The Mayerthorpe Story: From Ambush to Aftermath

THE DEATH OF THE FOUR young Mounties sent the towns of Mayerthorpe and Whitecourt into shock. Everyone in those communities knew at least one of the policemen; lots of people knew all of them.

Agonizing townsfolk recalled to themselves or to others the last time they had seen or spoken to one of the dead policemen. They remembered when they said hello to kindly Peter Schiemann or when they waved to friendly Leo Johnston. Brock Myrol was new to town and not as well known, but lots of people could remember the handsome young policeman who had just moved into town with his beautiful fiancée.

Big and tall Anthony Gordon was well known and highly respected in the region, but was especially familiar in the community in Whitecourt, where he worked and lived with his wife, Kim, and their little boy.

Any mention of the officers’ names caused people to lower their eyes and shake their heads in pain and dismay.

These four were not just good policemen, they were the very best type of wholesome young men that Canada can produce. Each of them was bright, fit, athletic, handsome, personable, alert, curious, considerate, and extremely capable. As police officers their potential was tremendous.

On Friday, March 4, both Shawn Hennessey and Dennis Cheeseman had gone to work. When Cheeseman heard about the murders, it was about one-thirty p.m. He then left his job at Sepallo Foods, saying he had a family emergency. In fact, he was almost physically ill when he learned what had happened after they dropped Roszko off the night before.

Shawn remained at the Kal Tire meeting in Edmonton for most of the day. He heard what had happened at Roszko’s farm while he was listening to the car radio on his way home. The news was extremely disturbing to him.

Shawn’s wife, Christine, was at home washing the dishes and listening to an Edmonton radio station when she heard reports that four Mounties were feared dead near Mayerthorpe.

Christine says, “They were saying that they didn’t know about the safety of four RCMP officers, they weren’t responsive. And I was just like. ‘Oh no, that’s really sad. I wonder what’s going on.’

“Then all of a sudden I heard the name [Roszko] and I was just . . . my heart sank. I was like, ‘No, no way.’”

Christine remembers what Shawn said when he arrived home that day around four-thirty p.m.

“He said, ‘Oh, my God,’ and he couldn’t even talk. He just went blank. The look on his face, I knew something terrible had happened. And I just sat there. He just sat there for a long time. He didn’t say anything.

“He just said after a while, ‘Are you okay?’ and I said, ‘I don’t know.’”

Then Shawn told Christine that Roszko had showed up at their house the night before when they were in bed. He said that Roszko was carrying a handgun and demanded help.

Meanwhile, people were showing up at the Mayerthorpe and Whitecourt detachments in droves. Men and women, children, even some entire families, began placing flowers and cards in front of the detachment offices. Among the cards were long, handwritten notes poignantly expressing each bearer’s sorrow and sadness. The common themes among the messages were words of thanks and appreciation, and promises that the four dead Mounties would not be forgotten.

The media, with the first hint of a developing story, had started to arrive in Mayerthorpe before noon. By two o’clock, they had inundated the town and were rushing madly about trying to get a unique angle or scoop on the tragedy.

“They were intrusive and unbelievably insensitive. Their manner lacked any sense of professionalism.

“There was such a competition among them. Everybody wanted an edge to get the inside story.

“I remember one of our firefighters being chased by a reporter who wanted to know: ‘Did you see the bodies? Did you see the blood?’

“People in our town are naturally cautious, but the media’s approach made them even more so.

“Their glaring intrusion and insensitive behaviour made me angry. I wanted them to leave our town and not come back.”

John Kyle, the vet, says, “They never bothered me . . . but I was working inside. There were lots of them in town . . . parked in front of the police station and interviewing people on the street.”

Rev. Arnold Lotholz says, “It was my experience that the media were generally well-behaved . . . but I was mostly inside the Legion hall away from all the chaos outdoors. However, I do remember the phones never stopped ringing.”

Arnold helped to set up the Legion as a command post and spent most of his day inside the building, hooking up phones and computers with high-speed Internet. He also brought in food for everyone in the hall and arranged accommodation for the police who were coming into town to help.

So many townspeople had called the Co-op and ordered trays of food be sent to the Legion that they had much more food there than they needed.

Lotholz remembers, “I had to phone the Co-op and tell them not to send over any more food.”

The most difficult sight for Lotholz to deal with was when the Mayerthorpe police officers — one after another — started returning from the crime scene where they knew all hope was lost for their four colleagues and good friends.

