No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP (24 page)

AFTER ALMOST A
year on the officer candidate list, I received my call from Ottawa. I had always wanted to serve in British Columbia, but my caller informed me I would receive a Maritime posting, in Newfoundland. Although devastated by this news, I conceded that it would be folly to refuse when I had gone so far in the process. I accepted and prepared to travel to Newfoundland as a newly minted audit officer. I was to be based in St. John’s, and my duties would consist of inspecting detachments and units throughout the province, acting under the direction and on behalf of the commanding officer.

This was also a time of great upheaval in my personal life. Lorraine and I had decided that we would go our separate ways and seek a divorce. Both of our children elected to remain in Regina, so I would be moving to Newfoundland alone.

An avid motorcycle enthusiast for some years, I was a member of the Blue Knights Law Enforcement Motorcycle Club and planned to travel to my new posting via motorcycle. The Blue Knights consist of some 8,000 law-enforcement riders with chapters across North America and Europe. I loaded my large-displacement Yamaha motorcycle with camping gear and struck out for Newfoundland, a distance of 3,000 miles. One of the attractions of travelling by motorcycle is the kinship bikers enjoy. Once dressed in leathers astride a bike, one assumes a measure of anonymity. People from all walks of life take to the road to savour the freedom of the motorcycle lifestyle. As I travelled across Canada, I encountered many of these riders. One evening while I was camped in an RV park, several riders rolled in, apparently members of an outlaw biker gang. Once they had set up camp, one of them strolled over and invited me to share a joint. I declined, pleading an early start in the morning. Life would have become rather interesting had they learned they had offered marijuana to a police officer.

As I travelled across various provinces and states I also experienced the discrimination often encountered by motorcyclists. On more than one occasion, I was turned away from an upscale RV park or motel. Perhaps my unshaven state and large bike contributed to the lack of hospitality. After one exhausting travel day, I needed to show my RCMP identification badge before the motel owner hesitatingly allowed me to lodge in his premises. When I finally arrived at my new Division Headquarters, I was greeted by raised eyebrows and looks of consternation. Even my commanding officer seemed somewhat distressed when he was told his new audit officer had recently arrived via motorcycle.

For the next three years, I lived out of my suitcase, travelling to every nook and cranny of Newfoundland and Labrador. Although there was some culture shock on my part, the people I encountered in my new posting were the kindest, most generous, fun-loving souls on the planet. Living in and travelling across this unique part of Canada gave me a great appreciation of the breadth and diversity of our country.

Shortly after my arrival in St. John’s, I had the great good fortune to meet Joan Dooley, a beautiful and vivacious divorced mother of two teenagers. Although she lived in the city, her home and heart rested in the tiny village of Adam’s Cove, about 80 miles by road around Conception Bay from St. John’s. You could gaze directly across the bay at the lights of St. John’s, which was only about 20 miles across the water. On the weekends we travelled to Adam’s Cove, where I was able to learn about and appreciate the wonderful Newfoundland people and traditions to a much greater extent than most visiting mainlanders. Joan’s father had long passed, but her mother, Marie Hollett, who was as charming as her daughter, always welcomed us fondly.

Our arrival necessitated a community gathering in Marie’s large kitchen. As many as a dozen folks would be seated there, sipping Screech and occasionally breaking into song. To my untrained ear, the accents, rapidity of delivery and liberal use of colloquialisms made the conversation unintelligible. Unexpectedly, a machine-gun comment or question would be delivered my way, to which I’d respond, “Yes, of course,” never really knowing what I had agreed to. As time went on, my ear developed some appreciation for the dialect, but it was ever a challenge. Seated at the dinner table one night, I passed the bread and my neighbour said, “No thank, moi son, Oim blocked.” I initially thought he had a serious intestinal problem, when all he was saying was he was full. When someone else suffered a traffic accident, he told me his car was “all bent op.” Then there was the excitement of going out to the “toim” for a “scuff and a scoff.” I learned that a “toim” was a good time where one had a dance and a meal.

One afternoon, I was seated in Joan’s living room in St. John’s when her 14-year-old daughter walked in with a friend. She looked at me and said, “Say sompin, Ian.” I looked at her, somewhat puzzled, and asked her what she wanted me to say. She replied, “Anyting, ya talks fonny.” The girls giggled and left the room. I sat musing about how it felt to be in such a minority. Another afternoon, Joan wanted to wander in one of the local malls. I had other plans and exhibited some irritation. She looked at me, and in her best Bayman’s accent said, “Don’t go getting crooked wit me now, or I’ll be smackin’ the face right off ya!” How could anyone respond negatively to such an attack? I obediently went to the mall with her.

Learning to be a member of the officer corps was another lesson in a new culture. RCMP commissioned officers are clearly a cloister within a cloister. There were unspoken expectations within this exclusive band, and I found that I needed to pay attention to the slightest behavioural nuances. You were expected to have your morning coffee breaks with your brother officers, and it was noted who sat closest to the commanding officer. On Fridays there was usually a social gathering. There were two messes: one for NCOs and constables, the other for officers. Occasionally the two groups would assemble briefly in the NCOs’ mess, but almost never in the officers’. The line between officers and everyone else was always present, however subtle. It was a line I had great difficulty maintaining with my audit team. I was the sole officer and was initially treated with deference. However, as time went on we became very close and much of this stilted atmosphere dissipated. The game was certainly played while we conducted our business, but it seldom showed when we were not in session. I was absent from Division Headquarters much of the time with my audit team, so this delayed my indoctrination as an officer. The aura surrounding commissioned officers is another prevailing remnant of the “Olden Force,” even though the demands of a modern police organization have eliminated some of the former aloofness and separation.

