I made many friends and contacts in the emergency services: police, fire, and paramedics. I was amazed, looking back, at how helpful these people were in getting exclusive photos at major incidents. When I had just started my career with the Toronto Sun, I enjoyed meeting up with ambulance supervisors around midnight, when my night shift ended, and the streets were quiet, for a while. We didn’t have cell phones in those days, so a code had to be set up on the radios so we would all know where the meet[ing] was. You never knew when all hell could break loose – a major fire, car crash, or shooting – and that would end the coffee break. In those early days, [the] mid ’70s, Tim Hortons and Country Style would close on Christmas Eve or New Year’s Eve, leaving no place to meet. I decided to have coffee and cake set up in our High Park residence and have the shift supervisors over. All I had to do was phone the comm[unication] centre and tell them to pass on the message that coffee was ready. Having both a friend and a contact in a high-ranking police officer paid off the night of the Mississauga [train] derailment in November of 1979. One of our Sun reporters lived around the corner from the incident, but lost his camera in one of the ensuing explosions. He asked the incident commander if I could come into the scene to “document” the disaster. This nod to the respect we had built up over the years had paid off. The front-page photo of the scene [I shot] won a National Newspaper Award that year. As always, there is some humour involved in every major incident. I was off-shift when Mississauga “blew up,” as it were, and I was on my way home with milk, as per orders. Toronto EMS brought its ambulance bus to the scene, and set up the on-board coffee maker. I supplied the milk. Over the years, as instant communication became possible with cell phones, I got a number of tips on major stories, giving the Toronto Sun a head start or even an exclusive on some of the quirky things that happen in a big city. These days, I have been going through boxes of photos and clippings that have documented my days and nights as a “newsie.” My car has always had a stack of scanners, monitoring emergency services, which I would listen to, even on a day off. It’s been hard to wean myself off the adrenalin rush from hearing a “big” call. To [my] colleagues in the emergency services: thanks for the trust.

12 Dave Ralph: First, First Responders Dave Ralph spent more than thirty years listening to some of the most traumatic scenes imaginable. We met in 2015 at the Tema Conter Memorial Trust’s Common Threads conference. The retired emergency communicator, trainer, and manager had been a gracious emissary, assisting me during my conference visit and helping to introduce me to a number of people who I have since interviewed. Dave, a member of the Toronto EMS Pioneer Association, volunteers with the Tema Trust. He received the TPS award of Pioneer of the Year in 2015 for his work and commitment to the wider community and Canada’s emergency workers. He originally had planned to join Canada’s military as a gunner, but his passion has always been in communication, the route he eventually followed. In 1973, mirroring the footsteps of a high school friend, he joined the Toronto Police Service. He entered the field of emergency communications as a junior police radio operator. Sworn police members answered emergency phone calls in the 1970s. Dave dispatched the officers, as a civilian member of the Toronto force. As time passed, he rose through the ranks and eventually coached others as a communications training officer. Eight years into the job, he left the police force. “I left the police service because of a critical incident,” Dave explained. “A police officer was shot and killed on a cold March day in 1980.” He first noticed something was wrong when his boss showed up at work on a Saturday afternoon and asked if Dave could operate a tape machine and a reelto-reel recorder to listen to taped interviews investigating what had happened, leading up to the officer’s death. “For the next eight hours I relived everything that happened that night. I was locked in a little room [working] with another lady, a staff member, and unfortunately, I came away with the opinion that, if things had have been done differently, the outcome … should have been different; he might not have died,” Dave explained. He listened to the phone calls and radio traffic from the officers who had been at the scene. “We were asked to find out who was in command of that scene.” The Officer Down Memorial Page, a website devoted to honouring deceased police officers, identifies the thirty-year-old Toronto officer as Constable Michael William Sweet, who was married with three children: “Constable Sweet and his partner Doug Ramsey answered an armed robbery call at a bar on Queen St. The suspects, two brothers, were trapped in the kitchen area. The officers headed in that direction and came under fire. The suspects went down a dark stairway where Constable Sweet was hit by a bullet from a shotgun. Back-up arrived on the scene and the two officers were held hostage. While negotiating their release, one of the suspects was permitted out to bring back liquor. The suspects turned a deaf ear to the pleas of Constable Sweet who had been laying on the kitchen floor bleeding for 90 minutes. An officer at the scene reported hearing the pleas, ‘Help, I cannot breathe’ and then silence. His killers were captured and found guilty. Constable Sweet had served with the agency for 6 years.” The Toronto Police Service also has its own tribute to the officer on its Honour Roll webpage. It does not discuss the uproar and fallout over a controversial “stand down” order: “On March 14, 1980, Constable Michael William Sweet and his partner were on patrol when they responded to a robbery in progress. Other officers who arrived shortly thereafter discovered that Constable Sweet had been shot and was being held hostage by the robbers. Constable Sweet pleaded for his life but the robbers refused to let him receive medical treatment. Ninety minutes later, heavily armed police stormed the restaurant and attempted to rescue him. Constable Sweet, however, had lost too much blood and died in hospital.” In question was the fact that tactical police officers who responded were initially told to “stand down” and not storm the building. They adhered to the command for a period of time, until, going against orders, they entered the building in an effort to save Constable Sweet and any other hostages. Constable Sweet is one of forty-one officers listed, as of July 2017, on the Line of Duty Death Honour Roll for the Toronto Police Service. Dave heard all of the graphic details about Constable Sweet’s shooting, hostage taking, and death from the officer’s peers, colleagues, friends, and superiors who either attended at, or were involved with, the hostage taking. The event put Dave “into a tailspin.” He knew he needed out and was willing to take a lower-paying job to get out. “I have ten reasons why I left the police service and none of them were connected to that Line of Duty Death,” he said, of his initial denial the traumatic case had anything to do with his eventual quitting of the police job. “I needed out of there because of critical incident stress, what I now know is posttraumatic stress.” Nine months after the officer died, Dave left the police service and joined the ambulance service, the precursor of the Toronto Paramedic Service. “As far as I was concerned, leaving the police department had nothing to do with the Line of Duty Death. Retrospectively, because I wasn’t [physically] on the call, I couldn’t have affected the call … The officer was taken hostage by people who were robbing a restaurant. There was a stand-off of many hours. There were two suspects. That’s what I relived – the absolute details. He [the officer] died in hospital from injuries inflicted.” It was 2009 before Dave finally made the connection. “It wasn’t until twenty-nine years later that I realized the reason I changed careers was because of that officer’s death. I went and saw a professional and talked it through. I was aware of it and it bothered me, but I had technically blanked it out. We use the term today when we are helping people, [it’s] called ‘presenteeism.’ I was physically there for the [pay] cheque and that was it.” A journalist had written articles examining the high-profile Toronto line of duty death and the later push for financial support and benefits for a second police officer’s family. Staff-Sergeant Eddie Adamson’s death also stemmed directly from the hostage taking. He died by suicide, found surrounded by his memos, notepads, and newspaper articles about Constable Sweet’s death and the hostage taking. Tortured over what did or did not happen, because of the stand down order which was followed and the force’s initial hesitation to storm the building, Staff-Sergeant Eddie Adamson tragically died by suicide in 2005. The Globe and Mail’s Renata D’Alieso covered the case with a December 20, 2015, story entitled: FIGHT TO MEMORIALIZE POLICE PTSD VICTIMS GOES TO HUMAN RIGHTS TRIBUNAL. Her story reads, in part: “Each year, on the first Sunday of May, police members, political leaders and families gather on the grounds of the Ontario legislature, at a memorial made of granite and bronze, to commemorate officers who died in the line of duty. “The CN Tower is lit in blue to honour them, and their names, which are etched in stone for permanent remembrance, are read out one by one: all 257 fallen, including 41 who served in the country’s largest municipal police force. “Missing from the Toronto Police Service’s honour roll is Eddie Adamson, a former staff sergeant who took his life a decade ago after a long struggle with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). “The province’s Workplace Safety and Insurance Board determined Mr. Adamson’s suicide was the result of his PTSD and the board deemed his death occurred ‘on duty.’ But his family’s pleas to have him remembered in the Toronto police honour roll and memorial wall have gone unheeded. Now, the Ontario Human Rights Commission is taking up the fight, asking the province’s Human Rights Tribunal to order the Toronto police to commemorate officers such as Mr. Adamson in a case that could reverberate across the country. “Mr. Adamson’s mental illness was triggered by the shooting of a fellow officer in a harrowing robbery and hostage taking at a downtown bistro in 1980. Mr. Adamson led an emergency police task force to the scene, but he was ordered to wait and not storm the bistro. He could hear a wounded Constable Michael Sweet beg for help. By the time the emergency team burst in, the constable couldn’t be saved. “Police members who die by suicide because of a mental disability incurred on the job are not the only ones among Canada’s unremembered: Afghanistan war veterans who took their lives after serving in the mission are not memorialized in the same way as those who perished in theatre. “‘We all still have this stigma around suicide. It’s still taboo,’ said former paramedic Vince Savoia, founder and executive director of The Tema Conter Memorial Trust, which assists public-safety workers and military members coping with mental illness. ‘Nobody really wants to die by suicide,’ added Mr. Savoia,

who was affected by PTSD and suicidal in the past. ‘It’s the last step, God forbid, for some individuals who just feel they have nothing left to give.’” As of September 2017, Staff-Sergeant’s Adamson’s name is still not listed on the Toronto Police Service’s Honour Roll. But that will change – after a groundbreaking decision in April 2017, which was widely reported in Canadian media, including a story by Bruce Forsyth in the online publication Canadian Military History called OVERDUE HONOUR: STAFF-SERGEANT EDDIE ADAMSON TO BE HONOURED ON THE TORONTO POLICE HONOUR ROLL. It reads, in part: “On 20 April 2017, the family of the late Staff-Sergeant Eddie Adamson received some long-overdue good news: Eddie will be honoured on the Toronto Police Honour Roll, something he was denied in 2005. “Adamson’s widow Linda and daughter Julie had to fight for the recognition bestowed on Toronto Police officers who die in the line of duty because Eddie took his own life after suffering from PTSD for more [than] 25 years. “In 2008, three years after his death, the Workplace Safety and Insurance Bureau, in an appeals ruling, officially declared that Staff-Sgt. Adamson’s death was ruled a work-related injury, brought on by post-traumatic stress related to the death of … Constable Michael Sweet in 1980. …” The fight to include Adamson’s name on a Memorial Wall has also taken a huge step forward, as the article further explains: “On 20 April 2017, Toronto Police released the following statement: ‘Today, the Toronto Police Service has announced that a settlement has been reached with the Ontario Human Rights Commission relating to the Memorial Wall honouring fallen officers,’ said in a release from police spokesman Meaghan Gray. “The release continued by stating: ‘By October 2017, the service will finalize a procedure that will provide a process and the specific criteria under which applications will be considered. The process will allow the name of a member who has died because of mental-health injuries, including names of those who have already passed away, to be put forward for consideration.” It was through reading other media articles that Dave Ralph considered the exact timeline of events and his decision to leave the police job. He realized he had also been suffering from what had or had not happened in 1980. The earlier articles had brought back the details of what he had heard and he finally made the connection. The Toronto Paramedic Services (TPS), then known as an ambulance service, was progressive, even in the 1980s, when Constable Sweet’s Line of Duty Death had occurred and when Dave made his abrupt transition from police communication work to the emergency ambulance service. The TPS had hired a full-time clinical psychologist to support its staff of approximately nine hundred employees, according to Dave: “As I sat in a couple of her educational things, I flashed back to the officer’s line of duty death.” He was always open to learning about trauma and to receiving support. That is why, combined with his compassion, the communicator now excels in his volunteer work with other responders, emergency personnel, military, and their families. “That day when she’s explaining, ‘If you have these feelings, instead of going for the bottle, you should do this …’ all of this stuff is flashing back. I had drank two to three days to forget about a SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) death and I had to teach the mother how to do CPR on her two-to three-month old …” He made a commitment to learn about mental health and support for first responders, members of the military, and their families, as well as “first, first responders,” dispatchers, emergency communicators, 911 operators, and so on, starting in the 1980s, long before terms like PSTD and CIS were as commonly used or as accepted as they are today. “That’s why I volunteer with this organization. Something inside me said, You need to learn more about this and you need to understand this better.” JL: “Did you diagnose yourself?” DR: “Maybe.” JL: “Trauma does not have to come from being at the thing and witnessing a scene.” DR: “Absolutely not. Somebody who works in a large communications centre, in a twelve-hour shift, I would say in a large comm centre, a call taker would take forty to sixty percent more calls than any first responder would respond to in the field. So if a paramedic crew were to get eight calls in a twelve-hour shift, a communicator taking those calls would possibly interact with sixty to eighty cases or calls. We, in communications, interact for a shorter period of time. We interact in a non-visual environment. We are not the hands-on people. They call us the first, first responders. I like that term.” Dave had a thirty-year career with the Toronto Paramedic Services. He is not certain, but estimated he has interacted with thousands of emergency callers over the span of the three decades. In the early 1980s, during his training, he was told if the call was really serious to record and dispatch it as a Code 4. If it was not as critical, it was a “Code 3, if you didn’t think they were going to die,” he explained. “I learned that just because the caller screams loud doesn’t mean it’s serious.” One of the calls he took underlined the need to develop and adhere to strict communication protocols, which evolved over time. “I had a caller tell me, ‘My baby! My baby’s not breathing!’ When I asked her how old her baby was, she said, ‘Twenty-six.’ I would have been instructing that lady how to do CPR the wrong way [for a child] over the phone, because she said it was her baby, and it probably was her first-born child. You needed a proper protocol and way to interview in a non-visual environment.” Another example of an emergency call he answered that could have benefitted from clearer and tighter protocol came from a high-rise apartment building. “My baby! My baby’s dead!” the caller screamed hysterically at Dave over the phone. He did everything he could to help her. “This is before a structured protocol. I sent police, fire, and the ambulance service to a baby who was dead. The woman was screaming. I was calling her back. It turns out her ‘baby’ was a pet ferret that had gotten out of captivity in the apartment and a neighbour had put the boots to the ferret. Nobody told me to ask, Is your baby a human? So you need a properly driven protocol system.” Since hearing hours of radio calls and conversations that led him to believe mistakes had been made, which resulted in a police officer’s tragic death, the veteran communicator has been devoted to ensuring protocol and procedures are properly followed. He interviewed nine times with Toronto Paramedic Services before he was awarded a management communication position. “As I got senior in my position, I had to audit calls that weren’t good. Not that there were errors, we wanted to make sure we did it right, from a call receiving position.” His ongoing pursuit to ensure procedure was done correctly may or may not have stemmed from the line of duty death, but it is hard to imagine it has not played a role. He became the commander of the call centre’s education group in 2004. “We couldn’t change the calls that had happened but we could try and improve moving forward,” he explained, of the mindset and work ethic that drove him during his years with TPS. Continuous Quality Improvement, as he called it, was a major part of his mandate in the 2000s. In 1995 another event also changed his life and further fuelled his drive to ensure whatever incidents he and his colleagues were involved in were dealt with properly – a consuming passion which may have been fuelled from the trauma surrounding the police missteps. In August that year, Canada’s worst subway crash claimed three lives and injured dozens. Dave was the shift supervisor at the Toronto Paramedic Services’ call centre when the crash occurred. The Toronto Star revisited the tragedy on the twentieth anniversary of the crash, publishing the following story, entitled 20 YEARS AFTER RUSSELL HILL, TORONTO’S DEADLIEST SUBWAY CRASH. The August 10, 2015, story, written by Lauren Pelley, reads, in part: “On a typical late-summer night 20 years ago, thousands of Toronto residents began their evening commute in the dark underbelly of the city. “Many didn’t make it home. “A two-train subway crash on the Spadina line – the worst accident in the TTC’s history – left three dead, 30 hospitalized, and dozens more injured. “For most Toronto residents, the events of Aug. 11, 1995, are long forgotten. But for those who experienced the tragedy first-hand the memories still run deep. “The train on the receiving end of the crash was stopped at a signal light on the southbound Spadina line, just north of Dupont. The second train, thanks to a combination of mechanical and human errors, kept going – smashing into the first at a speed of nearly 50 km/h, leading to a twisted wreckage of metal filling the entire circumference of the tunnel. “Some say it looked like a scene from a war movie. “From within the tunnel’s stifling heat and near-darkness, dozens of passengers escaped into the summer air above, while others remained trapped in the contorted skeletons of the train cars, pinned under seats and against the aluminum frame, amid broken glass and debris. “Christina Munar Reyes, 33, Kinga Szabo, 43, and Xian Hui Lin, 23, lost their lives in the crash. … “Coupled with … driver error, a design flaw with the Ericsson trip arm, a safety device meant to engage the brakes of trains passing through stop signals, contributed to the crash. “The tragedy led to sweeping changes throughout the transit system. An internal TTC (Toronto Transit Commission) investigation and coroner’s inquest resulted in 236 recommendations, all of which have since been closed out, according to the TTC’s chief safety officer, John O’Grady.