Lotholz says, “Around two o’clock some of the detachment officers began straggling in . . . all of them ashen and downtrodden. They didn’t speak . . . they kept a stunned silence.”

For the widows and the families of the dead, the first few days were a blur. Relatives came, friends dropped in, the phones rang and rang but someone else answered, food was sent over, flowers arrived, cards were read, words were spoken, nothing much registered. There was no consolation for their grief. The minutes dragged by with an aching numbness. One hour spilled into another . . . then another . . . ever so slowly. The only reprieve was sleep . . . when it came. The dark of night was welcome, but did not always provide relief from their pain.

On Thursday night near Barrhead, Shawn Hennessey and his mother discussed the fact that the Winchester rifle Roszko had taken on his murderous rampage was registered to Shawn’s grandfather, John Hennessey. Fearing the rifle would be traced to John and eventually Shawn, they called for a family meeting.

The gathering included Shawn, Dennis, Shawn’s father, Barry, and his mother, Sandy. They discussed the fact that the rifle would invariably be traced back to John and it wouldn’t be long before the RCMP would come knocking and ask about it.

Barry claims they went along with John Hennessey’s idea to concoct a “story” as follows: John had always possessed the rifle; he had never given it to Shawn; the rifle had been stolen out of John Hennessey’s welding truck several weeks prior to the time of the murders.

Everyone at the meeting agreed to stick to this story when the police came calling.

Mayor Albert Schalm says, “The media scrum at my office lasted all day and went well into the evening.”

At one point, a call came from a government secretary in Ottawa asking where he would be at 7:00 p.m. Albert told her, and at 7:00 sharp he received a phone call from Prime Minister Paul Martin.

“The gist of his message was that he wanted to send condolences to the people of Mayerthorpe on behalf of the country. He asked me to relay his message to our community.”

At 12:45 a.m. he received a call from the BBC in London, England, asking for a live interview.

“The British radio host was very nice. He didn’t seem to understand the time difference between England and Western Canada. He told me that the Canadian Mounties are known all over the world.”

Other phone calls came in from radio stations across the country. Several were from Toronto. One of those calls came in from a producer at 3:45 a.m. trying to set up a 6:00 a.m. live interview.

In retrospect, Albert says he really can’t complain. “When I was dealing with the national and international media, they treated me very well,” he says. “As a matter of fact, they were very considerate . . . awesome, I would say. And I appreciated that.”

For five or six days after the tragedy, Albert was so busy with the daily deluge of phone calls and interviews, he decided to take “a bit of a leave” from his farm job. “I asked my boss, Harvey Hagman, if I could have the mornings off . . . and he was good enough to accommodate me. He didn’t replace me, he just agreed that I could take the mornings off. Sometimes I wonder how he got along without someone, because that was our busiest time of year. And you had to be alert and careful.

“Every half hour, we used to drive through the herd on a sleigh or a pickup truck and when we spotted a new calf, we’d lift it up and put it on the sled or on the tailgate of the truck. Then we’d drive slowly to the calving barn and the calf’s mother would follow right behind us . . . always followed right behind.”

That Friday night, RCMP Superintendent Marty Cheliak announced that Roszko’s white pickup truck had been located near Cherhill by Alberta’s Rural Crime Watch organization.

The media immediately began to wonder how Roszko had managed to travel the twenty-some miles from Cherhill to his farm on Range Road 75. And this question soon became the main topic of discussion and speculation among just about everyone in the county, if not the country.

Christine Hennessey’s reaction to this news item was that it now seemed that people were wanting to blame someone for helping Roszko.

As the media continued to scour the area for a new angle on the story, they did respect the RCMP members’ privacy and stayed away from them.

And that was a godsend, because all of the Mayerthorpe and Whitecourt Mounties, from the youngest to the oldest, were suffering from deep shock. Some of them had seen the bodies of their dead friends, and as one member recalls, “Their injuries were horrific.”

Many of the members endured horrible flashbacks of the incident. Most of them had recurring nightmares. Almost all of them would eventually be diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.

Each of them was offered immediate leave, and they were replaced at their posts by members from other nearby detachments who came in and served on a rotational basis.

Jeff Whipple says, “I remember those first few days, but it’s all pretty hazy. I would go in to work one day. The next day I would feel awful and I’d stay home. Then I’d go back in. Then another day, I’d see the psychologist. I was in, off, back in, off . . . everything seemed like a complete blur. And this went on for months after the incident.”

