Undercover My Story
Author – Greg Quesnelle
Smashwords Edition
Copyright© 2009 by Greg Quesnelle
This book is available in print at Amazon.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places or events or locales is purely coincidental. Most characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and are used fictitiously. All rights reserved under International and Pan American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any mater whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For inquiries or additional information contact the author’s official web site at:
Gregquesnelle@OrganizedCrimeSection.com
ISBN 1441402314
EAN-13 9781441402318
~~~
Special Dedications
To Chantelle my bright star and inspiration.
~~~
To my loving wife Michelle for her support over the years.
~~~
In memory of Bill. A true friend and colleague. May we never forget.
~~~
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - Drug Squad Interview
Chapter 2 - The Assessment
Chapter 3 - Training Day
Chapter 4 - Drug Threats
Chapter 5 - Corn Field Murders
Chapter 6 - Quebec Rapist
Chapter 7 - Aces Pool Hall
Chapter 8 - Zip Gun
Chapter 9 - Project Skylab
Chapter 10 - Wired for Coke
Chapter 11 - Cardine
Chapter 12 - Weed Farm
Chapter 13 - Black Gold & White Snow
Chapter 14 - Pigs Ear Tavern
Author’s Notes
~~~
Chapter 1 – Drug Squad Interview
I picked up my microphone and said, “Dispatcher, be advised I will be stopping two Harley-Davidson motorcycles heading eastbound on the 401 past Colborn Side Road.” I flipped the switch turning on the red flashing lights of my police vehicle. Both motorcycles were riding side by side. They immediately pulled over to the side of the road. Bringing my vehicle to a complete stop behind them, I keyed my police radio microphone and read out the license plates, “Request information on M34532 Ontario and T49821 Quebec.”
Querying the plates would alert me if the vehicles were stolen, if they actually belonged to that particular vehicle, or if there were any arrest warrants against the owner of the vehicle. Neither of the two drivers were wearing any obvious gang colors on their black leather jackets, but there was no doubt in my mind they were either “full patch” or “associate member” or maybe a “striker” of a motorcycle gang. The hierarchy of these levels is developed to ensure that order and compliance is kept within their organization. To join or associate with the gang, there are certain protocols and tests to follow to show your allegiance. Their directions and rules are made for a purpose, that being to eliminate or deter undercover officers from enlisting. Some of their antics go far beyond what society would ever allow or stomach and a police officer must sometimes perform the unbelievable to get gang acceptance and infiltrate as is necessary. Still, there are other ways to effectively combat and eliminate organized crime groups.
Before the dispatcher was able to respond to my plate query, one of the motorcycle drivers untied his helmet and slammed it on the ground.
I got out of my vehicle and approached them saying, “Your drivers license, ownership and insurance please.” The other driver remained silent, but the one without his helmet was visibly agitated.
He said, “This is bullshit. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Don’t you guys have anything better to do than stop people on bikes?” I looked at him and repeated my request for them to produce the required documents as I had officially demanded. The angered driver stood there for a second and stared at me. For sure, I thought we were going to get into a fight right on the spot. They both reached into their leather saddlebags and retrieved their documents.
He grabbed the driver papers and handed them to me and said, “Here you go. Do what you have to do.”
I replied, “Thank you. I will be with you in a second.” Walking towards my police vehicle, I noticed that another police vehicle was speeding towards me with his emergency lights on but no siren activated.
As soon as I got in my vehicle, the officer speeding towards me came over the radio, “Greg, is everything okay?”
I picked up the grey plastic handheld microphone and replied, “Yes. The long-haired one with his helmet off isn’t happy.”
I began to look at the documents they provided and the police dispatcher returned my query of the plates. “Plates and owners are associated to the Hell’s Angels. Both plates are valid, but the owner of M34532 Ontario has an outstanding Committal Warrant for unpaid fines of $400.”
I responded, “Ten-four.” I got out of my vehicle and went over to talk to the other officer who was keeping and eye on the situation.
I said, “Paul, that hothead biker has an outstanding Committal Warrant against him, but the other driver is okay. When I arrived, he took off his helmet and threw it in on the ground. Stand by here while I go up and inform him of the Committal Warrant against him. If he doesn’t have the correct change with him, he is going to be arrested.” Paul smiled and nodded his head. With the other driver’s papers in my hand, I walked over and handed him his papers. To the hothead biker, I said, “There is an outstanding Committal Warrant against you of $400 for unpaid fines.”
He angrily replied, “No there is not. I already paid that.” Of course, I did not believe him, nor did I change my approach to him when he displayed his potential of violence by acting out.
Trying to remain professional, I looked at the biker and said, “Sir, you either provide me with the exact amount owed to the Province, or you will be arrested and you can get bailed out of jail later.” He stammered a little and mumbled to himself as he reached back into this leather carrying bags. He pulled out a pouch on a silver chain and began counting money.
