Mike on Crime (3 page)

Pozniak also told government officials she hoped to one day meet with Beeper's family: “I've always wanted to meet with them. At my sentencing I apologized to the family for my responsibility in taking part in it. But the family isn't ready for me, I guess, so I'm just waiting until that perspective comes.”

K
ami Pozniak died in February 2011 at the age of 32. She was survived by two children. An official cause of death was never released publicly but those close to her told me it was linked to the various vices she'd spent her life fighting. She never did get that
meeting with Beeper's family that she had talked of wanting.

Fabian Torres has seemingly stayed out of trouble. Perhaps he finally got the fresh start in life his family predicted he would upon his release.

Conrad Johnson has continued to go through the revolving door of justice. After his second shot at freedom in 2008, he fled from a halfway house in Winnipeg in July 2009 and spent 15 months on the run. Officers caught up with Johnson in October 2010, finding him in a city hotel room with several high-ranking gang members and a large quantity of marijuana. Johnson was not charged for the drugs but did get slapped with being unlawfully at large.

He claimed he ran away because he wanted to see his newborn baby and knew he'd be in trouble for smoking pot. His day parole was cancelled. He spent a couple of years in remand custody before being returned to federal custody in December 2012. He enrolled in several substance-abuse programs, demonstrated model behaviour and was given a third shot in October 2013 when he was granted unescorted temporary absences for up to 72 hours of freedom per month. These came despite ongoing concerns about his risk to the public. They were supposed to be for “personal development” and included both family and social time. He claimed he was going to use the time to “participate in community activities such as church services, cultural ceremonies, and shopping centres” during which he would be in the company of his common-law wife. But parole documents show those privileges were revoked in the summer of 2014 after he got caught lying to parole board officials about how he was spending his free time.

Parole board officials say they received a tip Johnson was going around bragging to others about how he'd pulled the wool over their eyes. Specifically, his absences allowed him to attend weekly Narcotics Anonymous meetings to help deal with outstanding addictions issues. Yet Johnson was skipping out—a fact confirmed when federal officials did a surprise check-in and he was nowhere to be found.

“You initially acted as if there were no concerns,” the parole board wrote in their latest decision. “Then you claimed you missed your bus and became disoriented.” The parole board members said they could no longer trust him, especially considering his less-than-stellar track record. “You continue to have difficulties following the rules,” they wrote.

Meanwhile, I still hear occasionally from Beeper's family. They are, understandably, outraged at the state of the youth justice system, the violent street gang scene in Winnipeg. Unfortunately there have been countless other young victims just like Beeper who have had their lives cut short in the nearly 20 years which have passed. Like him, several were the victim of mistaken identity, gunned down for simply wearing the wrong colours or walking through the wrong neighbourhood.

In 2013, a veteran staff sergeant in the community relations unit penned a very eloquent column in the
Winnipeg Free Press
that described how Beeper's death wasn't the wake-up call that it should have been:

“Unfortunately, Winnipeg's gang situation has not improved since then. Aboriginal gangs aren't the only ones to have taken hold in Winnipeg. But they certainly deserve special attention because of the harm they cause on their ancestral lands and the harm they cause to their communities,” Andy Golebioski wrote.

“In Winnipeg, several gangs exist, but a few really stand out as having a particularly destructive effect, not just because of their crimes, but because they claim a perverted sense of aboriginal identity. I'm talking about the Manitoba Warriors, the Native Syndicate and the Indian Posse. These gangs make a mockery of the words Indian, native and especially warrior. Their ancestors would be embarrassed.”

Golebioski called on local Aboriginal leaders to take a stand and work closely with law enforcement. “We, as the police, do our best to combat street gangs. However, it will take much more than just our enforcement and prevention efforts to eliminate their influence. Our entire community must rally around this cause and end it once and for all,” he wrote. “As a police service, our wish is to stand with aboriginal leadership as they publicly and privately condemn these gangs. We just need them to give us that opportunity.”

A DREAM LIFE SHATTERED

S
ometimes the most incredible stories can be found in places you might not expect. Such as the obituary section. Like most justice reporters, I've long made a practice of scanning the daily death notices. As ghoulish as that might sound, they can often be a means of learning more about a victim of crime we might be writing about. Or finding contact information for family members and close friends who might wish to speak out. And they can also alert us to potential newsworthy tales that might otherwise go unnoticed to the general public.

Such was the case back in July 2005, when a particular bulletin caught my eye. The lengthy, well-written obituary told the tale of a beloved Winnipeg family man who had died “suddenly” following a lengthy struggle with a disease I admittedly knew very little about. Several passages left me wanting to know more, including the following: “The last few years he showed an incredible strength to fight a disease which only a few experience in such severity. He was a true fighter and had the courage to keep going. In his deepest, darkest moments he always wanted the best for his family. He wanted them to be happy.”

I knew this might be a delicate situation with the family, given what I was reading. I would have to tread very carefully. I waited a few weeks before following up, tracking down the man's wife and calling her to introduce myself. I explained what I knew—including some information I had obtained independently by this point—and asked her if the family might be willing to talk about the tragedy. Somewhat surprisingly, she said yes. I was invited to the family home, where I was given a window into what truly seemed like something out of a Hitchcock movie.