Cindie Dennis’s parents stayed with her at her house near Sangudo for a few days. They cared for their young daughter and comforted her, tenderly aware that she had suffered such a terrible blow so early in her police career.

Cindie remembers: “Even in those first few days, I realized how much I was going to miss them. They were all such fun to be with. I didn’t know Tony Gordon, but I heard so many nice things about him. But the three I knew . . . Peter and Leo and Brock . . . everyone just loved them. And now I was going to their funerals.”

Sergeant Bob Meredith, the staff relations representative responsible for the Mayerthorpe Detachment, had rushed to town within an hour of the shootings. He remembers how the RCMP called in three psychologists as well as a dozen peer counsellors to assist the members and the families of the slain Mounties. All of these people in pain were urged to talk about their feelings and seek professional help if they felt they needed it.

The RCMP has a comprehensive member assistance program, but it is up to each individual to ask for help. For the Mounties to insist on their members’ accepting this assistance would make it appear as if they were having this support forced upon them.

Members were also free to seek medical professionals on their own or seek help from the federal occupational health centres operated by Veteran Affairs.

Within the course of the first week, a special meeting called a “Critical Incident Debriefing” was held to go over the specific details of the Mayerthorpe incident from beginning to end. Because the trauma of the experience was still so fresh and painful for the Mayerthorpe and Whitecourt members, their attendance at this meeting was not mandatory.

On March 12, an open letter to the public signed by Sgt. Brian Pinder and Staff Sgt. Tom Pickard, the respective Detachment Commanders for Mayerthorpe and Whitecourt, read as follows:

On behalf of the members, staff, and their families of both Mayerthorpe and Whitecourt Detachments we would like to express our gratitude to the people of our communities, our province, and our country for the overwhelming support we have received.

The deaths of our four friends and colleagues has been a tragedy beyond comprehension and we as a family needed some days to be together in private grief. However, we need the communities we serve to know that their outpouring of support, love, prayers, hugs, flowers, and caring has touched all our hearts, the hearts of our families, and the families of Constable Peter Schiemann, Constable Leo Johnston, Constable Brock Myrol, and Constable Anthony Gordon. You have eased a burden that could not have been borne without your support. For that we are eternally grateful.

We are proud of our communities, proud to live in them, and proud to serve and protect them. We are still here and please know that we will see you soon.

There is no doubt that the local members and the families of the deceased Mounties suffered most from the horror of the multiple murders, but the residents of the communities were deeply affected, too.

“It was like a bomb went off,” says Margaret Thibault. “There wasn’t time for anger. It was too big . . . you’d look into the eyes of your friends and neighbours and the shock was reflected back at you.

“There was a solemn quiet among us . . . like after a great storm passes or after an explosion happens or a bomb goes off. What is there to say? People were still sorting things out . . . digging deep inside themselves for their strength.

“The quiet came from a combination of shock and denial. You cannot accept something this huge in one moment.”

John Kyle agrees. “I was working in the clinic and someone came in and told me. I couldn’t believe it. I had seen two of those guys just this morning when they picked up the meat. I was stunned.

“When I went out later, it was very subdued, very quiet in town. Everyone was shocked and saddened. It was like they didn’t know what to say.”

“It was all-consuming, “ Margaret says. “The pain was visible . . . palpable in peoples’ body language. Just to breathe was a challenge at first.

“Nobody was running around wild or screaming. We stayed close to home and remained calm. We visited each other’s houses, shared food together, and tried to sort things out through the rubble of our hearts and minds.”

Residents reached out to each other in quiet conversations, away from the prying eyes and ears of reporters.

Albert Schalm says, “You could talk to your neighbour, or virtually anyone in town, without feeling like you were intruding. It was just people leaning on each other, venting their feelings.

“There was some anger, but it was hard to know where to direct it. People would say, ‘Why did this happen? Who can we blame?’ But at this point the only person you could blame was James Roszko, and he was dead.”

Margaret Thibault remembers, “There was lots of hugging, and people were touching other people on the shoulder to assure each other we weren’t living in a nightmare.

“It took a while before tears came. We had to shift gears and get back to some sort of normalcy first.”

On the eve of his funeral, Queen Elizabeth II sent a message to Alberta Lieutenant-Governor Norman Kwong.