He held out a fistful of money to me and said coldly, “Here, take it.” As I took the money, I advised him that I would return with a receipt showing proof of his payment. Walking back to my car, I noticed a smile on Paul’s face acknowledging that all was okay and there would be no arrest this afternoon. The biker was given his receipt. I stood by and watched them rev up their motorcycle engines and spin their tires as they slid from gravel to pavement heading eastbound on the 401.
At the end of my patrol shift, I was cornered by the Shift Sergeant. The Sergeant said, “Greg, those were Hell’s Angels you stopped on the 401. You should have radioed it in and waited for backup to arrive before you got out of your car. It’s a dangerous world. I know you’re eager to learn and you have just over a year on the job, but next time you stop a biker, call it in before you pull them over.”
A week later, I was working the nightshift. Before heading out to answer calls, I read the shift’s activity log and glanced over the office bulletin board. A job advertisement was posted, “Vacancy Drug Investigator, Drug Enforcement Section, Special Services Division.” It looked interesting, so I pulled the clipboard off the metal hook and began to read the posted vacancy advertisement. Wow, I thought to myself, Now that's a fantastic job. Just then, other officers finishing the previous shift came in to the office and one of the senior officer noticed that I was reading the Drug Investigator posting.
He stood looking over my shoulder and said, “Are you thinking of applying for that drug specialist job? Our departmental minimum qualification to apply to a specialist job is at least five years experience. You have about three more years here before they will even consider letting you apply.” Other officers waited until I put the clipboard back up on the wall and then walked over and began reading it for themselves. They began to talk amongst themselves about applying for the vacancy and that it expired that Friday. Feeling a little dejected, I put the thought of applying out of my mind as I grabbed my police vehicle keys and headed out on the road to do police work. During the whole nightshift, the thought came back again and again. By the end of the shift, I decided to apply anyway. Two more nightshifts passed and at the end of the shift, I filled out the Drug Investigator’s vacancy posting and polished up my resume. Before going off shift, I gave the package to my Sergeant for processing. I knew I didn’t have a hope in hell. Firstly, I had less than the minimum five years on the job. Secondly, the officers who were going to apply also had a lot more criminal and traffic experience than I had. Thirdly, the Staff Sergeant at our office was a hard-nosed thirty-year officer who spent the vast majority of his career doing traffic duties. Consequently, it was common knowledge around the office that he did not particularly support “those guys” who worked in the Special Investigation Division. I am not sure if it was because he never got the opportunity or that type of work never appealed to him. Needless to say, I was potentially making a career-limiting move if I even applied. The rank of Staff Sergeant holds considerable power and control over advancement and job opportunities. A negative footnote by the Staff Sergeant on my application would most certainly be regarded or looked upon as a “Kiss of Death” as it worked its way through many levels of bureaucratic channels.
I returned from having three good days off from work. No sooner had I walked in the rear exit door, I was approached by my shift Sergeant. It seems that the Staff Sergeant had asked the shift Sergeant to ensure I was told to see him as soon as possible. The Sergeant indicated that he did not know what the issue was about and that I was to come with him pronto. I was a little apprehensive and things quickly started to go through my head. I waited outside his office while the Sergeant knocked on his door and stepped in. I could hear the Staff Sergeant command, “Very well. Bring him in.” I was waved in by the Sergeant, and he left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
Being the officious or pompous man that the Staff Sergeant was, he kept me waiting and standing at attention for several minutes while he finished reading some papers on his desk. He looked up at me and grinned saying, “So, young man. You want to apply to the drug squad, do you? What makes you think you are capable of doing the job? I don’t think you know what you want. Don’t you know they won’t even consider you unless you have at least five years of experience in uniform? Did you even read the requirements of the posting?” Defiantly, I stood there and took his barrage of comments and questions. He picked up his pen and footnoted something on my application for the vacancy. With a tone of sarcasm the Staff Sergeant said, “I footnoted it. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.” I was dismissed from his office.
The rest of the day, I felt a little miffed at his condescending attitude and tone. However, I really didn’t think it was a personal attack on me at the time. I felt that it was just his prejudice towards officers working in what he considered elite or glamour jobs.
When I was off-duty and at home, my wife answered a telephone call. She handed me the phone and said, “It’s your Staff Sergeant.” I was perplexed why he was calling me at home because the Staff Sergeant never calls unless it’s an important issue.
With a stern voice, he said, “Greg, I got a call from General Headquarters, and the Superintendent would like you to come to an interview regarding the vacancy you applied for. Its next week, on Wednesday, at three p.m. I need your reply today.”
I was dazed at what just happened, but with enthusiasm I said, “Yes, sir. I certainly will be available.”
I could tell by his voice that he was not pleased as he said, “I will pass it on.” I felt very grateful and fortunate to be invited to an interview. I had never applied to any specialized vacancies and I did not have any preconceived ideas what to study ahead of time or what to expect. Although I had very little time in uniform, my intent was to do the best I could and use this as a positive learning experience.
