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Twenty-Five Tales of True Crime and Dark History

From the Dark Poutine Podcast
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After the Force

After the Force: True Cases and Investigations by Law Enforcement Officers Release date, October 25, 2021 | Book 8 in Durvile’s True Cases series --- Introduction "Suai Tiger" by Detective Debbie J. Doyle (ret)

After the Force is a collection of chapters written by retired law-enforcement women and men who have come together to share their stories about defining moments of their careers, events that have affected them throughout their lives and into retirement. In recent years, many police agencies and officers in Canada, the US, and internationally have come under fire for unprofessional or unethical policing methods. This collection clearly displays another side to law enforcement; the human side.

This is the eighth book in the Durvile True Cases series with the majority of the first seven books featuring stories by and about lawyers, judges, and criminal justice. These previous books in the series were written after the incidents occurred and not from eye-witness accounts. After the Force is unique and intriguing in that stories are told from the perspective of first contact at crime scenes as observed by Canadian police officers who have served in municipal, provincial, and federal police services.

When I contacted the various retired officers, I wanted to ensure their stories were represented from across the country. These contributors served in small towns, remote areas and large cities, all having unique yet similar law-enforcement and retirement experiences. Among the themes presented were stories about prostitution and sex work, a child serial killer, an encounter with a cop killer, migrant workers’ children targeted by a sexual predator, police suicides, a child miraculously surviving a fall from a high-rise balcony, the genocide in Rwanda, an officer dealing with a partner who was experiencing severe PTSD, a suicide from a bridge, and child sexual assaults. Most of these stories culminate with descriptions of second careers and new-found activities that have arisen in many of these officers’ lives after retiring from police work, such as writing, painting, assisting Indigenous communities, and facilitating community improvement.

Canadian Peacekeeping
Canadian law enforcement officers are some of the finest in the world. There are substantial differences between Canadian police officers and their counterparts in other countries, including our neighbours south of the 49th parallel. For example, we have in-depth screening and polygraph examinations as part of our hiring practices, and those who shouldn’t serve are either not hired, or no longer serve. Police officers should not be feared, but respected by the communities they serve.

From having worked with officers from over forty different countries during my tours of duty in East Timor, I have first-hand knowledge about the respect the world has for Canadian police officers. In 2002, I was seconded by the United Nations to serve on a peacekeeping mission in East Timor, an island country in Southeast Asia, due north of Australia (also known as Timor-Leste). While serving two tours of duty on the island, I saw time and again that people in charge of specialized units sought Canadian police officers with whom to work. The fundamental political and human rights guaranteed in The Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms is something people from many other countries can only dream about. Many countries limit or ban the freedom of religion, expression, and peaceful assembly. Freedom of the press and media is something, as Canadians, we take for granted. On many occasions, I spoke to the Timorese police and police officers from around the world about the legal rights set out in the Charter. I led by example, explaining that in a democratic country, police cannot arbitrarily stop individuals, cannot punish or torture people who are under arrest, and must remind people that they have a right to legal counsel.

The best way to explain the differences between Canada and East Timor is to imagine stepping into a page of a National Geographic magazine that showcases a tribe of people who live in the jungle. Few people own vehicles. Walking or bicycling is the norm. Power is only found in the larger cities. Running water comes from a communal tap that families walk hours to and from on a daily basis. Heat? No furnace required. I have a photograph of a thermometer that displays 58.5 degrees C (137.3 degree F!). And bugs. Who knew cockroaches grew to be three inches long and could fly?! The first time I witnessed this, I saw a roach walking on the ground, until it decided to fly—at me! I’m sure the villagers thought I was being attacked by a saltwater crocodile—not my most glamourous get-away.