It read: “Prince Philip and I were shocked to learn of the deaths of the four Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers in Alberta. Please convey to the families of those killed our sincerest condolences on their terrible loss. Our thoughts and prayers are with them at this most difficult time.”

Peter’s funeral was held on Tuesday, March 8, in St. Matthew Lutheran Church at Stony Plain west of Edmonton.

A Greyhound-type bus was chartered to transport detachment personnel to the church. This included uniformed officers, civilian employees, their husbands, wives, and a few of the members’ parents.

The service was preceded by a procession of tartan-clad pipers leading a large contingent of police officers to the church.

Inside, 1,400 mourners filled the pews while another 600 watched the service on closed-circuit television in two gymnasiums at Memorial Composite High School. Among them were 800 police officers who had come from far and wide.

During the service, Peter’s coffin was draped with a Canadian flag on which lay his Stetson and his holster and gun.

The congregation heard Peter’s heartbroken younger sister Julia say, “He was a son and a brother whose love for his family was evident at all times.”

Peter’s older brother Michael could barely refrain from sobbing as he concluded his comments by declaring to Peter, “I’ll leave you with five words: I’ll talk to you later.”

Dr. Ralph Mayan assured the Schiemann family that they were not alone in their grief, because millions mourned with them. He recalled that Peter had attempted to assuage his father’s fear of the dangers of police work by telling him, “If something should happen, you won’t need to worry. I’ll be with Jesus in heaven.”

Dr. Mayan said that Peter even joked to his sister that he wanted to be buried with a bag of potato chips and a flashlight because it would be dark and he’d get hungry. And Peter’s family planned to honour his request.

Peter’s father, Don Schiemann, a Lutheran pastor, told reporters his son saw his job as a vocation that God had drawn him toward. His advice was: “Don’t ever pass up an opportunity to tell your child that you love them.

“I know with all my heart that God will bring some good out of the death of these men. And the first good that I know of is that Peter is in heaven.”

The churches in Mayerthorpe played a significant role in helping the community get through this most difficult time. Forgiveness was a theme that was emphasized throughout the week in all of the churches.

Ed Broadway, a minister at the Whitecourt Baptist Church, said the Roszko family needed some consideration and understanding in this tragic situation.

He said, “They have gone to the police and expressed their apologies. They have been very forthright. They are seeking some comfort just like the rest of the people.”

At Sunday mass at St. Agnes Roman Catholic Church, the priest asked his parishioners to pray for James Roszko and consider the circumstances that led to his downfall and caused this incident.

Rev. Wendell Wiebe began his Sunday service with the words: “Ugliness and sorrow have filled our week. Hope starts today.”

Mayerthorpe residents make a point of distinguishing between the man who committed the murders and members of his large extended family. Roszko’s relatives are dotted around Mayerthorpe, Whitecourt, and the surrounding countryside. Twenty-eight of them are listed in the phone directories pertaining to this area.

Colette McKillop, who owns an insurance business and also served as head of the Mayerthorpe and District Chamber of Commerce says, “We protect our own. Just because they are relatives, the community is not going to hold that against them . . . ever.”

James Roszko’s brother George, an oil field contractor from Whitecourt, says his neighbours and coworkers rallied to his side after the shootings. “They realized this had nothing to do with us.”

At an evening service, Pastor George Ridley prayed, “Lord, we also want you to pray for the Roszko family, the family caught in the middle of all this sorrow.”

Some of them are stellar citizens. Lil Roszko, the widow of Fred, runs the Case dealership in Mayerthorpe. She is a prominent citizen who is considered to be a great community person.

Margaret Thibault says, “Lil is widely known and appreciated for serving on town committees and helping to raise funds for various causes. She is just a great woman. Everybody respects her.”

All of Jimmy Roszko’s brothers and sisters are law-abiding citizens who are gainfully employed. Several of them practise trades or professions in the area.

He and his father had been estranged for over nine years. Their relationship was never very good, but it deteriorated even further when Bill found out that James was using marijuana. Bill still believes that drugs were the cause of his son’s bizarre behaviour. As James got into one difficulty after another with the law, Bill came to think of him as a “loser.” And he told him so.

When Bill, a self-proclaimed devoutly religious man, heard that his son had murdered four policemen, the eighty-year-old man was shattered. He described the massacre as “terribly evil.”

“The devil from everlasting hell could not have done what Jim did . . . the way he shot police. I feel very sorry for the families of the policemen. They were trying to stop a situation of bad behaviour, and they got shot.”

