On December 14, 1974, two
Moncton police officers, Constables Michael O’Leary and Corporal Aurèle
Bourgeois were shot to death and buried in shallow graves outside of Moncton.
They had been searching for the kidnappers of a 14-year-old boy. The effect of
their deaths on the families and co-workers was immediate and has lasted for
generations. This historical fiction piece attempts to follow the life of one
of those persons. Names and other information have been changed to protect
identities.
Introduction
The rhythmic hissing of the
ventilator is strangely calming to the woman holding vigil at his bedside. Last
week, a nervous young doctor told her that her husband had “multiple cancers”
discovered on the CT scan. Like an electrical grid map after a lightning
strike, her mind shut down, unable to assimilate the information. Reg responded
with determination and desperation that he would “beat this thing.” Now, as he
lay in a coma, she struggled in an eddy of emotions, trying to connect
the pieces of their life.
Reg Storey was born in southern
New Brunswick. His community offered little employment to a high school
dropout. While still young, he travelled to the old-growth forest of British
Columbia, where he worked sixteen-hour days. He cut an imposing figure and
never shied away from a co-worker foolish enough to challenge him to a scuffle.
Returning to New Brunswick, his reputation as a tough but fair man followed. He
was hired and trained by the local police force. After completing the program,
on a fine summer evening, he met Rita Arsenault at a local dance. Reg was not a
subtle man. He spied the pretty young woman as he entered the
hall. Abandoning his police buddies and fortified with a few drinks, he walked
over to introduce himself. Rita, who had just moved to the city from her home
in Nova Scotia, found the man
charming in a rough sort of way.
She made room for him among her friends, and the two fell into a conversation
like old companions. He stopped in to visit many times after that. Three
months later, they sat quietly in the corner of a local café while the snow
fell heavily outside.
He couldn’t find a place to rest
his big, brawny hands, so he impulsively kept pushing back his thick brown
hair. Finally, he got the nerve up to ask young Rita if she would marry him.
Without hesitation, she answered yes. Her mother was not thrilled when she was
given the news. She liked the polite young man well enough, however, being a
policeman didn’t pay very well, and at the same time, the city was dangerous.
But the young couple were
determined to be together, and she relented. After a short engagement, they
were married. They settled into their new life with the optimism reserved for
the young. A year later, their first child, Sonya, was born.
Thursday, December 12, 1974.
Mike O’Leary’s patrol car blocked the entrance to the police station with the
hood raised. It was 8:10 p.m. He and his partner, Aurèle Bourgeois, were
trying to jump-start the vehicle. Their shift was supposed to start ten minutes
ago. Aurèle sat in the car reviewing the day shift report. The two men shared a
friendship built on a bond of trust, not unusual with police officers. A radio
call can mean split-second decisions resulting in injury or death. Aurèle
turned over the ignition while Mike jump-started the solenoid. He came around
the front of the car laughing. Aurèle grinned, knowing something was up with
his partner.
“Hey, I know that’s a good
trick, bud, but I didn’t think it would make you laugh,” said Aurèle.
“In 19 days, this lad is going to
be a corporal! Sarge told me I passed the exam.” Mike’s face beamed.
“Wow, that’s great news. You
worked hard for it, Mike, congrats.” Aurèle jumped from the car and hugged his
partner.
“I won’t be driving old clunkers
like this one. And in 19 days, Angie and I move into that house we have been
looking at. We are in for some good luck; I can feel it. Let’s get this rust
bucket on the road. We will be off for a week after this shift. Time to get
ready for the best Christmas!” Aurèle swung the car smoothly onto Main Street,
humming his favourite Christmas carol.
“Why was the second shift kept
on?” Aurèle wondered aloud.
“Yea, I don’t know, but after
the Sergeant was talking to me, he and the Chief went into a huddle like
something had them spooked,” responded Mike as much to himself as to his
partner.
“I don’t remember seeing the
Chief in the briefing room, after 6:00 p.m. since the Bank of Montreal
robbery last year.”
Their conversation was cut short
by an all-points bulletin. “All units be on the lookout for a 1968 to 1970
two-door Cadillac car with a light-beige body and a dark top, New Brunswick
plate number Alpha, November, Whiskey, 315—possible Code 11. Use extreme
caution. Subjects are armed. Stand by for further bulletins.” The two men looked at each other
with concern.
“Well, bud, there goes hope for
a quiet shift,” commented Aurèle as he stared into the dark December night.