In East Timor, villagers would routinely walk for hours to towns to report crimes at the police stations sprinkled around the island. When stationed in the town of Suai, I remember one incident in which a woman, Mrs. Ximenes, was the victim of domestic violence. She had walked to the police station to report an assault perpetrated on her by her husband—simply because his meal wasn’t ready when he returned from working in the rice paddies. We initiated an investigation, obtained the evidence we required, and called the court in the capital city of Dili to determine when we could bring Mr. Ximenes before a judge. We drove Mrs. Ximenes back to her residence and informed her we would pick her up the following morning at seven. We told her we would drive her to Dili where she would testify and we would bring her back to Suai, if required.
After dealing with Mrs. Ximenes, we arrested her husband, took him to the police station and put him in jail overnight. In the morning, we picked up Mrs. Ximenes, put Mr. Ximenes in the vehicle with her, along with a translator and the Timorese police officers in charge of the investigation. To say the vehicle was crowded is an understatement.

The five-hour journey on partially paved roads, dirt trails, and goat paths required a stop for lunch. After I had given the Timorese police officers money to purchase food for everyone, we parked at the side of the dirt road, everyone climbed out of the vehicle and we ate while we talked. I had begun to learn Indonesian Bahasa when I first arrived and had a working knowledge of the language after several months (although when I spoke the Timorese would smile, probably thinking I sounded like a six-year-old).

Upon arriving in Dili, we went straight to court. The accused, Mr. Ximenes, the complainant Mrs. Ximenes, and the police officers all testified before a panel of three judges. Court proceedings with Mr. and Mrs. Ximenes proceeded pretty much as usual. More often than not in these cases of domestic violence, the accused is convicted but released back to live with the complainant, as was the case with the Ximenes. In court, both spouses signed a document similar to a cross between a Recognizance and a Peace Bond. A Recognizance is a form of release when an individual is charged with a crime, whereby the individual agrees to abide by all of the conditions as set out in the Recognizance. The most common conditions in a domestic violence case are to keep the peace and be of good behaviour and not to assault their spouse. A Peace Bond is a court order issued against an individual who has not yet committed a criminal offence, but an offence is likely to occur. In this case, if the accused does not assault his wife again within the year, he receives no punishment.

While Mr. and Mrs. Ximenes found places to stay with friends of friends or relatives, I spent my evening re-supplying food and much-desired beverages for myself and the officers I lived with. After all, on occasion, I too became thirsty. We only went to Dili once a month, so the time I was there needed to be put to good use. My husband Dan, who was stationed in another town on the island, took his re-supply the same day I went to Dili with the Ximenes, so we met at Obrigado Barracks, a Portuguese military base. There, I ordered a large chocolate milkshake and my husband, an ice-cold beer.

In Suai, we only had a generator—which we only used for a few hours every second evening—so I never purchased food that needed to be refrigerated. Therefore, in Dili, we ordered steaks—needless to say, they weren’t Alberta beef, but the Australian beef substitute reminded us of home. Within four hours of eating, the milkshake would always exact its revenge on me—but it was worth it. With no power, milk was no longer a staple but instead something I had once a month, and as much as I still love milk, it no longer loves me back. We rented a room for the evening and I had friends joke with me about having a monthly “conjugal jungle visit” with my husband. Not that seeing my husband wasn’t the highlight of the stay in Dili, but I sure did enjoy the air-conditioned room!

We all met up again the following morning at seven for the return journey, as planned. After we drove Mr. and Mrs. Ximenes to their house, we ensured Mr. Ximenes understood the conditions of his release. We informed Mrs. Ximenes if Mr. Ximenes didn’t abide by the conditions, she could return to the police station to file a report and we would arrest Mr. Ximenes and return him to Dili to face the judges. I cannot say Mr. Ximenes never assaulted his wife again, but when we checked in on the family, no further issues arose.

One Timorese police officer asked why I didn’t physically punish Mr. Ximenes. He had witnessed the Indonesian military perpetrating physical abuse on civilians. I explained that in a democratic republic—which East Timor had become with the United Nations’ assistance—people should never be afraid of the police. It is the people who give the police power to ensure society is kept safe. I pointed out police aren’t judges and therefore could not and should not punish anyone. Then I posed a question to him. “Who would benefit if I assaulted Mr. Ximenes? Mr. Ximenes? Mrs. Ximenes? Me? The community?” Unfortunately, the Timorese people had submitted to the abusive and corrupt behaviour perpetrated by Indonesian military, when under their control.