“Within the TTC, there was a culture shift, O’Grady says. “‘ I think if you could characterize it, when we built the subway in the early ’50s it was beautiful, it was state-of-the-art, modern, new, nothing was worn out,’ he says. “‘We got used to the TTC being one of the top subways in the world. By the time Russell Hill came along 25 years later … it was kind of a wakeup call for us, for that culture of concern [about] the state of good repair.’ “Many TTC staff were on scene that night – along with paramedics, police officers, firefighters, physicians and passersby. “More than 280 rescuers poured into the subway tunnel and manned command posts on the surface, assisting more than 200 passengers escape the two mangled trains. The last survivors weren’t removed until after 2 a.m. “Michael Killingsworth, a staff sergeant with the TTC’s transit enforcement unit, has attended dozens of subway suicides and homicides in his nearly 30-year career. Even so Aug. 11, 1995, is ‘the worst night I’ve ever had,’ he says. “Retired firefighter Ken Bodrug, one of the first responders that evening, calls it a ‘horrible experience,’ but one he wouldn’t want to forget. “‘ For the sake of the souls that never came out of there that night, I believe that all of us left a little part of ourselves down there,’ he told the Star. ‘Forgetting it just makes the memory of those people meaningless.’ “Twenty years after that night, some of those on scene offered to share their memories of the horror – and heroism – of the Russell Hill crash …,” wrote Pelley. One of those people sharing his story and memories from the subway crash is Dave Ralph. He remembers the exact time the crash happened, down to the split second. His shift started at six in the evening. “I can tell you at 6:02:17 p.m., that is when two subways collided. I know that, down to the second, when the first call rang in,” Dave said emphatically. “The call was from the Toronto Transit Authority saying, ‘Could you come to this station and stand by? We have a report of smoke in the tunnel. We’re not sure what’s happened,’” Dave explained, paraphrasing the initial confusion. His team of dispatchers sent an ambulance. Several minutes went by until all hell broke loose. There had been between two hundred and three hundred passengers on the two trains, who all had to be rescued from the implosion. It was not an explosion when the trains hit; they imploded back into themselves and the wreckage filled the narrow tunnel. There was nowhere for the force of the impact to travel but back on itself. Some crawled out with barely inches above or below; they slid, pulled, pushed, and maneuvered in whichever way humanly possible through glass, debris, and shards of metal. The conditions facing the first responders and medical teams were hellish. Some passengers had to be cut out of the mangled wreckage and had their limbs amputated by surgeons who came to the crash site. In one case, a victim died immediately after a leg was removed. First responders struggled to work in high heat and the confined and dangerous space. Dave said it took three to five minutes before they knew with certainty there had been a crash. “Not too many people went by ambulance to hospital because, as they evacuated the train, they popped out of these emergency exits, not the stations,” he explained, of the immediate chaotic aftermath. He said some people even self-reported to hospital and flagged cabs. About ten o’clock that night, a call came in which started a chain of events that has drastically altered his life. “One of my staff said, ‘Dave, there’s a gentleman on the phone who’s trying to find his wife. He thinks she’s caught up in the subway system.’” Dave spoke to the man. The caller was rational. “He said, ‘I need some help, I think. I’m worried my wife hasn’t come home from work yet.’” The communicator responded at first with some hesitation, “Sir, I don’t mean to be rude. Are you sure your wife hasn’t gone out with the girls?” he asked. The man told Dave his wife had called at 5:55 p.m., seven minutes before the accident, and said she would be home soon and would see him shortly. That was four hours earlier. They estimated it would have taken her two to three minutes to get to the subway station from work. She travelled the line where the wreck occurred. That would have placed her in the subway between 5:57 and 5:58 p.m. and just minutes before the crash. Their concern grew. Dave advised the husband to call police communicators where he had worked and even gave the man the phone number. He advised him to explain the exact timeline of both her call and the crash and that she was missing. About fifteen minutes passed. A second staffer asked Dave to pick up another emergency line. The communication centre was being flooded with calls about the subway crash, as well as all the other traumas that were simultaneously happening in Canada’s largest city. Dave picked up the phone and recognized the voice. It was the same man who had called earlier, now explaining that police would not help him. “Are you sure they understand?” Dave asked. This time he gave him the number for the man’s local police detachment. By the end of the second call, Dave now knew where the couple lived. The man called back a third time. He had received no help from local police. Dave said he became angry. He took the man’s name, phone number, address, date of birth, and other personal information so the police could run a background check on him to verify he was legitimate. “I’m working in a non-visual environment. I don’t know,” he said. Dave made the fourth call to police and asked to speak to the officer in charge. As he relayed this story to me, his voice rose, becoming urgent and impassioned, as he relived trying to help and do the right thing for the husband. He said to the senior officer who answered, “I’m going to get a commitment that something will be done and I will call you back.” The officer asked him, “Do you know we’ve had a subway crash?” Dave sounded exasperated as he recounted the conversation. It was four and a half hours after the crash, about 10:30 in the evening. Dave requested police send an officer to interview the husband. A few hours later, approximately one to two o’clock in the morning, a fifth call was made, this one to the communication centre where Dave was still working. The officer asked to speak with Dave. Call centre staff said to their boss, “Can you talk to an officer who is trying to help a man find his wife?” Dave had finally managed to get some initial help for the husband by being relentless in his pursuit of doing the right thing. “Thank Christ,” was his initial reaction. He now had a confirmed last name of the woman: Szabo. He knew they had not taken anyone to hospital via ambulance with that name. There were two people still unidentified in hospital who could be Mrs. Szabo. He was aware two or three people had been killed, one person was still trapped, and dozens and dozens of people had either self-reported or had evacuated. Finding Mrs. Szabo was proving to be difficult; the search for her continued. Dave eventually went home later that morning after many hours without any break. “I am thinking of this gentleman. I couldn’t sleep,” he said. The next day he was driving his children, in his Chevy Chevette, to an appointment. On the car radio, the media went live to a press conference about the subway crash. “Who do I hear who was killed? One of the three women [is] the guy’s wife …” At that admission, Dave Ralph breaks down crying. He had taken almost one hour to build to this point in the interview. He purposely took his time and told the story in detail so I could fully understand the ramifications of what had happened later – after it was confirmed that forty-three-year-old Kinga Szabo was one of three victims killed the previous night. JL: “You recognized the name.” Dave was still crying. There was a long pause before he continued. DR: “… and I lost it …” After hearing her name on the newscast, he pulled off on the side of the road, with his children in the car, and Dave wept for Mr. and Mrs. Szabo. Again, with me, he did the same. He became quiet. DR: “I don’t know when [Mr. Szabo] found out.” Since 1995, Dave has reflected about the conversations and interactions from that crash. He has come to a conclusion that has helped ease some of the pain stemming from the police line of duty death and the thousands of traumas he has heard.

DR: “I felt I understood now I did a good job intervening for this man.” JL: “He knew, in your persistence, that someone cared.” DR: “That’s right.” JL: “You did the right thing; you did what you had to do.” DR: “You got it.” Twenty-two hours after the crash, approximately three o’clock in the afternoon on August 12, 1995, Dave heard Mrs. Szabo’s name on the radio. He was due back at work in three hours. While at work, he discovered there would be a Critical Incident Stress (CIS) debriefing the following day for people involved who wanted to attend. He had not slept in thirty hours but was adamant with his immediate superior that he needed to attend the CIS meeting. Upon attending, he was surprised to discover one of the participants was the police officer who spent eight hours guarding Mrs. Szabo’s body on the subway platform. What was discussed among the CIS group of about ten to twenty people remains confidential. Dave said the officer spoke about the deceased woman as if the two had known each another. Mrs. Szabo’s death and his interactions with her husband had rocked Dave Ralph. He sent flowers and a note to the Szabo family. Trying to decide what else to do, the communications manager consulted with ten to twenty of his peers and also met with a friend, who was a supervisor from the Employees Assistance Program (EAP) team. Then he made a decision which sparked an important chain of events. He called the coroner’s office, identified himself, and found out which funeral home was taking care of Mrs. Szabo. He called the funeral home and discovered which minister would be officiating at her service. He called the minister. “I have this inkling that I want to come to the visitation,” Dave said. The minister responded, “I think he [Mr. Szabo] would welcome that.” Dave’s voice broke again. “So I talked to my buddy and he said, ‘I’ll take you.’” JL: “You don’t have to talk about this, Dave. I don’t want you to have to go through this again. I don’t want to revictimize you.” DR: “I have told this story ten to fifteen times, so I can do it.” JL: “But it takes a lot out of you.” DR: “It takes a lot out.” His friend picked him up and drove him to the opposite end of Toronto where the funeral home was located. He wore his work blazer with an ambulance crest emblazoned on it. He started to walk into the funeral home but froze in the doorway and could not move forward or backward. “My buddy is behind me whispering, ‘Dave, you have to step in or step out. You are blocking the door.’” He found the courage to finally step inside. “I stepped over and standing there … was a gentleman I don’t know, and there’s this lineup of people to see him, and my buddy says, ‘There’s Mr. Szabo over there!’ And I said, ‘Shut up, I know!’” Dave’s outburst resulted from his trying to process what was happening. “I eventually get up the courage to get in line. I arrive at the front of the line. This is the end of the story. And I have my business card.” I notice Dave’s voice became shallow. He was straining for air and the words to describe a pivotal moment in his life. He was standing directly in front of the man he relentlessly tried to help, on the worst night of Mr. Szabo’s life, and introduced himself. “‘Mr. Szabo.’ I hand him my business card. ‘My name is …’” Dave Ralph broke down. “[He] looks at my business card. Looks at my crest. Looks at my face.” Dave wept as he recounted exactly what the distraught husband said to him, the person who did not back down and who did everything he could to help the Szabo family. “He said, ‘You’re the gentleman I talked to the night my wife was killed.’” Dave continued to sob as he explained. “And I said, ‘Yes, sir, I am.’” “You know what he said?” Dave asked, voice breaking. As tears streamed down his face, Dave revealed Mr. Szabo thanked him, face to face, for never giving up on him or his wife – “ ’Thank you, so much. You gave me purpose and direction that night.’” At this revelation, and near the end of our interview, Dave sobbed uncontrollably, his shoulders heaving. “He knew exactly why I was there,” Dave managed to say. “… He knew exactly why the hell I was there – because I needed to close it.” Mr. Szabo has helped heal the first, first responder. Years after the police officer’s death, Dave Ralph made sure, in the immediate aftermath and hours following the subway crash, what needed to get done was done for the Szabo family. After the officer’s tragic death, and following years of listening to extensive trauma, finally, standing in that funeral home, Dave Ralph found some muchneeded solace. JL: “You felt the first case [the police officer’s death] could have been handled better. In this second case, you wouldn’t give up on this one guy because you knew it needed to be done the right way.” DR: “That’s right.” For the record, Dave, still trying to do the right thing, never revealed Mr. or Mrs. Szabo’s full names during our interview. Finding information about them has proven difficult, except for a mention in a 2005 Globe and Mail article, written by journalist Peter Cheney. The story, TTC CRASH 10 YEARS LATER: ‘WE ALL HAVE OUR GHOSTS,’ A VETERAN SERGEANT REMEMBERS 14 HELLISH HOURS IN DUPONT STATION, sheds important light on why Mr. Szabo may have reacted the way he did with Dave Ralph. The excerpt reads: “… Also killed was Kinga Szabo, a former member of the Romanian women’s Olympic basketball team and the mother of a seven-yearold boy. (Mrs. Szabo’s husband, a psychologist whose practice includes counselling the bereaved, declined an interview, explaining that it would be inappropriate to detail his own loss, given his profession.)” The story, discovered during my research six months following the interview with Dave, has been a revelation. Mrs. Szabo, a celebrated athlete, was a mother who left behind a young child. Mr. Szabo, like Dave Ralph, has devoted his life to helping people. In this case, the two men, complete strangers, have profoundly impacted one another during a time of tragic loss, underlining the importance not just of Canada’s counsellors, mental health and support professionals, but also our emergency communicators: the first, first responders and their crucial roles in the chain of emergency response.

Dave Ralph’s Legacy Letter “Would you do me the honour of writing a legacy letter for inclusion in my latest book?” What an interesting email to receive from Janice. Very easily written, I’m sure. And of course, silly me, I send back, ‘Sure, no worries.’ Was that a mistake? I have struggled with this request for several months, and of course, the deadline kept creeping up and up. I am not sure where this letter will be placed in the book; perhaps at the end of the chapter that tells a little of my story, or maybe at the end of the book. I sure hope this is not at the front of the book. Anyway, here goes. Working in an emergency call centre is both exhilarating, and [it] can also be depressing. I do not care if you work in 911 in North America, 112 in Europe, or 000 in Australia … The citizens we serve will call you “… when they have reached the end of their skill set and are ready to give the situation to someone else to deal with.” This quote is from me, after having spent thirty-seven-plus years in the public safety communications industry. So to the hundreds of thousands of people around the world, plugged into a call receiving or dispatch console, thank you, for your care, compassion, and willingness to help in someone else’s emergency. Thank you. You are all truly the first, first responders. Keep your heads up high [and] strive to learn new industry-related advances. Share your experiences with the rookies. Be a mentor to someone. Question things that don’t seem to be correct and make suggestions for improvement. Secondly, I have a message to all of our first responders: the police officers, paramedics, firefighters, peace officers, corrections services officers, and military personnel: I could never do what you do. I taught myself [to try to understand] what you do and how you are highly trained and specialized in what you do. Many years ago, I thought that a career in police services was where I wanted to be. Nope, I couldn’t do it. So to you [all] I say: Thank you for allowing me to be your lifeline via that piece of technology we call a two-way radio. Thank you for your radio messages with words of encouragement, your phone calls of thanks. For allowing me [to] ride along with you, to better understand what happens on the streets, and also for sharing some of your stories. Thank you. I learned something from every one of you, and in closing, to use a quote from Michael Conrad, the actor who played Sergeant Phil Esterhaus on the television drama Hill Street Blues: “Let’s be careful out there.” Lastly, and this is the tough one, to the hundreds, perhaps thousands of people who called 911 and got me on the phone, thanks for choosing me to answer your call for help. Yes, I know it is random and you had no control who answered, but somehow, we got connected. Thanks to you, as well. Regardless of your emergency, I hope that I was able to instill a sense of calm, perhaps a sense of “Oh boy, I am glad I got this fellow on the phone. He knows what he’s doing.” If your emergency was an injured limb, perhaps your new baby was being delivered, maybe you were a victim of a robbery, [or] I may have even have given you CPR instructions for you to administer to your loved one, whatever your emergency was, I hope I was able to help. Heartache and pain may still be present with you. I know I have several of your emergencies which will never leave my memory. However, I can tell you that they do diminish. If you have never called 911, if you do not work as a public safety communications professional, and you are not a first responder, but you are reading this book: thanks to you. I hope that you have learned something about those of us who are as close to public safety as we can get. I hope I have shared with you some of the passion, and compassion, that drives us to work in and around public safety. Thanks for reading.