Chief Superintendent J.B. “Dale” Henry, the commanding officer, was an insular man, steeped in the old tradition and placing little value in trivia or frivolity. He was egocentric and expected the policing universe to revolve around him. To Henry’s credit, he was very bright and capable—perhaps the most competent officer I served under during my commissioned years. My tenure with him spanned six years; we served in the Maritimes together, then proceeded to Manitoba for three more years. Consequently, two-thirds of my officer career was influenced by him. Chief Superintendent Henry was a consummate politician, who exhibited poise and ease when dealing with all levels of government. He knew his job thoroughly and in many ways exemplified an RCMP division commander. His preparation and attention to detail became obvious as we flew together to Newfoundland detachments to debrief his commanders after an audit. While I read my motorcycle magazine, Henry pored over files relating to the worksite we were about to visit. Upon our arrival, I learned the reason for his preparation. He would stop and greet constables by their first names, asking them how a specific investigation was going. These young men and women were astounded that their commanding officer had such intimate knowledge of their names and their work.

Henry tended to be a user, harvesting every iota of talent from subordinates and giving little in return. He expected dedication and consummate performance but rarely recognized exceptional service. His demeanour seemed to convey that any effort you expended was never quite sufficient. One could learn much from his ability as an organizer, but less in the way of stroking, nurturing and encouraging. To his credit, Henry was not a micromanager. If you had his confidence, you were granted ample latitude to perform tasks. Conversely, if he discovered his faith in you was misdirected, you would find yourself relegated to a position of minimal responsibility, or even subject to a transfer.

WHILE IN THE
Training Division in Regina, I had assisted in forming a Blue Knights chapter. Having enjoyed being part of the group in the past, at my new posting I joined the St. John’s chapter. It consisted largely of members of the local municipal police force, which gave me an opportunity to get to know them. These connections would work to my advantage in my capacity as audit officer. As a group, we travelled to Bangor, Maine, to attend an international Blue Knights rally in the summer of 1986. Almost 3,000 riders from the law-enforcement community gathered for the event, coming from all parts of the USA and Canada. It was amazing to witness the Knights ride through the city of Bangor in formation, a sea of powder-blue vests with the distinctive Blue Knights logo.

The founders of the Blue Knights crafted a crest featuring a blue knight carrying a lance and sitting astride a motorcycle. A top and bottom rocker surrounded the crest. The top rocker identifies the Blue Knights, while the bottom designates the home chapter. This configuration is similar to outlaw biker crests and was meant to counteract the negative image by replacing the undesirable with something desirable. But the similarity in crest design is where any likeness to the outlaws ends. Blue Knight members wear powder-blue, police-style motorcycle helmets. They practise and promote safe motorcycle operation and project an image of goodwill and cooperation to the driving public. Even so, the arrival of a Blue Knights chapter on their big bikes may be intimidating until spectators learn that the riders are law-enforcement officers.

Occasionally, an undesirable minority skews this positive message. An American Blue Knights chapter appeared at the rally in Bangor with a design on their jackets that was offensive and troubling to all. The crest worn on their vests depicted an unauthorized death’s head or skull in place of the Blue Knight logo. They rode loud, unmuffled Harley Davidson bikes, obviously emulating the outlaws. The Blue Knights International Executive directed them to remove the offensive crests immediately, but they refused. They were summarily banned from all rally events and stripped of their chapter. It was clear the Blue Knights wanted any implied connection to the outlaw biker world eradicated.

MY WORK IN
Newfoundland immersed me in the fractious world of internal audit. As audit officer, I was charged with examining all activities occurring within the RCMP operation in the province, essentially “taking the pulse” of the organization on behalf of the commanding officer. He headed the audit committee, which was composed of his divisional officers. This committee would decree who, where and what the audit team would examine. We were also responsible for assessing the level of public satisfaction. Our work took us to all corners of the province, and we were on the road much of the year. Once the data were collected, a report was submitted to the audit committee with findings and recommendations.

Unavoidably, the audit was negative, since the team was searching for noncompliance. Accordingly, the targets were not generally delighted when we appeared, and many received our assurance that “We’re here to help you” with cynicism and raised eyebrows. I soon learned that a good audit officer had to dedicate some of his time to alleviating his clients’ anxieties. The audit officer’s personality set the tone and had everything to do with the acceptance of the audit. I found that having a sense of humour and keeping things light during the process went a long way toward reducing stress.

A certain amount of tact was needed when determining which findings could be resolved locally and which should go into the audit report. The commanding officer suggested that several experienced field supervisors should be placed on a list and rotated through the audit team. We found that these individuals’ presence brought familiarity and increased our credibility. In addition, the participating field supervisors developed empathy for the auditors.