During an interview with the press about the tragedy, he referred to James as a “wicked devil” whom he believed “is now in hell.”

Bill said, “He had an angry streak as far back as I can remember . . . and a lifetime hatred for police.

Bill claimed he had not spoken to Jimmy for nine years and made it clear he would not be attending his funeral. “I’ll be making a bad sin to have anything to do with it.”

In contrast to those sentiments, James’s mother, Stephanie, who divorced Bill when James was twelve, grieved the death of her eccentric son. She says, “My son was not the devil.”

But she will admit that he did have a fierce temper. “When he gets a grudge against someone, he will be mad at you for the rest of your life. That’s the way he is.”

It seems Stephanie had always been more tolerant of James. Some say she was unfailingly supportive of him. Others say he could do no wrong in her eyes. She was known to aggressively confront people in defense of her darling Jimmy.

She helped him, too. After he quit his work in the oil fields of the Northwest Territories in the 1980s, Stephanie allowed him to live with her and her third husband at their farm. She even encouraged him to run a small herd of cattle on their land.

Jimmy’s now infamous white pickup truck is registered in Stephanie’s name. And it is her belief that the whole problem with the bailiff’s coming to Jimmy’s farm to repossess the truck was caused by the automotive agency.

She maintains that Jimmy claimed the tailgate on the truck was dented or defective and he had asked them for a new one. When the dealership wouldn’t comply with his demands, Jimmy refused to pay them and, as a consequence, they wanted the truck repossessed.

His sister Josephine, who lives nearby in Whitecourt, seemed to understand him best and was particularly close to him. She spent hours on the phone talking to him, counselling him.

She said, “He wasn’t the monster they made him out to be. He had a good heart and he never hurt us in any way.”

Roszko’s twenty-two year-old niece Deirdre expressed her love for her uncle: “He often came to our rescue when bills couldn’t be paid and there was food to be bought.

“We’re not only grieving. We have to deal with the anger of society which makes it even harder.”

James Roszko’s brother George hadn’t seen Jimmy in the past fifteen years. He says, “Jim was trouble. Who knows what was rolling around inside his head? Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with the rest of us.

“He was just a sick little man who did a sick, awful deed. He should have been deemed a dangerous offender and locked away years ago.”

John Roszko is a finishing carpenter and the father of an Edmonton police officer. John was not enamoured with his younger brother James.

After hearing of his lethal rampage against the police, he lamented, “Sadly, I cannot find it in me to grieve for my brother.

“He was never much of a brother to most of us. I don’t know . . . it would be like mourning a stranger. Somehow I feel a sense of relief that he is no longer with us.”

John wrote condolence letters to the families of the four constables murdered by his brother. He wanted them to know: “We’re going to apply all our efforts to see that something good comes of all this.”

John went to the National Memorial in Edmonton to honour the fallen four and said that he wanted to attend their funerals but was concerned that he would not be able to “contain his emotions.”

It is John’s opinion that his brother did not conceive and carry out his daring and devious plan on the spur of the moment. John maintains that James had been planning to exact his vengeance on the RCMP for years because he believed the police had been persecuting him. “This was something he was thrashing around for many, many years.”

John also feels there was likely no way that the police could have prevented the slaughter. He said that the four officers didn’t have a chance against his brother because it was “on his property” — a little phrase that speaks volumes.

In choosing these words, John implies that James was familiar with the fields around his farm and knew the best way to approach his Quonset hut unnoticed. John’s choice of expression means that James was acquainted with every nook and cranny in his steel Quonset hut, he knew the entrances and passageways, and he was acutely aware of every item strewn on the floor throughout the place.

His implication is that James could stealthily approach and enter his Quonset hut and move about inside it without the police’s being aware of his presence. And that appears to be precisely what occurred.

Roszko’s funeral was held on Thursday night, March 10, at Park Memorial Funeral Home in Mayerthorpe. Several of his family members were present at the small, unpublicized, thirty-minute service. James’s father did not attend. His sister Josephine Ruel stayed her loyal course, remembering some nice things about her infamous brother who had forever linked the family name to a national atrocity. Roszko’s remains were cremated and the disposition of his ashes is unknown.

That same Thursday morning, an extraordinary memorial service was held in Edmonton to honour the four fallen Mounties. In its magnitude and solemn pageantry, it was one of the most remarkable ceremonies ever witnessed in Canada.