Bob was living the dream life. A rock-solid 23-year marriage, three beautiful children, a spacious home in an upscale Winnipeg neighbourhood, a relaxing summer cottage, an important job he loved, financial security and an extensive network of good friends and family.

“You've got it all,” co-workers would often tell the 47-year-old man. He was living proof that good things do indeed happen to good people. Yet for the past 18 months, Bob's storybook life was literally being drowned out by a seemingly demonic force straight out of Edgar Allan Poe's spine-tingling
The Tell-Tale Heart
. Every second of every minute of every day, Bob's head was haunted by an overpowering, high-pitched ringing noise from which there was no escape. There was a clinical name for this bizarre ailment—tinnitus. There was also no known cure. Bob often described it as his “worst nightmare.”

“I wish I had terminal cancer instead,” he told his wife, Liz, on several occasions.

“I just don't understand. How come you guys can't just go into my head and turn off the ringing? Just shut it off,” he asked several doctors.

Bob had read up on his condition, but the facts did nothing to offer any comfort. A man who loved nothing more than the peaceful tranquility of watching a morning sunrise at his Manitoba cottage was now being held hostage by his own ringing head. “He always loved silence, especially at the lake. But that was gone forever,” said Liz.

It was literally driving her husband mad. First came the anxiety, a feeling that Bob had totally lost control of his life, that his world was crashing and burning around him. Next came the panic attacks, which were often mistaken for heart attacks and resulted in several trips to Winnipeg emergency rooms. Finally, the depression set in. Medication, repeated talks with psychiatrists and other doctors, several admissions to hospital and even a radical brain treatment failed to ease his constant suffering. Bob sunk deeper as he became resigned to his fate, yet nobody who knew and loved him could have predicted the unspeakable horror that was to come.

THURSDAY JULY 14, 2005, 7 a.m.

It started off like any other day. Bob woke up and got ready to head to his job with a major Canadian company, where he had worked for 29 years, the past few in a supervisory capacity. The morning was uneventful. It was around 1 p.m. when he called his wife and said he was heading to Elma, Manitoba to deliver supplies. There was nothing unusual about the phone call, and Bob's mood on this day seemed to be better than it had been earlier in the week but Liz couldn't help but wonder what kind of impact Bob's appointment with his psychiatrist the previous day was having on his mind. She worried that what he'd been told might have been enough to drive him over the edge.

Liz, as she always did, had gone with Bob for moral support to his medical appointment, and also to ensure the doctor was aware of his recent mental state. It had been a rollercoaster few days, beginning with Bob going off his antidepressant medication a couple weeks earlier to attend a holistic retreat in Saskatchewan. Bob was desperate for improvement, and had thought a more natural approach might help. He'd returned home in early July, but the ringing in his head was just as loud, and his mood just as low.

Bob had frightened his wife a week ago when he suggested that he might harm himself. Liz managed to talk him through the crisis. The past weekend had offered little improvement, and the new week started off with Bob driving himself home from work on Monday after speaking with a work counsellor. The situation looked bleak.

“He wasn't sure he was going to make it home safely,” Liz told the psychiatrist two days later. “He is totally done right now. He has no more energy to fight this disease, and I am scared for his safety.”

The doctor had suggested several options. They could try a new medication. Bob could be re-admitted to the Victoria General Hospital, where he'd spent several weeks in January undergoing a radical treatment for depression that involved electric currents being zapped into his head. Or they could start the paperwork to get Bob placed in a mental health institution.

Bob had heard enough, focusing squarely on the worst-case scenario. He and his wife left the doctor's office and returned home. Bob took a few tranquilizers and went to sleep. It was several hours later, now into Wednesday evening, that Liz woke her husband up. “I've got something special for you,” she said. Bob got up, and Liz led him outside where they both got on their bicycles and took a short ride to the nearby Fort Whyte Centre, which was a beloved spot for the couple.

“I led him around a path to a lake, and we took our shoes off and dipped out feet in the water. Bob always loved it there, and I said to him, ‘Look at all the natural beauty out here,'“ said Liz. Bob mentioned how the scene reminded him of his favourite painting, which hung in their home. Back at home and in bed that night, Liz took Bob's hand, sensing he was not doing well. She asked him to list the fears in his life.

Losing his family, being fired from his job, being passed over for career opportunities and advancement, and never escaping from his affliction were his answers. Bob then stressed the positives in his life—three wonderful children, a great wife, nice cottage, good job and the company of good friends and family, he said. Eventually, the couple stopped talking and said goodnight. As usual, both struggled to fall asleep. For Liz, it was the constant worrying that kept her awake. For Bob, it was the noise in his head, which only grew louder as night fell.

THURSDAY JULY 14, 4:15 p.m.

Don Giesbrecht, a trained paramedic from White­mouth, was off-duty as he drove his 1998 Chevrolet down Highway 15 near Elma when he came across a horrific scene. Smoke and flames were pouring into the air, the result of a violent two-vehicle crash between a large truck that had apparently slammed into the side of a semi-trailer.