13 John Bredin: Pushing Boundaries to Effect Change Who immediately responds when there is an emergency or traumatic incident inside of a prison or correctional facility? Sometimes outside help is required if the situation escalates, but it is correctional staff who deal with an instantaneous situation within the institution. There are approximately 19,000 Correctional Service of Canada (CSC) employees in Canada, according to John Bredin, who is one of them. He has been employed by CSC for twenty years. Currently a federal parole officer in Ontario, John is also the Critical Incident Stress Management (CISM) trainer for all CSC institutions within the Ontario region. A former crisis worker, he currently leads training and educational sessions and speaks provincially, nationally, and internationally about the environments within our prisons and what work and home life is like for Corrections officers and other staff, including mental health challenges and initiatives. “None of the models are static. It’s not like you can get the training and twenty years later, you’re good,” John said, of the lifelong learning approach and mantra to his work, profession, and philosophy. John spoke at the Common Threads conference in Vaughn, Ontario, in February 2016. I met him the day following his talk. We spoke about material from his slides, a presentation painstakingly approved by several levels of hierarchy within the CSC prior to John and his colleague Kathleen Roberge-Ward’s appearance at the Tema Conter Memorial Trust national conference. John asked that we remain within the boundaries of the material he had presented the previous day, so he could carefully comply with the requirements of his employer. I agreed. I had not been present for his talk because his was a concurrent session to another presentation. He brought his laptop to the lobby of the conference hotel and painstakingly took me through his presentation slide by slide. The hint of this patience level was revealing, as I later learned. John began by explaining the 19,000-member CSC staff and employees include those who work at institutions as correctional officers, parole officers, parole program officers, community parole officers, food-service staff, administrative and office staff, security and intelligence officers, support staff, at aboriginal healing lodges, in community correctional centres, halfway houses run by the CSC, as well as five regional headquarters and one national headquarters located in Ottawa. “One of the things the government hasn’t really realized, but groups like Tema … and other trauma-response organizations [do, is] recognize correctional officers as first responders,” John said, as we started our interview. “If it’s a major incident, you may have outside help … you will have ambulances come in, but before any of that happens, it’s the correctional officers and staff that responds.” John also underlined correctional staff “witness critical incidents on a more frequent basis than most professionals.” It is a shocking thought many people may never consider. “When you think of the makeup of some of the higher security institutions … they [the inmates] don’t get along sometimes. That can be confrontational to the point there is violence. We know that they can manufacture all sorts of weapons. I mean I can make a weapon out of a toothbrush. I can make alcohol out of potatoes … and a bit of yeast. So there are all of those things that come into play in that unique environment. In the higher securities, it’s not once in a while, it’s all the time,” said John. He also said there once was a “suck it up” attitude for correctional workers who faced stressful and traumatic situations. The climate, of not wanting to talk or being afraid of the stigma surrounding mental health issues within the correctional services, is slowly changing. “That’s what Kathleen [Roberge-Ward] and I started to do about six years ago with CISM [Critical Incident Stress Management] and EAP [Employee Assistance] … Those sorts of programs were always in the shadows, not just within corrections, but within a lot of organizations. What we were trying to do is take it out of the shadows and make it part of the culture, as much as anything else in corrections. We are making inroads. We are getting there. A lot of the work we do now is before anything ever happens,” he explained. John and his co-presenter and colleague have spent years educating and training the entire Ontario region so “their training is up to date.” There are eight institutions within the Ontario region, according to the Correctional Service Canada website: seven for men and one for women. John has worked and trained CISM staff at all of them. He has also travelled to both the Atlantic and Pacific regions within Canada, as his work nationally effects change and helps employees cope and be effective within the institutional system. Preventative measures, training, and education are now a primary focus. It is a forward-thinking approach that is catching on, because of tactical and patient people like him. “It used to always be reactive, so that’s a shift. Some-times that makes people uncomfortable because it is such a change.” And many people do not like change. “Twenty-four hours a day we deal with the offenders. But they also watch us twenty-four hours a day,” he said. “There’s a whole program I do on ‘boundaries’ and how the offenders can manipulate staff to do things they shouldn’t be doing, or to turn the other way … and there’s training for that, but [that reality] is a level of stress. As much as they’re under a microscope, so are we.” John said when, as a parole officer, he sits down with offenders to work or talk with them, trying to access possible lower security or parole, “You always have in the back of your mind, What are they really saying? What’s their agenda? It’s never as straightforward as you and I [speaking] … That carries over into your real life, if you will. I only trust half a dozen people. Because I’m very choosy on who I trust, just because of the nature of this work,” he revealed. JL: “Does it affect your ability to have quality relationships?” JB: “Does it impact your family life? Does it impact your life outside of work? I would say it does, because it’s almost like you have a radar for bullshit, because you have to. So if somebody on the outside tries that – you’re all over it.” As soon as he said “all over it,” he snapped his middle finger and thumb together, the cracking sound underlining his last point. Point taken. He gives another work/life example: when he is at work, or other correctional officers are on the job, they repeatedly give direction to the offenders. They tell people what they are going to do, how they will do it, and when to do a specific task or requirement. Additionally, if the offender does not want to take direction, or follow orders and rules, people like John Bredin also explain the consequences and repercussions. “That doesn’t work at home. You spend a lot of time in the garage when you try to do that at home,” he said, smiling. I do not ask if the parole officer knows this from experience, but it is heavily implied. “But it happens, not just with corrections; police officers, same thing – anyone who gives direction and expects results. What we try to do [preventatively] is educate people to … not come home and bark orders. Take the dog for a walk first and change from being ‘that person’ to being a husband or a wife, or a brother or sister, or whatever that may be.” That is easier said than done on a day-to-day basis over many years. “We have to keep that ‘face’ up in front of the offenders, despite anger, sadness, or negative emotions, because if they see weaknesses, they manipulate that, so that takes effort, and that’s stressful as well. And that wall has to come down after work because it doesn’t work well outside of work,” John explained. The stressors faced within prisons can lead to mental health illnesses, including PTSD, according to John. He said statistics in Canada about PTSD within corrections are not as up to date and accurate as he would prefer, but research from a correctional outreach program in Colorado suggests the PTSD rate among American correctional officers sits at approximately 27 percent.

“We’re saying it’s probably close here,” John said. The parole officer estimated that number in Canada is between 17 and 20 per cent of correctional officers who have been diagnosed with PTSD as of 2016. That number is astounding. JL: “Is that something that’s affected you?” JB: “I haven’t been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, but I would say it [work] affects you, because it’s a negative work environment. We get positive things out of it when we can, but it’s a prison. So I’ve been called ‘jaded.’ When we first start in corrections, or law enforcement for that matter, we have this naiveté bubble that the world is generally a safe place – that goes away. So you become jaded. So when I talk to new employees, I say, Be careful of that; be aware of that, because that’s detrimental to you outside of corrections.” JL: “What is?” JB: “That attitude: everything is negative, that the world is dangerous. For instance, if you have a police officer or a corrections officer walk into a restaurant, they’ll sit in the corner with their back against a wall so they can see who’s coming.” Having worked alongside of a lot of officers as a former crime reporter, I have witnessed this myself. There are organizational stressors that go hand-in-hand with working in corrections. He offered the following examples: policy changes, changes in a person’s responsibilities, or work hours evolving. “If you go from being a food service officer to a parole officer, that’s a whole new ball game … Inmates look at you one way – you’re just the guy that they didn’t get their ice cream [from] this week. So they treat you accordingly. As a parole officer, now you have a say in their correctional plan and how they move along [so] you get treated a different way.” JL: “You’re affecting my freedom.” JB: “Right, so you get treated a different way.” JL: “Jaded – people have said about you. What, exactly, do you think they mean by that?” JB: “I’m suspicious of everything. The trust issue … and if I don’t take that armour off when I come home from work, I can be more reactive than I need to be. I can anger quicker.” If something is not done when he expects it to be – for example, if he hires someone for renovations and they fail to show up two or three times – “My reaction is pretty severe. I don’t put up with stuff,” he said. Because of the way he does things in and out of work, he expects the same of others. “If you tell me you are going to do something, I expect you to do it.” JL: “You’re used to, in your world, what you say – goes.” JB: “Right, not so much domestically, but especially professionally.” The parole officer explained some of the other stressors within corrections: 1. Exposure to critical incidents. 2. Interpersonal conflicts due to long shifts. 3. Traumatic stressors, daily or hourly, depending on the institution. 4. Serious injury. 5. Hostage taking. 6. Witnessing another person being mutilated or dying. 7. Exposure to scenes that trigger negative memories. John has personally experienced many of these situations, with the exception of “witnessing a person being mutilated or dying.” “And that’s not a definitive list,” he explained. “It’s not necessarily the incident; it’s the person’s perception of it, which differs from person to person,” he said. He remarks, “Because of those stressors listed, some people develop corrections fatigue which is similar to compassion fatigue … it’s more like you become numb, and it’s more or less [you becoming] robotic in your daily functioning, because it’s worn away at you.” “When I work outside of the institution for fire departments, we talked with them about CISM and trauma and also invite the spouses, so there’s an understanding that when your husband or your wife comes home, and they’ve had a bad day, you know what that means, you know what they can do about it and what’s available,” said John. That educational component is critical because he also said many people “hide” how they feel or what they have experienced to “protect” their families, a sentiment I have heard echoed by many first responders across varying agencies. John is starting pilot projects within CSC to also assist family members. He is an advocate for “as much pre-incident stuff as possible … what we are trying to do is change a culture; [it’s] something new, something different. So everybody’s [saying], What’s wrong with the way we used to do it? Well, here’s what’s wrong with the way we used to do it. But we’re here.” ‘Here’ meaning that John has just co-presented this material nationally at the Common Threads conference. ‘Here’ meaning he is now disseminating his work and research through a journalist and author he does not know, despite having trust issues. ‘Here’ meaning that progress is being made and people are starting to listen and understand that first responders take many roles and work and volunteer for many agencies and organizations. “It depends on whether you want to look at the glass half-empty or half-full. We’re a lot further ahead than we were six to ten years ago,” he said. He agreed, at this point in the interview, that he is “jaded.” JL: “But you talked to me?” JB: “But we’re only talking about what’s already been approved.” JL: “Are you a little outside of your comfort zone?” JB: “A little bit. But if we’re going to change this culture, you have to press the boundaries a little bit.” JL: “You saw my [Common Threads] presentation, so you know I care.” JB: “And some of the people who said you’re okay, I respect.” JL: “Did you ask around before you sat [down] with me?” JB: “Maybe. I do my research. I have to; it’s part of my job.” Because of his trust issues, granting the interview was a huge step for him and a big win for me. Interviews with correctional staff are not common. JB: “I can’t preach this stuff about moving ahead if I’m not willing to do it.” As part of that “moving ahead,” a major internal Correctional Service Canada initiative is the production of a video addressing the issue of PTSD within institutions. John said he and others had noticed fire, police, and EMS within Ontario had a similar production they were using as an educational tool. “We started looking for people in CSC diagnosed with PTSD who would participate.” They used CSC video cameras and produced the video at no external cost. They have done the interviews and edited the video. The piece has received regional approval as of December 2014. When we spoke, the video had not yet been green-lighted by national headquarters for internal use, but it has since been approved and is currently available as a training aid. His ability to see the big picture is why John Bredin is an in-demand speaker on the subject of mental health within corrections. “Some people have reacted by saying the video is great and it should be used in training across the country,” he said. With that, John played three excerpts of the video for me. As a result of it not being in approved circulation, during our interview, and because of the personal nature of the anecdotes, I will not reveal the name of the person interviewed for the video, or the prison where she works. The female correctional officer spoke on-camera about her PTSD and what led to her diagnosis. She has worked in CSC for twelve years. The corrections officer began by telling the audience she was “reluctant” to share her experiences, feelings, and how PTSD had affected her in the video, but decided to participate because she felt it was important to speak up, “… so people don’t think they are the only ones suffering from the symptoms.” The officer was present for a hostage taking in a maximum security unit where she still works. It occurred at the end of a long stretch of days on shift. The night before the incident, there had also been another traumatic occurrence: an assault. She had to stay late at work. She said people felt they were too exhausted

to work the next day. She said to herself, ‘Oh, it’s just one more shift – you can get through.’” She went to work anyway. It became clear that next morning “things were not okay within the unit.” She had a “bad feeling” something might happen and even said so to a co-worker. She ate lunch outside the unit, which she said she never did. When the hostage taking started to unfold, she was not in the immediate area. She was outside the unit and was called in to respond. It did not “… register right away that was what was happening,” she explained, as chaos erupted. She ran to get a video camera. It was her responsibility to record the event, as required. John explained that protocol. “When an incident happens, part of the procedure and protocol is that it is videotaped; that was her role the day of the hostage taking,” he said. “… Everything is scrutinized, so everything is filmed.” It was during videotaping that the correctional officer finally realized exactly what was happening. The hostage taking lasted for five and a half hours. In the aftermath, there were tasks to be done and reports to be written. It was a while before she went home. The adrenaline, post-incident, lasted for a couple of days. Once the shock wore off, her co-workers called her, wanting to talk. People were supportive, she said in the video. She took three shifts off from work. She said she “felt it was important for me to go back and face where it happened.” She went to see a therapist shortly after the hostage taking, “because it was a major incident and people told me I should.” Her therapist described her as a “simmering pot.” She was told she was always on a “low boil.” The correctional officer said she saw the therapist for a few sessions. Then the sessions stopped. Over the years, she went through several more incidents of varying degrees within the prison. She checked off her own mental list: “I got through this, I got through that,” she said in the video clip. Her PTSD was “slowly settling in,” she revealed to the camera. She decided to join the Emergency Response Team, where she became an instructor and leader and placed herself “at the forefront for any incidents.” She handled them well, she thought. She later realized she experienced detachment in order to cope. She started distancing herself from people both inside and outside of the prison. She said she felt most comfortable with co-workers who she thought understood what she had seen and continued to see. She began speaking less and less to people in her personal life. Relationships with her family and friends began to suffer. She was edgier, felt angrier, and would lose her temper more quickly. The officer is succinct and concise. Hers is the only interview I am allowed to see. She “developed a hardness to protect myself … I sort of shut down. I did not like making myself vulnerable … I stopped talking, basically.” As part of her healing, she joined the CISM team within Correctional Service Canada. Her own support training and talking to others is now helping her. She said she feels less alone in her experiences; knowing others have been through similar traumatic events has led her to believe it’s “a lot more common” than she initially thought. “That knowledge is comforting to me,” she said in the video. She now wants to talk even more to help others. She has advice for others who will eventually view the video, beginning with: know yourself and do what works for you. “The thing that works for one person may not work for another,” she explained, suggesting that could come in the form of treatment, finding someone to confide in, or living a healthy lifestyle. “Take the time to get to know yourself and what works for you.” She also said her PTSD symptoms “can crop up out of nowhere,” and that others who experience the same should not be discouraged if and when that happens. John explained, “One of the complaints we hear, and it’s not unique to corrections, is that ‘Nobody gives a shit; nobody cares.’ We’re starting to change that; here’s a group that cares. That’s sort of the message we’re trying to get out.” “I want to leave you with this last video because I don’t want you to think working in corrections is all bad. There’s a lot of pride in what we do, too. [It’s] a brotherhood and a sisterhood,” he stressed. John wrapped up our interview by showing a short news video in which CSC was given the Freedom of the City in Kingston, Ontario, on May 31, 2015. Kingston and surrounding area are home to several of Canada’s correctional institutions. In the video, both Kingston’s mayor and the CSC Commissioner, Don Head, spoke on-camera about the Freedom of the City, which is the highest honour a city can bestow on any individual, group, or organization. CSC Commissioner Head said, in part, “Every man, every woman who goes to work in one of our federal institutions, in one of our parole offices, correctional centres, or in our headquarters, comes to work to make a difference, by changing lives and protecting Canadians.” John Bredin and the officer in the CSC video are two of the 19,000 people working at Correctional Service Canada who are helping to do both of these things. The two are pushing boundaries, slowly but surely effecting change, while breaking down stigma surrounding mental health in Canada’s correctional system.

John Bredin’s Legacy Letter A Note to Those Entering the Field of Corrections – Survive Your Career: I have been in the field of corrections for twenty years now, in different capacities, with the most rewarding one being a leader and trainer in CISM (Critical Incident Stress Management) and EAP (Employee Assistance Program) for much of the entire twenty years, which can see me travelling across Canada. I perform similar trauma-related duties, in a second career, outside of corrections … Here’s the deal, folks: things are about to change, and, in particular, you are about to change. A career in corrections is a solid and rewarding career, but not without a price. You are about to enter a work environment where your “clientele” really doesn’t want to be there, sees you as the reason they are there, and will take out their anger, from various origins, on you the first chance they get. Then there are the constant “con games” in which offenders can attempt manipulation to meet their needs, have second and third agendas in their presentations with you, and the ever-present possibility you could be subject to physical and emotional violence intermittently or constantly, depending on the security level and unique dynamics of each institution. So now that you have read that, and are considering working … [elsewhere] instead, I’ll try and give you some gems of wisdom to help you survive. I will leave the physical survival to those who will train you in such, with the caveat that the mind and body are connected, and what happens to you physically registers with your psyche as well. CISM and EAP are put in place to help you to deal with not only [the] traumatic experiences you may be involved in within a career, but they also educate you on how to become resilient against OSI’s (Operational Stress Injuries) so that you build a psychological body armour, as it were. Take these lessons to heart; they can balance the negativity, cynicism, and disillusionment that can creep into your personality as a result of being immersed in a work environment where being on edge can save your life. There is a term, “hyper-vigilance,” which quickly means: in the morning you suit up (literally or metaphorically) to work in an institution, you’re “on,” being hyper-aware of everything, so you can survive your day. Should you not be able to shed this post-shift, and it becomes a lifestyle, you can become very difficult to live with. Post-shift, take thirty minutes or so to move from correctional staff to family member. As an example: all day long we issue directions to offenders; they are expected to comply when told to, in a timely manner, and if not, suffer consequences. Try that at home. I hope the garage is heated. Talk to your family and have them understand to give you a few minutes to [decompress or to make the shift from professional to personal]; it’s good practice. Got a support network? Get one. Get a support network that involves those you trust, those that you may work with, but perhaps more importantly, people who don’t work in corrections that represent a reminder: there exists a world where everything is not skewed and everyone is not a criminal. Get to know stress in your body and behaviour; what it looks like, what it feels like, what hurts, and how you behave. Learn it, and when it happens, do something about it. There is some great literature on the topic, but be sure it [comes from] a reputable source. PTED – nope, not PTSD. PTED stands for Post-Traumatic Embitterment Disorder and you won’t find it in the DSMV [Diagnostic Manual of Mental Disorders]. It is out of a mental health journal from Germany, and it refers to when an organization or system shatters a core belief in an individual [that] they hold as an accepted truth. The correctional world can often not seem to make sense, or those making decisions and policies can seem detached from [the] reality of the front lines. Many times I speak to those just starting out, who are full of optimism and pride and [have] a will to make a difference, only to speak to them a few years in and everything is “bullshit” and everyone is an “asshole.” I ask them, “What changed?” Did the system or organization begin to operate differently than the past? They respond indicating the organization has always been “f..ked up.” So that means the individual changed. I mentioned the “price” [of the work] – this is what I meant. Be safe. Be aware. Put safeguards in place to survive your career – heart, body and soul.