*
The morning of December 13 was cold,
and dampness had settled into the small apartment. Rita had been up during the
night with their infant daughter, who was running a fever and had a worrisome
cough. Rita glanced at the kitchen clock, 7:00 a.m. Reg was late getting
off the night shift.
She had heard a lot of sirens
the previous night, they’re probably raiding some bootleggers, she
thought absently. A few minutes later, a car door closing announced Reg’s
arrival. The pent-up stress in her shoulders began to melt. She put the kettle
on the stove and set out his treat of molasses cookies and King Cole tea, his
usual after shifts. Last night, Rita placed the matching teacups, saucers, and sugar bowl on
the table. It was part of a six-piece setting her parents had given them as a
wedding gift.
Before setting out the tea, Rita
listened for the thud of Reg taking off his boots in the hallway closet. But
instead, she heard his heavy steps as he hurried to the bathroom. She cocked
her head to one side, listening as the tightness returned in her shoulders.
Being the wife of a policeman was a challenging transition for Rita. The midnight shifts were
the worst. There were few distractions, and Sonya usually slept. The silence
was broken occasionally by sirens. Even worst still was when a shooting or big
event caused the police scanner to buzz with activity, like last night. Reg
didn’t want her to buy it, but it was her way of being close to him.
When he came into the kitchen,
his face was ashen. He dropped heavily onto his chair, rubbing his face as if
to erase a difficult event. "What’s goin’ on Reg?” Rita asked as
she poured the tea. “You look as though you’ve
seen a ghost.”
“I hope to Christ I haven’t.” he responded as
he picked up his cup with a shaky hand. “It’s
bad, Rita, as bad as it gets. A couple of low-life
punks kidnapped the son of Abe Luckovich, the restaurant owner. Mike and
Aurèle Bourgeois were out looking, but now nobody knows where they
are." Mike and his wife Angie were part of a circle of friends made up
mostly of policemen and spouses. Mike and Reg had worked together when Reg
first joined the Force. The four men were well respected among the front-line
crew and management.
“It’s a full call out. Lads from
another shift are backing up the call sheet. They couldn’t reach Mike and Aurèle
on the radio. When a crew member went to their last known location, the car was
empty, and nobody was around. We think the dirtbags got them.” Standing with
the teapot, Rita suddenly felt weak as she tried to take in what was happening.
Willing herself not to fall, she
slumped into the nearest chair and looked across to her husband, his face
contorted in anxiety. She sensed their quiet, predictable life was tumbling out
of control and they were powerless to stop it.
She reached for Reg’s hand. The
speed which he pulled back caught Rita off guard, leaving her momentarily
confused and lost. “I’m okay; you don’t need to worry about me,” Reg said with determination, as much to himself as to his
wife. “When we catch those sleazy bastards, we’ll string them up by their balls,” he said, gulping his cup of tea and putting his service
cap and equipment back on. “The Chief says we need everybody on this one. Will
you and the baby be okay, eh? I will call you later.” He picked up a package of Mackintosh cream toffee.
Rita made sure one was always on the hall table. It was his stress reliever
since he stopped smoking. The start of the police car’s heavy engine was
followed by a trail of headlights that swept the wall. He was gone.
Rita turned on the radio to
drown the silence and the worried voices in her head. At times like these, she
felt adrift, alone. It was increasingly this way when something threatened
their routine. It seemed Reg was trying to shelter her from its effects;
instead, it left her feeling shut out, unable to be a full partner in her
husband’s life. The shrill, metallic sound of the telephone pulled her from the
dark void into which she was falling.
“Hi, Rita, it’s Angie.” Rita’s throat
contracted, and she again felt light-headed. She struggled to find her voice.
The result was a hoarse whisper.
“Hi Angie, how are you holding
up?” she asked.
“I’m not doing well,” was the
response. “The telephone’s been ringing steadily, and other wives are calling.
I know most of them mean well, but Jesus, Rita, I don’t want to be talkin’ with
a bunch of nosey crepe hangers.” Angie was from Newfoundland. She and Rita
shared the same offbeat view of people and events. They bonded the first time
they met.