On Wednesday at two p.m., I dressed in a freshly dry-cleaned uniform and made sure to wear extra polish on my shoes. I attended the Regional Headquarters as instructed. I was an hour earlier than scheduled, because it’s my character to be punctual and prepared. For the past four days, I had studied the applicable Narcotic Control Act, Food and Drugs Act, the Criminal Code of Canada, and host of other police related material. I felt prepared and ready.
I walked into the main foyer and was escorted to a larger waiting room. As I walked into the room I saw five officers also waiting to be interviewed. Three officers were from my detachment, the same ones who couldn’t wait for me to put the clipboard advertisement down. They were excellent officers with more years of experience than I had. The other two officers were unknown to me. I started to feel a little overwhelmed at the level of competition. I continued to remain in a positive state of mind as I kept on reminding myself that the experience would be rewarding and beneficial on a professional as well as personal level.
Waiting my turn, I sat and watched two officers being called into the interview room. The interviews lasted about thirty-five minutes each. As each officer finished their interview, they left looking of a little bewildered or baffled.
My time soon arrived. When my name was called, I picked up my hat and walked into the room with all the confidence I could muster. In front of me was a large boardroom table with four people dressed in suits and ties, not uniforms. Not your usual police panel of interviewers. One officer had a grey beard, one had a black shoulder-length ponytail, another had a regular business haircut but two earnings in one ear, and the fourth officer had curly red hair down to his collar. The red-haired officer did most of the introductions and tried to make me feel at ease. He even put a glass of water in front of me. They began by asking me why I was the best candidate for the job and then followed with a series of legal and technical questions. I answer them as accurately and as detailed as I could. Being “under the gun” at an interview raises my blood pressure up to another level. I tried to make sure that I did not ramble or babble on unnecessarily. Time seemed to pass by quickly. Up above the heads of the interviewers was a clock that, according to my calculations, indicated I had been at the interview for fifty minutes. I thought to myself Is this a good thing? Collectively, they turned over their papers of interview questions and started to fire questions at me. This time, the questions were not legal or from a manual, they were more situational, like “You are at a social gathering working undercover and someone asks you to roll a joint…” I no sooner worked my way out of one sticky operational situation then they immediately changed the situation. I had to continue to respond as best as I could. The interview was difficult and challenging. I believed it allowed them to see how mature I was and that I could handle the pressure of confrontation, my ability to think on my feet, and my social adaptability skills. After an hour and ten minutes, the interview was done. They ran me around the table and made me jump hurdles. By the end of the interview, I was mentally exhausted. I left the room feeling bewildered and confused and now understood why the other interviewees had come out of that room looking the way they did.
Back at the office the next day, I was getting prepared to go out on patrol. The previous shift had ended and I overheard the officers talking about how they performed in their interviews. As they continued to chat, I was sure they never considered that I could be in the running for the job. I convinced myself that it was a long shot, but at least the experience was very interesting. Now back to reality, I grabbed my patrol unit car keys and headed out on the road.
Approximately one week later, I was busy investigating a potential suicide by a middle-aged male. The wife had arrived at home and found a note in his handwriting letting her know how much he loved her and that he couldn’t go on anymore. After writing the note, he put it down on the kitchen table and put his wedding ring on top of it, knowing that she would immediately see it when she came home. He then went out into the attached single-car garage and started the car. He willfully succumbed to the carbon monoxide vapors, fell asleep, and died as a result of gas poisoning. When his wife arrived home, she immediately noticed the peculiar putrid smell in the house. She read the note and saw her husband’s ring on the table. Feeling traumatized, she could not bring herself to open the garage door, so she immediately called the police. He had obviously been deceased for seven to eight hours. He was seated in the driver’s seat, and I could see that his face, chest, arms and hands had swollen to twice their size due to the carbon monoxide being absorbed into his skin. Also, his nose and mouth oozed out red blood that now coagulated and turned into a deep, deep almost black color. While the neighbors were consoling the wife, I was waiting in my patrol car for the Coroner to arrive at the scene to pronounce him dead. Over my radio, I heard the dispatcher, “Car 24-347. The Staff Sergeant requests that you see him when you are cleared of this occurrence.” I advised the dispatcher that I would be back in another two hours.
Driving back to the detachment, I could still smell the putrid odor on my clothes. I knocked on the Staff Sergeant’s office door and in his usual commanding voice he said, “Come in.” I walked in and stood at attention and waited for him to take the lead. He said, “Constable Quesnelle, I got a phone call today and apparently the people at Headquarters didn’t pay too much attention to my footnote on your application. You have to be one of the youngest officers going to the drug squad. This is highly unusual. They want you to start in three weeks and the transfer papers will be sent shortly. I have to call them back this afternoon because they want a verbal answer. Your answer is?”
I was in absolute shock. Uncontrollably, I started to laugh out loud. This agitated the Staff Sergeant as he looked intently at me and in a stern voice said, “Well, Constable what is your answer?” I was still at attention. I stopped laughing and answered him, “Yes, sir. I would like that very much.”
