SUMMER OF ‘77

Sergeant Rick Bigland (Ret.)
Penticton, British Columbia

In the summer of 1977, I was the junior constable, working in a three-man detachment in Beiseker, Alberta. Beiseker had one main street and was a typical small prairie town of about five hundred people. We policed a district that contained four other towns of about the same size. It was a pleasant district in which to work; the people were generally quiet, friendly, and very pro-police. We were located about eighty kilometres from the Calgary city limits. At the time I was twenty-four-years-old, recently married, and had one daughter. I had been in the RCMP for four years and it was my third posting, not uncommon for those days.

It was a very warm day in early July, and my shift was to end at 8:00 PM. At about 6:00 PM, I figured I had just about enough time to drive out to Carbon and make some enquiries on a break and enter file investigation that I started earlier. Carbon was a forty minute drive to the east of Beiseker. After getting about half way there, Calgary dispatch called on the radio. The dispatcher advised me there was a complaint from a farmer near Delacour, reporting that a couple of people were having a drinking party in one of his fields. The location was about thirty-five minutes south of Beiseker, or, just about an hour from where I was when I got the call.

I had heard on the radio, minutes earlier, that a highway patrol member, Alf, had dropped into Beiseker and gone for coffee at the senior constable’s residence. Alf worked out of the Strathmore Detachment, but his area included Beiseker for highway duties. I called Alf and asked him if he was planning on returning to Strathmore via highway nine. Alf stated he was, and I asked him to check on the “party” on his way by Delacour. Alf said he would and I continued on to Carbon.

A few minutes later the dispatcher radioed Alf; there was a serious injury accident on the Trans-Canada Highway near Strathmore, and he needed to respond code three (as fast as possible). This, of course, meant my party complaint was still un-serviced. I debated with myself on what to do. The break and enter complaint was more serious than the party, but the party was in progress. Given the time it would take me to get to the party complaint there was a good chance the participants would be gone by the time I got there. Added into the mix was that attending the complaint would make me late for getting home to my family. The tipping point was that the dispatcher had mentioned that the people at the party were drunk and there was a blue pickup there. Failure to attend the call on my part might mean a drunk driver causing an accident. I decided I would at least have to make the effort.

I turned my patrol car around and headed south. Frustrated, I put my foot on the gas and went much faster than the priority of this call would normally require. In just over half an hour, I was travelling down the gravel grid road near the scene. The hot July air made heat waves rise above the front of the car and the gravel road made dust kick up behind me.

From the field entrance I could see the truck, an old blue one with a wood cap on the back. No people were visible. I pulled up to the driver’s door of the truck which was about a hundred yards into the hay field, but I still could not see anyone. I began to think they had all left in another vehicle. I got out of the police car and walked up to the driver’s door of the truck and looked inside. A male, just a little older than me was slumped over the seat and appeared to be asleep. I opened the door and shook him. He gave no response. Another shake got me a “fuck off” from the driver. I detected a heavy smell of booze. It appeared that he would not be too cooperative when he did wake up.

The complainant said it was a party so that would indicate there were more people. If they were as cranky as this guy, I might have had my hands full. So, I decided to take the keys out of the ignition and handcuff the semi-conscious drunk to the steering wheel so I wouldn’t be double-teamed or jumped from behind while I looked for the others. And with me having his keys, he’d be where I left him when I got back. I walked around the back of the truck looking for the rest of the party.

About ten feet from the back passenger bumper of the truck was a female lying on the ground. She was naked with the exception of wearing an army-style brown jacket. She was young and had long, dark hair. Nearby, lay a roofer’s hammer hatchet. Clearly the hammer had been used to beat her face until it was unrecognizable. Her eyes were swollen shut and her lips smashed. I could see no teeth in her mouth. It appeared that he had either cut or bit the rest of her body countless times.

When I kneeled down beside her she groaned and tried to turn away. I told her I was a police officer and that I was there to help her and would call her an ambulance. I do not know if she heard me or, if she did, what she was thinking. I went to my car and called for an ambulance and tried to describe the scene. I got an emergency blanket from the back of my police car and covered the girl. I again told her who I was and that help was coming. She made no reply. I thought of my first aid training, but she was breathing and the blood was coming from her head which had obviously been beaten. I didn’t want to put a pressure bandage there for fear of doing more damage. I did what I could for her.

I went back to the truck. The male had woke-up and was staring at his handcuffed hand. I undid the handcuff from the steering wheel and fixed it to his other hand. I put him in the back of the police car. I noticed that his pants were undone in the front. I told him he was under arrest for assault and read him the police caution, advising him that he was under investigation and anything he said could be used as evidence against him in any criminal charges. He gave no response. I returned to the girl and told her again that help was coming. She made no sign that she heard me.

The ambulance was the first to arrive followed closely by the senior constable from Airdrie Detachment. The ambulance crew worked quickly and from the tone of their voices, I could tell her condition was not good. I remember one of them glaring at my prisoner in the back of the car. They told us that they could not get an IV into the girl as her veins were collapsing. The only thing they could do was try to transport her to the hospital, code three. She died at the Calgary city limits, in the back of the ambulance.

Her name was Cathy and she came from a small town in Ontario. She and a girlfriend had come out with the intention of working at the Calgary Stampede and then returning home. Her girlfriend got a job at the midway. Cathy told her she had gotten a job with a carpenter and that was the last they saw of her. She was eighteen-years-old.

After I finished writing up my notes and a report and processed the exhibits, I returned to Beiseker Detachment. I had been working for twenty-two hours but did not feel tired, and had a hard time getting to sleep. Like most police officers, while at the crime scene you are not thinking of any danger, horror, or about yourself. In short, you are too busy to think about your own feelings. Later—sometimes years later—you think more about what happened and what you might or could have done differently. I have often thought about the ten minute delay in my response while I continued to work on the break and enter file while highway patrol was dispatched to the “party” complaint. Those ten minutes were a lifetime for Cathy.

A few days later, the homicide section called and asked me to canvass the area on the route that the killer would have taken to get to the field, in case somebody had seen something. I thought it pretty unlikely, but did it anyway. The third house I stopped at was an acreage owned by a young couple. They had been out gardening that day. They saw the blue truck drive by. It appeared a girl fell out of the passenger side. The truck stopped. The driver got out. The girl appeared to have winded herself falling out since she did not resist as she was put back in the truck by the driver. A neighbour’s car pulled up behind the truck. The truck drove away. This happened about two miles from the scene.

I spoke to the neighbour who pulled up behind the truck. He had seen the same thing as the young couple, but added that the driver appeared to kick the girl before he put her in the back of the truck.

I didn’t ask either of them why they didn’t call us right away. There didn’t seem to be a point anymore. These were not bad people and they certainly did not know what was about to happen to the girl.

Forensic evidence collected proved beyond any doubt that the killer was the man in the truck. He was found guilty of manslaughter, rather than murder, due to his intake of marihuana and alcohol. During the trial he never looked up at me or any of the other witnesses. He sat at his table writing on a pad of foolscap. He did not have horns growing out of his head. He looked as normal as anyone else in the room. The only thing odd about him was he wore an earring. That was odd in 1977 for a guy.

I have worked on a dozen or more homicides since then. I have spent thirty-eight years in the RCMP and continue as a reservist. But I remember this day like it was yesterday.

Editor’s note: Rick is Sara Clark’s father. Her story is “A Job Well Done”.