“The Chief and his ass lickin’ lap dog Sergeant
Fitzpatrick were here snooping around. Gawd, I can’t stand either of them. The
Chief is sayin’ all that syrupy stuff about Mike. Last week, he was ready to
can him when Mike spoke up about cops beating up the bums on St. George Street
for no reason. And that Fitzpatrick pullin’ out the plastic evidence bag,
lookin’ for the bathroom. Does he think I don’t know he was going to get hair
samples from Mike’s hairbrush in case they find him dead?” There was a pause that seemed like an eternity. As much
as she wanted to, Rita didn’t try to fill it. “He’s not dead, is he Rita?” Angie’s
pleading voice was a whisper now. As her friend’s voice trailed off, Rita found
the strength in her own. Over the years, this interdependence defined the two
friends.
“Angie, you and I have been
through a lot with our husbands. We know they are good men and good cops. We
have to trust that Mike knows how to take care of himself and Aurèle is the
same way. They are out there doing their job. When Sonya wakes and has
breakfast, we will come over. You can try and beat me in a game of forty-fives. And I’ll
be watching you, don’t cheat!”
Angie responded, her voice
firming up. “Girl, you got to learn to play by Newfie rules. I can teach you,”
she replied, cheered.
“We will be over in about an
hour.”
Rita hung up the receiver with
dread hanging over her, but it was outweighed by her determination to stick by her friend.
When she went in to check on Sonya, the baby stood up in her crib, smiling. A
hand on her forehead confirmed the fever had broken in the night. A wave of
relief washed over the young mother as she gathered the baby in her arms. The
joy was tempered with concern as she recalled the anxiety Angie was experiencing.
As she changed and bathed Sonya,
her thoughts turned to Reg; where was he now? He would be obsessive in
searching for his friend. She hoped he would not compromise his own safety in
the hunt. What must he be feeling? The look on his face earlier had frightened
her. A combination of resolve and fear she had not seen in him before. Why
would he not talk about how he was feeling? When they were young, she found the
tough, unwavering facade an attractive quality. But now they were married with
a child. Their small apartment was cramped, and their limited budget was always
stretched. These were thoughts and concerns they should be sharing, but from
other situations, she had learned of Reg’s belief in the division of labour.
His was his paid work. Hers was to keep house. The two worlds were not to mix.
After breakfast, she bundled up Sonya securely, and they headed down the street
to hold vigil with her friend.
Radio silence had been ordered
since the abandoned police car and Mike’s portable radio were found a mile
north of the city. The fear was that the kidnappers had Bourgeois’ portable and could hear where the units were being directed.
Despite the ban, the radio chatter
continued as officers followed up on dozens of public reports. Reg snatched the
mic from its holder. “Jesus Christ, boys, stay off the radio. Those bastards
are listening. Call if you have something; otherwise, contact Sarge on a
landline.” The radio went silent. Reg was a young officer but respected and, in
some cases, feared by all ranks. He and Morel had covered over two hundred
miles since starting the double shift at eight that morning. He glanced at the
dim numbers on the car clock to see it was nearly 1:00 a.m. December 15.
He hadn’t slept for almost twenty hours, aside from the fitful naps he got in
the break rooms. The adrenaline coursing through his veins would prevent more
until they found Mike.
They used Morel’s car to avoid
unnecessary attention. They had a portable radio and a cherry light in case
they had to move fast. The rain and snow mix stopped; now a cold front had
moved in, making driving treacherous. They pulled over to look at a city map.
The cords on Reg’s neck felt like live wires as he chewed furiously on the
toffee bar.
“You and Mike were good friends,
eh Reg?” Morel attempted to ease the tension.
“What the fuck do you mean by
saying, were?” Even in the muted light, Morel could see the lividity in his
partner’s face. He considered getting out.
“I’m sorry, Reg. I wasn’t
thinking straight.” A heavy silence crept between the two men. Several tense
minutes slipped by in silence.
“Yea, Mike and I were wet behind
the ears, rookies. We were sworn in the same day and were partners for a while.
Man, that guy’s instincts were keen. He used his head where I, maybe, used my
hands too much. Fuck, I did the same as you, talking like he is dead. He isn’t,
he can’t be.”
Reg’s voice was lost in a hoarse
whisper. He struggled to get out of the car, feeling it was crumbling around
him. Try as he might, but he could not breathe. A sudden and violent weight was
crushing his chest. Sweat seeped from every pore in his body.
*
Rita and Sonya walked alone on
the street, usually buzzing with morning traffic. Joyful Christmas music played
from a small grocery store as they passed. Pretty lighted ornaments dazzled
Sonya, who was snuggled warmly in her stroller.