Melanie Grower, a spokesperson from the Prime Minister’s Office, offered an explanation as to why the service would have such an impact on the nation: “There are thirty-two million Canadians whose hearts go out to these families.”

The entire memorial service from the opening procession to the closing March Past by the RCMP Honour Guard was carried across the country on network television. Millions of Canadians from the western Arctic to eastern Newfoundland tuned in to watch with fascination as the drama of the ritual played out.

An elderly Ontario man who watched the proceedings from start to finish remarked, “It was a day when the whole country mourned.”

First came the magnificent procession — so long and large that the marchers had to muster at several locations in the valley beside the North Saskatchewan River. With precision, these various sections merged together into a massive entourage that marched up the hill on 116th Street towards the University of Alberta campus.

RCMP horses and riders lead the procession of 10,000 police officers marching to the Butterdome at the University of Alberta for the National Memorial Service in Edmonton, March 10, 2005. (Epic Photography)

Leading the way was the RCMP Regimental Pipes and Drums. Immediately behind them came the four-horse, diamond-patterned Guidon Party, which escorted the RCMP’S Guidon, their own unique standard similar to the traditional battle flags of the British Cavalry. Bearing the Colours at the head of the party was Sgt. Major Bill Stewart riding twelve-year-old Kasar, a veteran mount of the Musical Ride flown in from the Rockcliffe stables in Ottawa. Eight more RCMP horses followed the Guidon Party with their riders flying red and white pennons on their lances.

Then came four marching Mounties carrying the fallen members’ Stetsons on ceremonial pillows. Next was the one hundred-member Honour Guard comprised exclusively of comrades who had served with the four deceased. Behind them was a rolling sea of red serge — 5,000 RCMP members — marching eight abreast in columns that stretched from sidewalk to sidewalk. They were followed by thousands of uniformed police from hundreds of jurisdictions. After them came rows and rows of uniformed public service personnel. In total, the procession of 10,000 marchers measured a full kilometre in length.

Headdress bearers enter the Butterdome. L to R: Cpl. Joan Kuyp (for Cst. Peter Schiemann), Cst. Joe Sangster (Leo Johnston), Cst. Beth Hoskin (Anthony Gordon), and Cst. Jason Lapointe (Brock Myrol). Corps Sgt. Major Gene Maeda is behind them. On the horses, L to R: Sgt. Mark Godue, Sgt. Maj. Bill Stewart, S/Sgt. Gerry Sharp. (Epic Photography)

When the cortege arrived at the university’s Butterdome Pavilion, Sgt. Major Stewart rode Kasar a few strides into the cavernous facility and presented the Guidon to Sgt. Major Robert Gallup, who carried it to the stage while the capacity audience of 15,000 maintained a silent reverence. The service officially began when the Guidon was placed on the head of a ceremonial drum.

The four Mounties’ Stetsons were placed on RCMP shabracks (horse blankets) in front of their portraits on stage; the Cadet Choir from Depot Division sang “O Canada”; two ministers extended bilingual greetings to the congregation and gave the call to service.

The two-hour ceremony featured many speakers, none more eloquent than Governor General Adrienne Clarkson and Prime Minister Paul Martin.

The Queen’s representative concluded her remarks by addressing the families of the deceased: “To you who suffer, any comfort may seem cold and sympathy somehow remote. But we are here to give what consolation we can; we know that you may feel no consolation is possible, yet we offer it all the same. We extend all our sympathy, all our strength to those who will always hold constables Gordon, Johnston, Myrol, and Schiemann in a sacred place in their hearts.”

Paul Martin’s best words captured the sentiments of all Canadians: “To wear the uniform of the RCMP is to dedicate oneself to feats of courage and nobility of purpose. These four young men, alive in the early summer of life, rest now in the serenity of God’s embrace. They are mourned by neighbours, and by a nation. Their memory will be eternal. So, too, will be our gratitude.”

On behalf of the RCMP, Commissioner Giuliano Zaccardelli proclaimed, “Our way is now lit brighter by the shining memory of these four men who have joined the list of those who have gone before.”

Peter Schiemann’s father brought tears to many eyes when, at the end of his address, he spoke to his fallen son: “Peter, we will see you in Heaven . . . but we can hardly wait.”

Lee Johnston paid homage to his twin brother, Leo, referring to him as “my brother, my best friend, and the most important person in my life.”