~~~
Chapter 2 – The Assessment
It was late Saturday night and I was in a dead sleep. My pager awakened me as it noisily vibrated across my bedroom night table.
With one eye open, I grabbed it and pressed buttons to stop it from rattling. I retrieved the pager message, which instructed me to “Call Detective Inspector Burke, Biker Enforcement Section.” I rolled out of bed still not quite fully awake, grabbed my cell phone and went into the kitchen so I wouldn’t wake my wife Michelle. As I dialed the number on my cell phone, I was trying desperately to remember who this “Detective Inspector Burke” was and wondering what he could possibly want from me, especially so early in the morning. The cell phone rang about four times, and just as I was going to hang up, someone answered, “Detective Inspector Burke. Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I said, “I received a page telling me to call this number.”
Inspector Burke replied, “Greg, we haven’t met before, but you came highly recommended by the guys in Criminal Investigations Bureau.”
“I appreciate the recommendations, but it’s two in the morning,” I replied.
Inspector Burke responded, “Sorry for the early call, but we would appreciate it if you could change your schedule and come in to discuss something very important. I would rather talk face to face to explain our very sensitive situation.”
Things were not making much sense at this point, especially at two in the morning, so I said, “I’ll have to clear it with my Sergeant before I can do that.”
“I already took the liberty of taking care of that,” the Detective Inspector retorted immediately. “Let’s meet at nine in the morning at Johny’s Breakfast. I will be driving the black Chrysler Charger with a rear spoiler.” He paused for a moment, apparently aware of the hesitation coming from my end of the phone. “Don’t worry, Greg. Just hear us out about what we need you to do. If you don’t want to do it, you can turn the assignment down, no questions asked.”
He had definitely tweaked my curiosity. I said, “Okay, Detective Inspector, you’ve got my attention and my curiosity. Let’s meet at nine a.m.”
I turned off my cell phone climbed back into bed to my wife, who asked in a sleepy, muttering voice, “Who was that at this hour of the morning?”
I replied, “Go back to bed. It was just someone who needs to talk to me first thing tomorrow…and, yes, I know its Sunday, but you know dear, these calls are not planned, they just come with the territory of undercover work. If you wanted someone to work straight days, you should have married a banker.”
Perhaps I was a bit too sarcastic, but from my experience, taking on police specialist jobs like undercover work require that you expect calls any time of the night, weekends, or even Christmas morning if the need arises. Dedicated officers with high professional standards accept the additional responsibility and burden, all at the risk of putting their family under constant worry and frustration.
Sunday morning around eight a.m., I picked up a cup of coffee at my neighborhood coffee shop and started to make my way to Johny’s Breakfast. I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early, and I circled the parking lot looking for Detective Inspector Burke’s black Charger with a rear spoiler. I couldn’t find the vehicle he described, so I strategically backed my car up into a space at the end of the lot so I could see clearly anyone entering the lot. I cranked up the tunes of the local rock radio station, began sipping on my coffee, reached for my undercover notebook and started to make what I thought to be pertinent notes regarding the morning meeting that was about to transpire.
Paranoia is a healthy thing if you are going to be working undercover. Especially when you are going to meet someone for the first time and even if he supposed to be playing on the same team. It isn’t that uncommon for criminals or groups to perform surveillance on police to see what informants may be meeting with police, and that would include traveling to different cities or towns. At eight-fifty a.m., a lone male driver arrived in a black Charger. He parked his vehicle and slowly surveyed the parking lot as he exited his vehicle. He then went to the trunk of his car. From where I was I could only catch a glimpse, but it looked like he reached into the trunk and pulled something out of a briefcase and affixed something to his right hip. All firearms (including a Sig Sauer 40 caliber) are awkward and heavy to have strapped to your hip on a constant basis. You would think years of wearing it would make it seem almost second nature and not bothersome, but this was not the case for me. Sometimes it was more comfortable keeping it locked up and secured in the trunk when you are just traveling between cities and don’t feel you would have any immediate need of it.
So that’s Detective Inspector Burke, I thought. He was about forty-five years old, dark hair, clean shaven, and walked with a confident stride. It appeared that he didn’t spot me in the lot, so he went into Johny’s Breakfast and sat at the booth with a clear window view of the parking lot. I turned on my ignition and slid down a little in my seat and put on my Sig Sauer. I then reached in the rear of my blue Camaro and put on my black leather jacket. My leather jacket allows just enough coverage at the waist to ensure that my firearm does not get exposed to anyone who might catch a glimpse of it during my meeting. I exited my vehicle a little more confidently knowing that I did not see anyone trailing behind him.
Because of Detective Inspector Burke’s position at the window, I was in his full view as I approached the restaurant. I quickly assessed the other three people inside, and, based on my experience of reading people, they did not fit the profile of the person I was about to meet. I then approached him, made eye contact, and gave him a quick nod of my head. He returned my nod, signaling me to approach him. I sat down and extended my hand.
“Hi, I am Greg.” He stood up and we shook hands. His handshake was very firm and purposeful as he looked directly at me.
