Mike on Crime (28 page)

TJ'S GIFT

I
t's every parent's fear—the late-night knock at your door, the grim-faced police officer on the other side, the news that your child is dead. Floyd and Karen Wiebe experienced that horror when their son, T.J., was murdered in January 2003. It's a case that sent shockwaves through the city, both for its brutality and the exposure it gave to a drug culture that continues to run rampant and destroy countless lives.

The Wiebes have become well-known throughout the city as advocates for justice. They have vowed to do everything they can to spare other children and parents from a similar ordeal. I'm proud to now call them friends. I spent much time getting them to know them while sitting in various courtrooms over the years covering the numerous hearings for their son's four accused killers. Outside court, I've been honoured to emcee their annual fundraising gala named in their slain son's memory.

This is their story.

MARCH 2005

They stood before the packed courtroom, looking their son's killer directly in the eye. Anthony Pulsifer sat stone-faced in the prisoner's box as they began to speak. At one point he appeared to be wiping tears from his eyes.

“My heart physically hurts so much I'm amazed it still beats,” said Karen Wiebe. The Winnipeg schoolteacher described constantly being haunted at the horrific circumstances of the crime.

Trevor “T.J.” Wiebe was just 20 years old when his life was stolen as part of a sadistic plot cooked up by his so-called friends. “How I wish I could hold him again,” his mother said.

T.J. was lured out of his home, injected with a syringe, strangled with a shoelace, stabbed in the throat and left to die in a frozen field south of Winnipeg in January 2003. His body was found five weeks later as the snow began to melt. An autopsy revealed Wiebe actually died of cardiac arrest, likely from a combination of the attack and having ingested cocaine and crystal meth that would have increased his heart rate, Dr. Charles Littman told jurors.

A large photo of the victim, taken just days before he vanished, was set up in court for all to see. Pulsifer's lawyer, Randy Janis, had objected to it being allowed, saying it was prejudicial and would turn the sentencing into a “memorial service.” But the judge agreed at the request of the Crown and family members who wanted everyone to see what they had lost.

“He was truly a special gift from God to us,” said Floyd Wiebe, T.J.'s father. He described all of the milestones which would never come. “I shall not be able to dance at T.J.'s wedding,” he said.

Four people had been charged in the senseless killing. Pulsifer was the first to be resolved, having just been found guilty of second-degree murder for his role in the attack. Pulsifer, 23, now faced a mandatory life sentence with no chance of parole for at least 10 years.

It had been a high-profile trial which provided a startling glimpse into Winnipeg's growing problem with crystal methamphetamine, a popular and highly addictive street drug. That was the drug with which Wiebe, his accused killers and several suburban friends were all heavily involved in both using and selling. More than two dozen witnesses had testified during the three-week case, including several friends of Pulsifer who, like him, were involved in the use of crystal meth.

Wiebe's so-called best friend was aware of a plot to attack him but did nothing to warn him—even when the young man asked if he was being set up just hours before he was brutally murdered. “They wanted to jack him, to put him out,” Trista Hildebrand had told jurors during the trial. Yet she remained silent, and admitted she even helped the accused who had formed the plan by telling them about some of Wiebe's valuable possessions. “He asked me if he was being set up. I didn't really answer him. I told him just to come and pick me up after lunch,” said Hildebrand, who had been arguing with Wiebe the day of his death. He never made their lunch date. Instead, Wiebe went with several men on the bogus premise of buying a car stereo system and never returned.

Hildebrand said her boyfriend—a youth co-accused who couldn't be named under the Youth Criminal Justice Act—was angry with Wiebe for apparently stealing marijuana from him. He also didn't like the time Hildebrand was spending with Wiebe. Wiebe, in turn, was angry with Hildebrand for recently moving into her boyfriend's apartment.

“I think he was just looking out for my best interests,” said Hildebrand, who denied there was any romantic connection between herself and Wiebe. She told jurors that all of the accused decided to target Wiebe on January 5, 2003 in what she thought was going to be a robbery. She claims Pulsifer pulled out a “great big green-and-black knife.” Hildebrand told the men Wiebe would likely be carrying a video camera, drugs and a few thousand dollars. “T.J. always had lots of drugs on him,” she said.