Constable Barry Baskerville reminded the mourners that his close friend and troop mate Anthony Gordon was just twenty-eight with a wife, Kim, and son, Spencer, and a baby on the way, a child who will never know its father, except through the memories of others.

In his eulogy for Brock Myrol, Rev. Art Hundeby stated that Brock “. . . always set the bar high and jumped over it. . . [Now] God has carried Brock over the final bar.”

Interspersed among the speakers, Ian Tyson offered a powerful rendition of “Four Strong Winds”; Inuk activist and songwriter Susan Aglukark sang “Snowbird”; Aboriginal Tom Jackson accompanied himself on a Native drum singing a poignant version of “Amazing Grace.”

Then the house was hushed as a lone bugler, Cst. Owen Rusticus, played the Last Post. When he ended its haunting call, the congregation rose for a minute of silence.

There were prayers for the fallen. Then the Honour Guard exited with a March Past, and the service in Edmonton was ended.

But elsewhere on this day, there were many other memorials attended by thousands in halls and churches across the country from Vancouver to St. Johns.

At Depot Division in Regina, speaker Bob Bourget reminded the 300 in attendance, “This is indeed the spiritual home of the RCMP here at the Academy. These four cadets have graduated all within the last four years.”

In Thorold, Ontario, fifty-two of sixty members from the Hamilton Detachment attended a regional service at St. John’s Anglican Church. “There would have been more of us,” said Sgt. Mike Campobasso, “but we couldn’t abandon ship. Somebody had to stay home and mind the store.”

At a sombre service in Winnipeg, RCMP Chief Superintendent Bill Robinson told his grieving members, “They were the best we had to offer, in their youth, vibrancy, and professionalism. We will honour their memory, and we will never forget them.”

The magnitude and solemnity of the services held this day across the country were unprecedented in the history of the RCMP.

The following day, private services were held in Alberta for Leo Johnston and Anthony Gordon.

The chartered bus had transported the detachments’ personnel to the National Memorial. After the service, the entourage stayed overnight in an Edmonton hotel. Now the bus was moving on to Lac La Biche some 160 kms (ninety-six miles) to the north.

Here, at Leo Johnston’s funeral, his widow, Kelly, hugged the honour guard as her husband’s casket, covered with a Canadian flag, was carried out of the Evangelical Free Church and was loaded into a hearse.

Earlier that week, Kelly had told the media that she and Leo never even had time to view their wedding pictures nor to go on a honeymoon. “We had a beautiful life each day and we were supposed to have a long and beautiful future together.”

That same day, a service for Anthony Gordon was held at St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Red Deer, where his widow, Kim, suffered the same heart-wrenching experience as did Kelly Johnston.

Kim’s pain was compounded by the realization that she had not only lost her “gentle giant of a man,” but her two-year-old son and the child she was carrying would never know their father’s loving care.

It would be June before their second son was born. Kim named him Anthony after his fallen father.

Because of the 300-km distance between Lac La Biche and Red Deer, it was impossible for the chartered bus entourage to get to Anthony’s funeral.

However, after an overnight in Lac La Biche, they got an early start the next morning and set out on the long ride to Brock Myrol’s funeral in Red Deer.

The service was held on Saturday, March 12, at the Crossroads Church on the outskirts of Red Deer and was attended by 2,700 mourners.

Every member of Brock’s troop thirteen from Depot Division was at the service, which was quite remarkable, since all of them had just settled into their new postings at various detachments across Canada.

Brock Myrol’s mother, Colleen, had previously lashed out at the “liberal-minded justice system” that had allowed James Roszko, a convicted child molester and known threat to police, to remain out of prison.

However, at Brock’s final service, her remarks were focused on her son. “Brock was driven as a child, driven as a teen, and in overdrive as an adult.”

In sad reflection, she said, “We were supposed to be planning a wedding now, but God changed that for his own reasons.”

As Brock’s body was loaded into the hearse, his sobbing fiancée, Anjila Steeves, kissed his casket and said goodbye.

That final kiss was the last scene in a tragic national drama that had riveted the country’s attention for over a week.

There was, however, one bit of unfinished business for the bus entourage. Many on board wanted to stop at the graveyard where Tony Gordon had been buried the day before.

Before the motor coach got to the cemetery, Jeff Whipple got off and went into a florist’s shop, where he bought a huge bunch of assorted flowers.