14 Al Tweten: Balancing Trauma with Beauty “Put safeguards in place to survive your career – heart, body, and soul,” was the final piece of advice from John Bredin. That approach is exactly what seventytwo-year-old Al Tweten did to maneuver through and survive his multi-faceted career. It began in 1962 with Al’s job as a radar systems technician in the Canadian military and ended in 2016 as a driver for a funeral home. During his fifty-four years in numerous posts across Canada, Al turned to music in order to cope, vent, relax, and manage the trauma he had both witnessed and heard. Now a veteran musician, he plays the bass trombone. He has played in bands across Canada, including RCAF volunteer bands in Clinton, Borden, Cold Lake, Chatham, 3(F) Wing, Greenwood, as well as the Princess Louise Fusiliers in Halifax, the 3rd Field Regiment RCA Band in Saint John, the 411 Squadron Reserve Band in Toronto, and the Queen’s Own Rifles Regimental Band and Bugles. He’s currently with the 48th Highlanders of Canada Military Volunteer Band and is an Associate Member of the Royal Regiment of Canada Regimental Band. Al has had the honour of playing for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. He has also played the Canadian anthem at major sporting events in front of thousands of people, as well as performing at many other community events in cities across Canada. “I was on the ice at the Air Canada Centre (in Toronto) last Saturday night playing ‘O Canada’ in a military band.” He said music has “absolutely helped” him. “You go in [to the band] and it’s a disciplined environment, but you are producing colour, you’re producing melodic things that are pleasing to the ear and soothing, and you’re part of it,” he said. JL: “You’ve always been part of a team.” AT: “Yes.” JL: “Is that part of it?” AT: “I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose.” Al flourishes in a regimented team environment. It is fortunate he found a healthy outlet during his lifetime because he has been around and experienced some form of stress and trauma his entire career. He entered the Canadian military as a radar technician from 1962 to 1969. Afterwards, he served as an Airborne Electronic Sensor Operator from 1969 to 1975. Over his thirteen years within the Air Force, Al became accustomed to working in and around aircraft. That led to a career transition after he left the military, to working as an air traffic controller. That work shift went smoothly due to his previous aviation experience. He trained in air traffic in Halifax and Ottawa, and received his license in Saint John, New Brunswick. Al worked in Thompson, Manitoba, for a brief while. That phase of his career lasted five years, from 1975 to 1980. “There is good stress and there is bad stress. I am one of those people who thrive on good stress,” he said. That helps explain why he decided, over the course of half a century or more, to maneuver between careers which all involved some kind of trauma or stressors. Eighteen years in aviation led him to accept a position as the airport duty manager at Canada’s largest airport, Toronto’s Pearson International Airport. It was there the trauma started to ramp up. “My job at the airport was, The buck stops here. I was the airport duty manager. My staff could handle anything that was black and white because there are books for that kind of stuff. It was the grey areas that I had to look after and I have no problem doing that,” he said. “I know my job. I know airplanes. I know aviation.” “As an airport duty manager, I was an atypical first responder … As duty manager, all emergencies, I was in charge, even the days when the general manager was present. So that means [dealing with] fire, police, ambulance.” While at the airport, he experienced a plane crash his first year on the job, in 1980. It was a cargo plane. “It was too late for the people,” he said. “The cargo shifted. It was a hot day … two on board,” he said quietly. “I never got to see the wreckage, thank goodness. I was handling the press.” That day was a “Code 1 Alpha,” which meant “Crash on Airport.” During nineteen years working at Pearson, he has witnessed pretty much any aviation emergency you can imagine over almost two decades. He has experienced all of the Code 1 scenarios – crash on airport, crash off airport, aircraft emergency in flight, fuel spill, hijack, and bomb scare – during his career at Pearson. He said he has dealt with as many as three bomb scares in a single day. “I have had lots of 1Cs, One Charlies.” He estimates he had to deal with approximately 150 in-flight emergencies. Al has also witnessed loss of limb, other severe injury, and emergency medical transports. “At the airport, I’ve seen some pretty horrible injuries, like a girl [a staff member] who got caught in a baggage belt. She was trapped. It took us forty-one minutes to get her out.” “She was [in the Baggage Transfer Room] placing bags to go onto the aircraft and she lost her footing, and she put her arm out naturally [to break her fall] and it got caught in the conveyor belt. She became entangled in the machinery,” he said. She was only on the job three weeks when the accident occurred. The airport staff, under Al’s direction, placed a curtain between the woman and her arm so she could not see the damage the baggage belt had caused. “I’m the guy who held the IV and directed my guys with torches,” he said. The torches were carefully used to deal with the baggage belt during the difficult dislodging process. The young woman was conscious and screaming throughout the entire ordeal. Al and a nurse, who happened to be there, spoke to her the whole time. Firefighters who responded had to pour water on the gears so the torch could be used to free her and save her arm. Immediately after the accident, Al, who was part of the Critical Incident Stress (CIS) team at Pearson, called a meeting. “I had a good idea what I should do with staff. I … told them there was absolutely no blame and that nothing leaves this room. We’re going to talk about what we each did and you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. This is not to attribute blame, because it was just a tragic accident. Everybody had something to do with the rescue of this girl,” he said. One week after the employee was taken to hospital, word travelled throughout Pearson that she had shown progress by moving a finger on the hand of her heavily damaged arm. Everyone was elated. The team, under his direction, had saved the woman’s arm. By chance, Al met her years later at a retirement party. She was still working at the airport. She did not immediately recognize him. He told her he was the person who had held her IV. She hugged him in the middle of the party. “It was a fantastic moment,” he said. A second incident at Pearson involved a medical evacuation from Bermuda. Authorities had received a call that a two-pound, premature infant was being transported to Toronto for emergency medical help. Al was at the helm of the airport emergency response and ensured every door was open, power plug adapters were available, an ambulance was parked as close as it could possibly be, a helicopter was waiting and customs forms and documents were done for the baby and nurse. Microseconds counted and all hands were on deck for when the baby and medivac crew arrived. “We wanted the baby to be as stable as possible – as stable as a two-pound baby can be.” The baby and medical team flew via helicopter from the airport downtown to Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children. “We found out a week later the baby had died. It was sad. We had done so much for her, [but] our efforts were in vain,” he said. The team, led by Al, was given an award for its medical response effort from the International Air Transport Association. The duty manager has even had his own brush with death. A cancer survivor, he said when he was first diagnosed, he told his doctor, “If I have to go, I have to go. I’ve done things others can only dream about. That’s true. I’ve been flying at twice the speed of sound. I have been in a submarine three hundred feet below

the water. I have sat and had tea with the Dalai Lama. I have had coffee with two expresidents of the United States.” The presidential encounters came during his duty manager stint. The two presidents were Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter. “Actually, I had tea with Carter. He drinks tea.” Al’s tea time with dignitaries concluded in 1999. That same year, after leaving the airport, he joined Toronto Emergency Services as a dispatcher. He worked there for six years. Some of the calls he took, or assisted with, linger. “When I worked in the communications centre, there were a couple of incidents where it bothered me a lot. We had a nine-year-old girl who had just witnessed a murder. That bothers you. I was working as a 911 call taker in Toronto. What comes to mind real quick is – We don’t know where the shooter is yet.” He asked to speak to the young girl’s parents. The mother was at work and the father was outside talking to police. “I said, ‘I want you to go lock the door right now. Pull the blinds down and you don’t open that door for anyone except a policeman in uniform or your mommy or your daddy. Okay?’” He never heard back from the child again, but he did find out shortly after the call that police had located the shooter. “I mean, a nine-year-old girl should never witness a murder.” She said to him, “‘I saw somebody get shot.’ Of course, I could tell by the voice [she was young]. They exchanged names on the telephone. By the time they did, his board was lighting up with calls about the murder. “My job was to keep her calm and safe,” he said. “No child should see something like that. So it was a natural reaction to protect her.” JL: “Is that call to service or duty a big part of you?” AT: “Oh yeah. Even when I got out [of the Air Force] I joined the Reserves. And that’s how I handle stress – the music. So I was a flyer, but when I went into the Reserves, I changed my job to musician.” Music has been helping Al for five decades. Music helps him find balance because some of the 911 calls he has taken are bone-chilling. “The phone rings. I answer it: ‘What can I do to help you?’ The long and short of it is, the guy says, ‘Well, somebody just went by my window.’ I asked, ‘Well, do you need an ambulance for that?’ And the guy said, ‘Well, I live on the seventeenth floor.’” JL: “And this guy saw them. That’s another call you took.” AT: “It’s one that I remember.” When he worked weekends on ambulance dispatch, he would take somewhere between seventy to eighty calls per night, per shift. He worked six years in the post, and would have heard thousands of calls. The ones which make his blood boil are the people who, he said, abused the emergency system and who called for help when an ambulance was not really needed. Al gave one example. A man fell asleep on his arm while drinking heavily and could not feel his appendage when he awoke. The caller insisted on an ambulance crew to attend to him. Al had to follow protocol and sent one. “It would make me angry,” he said of those kinds of calls, the ones abusive of the emergency response system. “You also become cynical, because a lot of people misuse the system.” Al is passionate about medical care and emergency response because he, personally, got to know the system well – as a patient. He spent 120 days in hospital during his cancer treatments and after an extensive surgery. “I handled a shooting one night. A policeman was shot and I was on the [911 ambulance] board and I was sending the ambulance. You’re questioning yourself: Did I send the closest ambulance? Is it the one that should get there the quickest? The cop almost becomes a brother – if you will,” the former dispatcher said. While visiting his ancestral homeland of Norway in 2005, he had an epiphany while riding on a tour bus in the picturesque mountainside. “It just hit me between the eyes. This is a young man’s game. Time to leave.” He was sixty-one years old. For the next eleven years, from 2005 to June of 2016, he helped assist more people during one of the most difficult days of their lives, as a driver at a funeral home. Al is a deeply compassionate man who has served his country and the public for almost a half-century. This last anecdote underlines exactly who he is and why the musician, who balances trauma with beauty, has been able to successfully help so many people, of all ages and backgrounds. The year was 2000. He received a 911 call from a “… prostitute who was giving birth to a baby in a hotel room, and she had no one with her. I just felt so bad for her. I was talking to her, through childbirth and [explaining] how to deliver her own child, while the ambulance was en route. That one stayed with me for a bit. I was going to break the rules and go and visit her in hospital but she was already released.” JL: “Did you go?” AT: “I went to the hospital but she was already released.” JL: “But you went?” AT: “Yeah. I wanted to see the baby.” Al Tweten’s gravelly, deep voice softened during the last answer and our final exchange. JL: “Why did you want to go?” AT: “It was the first baby I helped deliver. Well, I started to help deliver; she delivered it in the hospital.” JL: “You were the only person in the world who was there for her.” AT: “Yeah.” JL: “That is beautiful.” AT: “I’d like to think I’ve got a bit of a heart.” JL: “I think you have a big heart. We’ll leave it at that.” Al’s experiences have been wide-ranging and expansive, from helping the very young and disadvantaged to having tea with a president. His compassion has guided him to serve, protect, and assist, drawing on his vast skill set and extensive training. The self-described “atypical responder” has thrived in the “grey areas.” Finding the outlet of music has been essential to Al Tweten’s mental health and physical well-being. His legacy plays out here, in his letter which follows.

Al Tweten’s Legacy Letter To Non-Traditional Responders: Not being a paramedic, police officer, firefighter, or infantry soldier, you do not expect others to be as familiar with PTSD as these professions. Such is not the case. For many years, I was an airport duty manager at Canada’s largest airport. With the run-of-the-mill [tasks] that arose each day, being in charge of emergencies was one of the most important [responsibilities] of the job. One had to understand aircraft malfunctions and the possible outcome of these malfunctions, so that a plan of attack could be formulated. This included briefing responding agencies, as well as coordinating efforts with these agencies, including air traffic control. Aircraft emergencies and actual crashes were not the only things that we were prepared for: people falling down an “up” escalator and having the flesh ripped off of their legs, accidents involving the baggage belt system [nearly] ripping off a baggage attendant’s arm, and the ensuing action to free her from the machinery, as well as a curious little boy exploring, unbeknownst to his parents, and ending up screaming at the bottom of the baggage delivery system – missing a leg. Seeing these kinds of injuries, and being the person to direct the immediate rescue of these people, weighs heavily upon you after the fact. Did I do enough to help them? Did I direct the rescue in the safest and most efficient method possible? Have I made provisions for the staff who assisted and [who have] seen this horrendous injury? [These are] just three of the many questions that come to mind afterwards. Only complete confidence in your training, knowing how to relieve stress, and having trust in your team can ensure that you go home at night with a feeling of satisfaction, and yes, accomplishment. After retiring, I joined Toronto Ambulance Services [as it was then known] as a part-time dispatcher and listened to people in trouble. How does one react to a person calling to say someone just went by their window on the seventeenth floor? What do you say to a … girl who has just witnessed a shooting while the shooter has still not been found? Once again, knowing how to relieve your own stress is paramount to being able to successfully do the job and have trust in the entire system. As you read this book, I hope that you find tips and tricks to deal with unusual stress that the average … person would never face.