She carried on a lively
conversation with herself as they came up to Angie’s house. It was a modest
two-story building in a quiet part of the city. Mike had worked hard to
landscape the yard, and even in December, it stood out among others. Angie was
a creative seamstress. Her handiwork was evident in the intricately designed curtains
seen through the windows.
Angie opened the front door as
Rita approached. “Hi! I was watching for you two,” she said excitedly. She
scooped up Sonya, much to the delight of the baby, who was obviously
comfortable with the routine. “How’s my little princess?” she asked as she
rubbed her nose on her belly. This brought squeals of delight from Sonya. Angie
and Mike were not able to have their own children and were awaiting word on an
adoption application. She had raised several of her siblings after their mother
died from cancer when Angie was fifteen. It was obvious to Rita, watching her
dote on Sonya that she would be a wonderful mother.
“The fever broke overnight,”
offered Rita. “The
mustard plaster you made is a miracle cure. She stopped coughing an hour after
you left.”
“Yea, I swear by
it. Mom used it on all of us, even when we got older. Jesus, the smell!” They
both laughed freely for a moment. “I put the tea on and have some of those
molasses cookies you and Reg like.” Angie said as she placed Sonya on a thick
blanket with toys she had bought. “And I took the phone off the hook. Sergeant Snaggle
Puss said he would send a car over if anything happens.” Rita smothered a
chuckle at the reference to Sergeant Fitzpatrick as she joined her friend on
the couch.
“It looks like you’ve been
cleaning," said Rita, pointing to the mop and pail in the corner with
several rags.
“I went through the house twice,
even the windows. Next thing, I probably will start scrubbing the sidewalk.” Angie replied
as she filled their cups with hot King Cole tea.
“That’s better than watching the
TV,” answered Rita.
“They are really working hard. Reg came home for a
few minutes and is staying on till they find him. I know Mike would be doing
the same if it were him who was missing. They are two peas in a pod for sure.”
“Yes, they are. Remember that
time they did over the upstairs bathroom? The cursing and swearing, mostly Reg
of course.” The two women laughed fondly at the memory.
Angie’s face darkened. “I know
he may be dead. We talked about the possibility. He took out a big insurance
policy, so with the police pension, if he is gone, I will be okay. And you know
Mike and his ‘prepare for anything’ motto? He planned and paid for his funeral.
He asked Reg to do the eulogy. We were laughing, Father Dolan would have to
warn Reg, no cursing.” Angie’s voice fell away as she gazed at Sonya, asleep
with a stuffed toy.
“God, please don’t take him. I
miss him so terribly. What would I have to live for?” Tears streamed freely
from her dark eyes. Rita said nothing. But she held her friend firmly and
quietly.
*
Reg sat on the frozen ground
beside the car, struggling to breathe against the weight on his chest. His
uniform was soaked with sweat. Morel crouched attentively beside him. “Here
Reg, take deep breaths into this bag, slow deep breaths. Pretend you don’t
smell the bologna sandwich my wife packed in my lunch. That’s it, slow and
steady wins the race, deep breath in, hold, deep breath out.” Reg’s breathing
slowed and became more regular.
“I don’t know what the hell came
over me. Maybe it’s a heart attack. Christ, this can’t be happening now when
Mike needs me.”
“I’m no doctor for sure, but I
think you may be having a panic attack,” said Morel as he leaned heavily against
the car door. “The first one I had; I was
five years on the Force. A neighbourhood kid got run over by a drunk. Two
months after, I was a mess with flashbacks, panic attacks, the works. Francine,
my wife saw it all. When I came off shift one day, she and this nerdy guy were
in our kitchen. He is a psychiatrist and they work together in the psych unit.
I was super pissed with her. She told me how my crazy behaviour was freaking
her out and scaring our baby girl. I think I bawled more that night than I did
all my life. Anyways I agreed to talk with Ken. Reg, no shit, I don’t think I
would have made it without that guy’s help. Francine, she stuck by me. It must
have been so hard for her. I thought that I had to handle everything and show
no emotion. That bullshit we men are told has messed up too many good guys.”
Reg’s breathing was more regular
now, and he felt a chill creeping up his back from the frozen ground. He got up
slowly. Morel reached down to help his partner up. Reg recoiled, pushing the
arm away. “I’m okay, I don’t need help.” He leaned heavily on the car to steady
himself. “Let’s run up to where this road
meets the Old Line,” he said brusquely as he wiped the mud off his uniform. He
walked quickly to the driver’s side and was already on the radio. Morel picked
Reg’s cap off the ground, shaking his head; his partner had heard nothing of
what he offered.