Another witness described how Pulsifer had calmly confessed to murdering T.J. by choking him “until he turned blue” and then cutting his throat with a knife. “Anthony was going on about how he killed T.J. [Wiebe]. He was asking me if I'd ever seen the fear in someone's eyes. I kept telling him to shut up,” Mallory Johnson told court. She told jurors the confession came just days after Pulsifer and two co-accused were openly talking about injecting Wiebe with a syringe. “They were trying to find the best way to kill T.J. They were asking me what they could put into needles,” said Johnson.

After Wiebe was dead, Pulsifer spoke about his failed attempts at drugging the young man, Johnson said. “He said they tried sticking needles into his neck and it didn't even give him a headache. He said it didn't work so he had to strangle him with his bare hands,” she said. “He just kept going on and on about seeing the fear in someone's eyes. It made me very uncomfortable.” Johnson didn't say what type of chemical she believed they injected into Wiebe.

Johnson admitted she would smoke crystal meth as often as once an hour, and would sometimes be awake for six straight days because of the high she would get. Other young witnesses had also openly discussed their addictions to meth, along with other drugs, such as ecstasy, LSD and ketamine. Johnson told jurors she stayed silent about Wiebe's death and even helped dispose of evidence by dumping the accused's clothes in a dumpster along Portage Avenue. Johnson and her friend, Kelly Fernandez, say they were paid $37 and ordered to get rid of the evidence by Pulsifer and the other men.

But not everyone could keep the killing secret. Chantel Skehen, then a girlfriend of one of the accused, came forward to police days after reading in the newspaper about Wiebe's body being found. Skehen, 19, testified that Pulsifer and her boyfriend had confessed to her about the killing in early January.

“He told me they had done something terrible. He told me they had killed somebody, that Anthony had done it and he went along to make sure there was no evidence left behind,” said Skehen. The two men were showing off several items they claimed to have stolen from the victim, including cash, drugs and a video camera. Skehen said they even played her a home movie on the camera that showed a young man she now knows to be Wiebe.

“[Her boyfriend] said that's the guy Anthony killed,” she said. “They beat him, and Anthony said he choked him and mentioned something about cutting his neck.” Pulsifer was “very calm and quiet” while talking about the killing, said Skehen. Both men claimed Wiebe was killed because “money was owed.” Pulsifer then left the city a few days later to hide out in Calgary, she said.

In a four-hour videotaped interview with police, Pulsifer claimed he had no choice but to kill Wiebe. He said he tried to warn his “friend” that there was a plot to murder him just moments before he plunged a knife into the young man's neck and left him to die. “I remember telling T.J. what these guys were trying to do to him. I told him to save himself, get out of the city,” said Pulsifer. Pulsifer claimed Wiebe reacted to the news by lunging at him with a knife. Pulsifer said he had no choice but to defend himself by attacking Wiebe. Homicide investigators repeatedly confronted Pulsifer about the claim, saying it went against the evidence and “dishonours” Wiebe's memory.

Pulsifer's story changed dramatically from the start of the police interview, when he claimed he didn't even know who Wiebe was. He then later claimed to have “blacked out” and not remember any part of the killing before finally getting into specific details about two hours later. Eventually, Pulsifer told police the pair were friends and former schoolmates who got mixed up in Winnipeg's drug scene.

Pulsifer said two other drug “associates” decided they wanted Wiebe dead because of an ongoing dispute over stolen narcotics. Pulsifer and another man were then told to finish Wiebe off. The plan was hatched about three days before the killing, he said.

“We were forced to do this. We were threatened with our lives, our children's lives,'“ Pulsifer told police. Pulsifer claimed the two men who orchestrated Wiebe's death wanted him to kill at least two other enemies, plus collect drug debts. “They said, ‘You do this or you're next on the list,'” he said.

Queen's Bench Justice Perry Schulman now had the option of raising parole eligibility as high as 25 years. Jurors who convicted Pulsifer were asked for their recommendation. They suggested making it 15 years. Crown attorney Brian Bell was seeking 20 years. “This was not a spontaneous act,” Bell said in his sentencing submission.