15 Michael and Tracey Hilliard: The Other Firefighter Michael Hilliard has faced his fair share of unusual stress. Michael currently lives and works in Cape Breton. The forty-nine-year-old is a veteran firefighter, the first in his family, who has served as both a volunteer and career member at varying stations around the island since 1991. He also worked a four-year stint as a 911 operator and police/fire dispatcher. Since 2013, he has been serving with the Albert Bridge Volunteer Fire Department, where he is deputy chief. Michael is also a training officer. The firefighter additionally serves as a volunteer member of the Cape Breton Regional Fire Service Training and Prevention Team. Before Albert Bridge, he volunteered for twenty-two years with the Grand Lake Road Department. He has been a career firefighter with the Cape Breton Regional Fire & Emergency Service since 2000. He works out of the New Waterford Station. “I always wanted to be a firefighter even before I worked in radio,” Michael said. He worked in radio on the island for eleven years from 1985 to 1996. During his work as a broadcaster, in 1992, the year he started as a volunteer firefighter, Michael became the news, at the very station where he worked the night shift as an on-air announcer. It happened when he was only eight months on the job as a first responder, then stationed and working as a volunteer firefighter with the Grand Lake Road Volunteer Fire Department in Sydney. He was twenty-four years old. A major incident occurred at the Cape Breton Correctional Facility, a medium-security jail which is operated by the Nova Scotia Department of Justice. Michael and his wife Tracey, whom he met at the radio station, were newlyweds at that time. “I was such a raw rookie [on the job] at that point it wasn’t even funny,” Michael said, reflecting back on a year, twenty-five years earlier, that was a turning point in the lives of both his family and his wife’s, Tracey Hanratty Hilliard. Tracey’s family homestead was two doors down from the fire station, and she comes from a long line of firefighters. The profession is a huge part of their identities. Besides her husband, Tracey’s son, father, sister, brother-in-law, two uncles, and at least six cousins are all firefighters. There are so many in the Hanratty clan it’s difficult to keep track of who currently is a firefighter and who has been one at some point. Each New Year’s Day, the whole crew would gather for a potluck dinner at the home of Tracey’s parents, Allan and Dianne Hanratty. On January 1, 1992, also present for the party were Michael’s mother, Leslie Hilliard, and his now deceased grandmother, Matilda. Michael was very close with his mother and grandmother. The three lived together in Sydney Mines until Michael and Tracey were married. Then the couple lived downstairs at Tracey’s parents’ home, where the 1992 party was being held, which was near Sydney Airport and Cape Breton University. Everyone was either at the Hanratty home or en route to the New Year’s Day party when a call for help came over the firefighters’ pagers, the technology used by the first responders a quarter-century ago. Scanners and pagers were then typical modes of communication. The firefighters were notified of a fire at the Cape Breton Correctional Centre. Michael was driving in Sydney Mines to pick up his mother and grandmother to take them to the party when his pager went off. “It said there was a disturbance and fire at the correctional centre,” Michael recalled. He drove to the nearby Hanratty home and dropped Leslie and Matilda off at the party. By a stroke of luck, the Hanratty home was only about a ninety-second drive to the correctional facility. Michael left his car at the party and jumped into his father-in-law’s vehicle, initially thinking they were fortunate to be so close to the fire. He and Allan, Tracey’s father, sped to the scene. They were the first firefighters and responders to arrive. Michael explained the protocol in effect in 1992: “At that time, the gear was on a cube van. The way we worked it, the first two guys who got to the fire station took their gear out of the van, got dressed, [drove] the first truck, and went to the call. The next guy that came in took the cube van. Then somebody else took the tanker and whatever else trucks were needed, and everybody else went to the fire. We knew our gear was coming to us, so we went to the fire because it was right across the road.” “It wasn’t unusual for them to have false alarms … over at the correctional centre,” Tracey explained. That meant when this particular call happened, at about three or 3:30 in the afternoon, no one at the party paid much attention; it was not out of the ordinary. Everyone expected the call to be resolved quickly and for the responding firefighters to return to the potluck dinner. “It was almost like a family tradition: if we had a gathering, they would get a call. It’s a family joke. We’re all getting together, where’s the fire going to be? And half of the population of the party would leave because half of them were volunteer firefighters. It’s ten people getting up and leaving,” Tracey said, of the initial reaction to the call on the day of the Hanratty levee. The other guests, those who were firefighters and en route to the party, immediately changed direction for the nearby fire station. “So everyone ended up at the fire hall and the wives would take the vehicles and head to Allan and Dianne’s, and all the guys would leave in the fire trucks,” Tracey explained, of how the scene started to unfold. Michael and Allan had taken their pagers with them but the other firefighters left theirs behind in their personal vehicles, so their wives ended up driving themselves to the party and taking pagers with them into the Hanratty home. Tracey was downstairs in their apartment with Leslie and Matilda. Everyone else was upstairs with her mother, Dianne. The upstairs ladies could hear the situation deteriorate. Tracey said she heard nothing because Michael had his pager with him. “The talk on the pagers, when they realized the situation had deteriorated quickly, the communications on the pagers also stopped because the firefighters knew the women were home with the pagers.” There were no radios at the time which would allow the first responders to go to a different or private broadcast channel and not be heard. “So they kept things as low as they could on the radios,” she said. Word did not stay low for long. “A party guest came in a little later and explained perhaps more was going on than originally anticipated, because they heard something about two firefighters being held hostage,” Tracey said. Tracey was in the kitchen with everyone when she heard this news the first time. “The wife came in and said, ‘We think there’s a hostage taking over at the correctional centre.’ She had heard it on the pagers. Tracey had not heard anything until the guest announced it to everyone, everyone but Michael’s mother and grandmother, who were still a floor below in the apartment. The women upstairs kept the news from Leslie and Matilda to shelter and protect them, until some kind of official word came from police, fire, or corrections. Because Michael was the sole firefighter in his family, the Hilliard ladies were not as accustomed to emergencies as the Hanrattys, who had more experience as a loved one of a first responder. “In our family, no news is good news. If something’s wrong, you’re going to hear about it,” Tracey explained, of how they rationalized and tried to remain calm. That changed when word finally came, in an unexpected manner. At the party, everyone eventually made their way downstairs to Michael and Tracey’s apartment. At this point, the women had not heard the names of the two firefighters, “but we assumed [who they were] because Mike and Dad were the first [to arrive at the scene],” Tracey said. Then a reporter went on the five o’clock news and named the two firefighters without the authorities first confirming or releasing the information. The families had not been notified; they were dumbfounded at the party when it was officially broadcast to the public on the newscast.

Those gathered at the Hanrattys’ endured significant trauma that day just by listening to the radio staffer discuss the still unconfirmed incident. This example underlines the fact people do not have to be physically present at an emergency scene to be impacted by it. Tracey remarked, “Neither of us holds any bad feelings or grudge against [the journalist, who] is a very, very good friend of ours. He wanted a story and I think because we both worked in media, we kind of let it go, because, at the end of the day, everything was fine.” Tracey also worked at the radio station from 1989 to 1991. And Michael worked in radio from 1985 to 1996. Being first to a story requires supreme care and caution. Does being first surpass everything else? Does it beat getting confirmation before broadcasting or printing delicate information? Is being first always the most accurate, ethical, or appropriate avenue? Should the media report a name before the police or authorities have confirmed it? Tracey said, “Matilda started crying and she was all upset. What could we tell her? We didn’t know anything that we could tell her. What do you say at a time like that? … It’s chaos.” Despite the headline news and ensuing upset at the party, Tracey said she believed the situation was going to be okay because they had also heard on the newscast that the RCMP were on the scene of the hostage taking at the correctional centre. “The ladies of the [Hanratty] family are so used to being wives and daughters and whatevers of firefighters that we don’t panic until we know for sure, can see with our own eyes that there is a reason to panic. And we knew Mike and Dad. I knew between Mike and Dad, if there was a way out of there, they would get out of there. My heart sank a little, but was I beyond scared? I don’t think so because it was a part of who we were. Michael’s mother and grandmother weren’t used to that,” Tracey said. “So they get the raw emotion of hearing what they’re hearing on the news and just then reacting.” It all started when Allan and Michael arrived first to the correctional facility. “When we got to the correctional centre, the guards met us outside and told us the prisoners were rioting. They set fire to some mattresses but they [the guards] couldn’t get the [fire in the] mattresses out. We knew [the facility] had breathing apparatus in the building, so Tracey’s father thought, ‘If the guards are in there without breathing apparatus, we can put the breathing apparatus on, go in there, put the fire out, go back and have our party,’” Michael explained. The correctional centre also had hoses they could use. The two firefighters entered the facility and immediately put on air packs, but they were not wearing their bunker gear. This is a crucial fact, because it meant they were using correctional centre equipment and were dressed in civilian clothing. They did not look like firefighters, but instead like prison guards or corrections staff. The prisoners were not initially bothering them. The mattresses were located in a cell on a range in what Michael described as the maximum security wing, a fact that had not been conveyed to the firefighters. “They also didn’t tell us the prisoners from that wing, who had started the fire and the riot, were on the other side of the smoke,” he said. The smoke was so thick neither Allan nor Michael could see the prisoners, who were about twenty feet from them. At one point, Allan’s bell on his breathing apparatus sounded, indicating he was running low on air. The two retreated to the nearby guards’ station where they knew there was another air pack. Allan was having difficulty switching out his breathing apparatus. Michael bent down on one knee to assist when the novice firefighter noticed some movement out of the corner of his eye. “Somebody hollered, ‘Close the door!’” Michael recounted. The two firefighters locked themselves in the guards’ station, which was enclosed in thick plate glass. “I don’t know where they all came from; there were guys out there yelling and screaming and banging on the glass.” The mattress fire continued to burn. The riot escalated with the two firefighters trapped alone. There were no guards left at the station. Off the guards’ station, there was a small washroom for the staff. “We figured – reinforced plate-glass windows with security mesh in it, we’re going to be nice and safe until the guards come in and get everything under control. Until they throw the metal squeegee out of the mop bucket through the window. I have no faith in plate-glass windows anymore,” Michael said. “There were toilets smashed. They were throwing pieces of broken pottery at each other. They had broom handles; everything they had was a weapon,” the firefighter explained, of the chaos that surrounded them. Allan grabbed his son-in-law’s arm and pulled him into the washroom. They closed and locked the door. Allan managed to grab a correctional centre two-way radio before entering the washroom. It was their only line of communication from the bathroom. “He said, ‘There’s two firemen stuck in the bathroom.’” The staff and management now knew the inmates had two hostages. The bathroom was designed for one person. It was approximately four feet wide and six feet in length, according to Michael. It was located near the centre of the prison and had no windows. Inside there was a toilet, sink, and mirror. The two men both weighed between 220 and 240 pounds. Allan was about six feet tall and Michael stood at five foot nine inches in height. There was not a lot of room for two large firefighters wearing breathing apparatus. “The first part wasn’t too bad. The guards knew we were in there. They were working to get us out. They said, ‘Stay there. We’ll get to you.’ That was all well and good, until the door opened,” Michael said. Allan had locked the door by pushing a button inward. When the prisoners ransacked the guards’ station, they had found the keys to the door. “The button popped out on the door … They didn’t realize we were firefighters, they thought we were guards,” Michael said, of how hard the prisoners tried to get to them and why. “The handle started to turn. Allan grabbed the handle and jammed his thumb over the button and put his other hand between the door and the jamb. I braced my foot off the toilet and [put] my shoulder against the door.” Allan and Michael held that position for thirty minutes. Michael has no idea how many prisoners were on the other side of the door. “Allan said about twenty minutes into it, ‘Mikey, I don’t know how long I can stand here. My leg is starting to shake.’ I said, ‘Allan, your whole damn body is shaking. I can feel you right through the door.’ It was the strain and it was the stress. All I know was – they weren’t getting through the door,” said Michael. The younger firefighter had noticed two sticks, broom handle in length and about one inch to one and a quarter inches wide, leaning up in the far corner of the bathroom. Michael planned to use them as a last defence to protect himself and Allan. “Dad was …” Tracey Hilliard had jumped back into the conversation. She had remained silent for a long while as her husband recounted the hostage taking. “My dad’s my hero. There’s nothing my dad can’t do, except paint. He’s a carpenter. He’s an electrician by trade. He was my guy who could do it all. That day changed my father – forever. Now, twenty-five years later, he’s good. He can talk about it. He’s talked about it afterwards. But when he came out of there, the year afterwards, we had a hard time with my dad. A man with that many years service having to go through something like that, that really had nothing to do with firefighting.” Outside the prison, while Michael and Allan were barricaded inside the guards’ washroom, their friends and colleagues, the other responding firefighters, wondered where they were. Michael said, “My buddy Adrian [Tracey’s cousin] was the captain in charge outside. He started co-ordinating with correctional centre staff. He saw Allan’s car when he pulled in, so he said to the guards, ‘Where are the two firemen who showed up first – the two guys that were in that car?’” Adrian Langlois was told the two missing firefighters were around the other side of the correctional centre. Adrian sent two men to find them and bring them both back. They were nowhere to be found. “One of the other guys came out of the building and handed Adrian our glasses and our jackets,” said Michael. He and Allan had left their belongings in the first guards’ station, in the minimum security area, the spot where they first put on their breathing apparatus. “He [Adrian] turned around and he looked at the boys and he told them, ‘Two, two-and-a-halfs. One hundred and forty pounds of pressure.’ They’re taking hoses in. He said, ‘I don’t care if it’s correctional centre staff, guards, RCMP. I don’t care who it is, they get the stream in the chest. We’re going in and we’re finding them,’” Michael said, of the plan the firefighters had concocted to rescue their brothers in the chaos. “They never got as far as having to use them [the two hoses].” The amount of water pressure the firefighters had planned to use could “knock the windows out of a car, knock the windows out of a house, and would knock a chimney over,” Michael explained. Eight firefighters had been planning to go into the hostage taking. But before they had to, “The RCMP stepped in, and when correctional centre inmates saw the people with the guns, everything stopped,” Michael explained. “We heard some hollering. Then it got quiet. Hollering. Quiet. Then we hear banging on the door and a voice that identifies himself as a corporal with the RCMP. ‘Come on out!’” Michael remembered the officer had said.

The two firefighters were leery. “Allan said, ‘Tell us who we are,’” said the son-in-law. “Wasn’t that smart?” Tracey interjected. The RCMP officer called via radio and asked to speak with Captain Langlois. According to Michael, the firefighter would not give their names over the radio, for fear the women back home would somehow hear them over the pagers or a scanner. Adrian did not know the names had already been broadcast on the radio newscast. The RCMP officer physically sent someone to get personal information about Michael and Allan so the two men would leave the safety of the bathroom. “The corporal said, ‘You’re two firemen. You were the first two here. You came in your own car.’ By the time he got the word ‘car’ out, we were out the door and halfway down the hall,” Michael explained, of their final few moments inside the guards’ washroom. JL: “Were there any injuries that day?” MH: “I don’t know the extent of the injuries that day, but I do know I saw an awful lot of blood on the walls when I was coming out.” There were several headlining media stories resulting from the fire and hostage taking. One story in the Cape Breton Post, published the day after the incident, January 2, 1992, was called “Rampage at centre.” It was written by Steve MacInnis. His story reads, in part: “Alcohol may have contributed to a three-hour rampage in the maximum security wing of the Cape Breton Correctional Centre Wednesday, Solicitor General Joel Matheson said last night. “‘There was some indication there had been some liquor either generated or smuggled in or something,’ Matheson said by phone from Halifax. … “Inmates set fire to mattresses and trashed their section of the provincial facility, including video equipment. “While there were no reports of injury, two firemen considered themselves lucky to escape unhurt after they were forced to barricade themselves in a washroom after becoming separated from centre guards and confronted by angry inmates.” The story went on to confirm there were no injuries in the melee and that twenty firefighters responded to the prison. If Michael saw blood on the walls after leaving the washroom, it is uncertain how there were no injuries. A second story on January 3, 1992, also in the Cape Breton Post, entitled “Alcohol blamed for disturbance,” was written by journalist Doyle MacKinnon. It confirmed alcohol use was a contributing factor in the rampage “that caused about $10,000 damage to the centre. Jim Crane, executive director of the correctional services division of the Solicitor General’s department, said that a home brew – believed concocted from fruit, sugar and water in tobacco tins – was being consumed by a few of the inmates and the uproar resulted when prison officials confiscated it. “On New Year’s Day afternoon, four inmates in the maximum security wing of the provincial institution were involved in a three-hour ruckus that saw windows, toilets and electronic monitoring equipment smashed while mattresses were set ablaze. … “‘There’s enough evidence to lay charges … against two prisoners in connection with the incident,’ said Sgt. Guy Arsenault. … “Meanwhile, area politicians, contending that alcohol and drug use have been an on-going problem at the facility, are calling for a full-scale review of all operations and practices at the centre. … “However, Crane, who was in Sydney Thursday to survey the situation, said that alcohol and drug usage isn’t commonplace at the institution. … “Crane said that an internal review of the incident will continue, covering all aspects of Wednesday’s uproar. … “The centre, one of the 13 adult facilities in the province where offenders serving sentences under two years are housed, can accommodate up to 112 inmates. Currently 60 inmates are residing there, including 13 in maximum security,” the second story concluded. After Michael and Allan had been successfully rescued by the RCMP, the women at the New Year’s Day party still did not officially know from any authority exactly what had happened to either firefighter. The ladies had to endure about three hours of frantic waiting until someone came to tell them, beyond any doubt, that Allan and Michael had been rescued and were unharmed. It was Captain Adrian Langlois who showed up at the Hanratty home after the mattress fire was eventually extinguished. Michael and Allan were delayed because they had to give police statements. In the week that followed, Michael attended a Critical Incident Stress debriefing held by corrections officials. Both he and his wife view what happened as a major learning experience – for everyone. “I learned a lot from it,” Tracey said. “I learned about trust and I learned about love. I learned about faith. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he [Michael] came down those basement stairs after all was said and done. I knew I was going to see him again [but] I never, ever took another call for granted. I make sure ‘Be careful. I love you’ is said [to Michael while he is] going out the door.” MH: “I don’t go anywhere without my gear anymore. I learned to slow down and look [around a scene] a little more; be aware of your surroundings.” TH: “I don’t know how many times he’s said that over the past twenty-five years.” JL: “Because you didn’t know what was on the other side of the smoke.” MH: “I had no idea what I was getting into that day. I’d be lying to say I’ve never replayed that day in my head. I look at it now as an officer. I look at it now as an incident commander. How would I run that now? But things have changed so much, the way we do things now, as to the way we did things then. It would never happen now.” Michael Hilliard concluded by stating policies for both the fire service and the correctional centre were reviewed and improved after the hostage taking of January 1, 1992. He mentioned changes adopted by the prison included flame-resistant mattresses, as well as a new exhaust system that would not allow smoke to build up in the ranges. Repeated requests to the Nova Scotia Department of Justice for a comment on this incident and any resulting changes or improvements were not answered. What follows is a poem Tracey Hilliard presented to me the day of our interview in Sydney, Cape Breton, on September 9, 2016. She originally wrote it twenty-one years earlier, on March 12, 1995, three years, two months, and ten days after the terrifying incident. What she has written underlines how trauma lingers, for the wife, mother, daughter, niece, and cousin of firefighters. Tracey’s poem shines light on the importance of family for all first responders. Being a loved one of those who regularly put their lives at risk brings with it a unique point of view that bonds people. I was moved by Tracey’s gift from one daughter of a firefighter to another. While the poem is written from Tracey’s perspective, anyone who has a close bond or relationship with loved ones, friends, and peers who help others, not just firefighters, will connect with her words, regardless of gender, faith, or belief system. The Other Firefighter I am the wife, daughter, sister and mother of a firefighter, An honour I hold dear. But every time they get a call, My body fills with fear. They don’t respond to a call alone, I am always there. Hoping and praying they take their time, And work with utmost care. I don’t roll hose or run a truck, I do sit home and pray. I pray they put the fire out, And that God shows them the way. It scares me to think, “What could have been?” Or what the next may be. But every time the pager goes,