He said, “Hi, I am Detective Inspector Paul Burke. I really appreciate that you could make it and I hope you will be able to help me.” From my gut feelings and my first impression, the Detective Inspector appeared be very honest and sincere.
Continuing the conversation, he said, “Can I buy you coffee or breakfast?”
I said, “Thanks for the offer, but I just finished mine before getting here.” He then motioned to the waitress for one coffee. Out of habit and experience, I looked around to see if anyone was listening. Again, a little paranoia can be helpful. When I saw that it was all clear, I continued. “So, what’s so utterly important that we’re meeting on a Sunday?”
He replied, “I heard you were one of the best undercover officers in the Drug Unit and I need your help. I am the Detective Inspector in-charge of the Biker Enforcement Unit. We’ve just arrested the vice president of the Outlaw motorcycle gang for possession of twenty kilos of cocaine. He is looking at about twenty years in jail. He wants to put on a team sweater for us though, so we called our Informant Control Unit and got him numbered and put him under contract.”
“Wow, good work, but what’s that got to do with me?” I asked.
Detective Inspector Burke replied, “Well, Greg, this is the break we have been looking for. If this is going to work, we need to get the right undercover officer for the job. Starting tomorrow at nine, there is an undercover course at Headquarters and we want you to shadow someone that we think has the perfect credentials and might be best suited to handle this very dangerous assignment. Dangerous is the operative word, as you know. If these guys find out who he is, they will kill him or put a contract our on his head. If this works though, we could be arresting the whole gang and seizing their clubhouse.”
I said, “I have never actually assessed anyone for undercover assignment suitability. That’s it? Just assess him? That’s all you want from me on this?”
He replied “Yes, that’s all. There will be twenty-four candidates in the undercover class and your task will be to observe him and give us your honest assessment of whether or not he has the right character to be successful. You’ve done lots of undercover including drugs, jail, stolen property, firearms, and other things that I have heard good comments on. I have never worked undercover and we certainly don’t want to put an officer in danger.”
I was flattered by his high opinion of my abilities and also the fact that he was asking for my help. So, I accepted. “Okay. What’s the officers’ name?” I asked.
The Detective Inspector replied, “Bull Dog.” He grinned and said, “Well, that’s what he looks like, a bull dog. See you tomorrow at nine.”
~~~
Chapter 3 – Training Day
It was eight-thirty a.m., and I was stuck and bored waiting in traffic for two hours. Headquarters is located in the heart of the city and that’s where most of our training is done. I started to think back to four years ago when I attended my initial undercover course. Specialized law enforcement units need to have constant access to a pool of undercover officers. For an organization to be effective and efficient it has to establish an operational pool of highly qualified candidates. The candidates who are selected come from the uniformed side of police operations. These candidates have either requested to go on the course or someone has noticed that they may have the charisma and skills to be a good undercover officer. However, only those candidates who have passed the undercover course and the additional psychological testing will be used for future assignments. In my class, there were five instructors and twenty-one undercover candidates. Two people didn’t even make the second day and were sent back to their uniformed detachments. Working in an undercover capacity is not for everyone. It takes a special person who must be confident, focused, and able to quickly assess situations or opportunities to ensure officer and public safety.
I pulled into the parking lot and stopped at the gate security. A senior gate security officer approached my window and said, “Can I help you?” I nodded yes and flashed my badge. With curiosity, he looked at my leather jacket, my shoulder-length hair, and gave my blue Camaro the once-over. He then turned around and pressed the button that lifted the parking lot gate. As I proceeded through, he kept his eye on me, obviously not sure what to make of me.
I met Detective Inspector Burke at his office which was located on the seventh floor. As I got out of the elevator, he spotted me and waved me over to his office.
“Glad you could make it. Here is a picture of this ‘Bull Dog’ you are going to meet. Before he joined the police, he was in the military for two years. He has extensive explosive, firearms, and martial arts training. He’s been on the job now for five years working traffic patrol. About a year ago I was traveling through his area, in a hurry to meet another informant. He caught me speeding through his radar gun and pulled me over. From my encounter with him, I said to myself, This officer is a little intimidating, even for regular traffic patrol officer. The idea then struck me. When we were looking for the right officer to work on this assignment, I remembered him. I called his Unit Commander and was able to put him on this undercover course.”
Glancing at the photo, I said, “Yea, he must have had his nose broken a couple of times, because it’s crooked. He has piercing blue eyes and short, bristly crew cut. Our organization hired him? He looks meaner than most of the criminals we’ve put in jail.”
Detective Inspector Burke replied, “Wait until you meet him. His picture doesn’t do him justice.”