Canadian police officers are renowned for treating everyone equally, and I consistently promote that reputation. When off duty in East Timor, I associated with many of the police from other nations as well as the Timorese police. On Sundays after work, we’d go to the beach and swim in the ocean under guard of the New Zealand military who would ensure the saltwater crocodiles didn’t have their own special Sunday feast. I have a large tattoo of a tiger’s head on my back and when I wore my bathing suit, it was visible for all to behold; hence my nickname of Suai Tiger.
After returning to Canada from East Timor, I was promoted to the Child Protection Section at the Edmonton Police Service. After 25 years of service, I retired and began writing books. Then, in March 2019, pre-Covid, pre-masks, and pre-social distancing, Lorene Shyba and I were introduced to each other by author Richard Van Camp. After several conversations, Lorene proposed the idea of a book involving retired police officers, the impact that police work had on them, and how their experiences allowed them to flourish in their lives after policing. I found the idea compelling and agreed to contact officers from across the country and solicit chapters for this project.

Managing the Trauma from Police Work
God give me the serenity to accept things which cannot be change; Give me courage to change things which must be changed; And the wisdom to distinguish one from the other. —Dr. Reinhold Niebuhr
Many police officers have sayings they use in their emails or correspondence, or abide by. The “Serenity Prayer,” although used for addictions, is also used by police. There are so many things in police work that cannot be changed and to differentiate between them can be a complex and heart-breaking experience. Things that can and have been changed are shown in many of the stories in this book. In the evening of one’s career, one can distinguish the difference. Wisdom comes with time and if we all stand together, civilians and police officers and look toward the horizon, we can find solutions to many of the problems that plague our society.

When I began connecting with fellow officers about the book, the majority of whom I didn’t know, the conversations reminded me of chats I’d had with former partners and members of my squads. Regardless of where we had served, the camaraderie in our profession enabled us to easily relate to one another. We spoke about our careers, comical circumstances that had occurred to us, and the difficulties we had experienced. None of us regretted our policing career, even though we dealt with physical and psychological injuries from our chosen line of work. Each of us loved our careers because we joined the police to help others, often with our own self-interests taking a back seat to those of society.

Canadian policing is universal in the sense that police officers deal with similar calls, investigations and difficulties. Not all of the officers I contacted contributed. After speaking with them, a couple of the officers realized they couldn’t write about the investigations that changed their lives because they still struggled with their demons.

Several of the officers who contributed to this book suffer from post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) on a daily basis, albeit some far worse than others. PTSD is not something to be ashamed of because it is a common hazard of policing. While engaging in phone and email conversations over several months, I determined that each of us has worked, volunteered, or engaged in hobbies as a way to manage the trauma from police work.

This book is an attempt to share the human side of police work and provide insight into the difficulties they face, not only in their own lives but also in the lives of members of society—often at the same time. Police officers engage with thousands, if not tens of thousands of individuals throughout their careers. These interactions range from stopping a vehicle for speeding, to dealing with a victim of spousal violence, to arresting an individual for the brutal rape and murder of a child. Each interaction with a member of the public impacts the officer, whether it is a positive or a negative experience.

Unlike other professions, police are called when bad things happen, whether there is a criminal act or a death. When a police officer attends a sudden death or makes a death notification, it affects them. Deeply. They may not cry on the outside, but they do weep on the inside. When sitting with a family member and listening to stories about the child or spouse who died in a vehicle collision, the officer experiences collateral trauma. Certain units within police services, including Child Abuse, ICE, and Crime Scene Investigations are considered “high risk” units in which officers experience high levels of collateral trauma.