*
Sonya was awake, gazing at her
mother and Angie with that cherub look reserved for infants. Rita lifted her
child from the blanket and placed her gently in her friend’s arms. The
transformation in Angie’s face was immediate and complete. Sonya raised her
chubby arms in delight as her tiny fingers discovered Angie’s face.
“Angie, I know you are in a
terrible place. I would do anything to push away the darkness if I could. This
will sound crazy, but I wish Reg and I had the love you two have. You have
stared the possibility of Mike’s death in the face together and he had the
courage to plan for it.
I do love Reg, but we don’t have
what you do. He shuts me out anytime crap is coming down the pipe. He thinks he
has to protect me as if I am weaker than him because I am a woman. His dad was
the same. I imagine it goes back generations. Angie, that’s not love, that’s
wanting to control, and it’s eating us up. Jesus, what am I doing babbling on
when I came here for you?” Rita looked over at Sonya and Angie, who always had
that gift of bringing joy to the little girl. Angie smiled as though recalling
a happier time.
“Mike’s dad was a kind and
gentle man. He and Mike are the same. They listen more than talk. I do enough talkin’
for both of us.” She laughed, then turned away.
Angie shifted her weight on the
couch and stared listlessly out the window. A figure appearing on the walkway
shook her out of her stupor. She bolted for the door and tore it open. The man
holding his plumbing tools took a step back in surprise.
“I got the part for the washer
Mrs. O’Leary. Sorry I should have called ahead. I can come back when it’s more
convenient.”
“Yes, that would work better. We
will call you, thanks.” said Rita, who had slid between Angie and the door. The
serviceman nodded and was gone.
Angie slipped back to her seat. “Thanks,
Rita. That guy musta’ got a scare from my crazy lady look. Man, I am so wound
up.”
“That’s nothing,” said Rita. “The same guy came to our place to unplug the toilet, last
month. I was up half the night trying to open it, and Sonya was bawling like a
cow left in the back field. I opened the door with a plunger in my hand. Never
saw a man so afraid of a woman!” They broke into spontaneous belly laughs.
Sonya, watching from her place, joined in with plenty of giggles. “Okay,” announced Rita; “Miss
Sonya and I are parking our asses here for the night!” she paused, looking over
at her friend. Angie’s response was to return her friend’s earlier deep hug.
Nothing more was needed.
*
Reg was behind the wheel of
Vince Morel’s car as it crept along the streets, now slick with ice. The wipers
fought uselessly against the constant freezing rain. “There are too many things
wrong here. It isn’t adding up. The Luckovich kid was kidnapped around 11p.m.
Thursday. The family made the money drop at 3:45 a.m. Friday near the Riverview
mall.
Our guys didn’t tap the line the
kidnappers used to talk with Sarge and the Chief, so we had no units who could
have picked them up. On top of that, nobody thought to tell the Mounties. They
could have set up roadblocks going into Salisbury a few miles away. At least
the kidnappers released the child, and we know he is safe, but nobody has a
clue where the kidnappers disappeared to. I’m not liking this at all Vince. Now
we hear two of our guys were wasting time tailing the Chief’s own car when they
should have been looking for the kidnappers. Why was he out there and why did
he not let anybody know? Was he trying to set this up so it would be his show?
It’s a Keystone Cops episode and nobody is laughing.”
Morel, who had been silent after
his partner’s collapse, now came to life. “Reg, what we know is Mike and Aurèle
were tailing the kidnapper’s car after they dropped off the kid and picked up
the ransom money. They called in. That was about 4:00 a.m. Friday. There has
been no communication since then. With the kidnappers and our two guys
missing, we can assume the two parties met. And we also have to assume that
since Mike and Aurèle have not called back, they are still with the kidnappers.
We don’t know what happened. Where would they have taken our lads with the
ransom money?
It can’t be far but Mike and Aurèle are extra baggage for them. I’m thinking it
has to be in an area off a side road within a five-mile radius of where we are.”
Morel turned the car on to Coverdale Road. He squinted to read the
car’s clock. It read 5:45 a.m. Saturday. “We
are going to search every side road and driveway through to Salisbury. I was
raised not far from here and I know this area like the back of my hand. We won’t
quit Reg, we can’t!” Reg began to look at his partner in a different light. The
private battle he was fighting had an ally he could trust.