Giesbrecht rushed over to help and found a dazed man stumbling away from the burning truck he appeared to have been driving. He led the man to the side of the highway, looked him over and then sat him down on the ground so he could check on the status of the semi driver. As Giesbrecht made his way over to the other man, who appeared shaken but uninjured, he turned around to see his own green car speeding away from the scene. Behind the wheel was the injured man he'd just led away from the fire.

THURSDAY JULY 14, 5:15 p.m.

“Bob, phone me.”

Liz hadn't heard from her husband in several hours and was growing concerned. It wasn't like him to take more than a few minutes to return a message on his cellular phone. Her anxiety intensified when one of Bob's co-workers pulled into her driveway.

“What has happened?” she asked, desperation clearly in her voice.

“Bob's been in an accident. He's OK ... but he's missing,” said the man, who had been notified about the highway crash near Elma involving Bob's company vehicle.

Liz knew to fear the worst. She grabbed the telephone again and frantically dialed her husband. No answer. “Bob, it's OK, it's OK. I love you, it's OK. Just phone me,” she pleaded in her message. As the minutes stretched into hours, there was still no returned call.

Bob's workplace quickly organized an intensive search, which included renting two helicopters to fly over the area near the crash scene. An all-terrain vehicle was also being used to search through the thick brush and forest. The RCMP also began looking for Bob, who was seen as both an injured person and a suspect in a vehicle theft. Most people worried that Bob might have suffered a head injury in the crash and wasn't thinking straight. Liz figured her husband was probably thinking quite clearly. And so it came as no real shock when searchers made a horrific discovery the following afternoon, about two kilometres from the crash scene.

Bob had hanged himself in the woods.

“I don't believe Bob deliberately crashed into the side of the semi. I think that was probably an accident, but it would have totally set him off. He would have thought, in his state, he was going to lose his job, his family, everything he loved,” Liz recalled, months after her husband's death.

Suicide is often seen as taboo to discuss, but Liz didn't shy away from it while giving a heart-wrenching tribute to her husband at his funeral service. She now wanted to help educate others on tinnitus, anxiety and depression. She had already done a presentation at Red River College and planned to do more.

“Bob had so much to live for, but he couldn't accept his suffering,” she said. “He gave us 23 wonderful years. He did what he had to do under the circumstances.”

A
s compelling as this story was, it almost never saw the light of day. Just days before it was set to go to print, the grieving widow emailed me to say the family was now having second thoughts. She was still very much in favour of publication, as were her children, to educate others about what they had gone through in the hopes of preventing future tragedies. But other extended members didn't see it quite the same way. They had expressed concerns about the publicity that was sure to follow. They just weren't comfortable with it. The end result was a compromise: The story would still run, but the family's full names would be removed, and no photographs of them would be published.

I'm glad we found a way to get it out there. This story generated more response from the public than probably 98 per cent of what I've written during my career. So many people contacted me—by telephone, by email, by snail mail—wanting to weigh in. Some just wanted to express how much the story impacted them. Others wanted to know how to send their condolences or whether they could make a charitable donation. Some were directed straight at the family. And many had their own stories of struggling with tinnitus, expressing a sense of relief that this long-hidden issue was now out in the public domain. Here are just a few:

“Two weeks ago, I was working with a guy out of Winnipeg who told me about a friend and co-worker of his who had killed himself by driving in front of a semi near Winnipeg. He said this fellow suffered from a condition which caused a constant loud ringing in his ears that he couldn't get relief from. Three days after this conversation, a friend and former co-worker of mine, who just retired this spring, laid down on the tracks in front of a train in Brandon. Everyone who knew him was shocked, as he too seemed to have the perfect life. At his funeral in Brandon last Saturday, 975 people showed up. It was the saddest funeral I've ever been to mostly because we were all trying to understand what drove him to take his own life. Then on Tuesday, I found out that he too suffered from Tinnitus and had kept it a secret. This has definitely helped myself and hopefully a lot of other people to cope with our friend's death.”

“My husband & I have lived through some of the same things. We were in a car accident 23 years ago and his injuries have caused him to be completely disabled for the last five years. The pain was so intense that he was only able to get out of bed to see the doctors. He was on antidepressant medication and high levels of Oxycodone. There were four times that he almost ended his life. These were very hard times with little understanding from others. I applaud you for telling your story and for sharing a very difficult time in your life. It is through the sharing of your pain that you will help others going through they own tragedy. “

“I have been suffering from Tinnitus for years (more than 10
) and have the same high-pitched ringing in my ears 24/7 – 365 days a year. You learn to live with it but it is not easy. For example, I cannot hear birds chirping, or the rustle of leaves in the wind and many more noises because they are drowned out by this high-pitched noise. The most frustrating problem is that I do not hear the initial word spoken to me on most occasions because of this noise and concentrating on some other things that I am hearing at the time. My wife says I need a hearing aid because I never hear what she says. This is not true; I hear what she says, but not the first words spoken because I may be listening to something else at the time. I can turn down the volume of the radio or TV fairly low and still hear everything if I concentrate on that one item only. I have obtained information on Tinnitus from a number of sources, but there is no cure, you live with it, frustrating as that is.”