These experiences shape and mold us. Many of us have plans for retirement, while others are lost, wandering in the wilderness without direction. Some officers leave their police service on a Friday only to join another police-related organization on Monday. For a variety of reasons, those officers want to leave their job but aren’t ready to leave the general profession. Others leave, never turning back or talking about their service, engaging in a completely different line of work. Some don’t work at all; they may volunteer or help others in different ways.

This book showcases individuals from across the country. There are common ties among the stories because there are common ties among all police officers. I hope everyone reading this book realizes police are people, merely human, and without super-powers. We have dealt with adversity in our lives, we have made mistakes, and now we are all dealing with the effects of a career in police work, each in our own unique way. We all wanted to help people and still want to help by providing insight into these cases and into our lives and the way we have coped with our profession. We hope the sharing of our stories will bring readers an added perspective for a clearer understanding of our victories and travesties, both during and after the force


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The Bushman’s Lair

The Bushman’s Lair

On the Trail of the Fugitive of the Shuswap
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The Toronto Book of the Dead

The dead keep silent watch over the Don Valley. There are tens of thousands of them there, their bones buried in the soil not far south of Bloor Street. Their gravestones are hidden beneath the grand old trees that loom above the western slope. Even if you know they’re there, it’s easy to forget them as you rumble across the Bloor Viaduct on a subway or zip by in a car. But many of them have been resting in the earth on the edge of the valley since long before the Viaduct existed or a highway roared below. Some have been there for more than 150 years, since the Necropolis cemetery first opened its gates.
The Necropolis was a new kind of graveyard. Garden cemeteries were all the rage in the middle of the 1800s. As Victorian cities became more and more crowded, the question of where to bury the dead was a growing concern. There were more people dying than there was space left to bury them — churchyards were filled to overflowing, and shallow burials meant bodies could easily be uncovered by a heavy rain or a curious dog. The living and the dead were being forced into ever closer quarters.
In response, cities began to open large green spaces on the outskirts of town, where the living could visit the dead in the quiet of a pastoral setting, far from the rush and roar of urban life. The new burial grounds of the “cemetery beautiful” movement were as much parks as they were boneyards.
The Toronto Necropolis fit that new mould. The old Potter’s Field cemetery at Yonge and Bloor was quickly reaching capacity and would soon be closed: a petition from Yorkville residents demanded the dead be evicted from their neighbourhood. Thousands of bodies — including some of the city’s early settlers — were dug up out of the ground and moved to a new home.
The Necropolis was opened for them on a more peaceful spot: perched atop the verdant slopes of the Don Valley; a scenic place filled with trees. A small chapel was designed by one of the city’s leading architects, complete with a beautiful white archway that serves as an entrance to the cemetery — a portal through the black iron fence into the graveyard beyond. It feels like a gateway into another world.  That’s not by accident. Necropolis is an ancient Greek term: “city of the dead.” And Toronto’s Necropolis does feel something like its own city. (In fact, with a population of 62,000 residents, there are more dead people buried inside the Necropolis than there are people living in all of Fredericton, New Brunswick.) Even today, the Necropolis gives the impression of being a place separate from the modern world. On one side of that graceful white arch: the city of the living. On the other: the city of the dead.
At first, people flocked to the new garden cemeteries in droves. Those elegant graveyards became centres of social life. They were founded in a time before large city parks were common and in the days before many public art galleries and museums had opened their doors. Garden cemeteries became a way for large numbers of people to enjoy green space, appreciate fine sculpture, and explore local history.
In time, as urban populations continued to boom, those pastoral cemeteries on the edge of town were swallowed up by the cities they served. Over the last century and a half, Toronto has grown from a provincial outpost of thirty thousand to a cosmopolitan metropolis of millions. As the city has expanded, many of the graveyards that used to stand well outside its borders now find themselves surrounded by the loud chaos of modern life.