At nine a.m., the class was about to start. As I walked into the room, I noticed that everyone was wearing regular street clothes. Suits and ties are not what this undercover training is about. Walking towards a vacant seat, I glanced around the room and immediately found “Bull Dog.” Conveniently, my seat was just behind his. The Director of the Training Academy opened up the course by introducing himself and gave a diatribe on professionalism and some course housekeeping rules for the candidates who were staying overnight for the duration of the course. He then turned the class over to the instructors and departed. It’s common practice on the first day of course each candidate stands up and introduces himself and gives a short blurb about his background. As they went around the room, each candidate stood up at their chair and introduced himself or herself. When it was time for the “Bull Dog,” he stood up, went to the front of the class, and in military-style stood tall, looked straight across the room, and said, “Constable Blake Robinovich. For the past five years, I have been performing traffic enforcement duties. Prior to that, I was with the military for two years. I have a black belt in martial arts and have broken at least eight bones doing martial arts competitions. As you can see, my nose is a little crooked from two fractures. I am focused and ready to do whatever it takes to succeed in this undercover course. I am married with one four-year-old boy.”
Bull Dog’s introduction certainly left an impression in the minds of the others, including myself. This Blake guy, was certainly not afraid of being front and center and most definitely was not some shy guy from a small town. It looked like the week’s training would surely be interesting and amusing at the same time.
Since the majority of the undercover candidates are from the regular uniformed officer detachment, they do not have other street knowledge of what to expect while working in an undercover capacity. A good undercover officer must be knowledgeable in a lot of areas such as weapons, firearms, drugs, gambling, auto theft, to name a few. This course provides a sampling to those officers who are not street smart and gives them a starting basis to build their experiences on. They have to have more than knowledge or book smarts to survive; they have to learn to roll joints, package kilos of cocaine, strip down a gun, play various games at illegal card houses, and how to steal cars and it all has to look authentic.
On day two, the instructor produced a list of candidates and their assigned partners. Of course they ensured that my partner was Bull Dog. The instructor then announced the rules of engagement by saying, “Tonight at eight p.m., you and your partner will be dropped at the corner of Regent and Bloor. You will have no badge, no gun, and no identification whatsoever. Your collective task is to gather as much as you can to bring back to the class. You will have only two hours to complete this assignment. The team who collects the most wins the assignment of the day. Use whatever people, panhandling, persuasion or creative thinking skills you have at your disposal to accomplish your task. We want to see how or if you can think on your feet and be focused on your goals while working in an undercover capacity. You will be picked up where you were dropped off. Any questions?” He cleared his throat and paused just a moment. “Good. Good luck to everyone.”
I reached over to Constable Robinovich and said, “Looks like me and you. I am Greg.” I held my hand out to shake his, and he gripped my hand so hard I thought he was going to crush my bones. Since he had no idea of my intentions or that I was there to assess him, I played the innocent officer who lets others take the lead on things.
He answered, “You can call me ‘Robi.’”
I responded with, “How about ‘Robi the Bull’ or just plain ‘Bull’?” I smiled.
He laughed and said, “Sure, I’ve been called that before when I was in the military. I am fine with ‘Bull.’”
From that moment, it looked like Bull and I were off to a great start. We went back to our academy dormitory rooms, got changed, and returned to the class. The instructors made all the candidates empty their pockets and turn in any monies or identification they had on them before getting on the bus.
As I sat down next to Bull, I said, “Well, any ideas what we are going to do? I have never done this kinda thing before. It’s a little awkward and weird knowing we are the police but we’re acting like we’re not.”
He replied, “Let’s not talk about any strategy until we get off the bus, okay?”
The drive took about twenty minutes and the air was filled with excitement and anxious undercover cops like kids on a school bus ride to the zoo. The bus stopped at Regent and Bloor Street and the instructor stood up and barked out with a strong commanding tone, “Remember, everyone back here for pickup at exactly ten p.m. It is mandatory to participate in this task, and if you are not back at exactly ten p.m., we will leave you and you must walk back on your own.”
As we got off the bus, Bull and I went over to the oak tree and began discussing our strategy. I said, “What do you think we should do, because we don’t have any money, and we only have two hours to do this, right?”
He replied, “Let’s pick the busiest street. We’re limited with time, and we need to approach as many people as possible in such a short time period.” He looked down both streets and said, “Bloor’s the busiest, so let’s start walking down this street for a half hour and then we can turn around and come back across the street.”
I replied, “Sounds good. What’re your thoughts on walking together…or should we spread apart? I’ll go over there, and you can start here.”
Bull said, “Yea, good thinking. Let’s do that.”
I dodged cars and walked across to other side of the street. Since my primary covert mission was to watch and assess his performance, I faked trying to get anything from people or vendors and tried to carefully watch his attempts of actually getting something. You have to picture this; it was priceless. It was dark out and he was tall, muscular, with piecing blue eyes. His face looked like a boxer’s, complete with a broken nose from previous fights. He appeared to be the kind of street person you don’t want to meet in a dark alley. His looks and approach were intimidating as he stopped people and asked them for something. Money, drugs, tokens, anything. As he and pedestrians approached each other, you could actually sense that people felt intimidated as he tried to talk to them. They glanced down and away trying to avoid looking him in the eyes. Others got stopped in their tracks and replied to him that they had nothing for him and quickly darted around him. So far, it appeared that he certainly was comfortable in approaching people he didn’t know and engaging them in conversation. Being able to do this with ease is a quality and trait that not everyone has. It’s quite like being a salesman doing cold call selling except that you have to actually be face to face before you can develop a rapport with people.