I thank God for my family. I want them to know as they go out the door They’ll never be alone. There is not a wife, daughter, sister or mother, Who will rest until they’re home. I am the wife, daughter, sister and mother of a firefighter, Who joins them on their ride. And every time they get a call, My body fills with pride. Tracey Ann Hilliard March 12, 1995 revised November 2012

Tracey Hilliard’s Legacy Letter To The Reader: What could I possibly have to offer anyone in the form of a Legacy Letter? I’ve contemplated this question long and hard since our meeting with the author and have sat in front of a blank document many times over the last few weeks trying to get my head and my heart in sync. What profound words do I have to offer, words that will leave some type of impact with you, the reader? I don’t know you, nor do I know your circumstances that preceded your reason to pick up this book. I don’t have any specialized training. I’ve never run a scene. I don’t know what it’s like to pull up to a home totally engulfed in flames. I can’t imagine it. I have sat in my home and watched as my father, husband, sister, and, eventually, my son closed the door behind them to go answer the call for help. I’ve missed out on events. I’ve cancelled plans. I’ve kept dinner warm, and I’ve gone to sleep without hearing the words “I love you,” all for the sake of having my loved ones protect those who needed them more than I did in those instants. I’ve been the member of a first responder family since the day I was born. Forty-six years to date. I’ve seen them attend some very serious calls, as well as calls that, thankfully, were much less grave. My introduction to the life of a firefighter was through my father. He and a few of my uncles were members of a fire department that protected our community even before I was born. I grew up spending time with him at the fire station, as well as having him leave our home at all hours when the alarm sounded. Over the years, I watched as my cousins followed in their father’s footsteps. Becoming a firefighter was almost like a rite of passage in our family. Was I shocked or surprised when my future husband showed an interest in the fire service? Not at all. I was so proud to know the tradition would continue. I felt such joy knowing my father would have the opportunity to share his knowledge and experience with his future son-in-law. Over the years Mike evolved into not only a firefighter, but a firefighter who made my father proud. A few years later, my sister joined the ranks. And years later again, my oldest son answered his first alarm. What a testament to my dad. He and my mom have truly shown a great service to our family by their selfless acts of commitment to the fire service over the years. Why did I mention my mom? Quite simply because she was the glue that held it all together. As much as Dad provided an incredible service by fighting fires all these years, the role of my mother was just as vital. She had the job of holding our family together when he was protecting other families. She let her husband, the father of her children, walk out the door with no guarantees that he would return. Unbeknownst to her at the time, she taught me how to be that wife and mother. She taught me how to stand beside my husband through the good and the bad. She taught me to value the time we spent together as a family, because we never knew when that alarm would ring. She taught me I could be strong when I was needed most, and perhaps most importantly, she taught me how to listen to the firefighters in my life when they came home from the calls and wanted to talk about them. Mom and Dad always shared the fire service with me and my sister. We always got to hear Dad talk about his calls. Even though Dad was the firefighter, we were all included, because they felt it was important for us to understand what happened when Dad left our home. Thinking back, my sister and I were very fortunate to have been brought up that way. It certainly showed me how I wanted my family to be raised, when the time came for me to be sitting at home with children while my husband drove away. My extended family of aunts, uncles, and cousins, who are [also] involved in the fire service, led by the same example. Having firefighters as family members was something that always was [my reality]. Having strong families stand beside those firefighters was also something that always just happened. Were there close calls over the years? Of course. Do the endless hours of training and alarms in the middle of the night get tedious? Absolutely. Do I, at times, wish that I had never been exposed to the fire service? Never. For all the dinners that were ruined, for all the plans that were changed, for all the nights that Mom had to tuck me and my sister into bed without a goodnight kiss from my dad or the nights I had to do the same with our boys, knowing they were off helping others who, at that moment in time, needed them much more than we did made it easier to watch them go. It certainly doesn’t mean we always liked it, but knowing the help they were offering when they were gone has allowed us all to handle it as [well as] we did. I need to thank my mom and dad for raising me in this type of a family, a family that helps. Helping others sometimes means putting your own family on hold for a little bit. And that’s okay. Because without helpers, there would be lots of other families who wouldn’t get what they needed. As Mr. Fred Rogers once said, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” I am truly blessed to be a member of a family of helpers.

Michael Hilliard’s Legacy Letter Dear New Firefighter: Hello. Welcome to firefighting. I’d like to share Hilliard’s First Rule with you: When your shift is over, go home alive. Here endeth the lesson. This is paraphrased from a line in one of my favourite movies, The Untouchables, the 1987 version with Kevin Costner and Sean Connery. It could also read, “When the call is over, go home alive.” It is one-third of the foundation I’ve used each day as a firefighter – that and a song from 1993, co-written and recorded by Garth Brooks. The song is “Standing Outside the Fire,” and it contains the following line: “Life is not tried; it is merely survived, if you’re standing outside the fire.” And finally, an event, something [the hostage taking] that happened to me when I had a total of eight months in the fire service and was a whopping twentyfour years old. Bad things happen most often to good people. That is why we have chosen to do what we do, so someone is there to help people when things go bad. On January 1, 1992, something bad happened to me; a call went wrong. The outcome, which was good, was also bad. But the fact of the matter is, instead of letting it consume me, I’ve taken it and turned it [around] to make me who I am today. I’d like to take a second to talk about the word “good.” Good is a word we use [in] many ways in the fire service. A bad fire can be a “good” fire, or it could mean it was a good fire, in that it wasn’t “bad,” and everything went right. The biggest compliment, I think, you can hear in the fire service is, “He’s/she’s a good firefighter.” There are firefighters who know the job. There are firefighters who know some jobs, and there are firefighters who are born for the job. Good firefighters have good instincts. You have made a decision. You want to help people. You want to be a firefighter. Now, the learning begins. Do you know everything … about firefighting? Of course not. The first thing you should learn is: we, as firefighters, are decision-makers. We are offered choices every day, on every call. Choices and decisions go hand-inhand; two choices, one decision – Choice A or Choice B. Sometimes there are more choices, just to make the whole process [more] interesting. Sometimes, you are faced with making multiple decisions. We are also problem-solvers. In order to solve problems, you have to make decisions, based on choices. “The results of our decisions,” to quote a friend, “are ultimately the price we pay.” When I experienced the event, I was offered choices and made decisions based on what I knew and who I was with. Choices [and] decisions have to be made every day [on] every call. We do this based on a combination of education, training, experience, and instinct. At the time of the event, I had very little of any of those things. Firefighting is like that; you can learn the skills, but there’s an instinct to do it: the want and the need to do it well. Never stop learning and apply your skills. That’s what I’ve tried to do. I’d like to be able to teach you everything I’ve learned in the past twenty-six years, but I can’t do that. The condensed version is: Wear your gear, all of it. 100% of your gear, 100% of the time. Always take a tool with you. Know the basics. Never rely on technology. Technology goes dead or breaks down. Basic skills, once learned, are yours forever. Train. Never stop training. Train like it’s real, because we deal with reality. Don’t be scared to ask questions. You’re going to be called New Guy, Probie, Rookie, and probably a bunch of other things. Cold hard fact: you are all of those things. Learn to know every job. Find an “Old Guy” who is willing to teach you, and learn what he has to offer. There’s a reason he’s an “Old Firefighter.” Know where every piece of equipment is on all your trucks. Learn to read smoke and judge conditions. Know your area. Know every street and alternate ways to get from Point A to Point B. Learn your chain of command, but learn how to be both a follower and a leader. Know who has what you may need and when to call them. It’s better to have something and not need it than need it and have it twenty minutes away. You are going to make mistakes. Learn from them. Be accountable for them. Be accountable for your decisions. Good or bad, they are yours. Some decisions you can make in advance. That is why we pre-plan some buildings or locations. This is a business of “what ifs.” What if Incident A happens? What if I make Decision B and it doesn’t work? What if I had never decided to be a firefighter? I would never have had the opportunity to be who I have become. I was very fortunate to have good teachers and I’ve tried to be a good teacher. So at the end of the day, when the time comes that everyone has gathered because I’ve answered “the last alarm,” I hope people remember I wasn’t just a firefighter. I was a husband, a father, and a son. I was a friend. I was a student and a teacher. I was an only child, but a brother to many. I will have done my best as a husband and father. I think I was a good student and that people learned from my teaching. So when they raise a glass in [my] memory and they talk about the guys who have gone, as we so often do, I simply hope they’ll say, “He was a good firefighter.” My legacy, I hope, is that those I have taught, and will teach, become good firefighters. Remember: Learn from your mistakes. Hell, just learn. Don’t stand outside the fire; you can’t learn there. Try things. Get wet, get dirty, do the job, and learn.

Decisions are scary, but they have to be made. Be accountable for yours. When the shift, or the call, is over, go home alive. And always remember, no matter what you do, or what happens, I am proud of the decision you have made to help others. Here endeth the lesson.

16 Monique Bartlett and Lucie (Rouleau) Giocondese: The Search for Monique-Lucie Monique Bartlett, of Haute Aboujagane, New Brunswick, has also made the decision to dedicate her life to helping others. Corporal Bartlett was a medical technician or a med-tech/medic in the Canadian military. She joined the military on September 22, 1998. Monique no longer serves, at least in the way she once did. She has been medically released after being diagnosed with PTSD. The corporal was part of a medical team working in disaster relief in Haiti following the devastating earthquake in 2010. She can remember the date she joined the military, but cannot remember many details from her own wedding vow renewal, which took place shortly after she finished the Haiti operation. PTSD has affected her memory and recall of names, details, and dates. Monique is a fourth-generation member of the Canadian military. Her great-grandfather, grandfather, and father all proudly served Canada. Two of her uncles are peacekeepers. She is also married to a veteran, who was a warrant officer, like her father, Roger Doucette. Her brother is a correctional officer. The call to duty is a big part of the Doucette-Bartlett collective identity. Monique and I met in Moncton, New Brunswick. She was accompanied by her mother Diane Doucette, who, like all of the corporal’s family, is extremely supportive of the medic and her willingness to revisit the trauma she has experienced for two primary reasons: to assist others struggling with PTSD and to promote wider discussion about mental health among first responders and all people, and to find a young Haitian girl who has become an integral part of her life. Those are the same reasons why a second Canadian med-tech, one of Monique’s best friends and a former coworker, also agreed to speak with me. Monique was deployed to Haiti with then Master Corporal Lucie Rouleau, who is from Quebec. Lucie and Monique bonded during the Haiti mission and became a support system for one another amid the widespread chaos, death, and destruction. Lucie retired as a sergeant from the Canadian military on July 4, 2016. After the 2010 Haiti mission, she was also diagnosed with PTSD and no longer worked with patients before her retirement. She remained in the military and ended her career in an administrative role. Our July 26, 2016, interview took place approximately three weeks after her retirement and about six weeks after Monique’s interview. Monique’s interview mostly focused on her time in Haiti, which spanned about six weeks, while Lucie primarily discussed another medical mission she made to Bosnia in the 1990s, where she served for six months while war was raging. Monique was six years post-diagnosis when we spoke. She had been doing weekly therapy sessions and was still in therapy in 2016 when our spring interview took place. “I had no idea what was happening until the nightmares started … I’m the caregiver. I’m invincible,” Monique thought to herself, early on. “There’s no way this could be happening to me. I’m fourth generation [member of the military]. How can it be affecting me? My dad made it through. My grandfathers made it through the first and second wars. Come on. This can’t be,” she argued with herself. “I’m very educated now. I know that [PTSD] was just my reaction to what I witnessed. It took me forever to get it,” Monique said, of her current and better understanding of the impact of her PTSD, which affects people differently. Not everyone who has been diagnosed with PTSD has the same triggers, results, or reactions. There are common symptoms, like nightmares, which have been described to me by the many people diagnosed with PTSD whom I have interviewed. “I had to shut off,” Monique explained. She went into a type of self-protective mode, as did Lucie. “It took me two and a half years [post-mission] to cry,” said Monique. “I went to my sister-in-law’s funeral, who was just thirty-four years old, and I just stood there … It was an awful thing to see, but I had no emotion. It took me a very long time to understand [why] and rediscover emotion.” Monique can only remember bits and pieces of the funeral. Searching for help she saw a social worker afterwards. She felt like a “cold soul … I kind of recognized from that [funeral] that I had no emotion anymore.” She can only partially remember her renewal of vows ceremony to Warrant Officer Maurice (Macky) Bartlett in Cuba on March 16, 2010. The couple were first wed in 2009 but had a larger celebratory event after her time in Haiti. That was approximately two weeks after she returned from the Haiti deployment. She knows she returned from Haiti “mid to late February 2010,” but cannot tell me the exact date. She simply cannot remember; looking at photos during our interview helped jar her memory. She can remember one date with utter clarity: January 13, 2010. She was working as a medic in Ottawa. She was informed she would be deploying with the Disaster Assistance Response Team (DART) to Haiti. A www.cbc.ca story entitled “Disaster relief: Canada’s rapid response team,” published March 14, 2011, detailed some of what the DART team facilitates. It also mentioned the Haitian mission: “The Disaster Assistance Response Team – made up of about 200 Canadian Forces personnel – is designed to quickly fly into disaster areas around the world. The primary goal is to provide emergency services, such as drinking water and medical treatment, until long-term aid arrives. “The Canadian Forces created DART in 1996 because of its experience in Rwanda two years earlier, when international relief organizations arrived too late to save thousands of people from a cholera epidemic. “That convinced the federal government it needed to be able to respond more quickly. Since then, DART has helped disaster victims in Turkey, Honduras, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, and Haiti. “DART consists of about 200 Canadian Forces staff who can ship out quickly to conduct emergency relief operations for up to 40 days. … “Apart from a handful of staff at DART headquarters in Kingston, Ont., the team uses personnel from military units across the country. “The team consists of: “Engineer platoon: About 37 field and construction engineers. “Medical platoon: About 40 staff who operate the aid station. “Defence and security platoon: About 45 personnel who guard camp and support DART operations. “Logistics platoon: About 20 staff who provide maintenance, transportation and supplies. “Headquarters: About 45 personnel who oversee operations and co-ordinate DART’s response with other countries and aid organizations. “Haiti: Operation Hestia “A magnitude 7.0 earthquake hit Haiti on Jan. 12, 2010, with an epicentre about 25 kilometres north of the capital Port au Prince. The quake decimated the impoverished country, responsible for over 300,000 deaths and leaving about 1 million people without homes. “DART was deployed on Jan. 13, 2010 and set up their main relief efforts in Jacmel on Jan. 16, after the team determined they could make the greatest impact there. They distributed 224,760 litres of water and 124,300 meals. “The team also helped with the maintenance and security of UN displacement camps, cleared the roads and demolished unsafe buildings in Jacmel. In Feb. 2010, members of DART also helped with the repair and refortification of route 204, a key transportation artery connecting Jacmel with the town of Léogâne, working with Haitian contractors,” the CBC report said. Monique Bartlett and Lucie Rouleau were members of the DART medical team who deployed to Haiti one day after the January 12, 2010 earthquake. Monique said she was not officially part of the DART team, but assisted its members for the Haiti mission. At that time, she was living and working in Ottawa at the National Defence Medical Centre (NDMC), now the Canadian Forces Health Services Centre (CFHSC). She had twelve years on the job as a medic, working primarily in field units.