St. Michael’s Cemetery, one of the area’s first Catholic graveyards, used to stand at the edge of a deer park in the rural reaches north of the city; now it has disappeared behind the office towers of Yonge and St. Clair. Richview Memorial Cemetery was once a quiet resting place for Etobicoke’s early settlers; now it stands in the middle of a deafening highway interchange. St. James Cemetery, the city’s oldest graveyard still in operation, sits in the shadows of the St. James Town apartment blocks — one of the most densely populated neighbourhoods on the continent.
The Necropolis, originally outside the official boundaries of the city, now finds itself right in the heart of Toronto. The quiet of the graveyard is broken by the hum of traffic in the valley below. As dusk descends, the silver lights of skyscrapers wink on in the distance.
Paradoxically, even as garden cemeteries found themselves surrounded by ever growing numbers of people, their popularity declined. For the Victorians who built them, death was still very much a part of daily life. But in the 1900s, as mortality rates dropped, religion became less popular, and parks and art galleries became more common, the number of visitors to garden cemeteries dwindled. Today, graveyards like the Necropolis still attract joggers, cyclists and flâneurs — as well as some mourners — but they aren’t the social hubs they once were.
In time, left increasingly alone in their walled gar¬dens, the dead became easier to forget. Their graves were no longer a constant of everyday life; they weren’t outside the church every Sunday as townspeople went to pray. The dead were now locked away in their own parallel cities, kept safe behind wrought iron fences, mortality contained.
And so, it became easier than ever to imagine the city of the dead and the city of the living as two distinct realms.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in graveyards recently — since the summer of 2010, to be exact. That’s when I launched the Toronto Dreams Project. The project explores the history of the city in many different ways — including a blog where several of the stories in this book originally appeared — but it’s centred around a series of fictional dreams about people from the city’s past. I print copies of each dream on custom-designed postcards and leave them in public places related to the true story of that person’s life.
And there are few places with a more powerful connection to a person’s life than the place where they lie buried. The Dreams Project has sent me venturing into the land of the dead on a regular basis, passing through the gates we keep between ourselves and our ancestors, wandering among their bones in search of gravestones bearing familiar names.
There are many of those in the Necropolis. It’s home to some of the most fascinating figures from the history of Toronto: William Lyon Mackenzie, the mayor who became a rebel; George Brown, Father of Confederation and founder of the Globe newspaper, fatally shot by a disgruntled employee; the Abbotts and the Blackburns, who escaped racial persecution in the United States and helped make Toronto a vital stop at the end of the Underground Railroad; Joseph Tyrrell, the geologist who uncovered dinosaur bones in Alberta; Kay Christie, the nurse who survived a POW camp in Hong Kong; Jack Layton, the leader of the New Democratic Party felled by cancer before his time. Some of their stories even appear in this book.
There are very few experiences that bring the history of the city more vividly to life than spending time among the dead: standing at their gravesides above bones that were once part of a living, breathing, feeling body, contemplating the lives they led. The more time you spend with them, the clearer it becomes: the boundary between the city of the dead and the city of the living is an illusion. The dead are not so easily contained. Cemeteries cannot hold them.
Toronto — like every city — is a city of the dead. It’s the collective creation of all those who have come before us. Their homes are our homes, their roads are our roads, their traditions are our traditions, their stories are our stories. The dead are all around us. They haunt our every waking moment whether we realize it or not.
And so, by understanding the dead — how they lived, how they died, how they mourned — we can better understand ourselves and our city. To know the Toronto of today, it helps to know those stories: of recently deceased loved ones with fresh flowers on their graves, of Victorians interred within the confines of their garden cemeteries, of early settlers laid to rest in small churchyards, of the First Nations and their ancestors who have been buried in the land beneath our feet for thousands upon thousands of years.
You can tell the history of Toronto, from a time long before the first Europeans arrived all the way to the modern metropolis of today, through tales of its dead. After all, every story ends the same way.