An hour later, he was still approaching people and was actually starting to get things. He crossed the street and met up with me.
He said, “I got a total of $9.25, a pack of gum, and a hotdog from the street vendor.”
I replied, “That’s good, but I am not having any luck so far.”
He then said, “If we are going to win tonight’s competition, we’re going to need more than what we got. Let’s turn down here.” We started to walk towards a more seedy part of town. Up ahead, we noticed some activity at a large brown building complex. You know the kind of neighborhood. As far as the eye could see were rows upon rows of low-income housing complexes. Most buildings had no drapes and people seemed to be just hanging out the windows. The streetlights were broken and most brick walls were stained with graffiti left by territorial gangs, daring anyone to trespass their turf. It was the kind of place that your mom would not want you hanging around in. As we walked together up the street, I noticed that there were five people hanging around on the front concrete doorsteps of one of the buildings. The grey concrete steps were set back from the street about sixty feet or so. The walkway was dimly lit from the light coming from inside the main entrance and the same graffiti was etched on the walls and the walkways. As we were about to pass the walkway of this den of iniquity, Bull grabbed my right shoulder and stopped. I immediately knew something had sprung into his head, something I knew I wasn’t going to like.
He whispered, “Greg, I have an idea,” as he stared at me intensely with those piercing blue eyes. I really started to feel uncomfortable in the environment we were in. We were in the seedy side of town. There was little to no lighting on the streets and it occurred to me then that I had no gun, no badge, and no money no insurance of any kind for my safety. If we got killed here, they may not be able to even identify our bodies. I turned toward Bull and looked over his shoulder and noticed that the group of guys that were sitting on the concrete steps had obviously seen us walking by.
I said, “We shouldn’t be here. Let’s turn around and start walking back to our pickup point.”
He then smiled, and with a smirk on his face, he said, “Wait here on the street. I’ll be right back.” Before I could grab his arm, he bolted towards the guys hanging out on the steps. As I watched him strutting towards them, I glanced up at this apartment complex and estimated that there must have been about a hundred families who lived there. This was their turf, not ours. There were intermittent police or ambulance sirens going off in the distance, which did not help reduce my anxiety level. I didn’t know who else was lurking in shadows and what cache of weapons could be used on us if shit should hit the fan. I may not be Spiderman, but my senses were tingling nonetheless and I was not sure what was about to happen. Bull approached them and they begin to talk. It was too far for me to hear but I was focused on trying to keep a constant eye on my partner and anyone else coming out of the building. Bull appeared to have negotiated something with these guys. He slowly turned around and abruptly pointed his finger at me.
Goddamn it, I thought to myself. What the hell is he doing? He’s going to get us killed. Once again, Bull pointed at me and started to walk back to where I was standing on the sidewalk waiting like he’d told me to.
My mind started to race, and as Bull approached, he said, “Great news, I got a deal for some hash. Five grams of hash for $50. With a very stern tone in my voice, I looked him in the eyes and said, “What the hell are you thinking? We don’t have any money, remember?”
In a very quiet whisper, Bull replied, “This will work out…trust me. Reach in your pocket like you have some cash and hand it to me. Just pretend, okay?”
Reluctantly, I reached in to my tight blue jeans pocket and pretended to count out money. As I handed it to Bull, he smiled and motioned me to come with him back to where the group was on the steps. As we started to walk into this dark, dingy complex, I had visions of getting into the biggest donnybrook of my life or worse, getting stabbed with a rusty old screwdriver or some such cruel instrument. By now, though, it was too late. Things were happening too fast and my partner was about to do the unthinkable. Bull actually thinks he is going to rip these guys off and live to tell the tale, I thought. My heart started to pound, and my mouth was dried up like beach sand. My inner voice was convincing me that I was a dead man. No, wait…Make that ‘we’…We’re both dead men. In the background, I could hear several apartments playing rap music loudly and as I looked around, more people seemed to be looking out of their apartment windows. It’s almost as if someone was beating drums in a jungle giving notice to anyone around to come and see what’s about to happen to two foolish strangers in the courtyard. As we approached, a tall young man with a yellowish touque on his head met us.
In his homeland Jamaican patois, he said, “Okay, mon…We gon’ do ‘dis or what? Give me da money.”
Bull calmly replied to him saying, “Relax. You show the hash first. I am not getting ripped for my money. I have it right here.” He grabbed at his left jeans pocket. They both looked at each other sternly, and neither one flinched. The Jamaican’s friends remained seated on the steps as they watched us like hawks. The Jamaican turned around and held one hand up to his friends, indicating that everything was cool. In a flash, it dawned on me that we might not be getting any hash here. These guys just lured us into their lair, and maybe we were the ones that were going to get ripped because they think we have the money.