Pulsifer apologized to the Wiebe family for his actions in a letter read aloud by his lawyer. He claimed he wasn't the “monster” everyone likely thought he was. “I have spent many days and nights thinking of everyone who has suffered,” he wrote.

Schulman ultimately went with the jury's recommendation, raising parole eligibility to 15 years. “This was a brutal, senseless act which is difficult to comprehend,” said Schulman. He noted that Pulsifer presented as an intelligent, polite and articulate man. “It's bizarre to realize that life was of so little value to the conspirators that the victim could have been anyone in the group for whom someone took a dislike,” said Schulman.

Outside court, the Wiebes said they hoped what happened to T.J. served as a wake-up call to other parents about the city's growing drug problem. They told the
Winnipeg Free Press
the story of his promising life—and violent death—should send a chill up every family's collective spines.

“This is a real sad commentary on society. Parents and police have to get together to deal with the drug problem. Our generation of parents have been raised that if you do this and this and this, things will turn out a certain way,” said Karen Wiebe. “But when two and two equal five, how do you deal with it? You just don't know how to fix the problem, how to get kids out of it.”

Police and justice officials agreed that hard drugs such as crystal meth were becoming a major concern in the city. Crystal meth was an increasingly popular street drug that was commonly used in the club and rave scene for the high-end rush it produced. It could be smoked or snorted.

“If it can happen to our family, it can happen to anyone,” said Floyd Wiebe. “Since T.J. was killed, we have had so many parents come up to us and say, ‘You have no idea how close my kid has come to where T.J. ended up.'”

Wiebe's killing had struck a chord with many Winnipeggers, not only for the brutal facts which emerged during Pulsifer's trial but because T.J. didn't fit the typical stereotype of someone who would fall victim to the shady drug underworld. After all, this was a smart young man who grew up in the cozy suburb of St. Vital, had two devoted parents, two loving siblings and a large network of extended family and friends. T.J. had attended French-immersion classes at École St. Germain and Collège Jeanne Sauvé and then transferred to Glenlawn Collegiate, where he graduated in 2000 with an unblemished record. When he wasn't in class, Wiebe was often at the family cabin in Nopiming Provincial Park, where he snowmobiled in the winter and swam in the summer.

Wiebe's dream was to become an underwater welder, doing work on boats or oil rigs far from his Winnipeg home. He was already certified as a scuba diver and was enrolled at Winnipeg Technical College learning how to become a welder. Wiebe had first learned about scuba diving while on a family holiday in Hawaii. But drugs began to change everything. And as hard as they tried, Floyd and Karen Wiebe were powerless to stop what became a downward spiral. The Wiebes described how their son's drug problem first surfaced when he got into a car accident in 2002 and police found him in possession of LSD and Tylenol 3. T.J. pleaded guilty and was given a $300 fine.

Wiebe began using crystal meth, then dealing the drug to support his habit. That put him in touch with several shady people—including all of those now accused in his death. “Everyone knew one another because of it,” a police source had said shortly after the slaying.

The family had tried to intervene, and Wiebe had reluctantly agreed to attend a drug counselling program. He was killed the day before his first scheduled meeting. “That was taken away from T.J.,” said Floyd Wiebe. “As parents, we were on top of everything we could be.”

The Wiebes still faced a long legal road, as the other three accused remained before the courts. But they were adamant about ensuring their son's death wouldn't be forgotten. They wanted to make a difference. They had big plans.

MARCH 2006

He had certainly helped plot the grisly murder of T.J. Wiebe. But a Winnipeg jury was unable to reach a verdict on whether Dominic Urichen played a direct role in the killing. The result was a hung jury and mistrial on the charge of first-degree murder. Jurors spent two full days deliberating before telling the judge they'd reached an impasse. They did, however, deliver a guilty verdict on an additional charge of conspiracy to commit murder.

“The jury found that other people committed the murder and he did not actively participate in aiding and abetting it,” said defence lawyer Greg Brodsky. The Crown asked for a 17-year sentence for Urichen.