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Go Ahead and Shoot Me! And Other True Cases About Ordinary Criminals

Go Ahead and Shoot Me! And Other True Cases About Ordinary Criminals

And Other True Cases About Ordinary Criminals
by Doug Heckbert
afterword by Debbie J. Doyle
foreword by Howard Sapers
cover design or artwork by Rich Theroux
general editor Lorene Shyba
tagged : criminology
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Excerpt from Chapter 1

"Sally: Go Ahead and Shoot Me"

A day or so later, I called Sally to book an appointment to see her at her home. The plan was that I would gather information about her such as age, finances, education, work record, health, marital situation, and the offence, then develop a case plan with her for the period of probation. The appointment was for two days time, at her home.
I arrived at Sally’s address in the north-central part of the city. As I pulled up in front of the house, I noted it was an older bungalow, about 1100 square feet with a well-kept yard featuring grass lawns, shrubs, flowers, and trees. The outside of the home was a combination of grey stucco and brown wood panels, in good condition. Nicely kept houses and yards were on either side of Sally’s.
I head to the front door which faced the street. The woman who came to the door introduced herself as Sally. I estimated her to be about forty years old, of average height, weight, and build. Once inside the home, she introduced me to Roger, her husband. He was about the same age as Sally, about 5–10?and 170 pounds, with slightly greying wavy hair. Sally led us through the front room into the kitchen where she offered coffee. I accept and we all sat down at the kitchen table; Sally, Roger, and me.
I started out the interview by explaining that the purpose of this meeting is to review the probation order, to be sure she understood what had happened in court, to gather information about her, and then to develop a case plan that covered what she needed to do to complete her probation.
As I worked through the probation order, phrase by phrase and condition by condition, Sally said she fully understood what probation was, and what she had to do. Sally relayed her information to me in a pleasant, easy-going manner with no hint of anger, no hesitation. Roger sat quietly at the kitchen table, listening intently to our discussions but not saying very much.
In response to my questions about their home, Sally told me that they had lived at this address for nearly twenty years. She worked part-time as a clerk in a downtown department store and Roger had worked for many years in a warehouse in the north end of the city. They had two children, both girls, who were doing well in high school. Both Sally and Roger had attended high school in the city and both reported to be in good health. I noticed the furnishings in the house are relatively new, so on the surface it appears that Sally and Roger were doing well financially.
I wanted to hear about the offence; but was is a matter to be explored with solemnity, tact and respect. Attempted murder is a very serious charge. When I judged that the interview was going well and we were comfortable with each other, I decided it was time to explore what the offence was all about.
“Thanks for all the information about your house, family, and work,” I said. “Now, can you tell me what the charge is all about?”
There is a long pause. Sally and Roger looked back and forth at each other, neither speaking nor displaying overt facial expressions. Eventually, Sally cleared her throat and began to speak. Roger just sat there at the table, quiet. Over the course of the next while, I listened and digested the scenario that had taken place right over in the next room.
“Well,” she said. “For years, Roger would go out for beers with some of the guys from work, nearly every Friday after work. He wouldn’t get home until eight or nine in the evening, and sometimes he was pretty drunk. For a while, I accepted this behavior and didn’t say a thing. He then started to come home later and later, saying he was hungry and horny. This really bugged me, but again I didn’t say anything. But it continued and I started telling him that I was not the least bit pleased that he came home drunk and demanding. He normally didn’t say much when I got after him, but he did not change. It just kept happening.”
“So this one time,” she continued, “about a year ago, he came home drunk and wanting sex. I had enough of being treated this way so I really lit into him.” When I asked her where this all happened she got up from her chair and pointed down the hall to the room we’d just walked through. “We were in the living room, just over there, she said. Leaping up from the table, she started re-enacted the scene as if was happening all over again.