On January 13, 2010, Monique was given two hours to pack her belongings. She was initially concerned about the length of the DART deployment. She was supposed to be in Cuba to renew her vows to husband Macky on March 16 just two months later. Her superiors were adamant her team would only deploy for about a month. She would be back in time to go to Cuba. The DART medical team departed from CFB Trenton, according to Monique, a fact which is also discussed in the CBC article: “Once DART knows where to set up camp, it begins shipping troops and equipment, usually from Canadian Forces Base Trenton in Ontario. Almost everything DART needs – more than 40 vehicles and 340 tonnes of supplies – is stored in a warehouse at the base, ready to be shipped at 48 hours notice. Another 11 tonnes of medical supplies are stashed nearby.” Monique flew from Ottawa to Trenton and then from Trenton to Haiti via military transport. She and Lucie became close as they tried to comprehend the magnitude of the mission and their involvement. “We went from twenty degrees below to forty degrees Celsius. I’ll never forget the smell getting off the plane. It was just so devastating. A vision I will never forget for the rest of my days; everywhere you look, it’s just destruction. There was no hope,” Monique said, of her immediate and first impressions upon arrival. To help them cope, Monique and Lucie “stuck together like glue,” right from the beginning. “The whole way through we were each other’s rock.” The first night or two, the medical team slept as a group on the airport tarmac until it was decided where it was safe for them to journey. From the airport, they took a bus to the Canadian Embassy. Monique said she had no idea in which direction or exactly where they were going. The bus ride was hellish. “We could see out the window. The earthquake had just happened and there were bodies as far as you could see, people staying close to these bodies – their families, their loved ones, asking for help,” said Monique. The bus broke down. They had to exit. They were unarmed. Initially, Monique said she was not certain if it was a ruse and they would be attacked. The lack of control, coupled with the unknown, was frightening. Eventually, the bus was fixed and they arrived at the embassy. They camped outside on the grounds. There were bugs and insects everywhere, including large tarantulas. “I’m very triggered by spiders today,” Monique explained. She is also triggered by fireworks. The area at the embassy where they initially worked was fenced and gated. Down the hill from their campsite were portable toilets for the team’s use. Lucie and Monique never went anywhere without the other. One night, as they prepared for bed, they headed down to the washroom together. “Someone put in their automatic weapon and opened up on our whole camp. They fired off multiple rounds quickly behind in an alleyway. We were always behind gates and fences. We didn’t know where it [the gunfire] was because it was very dark,” Monique said. No one was injured or killed. The medical team was comprised of forty-three people, according to Monique. It included two pharmacists, a lab technician, and two preventative medicine technicians. Each medical shift had approximately eight to ten people working: one doctor, eight medics, and a security detail. It was chaos. Hundreds of survivors needed immediate medical attention, each and every day. Monique estimated they treated 7,500 people at the Jacmel Jetty, one of two locations from where the Canadian medical teams operated. They also travelled into the mountains in mobile medic teams and treated about 2,500 Haitians living more remotely. Helicopter access was required on many occasions. Members of the mobile crew travelled 2,300 square kilometres, during fifteen mountain missions, which lasted from one to three days. That means that first medical team on the ground, comprised of forty-three people, including Monique and Lucie, assisted approximately 10,000 Haitians, of all ages, in about six weeks. The team set up and stayed for most of that time at the Jacmel Jetty, on the waterfront, which became known as the Jacmel Jetty Medical Clinic (JJMC). Monique described it as “working in a living hell.” Patients were triaged in order that the most severely sick or injured were seen first. “For our safety, we could only allow twenty patients in at a time,” the medic explained. People sat on benches while they waited to be assessed. Medics worked out of treatment tents. The JJMC was open daily from eight in the morning until about six in the evening. Of the 7,500 patients the team assisted at the JJMC, one family, in particular, captured the hearts of many, especially Monique and Lucie, and for good reason. February 12, 2010, one month into the mission, a distraught man appeared at the front gate at the jetty. As Monique recounted that day, her facial expressions, tone of voice, and body language completely and immediately shifted to one of lightness and happiness. His arrival at the gate came at the perfect time. “We were starting to give up hope,” Monique said. She had been thinking she’d never be able to get through the deployment. “We knew we were going to be messed up … because of all the trauma we had seen: the hopelessness, the helplessness.” Those desperate feelings began for Monique about two weeks into the Haitian mission. “She came at the perfect time, because I honestly don’t know how we would have made it through.” She was a baby girl. The man at the Jacmel Jetty Medical Clinic was agitated and upset because his wife was about to give birth to their first child. “It was before we opened the gates. This gentleman came to the gate. Lucie and I were working triage,” Monique explained. The doctor on the mission kept the two women together, “because he recognized the bond we shared and we were able to help each other through.” As they prepared to open for the day, Lucie saw the man in a “big panic,” according to Monique, “ ‘My wife! I think she’s in labour! Can you help us?’ He was just a ball of nerves.” As she recounted the day of the birth, she constantly looked at photos she had brought to spark memories, a reminder of the toll the PTSD has taken. The diagnosis has not robbed her of the sheer joy she still feels surrounding both the birth of the girl and the special interaction with the family. Monique escorted the expectant mother, who was in heavy labour, into a tent to be assessed. There was a gynecologist on duty as part of the DART team, but she had broken her wrist. “So she was like, ‘Who wants to deliver a baby today?’ ” One part of the medical team took charge in the delivery of the baby while the other half looked after the mother. Since it was the woman’s first child, it was a long labour. Monique said the father was afraid, and as time for the baby’s arrival drew nearer, he asked if he could wait outside the delivery area, but remain near. To calm him, Lucie and Monique showed him pictures of their own children. “ ‘It’s going to be okay. She’s in really good hands,’ ” they said. “We constantly spoke to him and kept him abreast of what was going on.” The anxious father sat and waited on a bench. His little girl eventually arrived safe and sound in her devastated homeland. Monique went to speak with the father, only seconds after the birth. “I went to share the good news … and asked if he wanted to join us to see his new, beautiful, healthy baby girl. He looks at me and says, ‘Monique, huh?’ And I said, ‘Yep.’ He says, ‘And your friend – Lucie?’ He said, ‘Thank you. We talk about it, and to say thank you to Canada, we gonna call her Monique-Lucie.” ‘ Word spread like wildfire and led to national headlines. A Canadian Press article, its author unknown, was published on January 28, 2010. “The story of Monique-Lucie Marie, the cute Haitian baby with the Canadian name,” articulated what the baby’s arrival was like at that time in Haiti: “JACMEL, Haiti – If you read this story in a few years’ time, Monique-Lucie Marie, here’s how things happened on the day you were born. “You came into this world in a medical clinic run by the Canadian military, in a canvas tent just a few metres off the beach in Haiti. “Your country had just been crippled by a powerful earthquake that reduced the area around you to chunks of rubble. “Your grand entry occurred on a Thursday, with the help of the Canadian soldiers who’d come to lend a hand in your battered country. “You had a full head of hair, weighed six pounds, and already had this habit of bumping your tiny hand into your button-shaped nose. “Your first name, by the way, comes from Canada. Its origins can be traced back to places called Oromocto, N.B., and Quebec City, the respective home towns of Cpl. Monique Bartlett and Master Cpl. Lucie Rouleau, the two Canadian medical technicians who assisted in the delivery. “Your father promised he’d tell you one day why he and your mom chose it. ‘I did it to say thank you,’ said Jean-Charles Pierre. ‘I will tell her one day that in the middle of a natural catastrophe, Canadians were in Jacmel. And she carries their name.’ “After the delivery, Pierre was proudly snapping pictures on a digital camera of you, Bartlett and Rouleau. One is an Anglo from a military town in eastern Canada, the other a francophone from a provincial capital famous for its stone walls and European architecture. “Yours was the first delivery of a newborn baby in the military clinic by the beach in Jacmel, the base of Canada’s Disaster Assistance Response Team. Other Canadians were involved in similar deliveries at another clinic in nearby Léogâne. “Foreign militaries and aid workers have been handling much of the medical work in southern Haiti communities ever since the earthquake struck Jan. 12.

“Mom-to-be Marie-Jean Jilles arrived at the military clinic early Thursday morning with light contractions. After several hours of labour, the delivery occurred at just before 1 p.m. and went smoothly. No painkillers were required. “It took a while to get the breastfeeding going, because you resisted taking your first sip. But you eventually latched on, which prompted a rousing round of applause from the Canadian soldiers in the tent. “Monique was the first one to get news about the name. She explained that she learned about it from your dad. “He said, ‘You delivered the baby. So what’s your name? And I said, ‘Monique.’ And then he said, ‘Who’s that over there?’ I said, ‘Lucie.’ So he said, ‘I’m going to name the baby Monique-Lucie.’ “She was a little emotional when she found out, she said. “‘I was very touched – and I can’t describe how amazing it feels. It was an honour.’ “Lucie put her hand to her heart when asked how she felt about the name. “ ‘ It gives you a funny feeling,’ she said. “It was very moving for us.’ “Maj. Annie Bouchard, also from Quebec City and an obstetrician by training, looked on to make sure things went smoothly. She couldn’t participate herself because she’d broken her hand in a fall some days earlier. “ ‘I didn’t even feel it,’ Bouchard joked, when asked about the delivery. ‘I just supervised the delivery behind those two. They did great. So I only had to give advice.’ “On the day you were born, there were lots of funeral hearses in the area and the smell of bodies was still strong as collapsed buildings were being cleared by bulldozers. “But by the beach, in that little green tent, you made lots of people smile that day,” the story concluded. The joy Monique still feels about the baby was clearly evident when she spoke to me, six years after the birth. “I just looked at him and said, ‘What?’ He just kept saying over and over, ‘Thank you, Canada. Thank you, Canada.’ It was so overwhelming. Both Lucie and I couldn’t remotely catch our breath. It was so exciting. It was the most perfect timing,” the medic said. Jean-Charles Pierre and his wife Marie-Jean Jilles’ amazing gift and tribute to the two Canadians altered the rest of their stay in Haiti. “We were both just as dumbfounded as it could come,” Monique said. It was a first for Monique, but the Haitian baby girl was the second time an infant had been named after Lucie Rouleau. In 1993, Lucie deployed to Bosnia for six months. Communication home was sparse, with two ten-minute phone calls a month to speak to loved ones. “Every minute was precious,” said Lucie. On the Bosnian mission, a doctor asked Lucie for her wish list of what she would like to accomplish. At the top of that list was the chance to deliver a child. “So he gave me a lot of books and he said, ‘Okay, tell me when you’re going to be ready.’ I read all those books, like how to do an emergency delivery … I think it was three days after [finishing reading] I said I was ready.” Lucie had to give the doctor a presentation about what she had learned. She was also asked to present to her entire medical team about “how to do an emergency [delivery].” The following day, they received a phone call notifying them there was a Bosnian woman who lived in the mountains who was ready to give birth. Lucie and a medical team had to travel via armoured tank to get to the woman’s home. It was a long distance, Lucie recalled. “This woman was in the porch … there’s two kids … we had to use sign language to communicate.” She tried to explain to the expectant mother that she needed to examine how dilated she was. “She was so dilated there was no time to transport her. I just grabbed all my stuff [out of the tank] and delivered the baby, and it was a baby girl.” The mother delivered her daughter on the living room sofa. Lucie recalled it was dark in the room because all the “windows were shuttered or covered over with pieces of wood,” for protection during the war. A doctor had accompanied Lucie to the emergency call but only acted as an observer. The baby was born healthy and without incident. “When we left, it was war and things were around us shooting and starting to explode, so they gave us, as a gift … a grenade. We just left so quickly and I was wishing the little girl survived,” said Lucie. JL: “They gave you a grenade that still had a pin in it, so you could have used it if you had to?” LR: “Yeah.” JL: “Given the war was happening in Bosnia at the time, it would have been a significant gift.” LR: “Exactly. It was a big, big gift. It was kind of bizarre. I had a feeling that I had just give[n] the baby birth, [or] life, and with the grenade, mean[t] death.” The baby girl was named Lucie. The retired medic does not know the family’s surname. Lucie, of Bosnia, would be twenty-four years old as of 2017. Word of the 1993 birth in Bosnia did not spread like the news from the 2010 Haitian mission. That is because journalists were deployed with the DART medical team in Haiti. News about little Monique-Lucie spread rapidly. “I was on the news and that was the very first time any of my family had seen me or heard me, because we had no communications,” Monique said. JL: “How important was the event to you at the time, emotionally and mentally?” MB: “It just totally [reinforced that] we are making a difference. And it turned us around. We started to have a new perspective. I know family could see I was okay, so it was relieving a little bit.” “It’s kind of wonderful. It’s what I wanted. I wanted to deliver the baby, so it was kind of amazing,” Lucie said, of the fact two people, in two other countries, have been named after her. Mentally, things may have improved for both women after Monique-Lucie Marie Pierre arrived in Jacmel. Physically, conditions remained “beyond austere. Showers were water bottles over our head. Baby wipes were our best friend. So to this day, baby wipes trigger me,” Monique said. Monique was also triggered by bonfires. She could not be near one for a long time after Haiti. The smell of the burning was too powerful. “I didn’t understand it,” she said. “Now, after all of this therapy, I can look back and I know what my triggers are … I can’t go in the ocean; there were bodies. It’s just a fear. It’s stronger than me. I still can’t pin exactly what the fear is. I’m working more on getting in the ocean now.” JL: “Have you stepped foot in the ocean since?” MB: “Yes, but it took me a very long time, and that’s only been since the last two years I’ve been able to.” JL: “How far can you go into the ocean now?” MB: “As long as I can see my feet, I’m good. If it’s murky, I cannot go in. I used to love snorkelling.” The memories are also painful for Lucie. The DART medical team repeatedly assisted in amputations in Haiti. One of the lowest points for Lucie was her role in the amputation of a three-year-old girl’s finger, after the child’s hand had been crushed by falling debris. The girl’s appendage had the beginning of gangrene. “So when we [did the amputation] she screamed,” said Lucie. Adding to the trauma was the fact one of Lucie’s children was the same age as the little girl who needed the amputation. Lucie also said a drug was administered to amputation patients, but despite that, some of them would still have felt intense pain. She explained the medication meant the patients’ memories of what had happened during the operation would not be as clear afterwards. Monique and Lucie worked with a team of Swiss medics during one round of amputations. “I came in the tent. It was about forty feet long. There were people on both sides [of the tent] who needed amputation … kids, adults. I don’t know how many people were in there. It was crazy,” Lucie said. They assisted a teenage girl who needed her right leg amputated below the knee. She was sedated. Afterwards, she was given a painkiller and had to recuperate outside the medical tent in sweltering forty-degree heat. Lucie had a chance to call back home during that round of amputations. She called her husband shaking and crying, and told him she was worried she could no longer continue with the mission. “‘Honey, I can’t do that. I’m going to die over here.’ He said, ‘Just switch off. Switch your brain off.’ And that’s what I [did],” Lucy explained, of how she tried to cope and protect herself. She learned how to manipulate her own emotions. Lucie later met a social worker who told her, “‘Be careful [about switching off emotions].’ I said, ‘I don’t care.’ He said, ‘What about the kids, they are screaming?’ My reply was always, ‘I don’t care. I don’t care anymore.’ So when I came back home, it was hard because my feeling[s] just stop[ped]. I just stop[ped] my emotions.” When Lucie returned home to Canada, the most comfortable room for her in her house was a closet. “I wanted to be at home, but [I] didn’t want to be involved in anything. I didn’t want people to talk to me …”