When the vehicle stopped near Anthony’s grave, Jeff distributed the flowers among the group. Then each person took his or her turn laying a flower on top of his freshly turned grave.

Everyone then bowed their heads and had a silent moment with their own thoughts for their fallen comrade.

Back in Mayerthorpe, Rev. Arnold Lotholz, Pastor Wendell Wiebe, Sharon Foster, the minister of the United Church, and father Ray Guimonde of St. Agnes Roman Catholic Church coordinated a memorial service for the community.

It was held in the high school gymnasium with audio feeds into several classrooms and into the nearby Elmer Elson Elementary School. Over 2,000 people attended, and there was extensive media coverage of the program. One of the most touching parts of the service featured the Grade 1 children singing and signing the song, “Love can Build a Bridge.”

Two local women, Charlotte Arthur and Colette McKillop, initiated a campaign throughout the town and the surrounding area, where red and white ribbons were distributed inscribed with the words “We Remember.” Large ribbons were distributed to businesses so they could hang them in their windows; small ones were for residents to wear on their lapels. The ribbons were free, but many people started to make voluntary donations.

Within days of the murders, there was a lot of talk around town of creating a permanent memorial to the slain Mounties. And Margaret Thibault, who had worked closely with all four constables, agreed to form a committee to pursue such a cause.

Then Haley Martin and Megan Sangster, the eleven year-old daughters of two Mayerthorpe members, came up with the idea of asking every student across Canada to donate a loonie towards this RCMP memorial. Together with Megan’s sister Laura, fourteen, and two local high school students, Katie Mattson and Katherine Lakeman, they launched Kids 4 Cops to help raise money for the cause.

Megan says, “We really loved them and missed them, so we wanted to do something.”

And as the reader will determine in chapter eleven, these young women were extremely helpful in making the idea of a memorial become a reality.

But of all the activities that were held to commemorate the loss of the four Mounties, the one that seemed to have the most immediate impact was a hockey game held in the Mayerthorpe arena.

For the past few years, Jim Martin had organized a charity hockey game between the local Mounties and a team of Mayerthorpe old-timers called the Wranglers. This year’s game was scheduled to be played on Monday, March 7, only four days after the tragedy.

Albert Schalm says, “There was some serious soul-searching and many doubts about whether or not the game should take place. But in the end, they decided to go ahead and play.

“That game was possibly the single biggest defining moment that started the healing process for our community.

“The arena was packed to maximum capacity and then some (causing mild grief to the fire commissioner).

“It was such a joy to see our detachment members plus a large contingent of past members smile, have fun, and put aside their own grief . . . even for just a few hours.

“It helped us residents put aside our grief also. It may have been the first time that every resident in attendance was actually rooting for the cops to win — which they did.”

Margaret Thibault agrees. “Playing the hockey game was smart. It brought the community and the police together. The community had to see that their police were still there. And the police needed to have the community surround the detachment with their support.

“It also gave the members an opportunity to skate off their anger and their high emotions.”

Jim Martin says it seemed to be good for everyone. “Most of our detachment played — me and Clayton Seguin, Al Starman, Joe Sangster, Cindie Dennis, and Julie Letal and a bunch of members from other years.”

Albert Schalm says, “Rod Phillips and Morley Scott from the Edmonton Oilers broadcast crew came in and broadcast the game over 630 CHED. The game has been a sellout every year since the tragedy.”

Immediately after the murders of the four Mounties were confirmed, the media began asking a number of pertinent questions.

2.How did James Roszko travel the 38.5 kms (twenty-three miles) from his aunt’s farm in Cherhill to his Quonset on Range Road 75?

4.From where and from whom did James Roszko get the heavy black socks he used to muffle the sound of his boots and the white sheet he used as camouflage?

These were the burning questions that were asked over and over by every media source that covered the story.

The RCMP replied that they had started an extensive investigation that would examine these questions thoroughly. And hopefully, in time, they would be able to provide answers to them.

Furthermore, they requested the public’s assistance and co-operation with all these matters.

The media buzz and the police pronouncements were of little consolation to Shawn Hennessey and Dennis Cheeseman.

They weren’t exactly sure what crime they had committed. They didn’t know the degree of their culpability or the legal extent of their complicity in Roszko’s actions. What they did know was that they had driven him from Cherhill to Range Road 75 and dropped him off close to the murder scene. And they were the last two people to see Roszko alive.

They also knew that it was just a matter of time before the RCMP would come knocking on their door.