“‘You son of a bitch!’ I yell at him. ‘You come home drunk and being a jerk, expect me to do everything for you. Well, that’s all gonna change right now; and I won’t be putting up with this shit any more. So, you get out of here and sober up!’
“I was furious and I don’t usually swear but I’d had it up to here with him!” she says, waving her hand across her throat. “He’s staggering around and slurs, ‘I ain’t going nowhere and you can’t make me. This is my house, too. What are you gonna do? Pick me up and throw me out?’
“Then he kinda laughs so I scream at him, ‘No. I know I can’t throw you out. But I’m so mad I could kill you’. He has this weird twisted smile on his face and says, ‘Oh, how you gonna do that? How you gonna kill me?’
“‘Well, I’ll shoot you!’ I yell back, mad as hell. ‘Oh, I see,’ he sneers at me. ‘And where’s your gun?’
“Well, you have your rifle downstairs. I’ll use that!
“Then he just snorts at me and says, ‘Do you want me to go get the gun? You probably don’t even know where it is!’
“‘Alright, asshole,’ I tell him. ‘You go get the gun!’ So he does.”
By her own account, Sally was enraged by this time. She’d had enough. The way she tells it, Roger staggered across the living room to the hallway, lurched his way down the stairs to the basement, found the storage room, grabbed the rifle (a 308 Wincherster he used for hunting deer) and stumbled his way back up the stairs to where she was waiting and fuming. Pacing back and forth across the kitchen, she carries on telling the story.
“‘Here, bitch’, he yells at me, hands me the rifle, and staggers back across the living room, leaving about eight paces between us. I sling the rifle over my shoulders for a second, all defiant, then I point it straight at him. ‘Where’s the bullets?’ I yell.
“‘They’re downstairs’, he says. ‘Want me to get them?’
“So I scream, ‘Yeah, asshole, you go get the bullets!’
“So he does!”
The way she tells it, Roger again staggered across the living room to the hallway, lurched his way down the stairs to the basement, found the storage room, grabbed the shell package and stumbled his way back up the stairs to where Sally was still waiting, and still fuming.
Sally explains. “When he comes back upstairs he says, ‘Here you go,’ and hands me a box of shells. He even opens the box and pulls one out, ‘You’ll need this,’ he says.
“So I hold the rifle in one hand and the shell in the other. I don’t know what to do next so Roger holds out his hands palms upwards like this,” she gestures, “and says, real sarcastic, ‘You want me to load it?’ So I say, ‘Sure,’ and he grabs the rifle, slides the cartridge into the chamber, slams the chamber shut with the bolt and hands it back to me. ‘There you go!’ he shouts. And then he staggers back to about eight paces away, like before.
“It takes me a couple of seconds to consider my move; should I or shouldn’t I, but I raise the gun up to my shoulder and point it straight at him. Then I pull the trigger. But nothing happens.
“Then he yells, ‘You stupid bitch! The safety is on!’ So he rushes over to me, grabs the rifle, flicks off the safety and back he goes, eight paces away and yells, ‘Go ahead and shoot me!’”
So this time she did! The rifle boomed and the recoil sent Sally staggering backwards a few steps, where she tripped over a chair and fell to the floor. The gun had jumped from her hands and skidded to a halt under a table. The bullet hit Roger in the left shoulder, passed through his body causing a flesh wound and slammed into the exterior wall of the living room.
Both Sally and Roger were stunned. Roger moaned due to the searing pain of his wound, and he grasped his shoulder. Blood slowly oozed between his fingers and he unsteadily sank to his knees, then toppled over onto his side. Sally started to sob uncontrollably.
After what seemed an eternity, Sally got up from the floor, went to the kitchen and sat down at the table. Roger crawled from the floor onto a sofa and remained in the living room. And this is how the police found them about twenty minutes later.
The offence part of this story ended here. The consequences continued.

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Murdered Midas

Murdered Midas

A Millionaire, His Gold Mine, and a Strange Death on an Island Paradise
also available: eBook Hardcover Hardcover
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Daring, Devious and Deadly

Daring, Devious and Deadly

True Tales of Crime and Justice from Nova Scotia's Past
also available: eBook
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The Bad Detective

The Bad Detective

The Incredible Cases of Nic Power
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