She hid her feelings and her pain at work. She said she even hid them from a psychiatrist, at first. Since she was diagnosed with PTSD in 2010, Lucie has sought out professional support, guidance, and assistance. “I worked really, really hard, and I’m okay right now,” she said. JL: “Have you been able to turn the switch back on?” LR: “I never wanted to go back working with patients, like doing care.” Lucie continued working in the military until she retired on July 4, 2016. She ended her career posted in Ottawa, in another unit in an administrative role, where she no longer directly dealt with patients. JL: “Were you able to switch it [emotions] back on for your family?” LR: “I can do it. But it’s important for me to switch off. Right now, I’m on. I know if something happens, I can be off. I know how to do it and I will do it.” JL: “So you are saying … even in this conversation, to protect yourself, you could turn those feelings off?” LR: “I do.” JL: “Are your feelings on or off right now?” LR: “They are on.” At that moment, I realized the interview could be causing her trauma. I ended soon after, but wanted Lucie to have a positive experience from our conversation because of her immense service in the line of duty and for her bravery in speaking with me in order to help others. I guided our conversation away from where it had been going. JL: “Are you okay with them being on?” LR: “Right now, no.” JL: “So why don’t we end on a positive note, because I want you to have a good experience here. So we are going to end here. And we are going to end with you telling me what does the birth of Monique-Lucie and the other girl mean to you?” LR: “What does it mean? It means life. I would be happy to know if she is fine … When we help[ed] people who were in distress, and they were so happy in the end, even if it was war, they were happy.” JL: “You know, even in the middle of war, you were responsible for making those people happy, and that is a gigantic gift.” LR: “Yeah. My parents are deaf and I know sign language and there was a [hearing impaired] patient who came at the front gate [at Jacmel Jetty]. She was more mentally ill, but she was trying to explain what she had, and I just came beside her and I started [doing] the sign language. And you know what? It was wonderful. She was screaming. She had a voice and she was screaming to her family around her that I was doing sign language. She came back [later] to the jetty. She brought me some gifts. It was an old frame or whatever she had, but she gave it to me. That was one of the most wonderful things in Haiti: the deaf person and Monique-Lucie.” JL: “I want you to know people appreciate what you have done.” LR: “Thank you.” Lucie still has the picture frame the distraught woman gave her. The fact Lucie Rouleau can adeptly communicate in three ways – using sign language and by speaking both English and French – has been crucial in her ability to successfully connect with her patients. Lucie was not the only person from the Haitian mission who struggled afterwards. Monique Bartlett said after that deployment, she drank heavily to selfmedicate while trying to cope. Monique deployed again, to Alert, in 2010, about six weeks after her vow renewal in Cuba and about eight weeks after Haiti. She had not slept much in the eight weeks since she left Haiti. “The only time I’d sleep is if I drank myself to sleep. I was afraid to go to sleep.” The trauma continued in the Canadian North. In May 2010, she travelled to Alert for a one-month posting. She had worked there before so knew the routine and understood what it was like to exist in a remote location living in harsh conditions. For the first time in sixty years, there was a sudden death in the Alert post. A boiler room technician, a civilian in his seventies, died in his sleep. “In Alert, we are so isolated, there is no doctor. There is a senior medic and a med-tech, me, and a warrant officer. We were the coroner, the station counsellor, everything. It was very difficult but we got through it,” Monique said. They took care of the man’s remains and arranged his transport back to his family. Monique was scheduled to leave herself two days later. Then just in advance of her departure, a knock came at her door. She was summoned to the gymnasium for a medical emergency. She was the junior of the two med-techs. She thought it was not going to be a serious issue because she was summoned and not the senior officer. JL: “What was it?” MB: “A stroke. A thirty-two-year-old [man] and we lost him, and we fought for eighteen and a half hours.” The man had been in the gym working out when he collapsed. When Monique arrived, he could no longer speak but pleaded with his eyes for help. Tears streamed down his face. That heartbreaking scene and the patient’s eyes are what Monique saw in her nightmares. Monique said she ventilated the man with a valve bag and used a bag valve mask to help him breathe “the oldschool way. We intubated him and had a doctor on the phone assisting.” JL: “So nothing had happened here [in Alert] in sixty years and then you have these two things to deal with.” MB: “Right. And right after Haiti. I was as numb as numb can be.” Monique left Alert on the same flight home with the younger man. They had managed to stabilize him enough that for two weeks afterwards, he remained on life support. He later died. “We managed to get him home …,” the medic said sombrely. “That was the last day I ever worked.” The man’s wife wanted to invite Monique to the funeral. “But I just couldn’t do it,” said Monique. “I was so broken at that point … I went into mental health at that point and said, ‘I am on the verge of losing it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I need help. This is irreparable. I’m having nightmares.’ ” Besides seeing the dying man’s face in her disturbing dreams, she saw bugs, the kind of insects she experienced in Haiti. She would not believe her husband that she was having nightmares until her daughter finally told her, “Mom, you gotta get help.” That plea came after her family heard her screaming and yelling, “I wish I could have saved him! I should have done more!” Monique vowed she “would never touch medicine again. ‘I’m just going to kill anyone that gets in my hands,’ ” she told herself, at the lowest point in her life. Today, after much work, she knows that is not true, but she no longer practises medicine. Monique’s drinking got worse after Alert. She reached out for help. Her boss was the person, along with her family, who advised her to seek assistance. She started therapy. She was diagnosed with PTSD in 2010, not long after the Haiti and Alert missions. She was thirty-seven years old. As a veteran medic, Monique said she understood what the term PTSD meant, “but I didn’t understand it was happening to me.” She was initially embarrassed. She is now forty-three, six years into therapy. I asked her a crucial question about her PTSD diagnosis, which resulted in an answer that may startle some of you. JL: “What do you think about it now?” MB: “I wouldn’t change it for the world. It’s made me who I am. I now know life throws you major curveballs sometimes, but I made it through that. Now when I look back on my story, and I’m educated about PTSD, I’m very proud of myself. I’m very able to say, Thank God I had the strength within myself to keep going. Thank God for Lucie … for my parents, for my family.” Not everyone who is diagnosed makes it out the other end as well or alive. The suicide rate among varying Canadian first responder agencies is staggering. Monique’s frankness about what led to her PTSD diagnosis, and how she is now thriving, will most certainly assist others who are struggling, or who have loved ones not as far advanced in their recovery. While she has shared her experiences to inspire discussion around mental health, she is also hoping a reader may be able to help her. The two medics would like information about Monique-Lucie Marie Pierre. Monique-Lucie would be seven years old in 2017.

JL: “You’re searching … and you want to know what?” MB: “If she’s okay. We left such a torn, broken country. Is she still alive? There was disease everywhere. We’re six years post now. We both want to know if she … is still okay? Closure maybe. It’s something I feel that would totally give us the ability to say we did make a difference.” JL: “What if that’s not the case?” MB: “That’s what scares me a bit.” At this point, her mother, Diane Doucette, asked her daughter a critical question that had been on my mind since Monique Bartlett approached me about assisting her and Lucie Rouleau to find the little girl. DD: “Do you still want to know?” MB: “Yes, I do want to know.” JL: “You don’t think that would cause you a setback?” MB: “I will never go back to where I was before.” DD: “She is very strong and her husband has been amazing.” MB: “My full-time job since my injury, and I call it that now, is to get well, stay well, and be well … That’s my fulltime job.” Monique was devastated when she was medically released from the Canadian military on June 14, 2013. “When they handed me the paperwork, it went through me like a knife, because it was all I had known. It was who I am,” she said. She was angry afterwards. “It took me a long time to see I had to get well, stay well, [and] be well.” JL: “Do you think the family who came to the [Jacmel medical] gate was put in your path for a reason?” MB: “Considering you look at the lineup that was there … did he jump the line or what? I do often think, possibly. It had to be.” JL: “Why him that day with you guys? It could have been other people sitting at the [medical] tent that day.” MB: “Absolutely. We needed that boost. We so needed something positive to come our way because we were so hopeless.” JL: “Do you think that interaction with that family and baby saved your life or altered your life?” There is a very long pause before Monique answered. MB: “Yes, definitely. I’ve never, ever, ever been suicidal … but I think it altered [my life] in a big way.” JL: “I don’t mean that you would have self-harmed. I mean the path you were on was not a good one.” MB: “… we were beyond the ability to find any positive; an inkling of positive had to happen, because it was so negative every day.” Monique said every day of their Haiti deployment she thought, “I am not going to go home to my family.” Her mother joined our interview for a third and final time. DD: “I’m very proud. Both her father and I [are]. [When Monique was young] if I said left, she went right. She never obeyed an order in her life. And when she called me and said, ‘I’m joining the military,’ I said, ‘Yeah, and you’re going to go far with that.’ ” JL: “What do you think of your daughter’s ability to try and help other people by sharing her story?” DD: “I think it’s a good idea, because she’s a positive outcome to a sad situation. She was as bad as a medic could feel. The only thing she’s lost forever, I’m assuming, is her ability to be a nurse or nurture like she could.” JL: “Have you ever thought she is nurturing people [now] in a different way?” DD: “She is.” JL: “Did you ever think she could be healing people in a different way?” Monique answered for her mother. MB: “I never [did think that.]” JL: “Did you think about that?” MB: “No.” JL: “Being able to save, heal, or nurture people takes many forms.” The revelation that Monique Bartlett is still helping countless people, in her own way, ends our interview. It is a message people across professions need to consider. JL: “Despite the fact you’re not in a hospital setting, that’s exactly what you are doing. You will never know how many people you are helping. It’s just in a different way now. That’s a huge gift.” MB: “It’s a good thought.”

Monique Bartlett’s Legacy Letter Greetings to Monique-Lucie and family from Canada: Six years have passed since our medical team brought you into this world. I often find myself wondering about you and how you have grown. The deployment to Haiti has forever changed my life in so many ways. I have had major struggles coping over the years, but when I look back on the mission to Haiti, I find it so comforting reminiscing about the day you were born and [when] your dad announced to my colleague, Lucie, and I [that] they had decided to name you after us. The timing couldn’t have been better, as I was truly losing all hope, and feeling overwhelmingly helpless at all of the devastation [after] that horrific earthquake. Jacmel, your hometown, was the hardest hit, as it was reduced to rubble all around. I smile and glow with such a feeling of happiness and pride when I think or talk about you, your mom, and your dad. I know my whole medical team feels the very same way, as we are all in touch on social media. We remember your birthday every year. The experience for each and every one of us working together to bring you into the world, safely, is a memory we will forever share so fondly. I wonder if you have any brothers or sisters now? How are Mom and Dad? What do you look like? What is your favourite colour? Have you ever been to Canada? These are just a few questions I would ask you, if ever I were able to talk to you. I would love to meet you and return the “thank you” to you and your parents for that very special day. It truly gave me the strength to get through such a devastating and difficult mission. Sending you lots of love, xoxo

Lucie (Rouleau) Giocondese’s Legacy Letter Letter for the little Monique-Lucie, January 2010: It was a beautiful sunny day. My team and I were posted on the [Jacmel] jetty, since [a] couple [of] days, to treat injured people from the earthquake. We were Team 2: the best team ever … My best friend, Monique, was in that team, too. She was my lifesaver. We share fun, good laughing moments, but also the worst one of my life. Your birthday was obviously the best one. So early in the morning, I think it was around 7:00 a.m., a car arrived to the back gate with people screaming and very stressed in it. Since Monique and I spoke French, [and] Creole and French are quite similar, we became one of the interpreters of the team. We ran to the gate to ask, ‘What’s going on?’ Your father came to us and said that your mother was in labour. He was sooooooo stressed. So we brought your mom to the tent and the team took care of her. Since your father was very nervous, Monique and I took him [for a] … walk and sit [him down] a little further [away] to keep him calm. He was happy that we spent time with him and explained what was going on with his wife. We shared our own pictures of our kids [with him.] At that time, mine were only three years old, four years old, and fifteen years old. By showing those pictures to him, [it] brought me back to the reality that I was avoiding since [a] couple [of] weeks. During the time Monique and I were with your father, our team took care of your mother – carefully. Monique and I came back to the team [to] continue the care on your mother. I hold your mother’s back and hands with my friend Pettra, and Monique was doing the delivery. You came in [to] this world in that beautiful day, [just] like that, in our Canadian military tent. Your father was so excited and decided to name you after us. I was excited for a while, but realized later, in what [a] world you just came. I was thinking about you for days after that. I was always wondering if you were okay, if you will survive. At a certain point, I was thinking to bring you back home with me in Canada. I had to stop thinking. I had to stop my feeling[s] and wanderings against this disaster to protect myself and [to] survive. I came back home after 42 days in Haiti, but I left my spirit there for a while. It took myself a lot of work, time, and patience, but I’m fine now. There is a lot of time where I’m thinking about you – little Monique-Lucie. Are you okay? You are seven years old now. Wow. Time just fly. You must be in school. Do you have any brothers or sisters? How [are] Daddy and Mommy doing? Monique-Lucie: hopefully one day I’ll be able to meet you and get answers to my questions. Until that day, you will be in my prayers, when I ask … God to protect everyone that I love.

Postscript It was a revelation during our interview, for both Monique Bartlett and her mother, that the New Brunswick medic is still performing a vital and nurturing role, post-PTSD diagnosis, and after leaving the military and her day-to-day medical technician career. That awakening marks a new chapter. It is my hope our conversations will enable Monique, Lucie, their families, and the wider public to better understand, appreciate, and value the potential of each person, regardless of their past or a diagnosis. The fact remains: Monique and Lucie are helping people; they did then and they do now. Their call to service and ability to serve and help others did not end in Bosnia, Alert, or Haiti, or after their PTSD diagnosis. Their roles as caregivers have morphed. Both they and their work continue to evolve. The medics have become educators and role models, perhaps by happenstance, perhaps not. Do things happen for a reason? The timing of Monique-Lucie’s birth, at that specific medical camp, is uncanny, given how low the women were feeling at that critical juncture in the Haitian mission. The additional fact they, specifically, were approached by the desperate father at the gate, and communicated so empathically with him, in both English and French, leaves one wondering – what forces were at play that day, and why? Theirs is a beautiful and hope-filled story that leaves many questions, asked in their legacy letters, unanswered – for now. The trauma Monique Bartlett and Lucie (Rouleau) Giocondese have heard, witnessed, and experienced does not define who they are nor does it define the quality of their work, lives, or person. Trauma does not define any of the extraordinary Canadians in this book. Their decisions, words, and actions define who they are. Trauma does not define them, but it does shape them. They are people who endure and continue to serve. They’ve acquired profound self-awareness and are able to amplify their humanity, rather than have the trauma they repeatedly encounter blunt or erase it. Their words speak to the incredible strength of the human spirit. Their stories help us question and re-examine what it truly means to be “called to duty.” Duty and service take on many forms, across professions and roles, a handful of which have been discussed in this work. How we educate, support, and serve one another evolves, as do all people over time. What would you write about in your own legacy letter? How do you try to serve your fellow man? How can we, collectively, “turn the table” on trauma, death, and loss – and funnel that dark energy and pain into something helpful, healing, and motivating? The people in The Legacy Letters have found a way. If they can, given what they have faced, the rest of us can at least give it a try.

Acknowledgements A heartfelt thank you to all of those in The Legacy Letters who have revisited highly charged and often devastating incidents to facilitate conversation about resiliency, self-care, trauma, and mental health. Their willingness to discuss their own pain and grief is motivating. Special thanks to Ann King, Dave Worrell, Kate Lines, Morgan MacDonald, Erin Alvarez, Bill Sandford, Dave Ralph, John Bredin, Al Tweten, Tracey Hilliard, Michael Hilliard, Monique Bartlett, and Lucie (Rouleau) Giocondese for their legacy letters, as well as Phonse Jessome for his, in the amazing foreword. Special recognition to Ann King, whose immediate response to me of “How can I help you?” will never be forgotten. It underlines how we should live our lives – in some form of service to others. Ann’s immediate agreement, without hesitation, to speak with me after nearly twenty years and to write the first legacy letter, allowed this challenging work to unfold. Much of what Phonse Jessome has written he has disclosed publicly, for the first time, in The Legacy Letters. I am honoured. For the record, I never asked Phonse to write the letter, foreword, or to say anything. Phonse offered to contribute after he heard me speak about this project over coffee in his home. Phonse is one of the most talented writers and fearless journalists I know. His late uncle was my writing mentor. Bill Jessome would be thrilled that Phonse and I have collaborated to try to educate, support, and help others. Thank you to Megan Adams for communicating with me. She could easily have chosen not to, given what has transpired. Her frankness has resulted in selfreflection, for both me and likely many others. I sincerely hope her words and messages spark much-needed discussion and debate. I would also like to publicly thank Angela Gevaudan for sharing her powerful speech with me, and for inviting me to the private unveiling of her late husband’s RCMP memorial statue. I will never forget the love and support shown to her, her daughter and family, the New Brunswick RCMP, the City of Moncton, and the wider first responder community. Being present in Moncton was beautiful and healing. I am also publicly recognizing Nova Scotia Elder Joe Michael for writing about his aboriginal teachings and wisdom surrounding smudging ceremonies and talking sticks. It has been a deep honour, sir. His immeasurable talents are gifts. Thank you to Tracey Hilliard for her gifts, including the poem “The Other Firefighter.” Michael Hilliard’s family and several other firefighting families in Cape Breton welcomed me with open arms. My late firefighting father would be pleased. Basil Landry’s father, the late William (Bill) Landry, was from River Bourgeois, Cape Breton. The actions and words of these remarkable Canadians collectively honour the fallen, deceased, missing, and the victims of crime (which includes their loved ones), and those who serve and help the public in the face of danger, conflict, and adversity. They are to be commended. Our words can either lift people up or tear them down. These participants’ words, either spoken in conversation or written in letter form, have been carefully chosen. They give us hope. There is nothing more powerful, motivating, or inspiring than hopefulness. Perhaps you will write your own legacy letter one day after reading this book. You may never share it, and that is okay. Write it for you. We can, and are, supporting, motivating, and educating each other – one word at a time. Choose yours wisely. In the end, we are all in this together.

Investigative Tips After reading The Legacy Letters, should you have any concrete, verifiable information about seven-year-old Monique-Lucie of Haiti, please contact me privately via social media: Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, or Facebook. You can also visit my website, www.janicelandry.ca, for further contact information. Additionally, should you have any tips or leads about any of the incidents and/or unsolved police cases from across Canada mentioned in this book, or any other crimes and investigations which I have not been able to cover within this specific work, please contact Crime Stoppers. You can remain anonymous. No tip or lead is too small; people need answers, and families seek and deserve justice. Make the right decision. Even if you have remained silent, for whatever reason, it is never too late to make a difference today. Given what you have now read, maybe you are wondering if you have also been impacted – by the trauma of not speaking. Please call, toll-free: 1-800-222-TIPS (8477) from anywhere in North America.