The Jamaican then reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of tin foil that was wrapped up in a ball. Now, he was not smiling, and he held it up between his fingers and said, “We’s got a deal, mon. Take it and see for yourself.”
My heart was racing even faster because I knew something had to give and someone was going to be in a world of hurt. As Bull grabbed the piece of shiny tinfoil, he immediately started to backtrack over my feet. I can’t believe we-re actually doing this. We are ripping off the Jamaicans. What a stupid idea. We won’t get one block before were stabbed or impaled on a sharp picket fence. Bull almost knocked me over as we both started running for our lives. My body felt like it was not keeping up with my feet as I ran towards the street. Since I was in the lead and he was right on my tail, I had to make a life-and-death decision on which way to turn and I had to make it fast. So I turned right as we hit the street. My adrenaline was in full pump and I was truly scared for my life. As we got to the corner, I was able to glance over my shoulder and saw the five Jamaicans trying to catch us. But what was even more unnerving was that the moment the Bull and I started to run, the Jamaicans were yelling in their patois giving notice to everyone in the building complex. I don’t speak patois, but I’m sure the message they were trying to convey was something like “Everyone come help us. The white boys are ripping us off,” because more and more Jamaicans were exiting their buildings through the side doors and joining to form an angry mob in hot pursuit. These people must have been prepared for this sort of thing, because they seemed to all be carrying clubs and things to beat us with. By now, we were about one block away from safety and I was sure my partner did not really assess the gravity of the situation because he quickly stopped, turned around and took a martial arts stance. I couldn’t believe this guy actually thought that he was going to fight what he believed were only five Jamaicans. What he didn’t know was that others were coming to join their cause, and they were carrying an arsenal of makeshift weaponry.
I also had to stop so I grabbed him by the wrist, yanked it hard and yelled, “Come on, Bull. We’re not dying here.” Just then, a rock the size of a baseball hit Bull just above the eye. Bull was caught off guard and was stunned for a moment as he tried to gain his balance. Only then did he realize that he had bitten off more than he could chew.
We both started to run frantically again, but for me, the situation started to feel so surreal. Suddenly, everything started to move in slow motion. It was bizarre. I couldn’t hear anyone but I new things were happening all around me. As I looked around, my peripheral vision was starting to get blurry and I was only able to see things that were directly in front of me. It was like I was looking through a glass bottle. My hearing diminished to the point that I thought I was wearing earmuffs. I started to view everything that was happening in minute and horrifying detail. I think the medical term for this is “tachycardia.” Most people have only read about it and few people have actually experienced it Believe me, it was a frightening feeling.
We ran another block and it seemed like an eternity. As we got to the corner we were cut off by four other guys. This is it, I thought. I am going to die right here on this spot. The Bull and I turned around. My heart was pounding so hard I felt it was going to explode out of my chest. This is where they are going to bury us. By now, my hard pumped adrenaline was spent. My tank was empty. Many strangers began to surround us. Bull and I had our backs together, ready to fight for our lives. Everyone was yelling, people were jockeying for position, and now they had completly circled us. I took a kick to the thigh, which caused me to immediately go down on one knee. As I tried to hold my defensive posture, I was grazed upside the head with a baseball bat. I was able to regain my composure and wearily stood up. I could feel my partner’s back pushing up against mine as we tried to fend them off. I then heard an unfamiliar sound…whoosh, whoosh. It was the sound of someone using a snapped off car aerial as a whipping weapon. They were trying to hit me in the face and on my head. Silently, I thought to myself, If they hit me, the jagged steel edge will cut me like a hot knife going through soft butter. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I heard a car screeching to a sudden stop right behind us. It was a cab driver. Out of the corner of my eye, he ran to his trunk and took hold of large steel tire jack. He began flailing the steel jack at the Jamaicans in front of us and yelling at them in their own patois. What he was saying, exactly, I don’t know, but it was clear he meant business.
The cab driver said to us in no uncertain terms, “You guys get into the car. Now!” I lunged for my partner with all the energy I had left and shoved him against the cab. Bull was so focused on trying to survive the perilous situation and still recuperating from that rock-throw to his head that he didn’t understand what was happening.
In a panic stricken tone I yelled, “Get in the goddamn cab.” I am sure it was only a fraction of a second, but the cab driver was able to fend them off while Bull jumped into the backseat and I hopped in the front passenger side. I slammed both door locks down and the cab driver was able to get back into his seat. We were all so mentally and physically exhausted that it felt like we had just run the Boston Marathon.
Unable to fully catch my breath, I looked at Bull and said, “You okay?” Other than having a bloody head wound from the baseball sized rock, he was okay. While he was apparently unable to speak just yet, he mustered a nod yes.
The cab driver looked at both of us and said, “You guys got money to pay for the cab?” I couldn’t believe my ears we were about to die and he wanted to get paid. The Jamaicans were pounding the car in anger.
I said, “Look, buddy, we’re cops. Just take us to nearest police station.”
He replied, “Well, if you’re cops, where is your badge?”
This tenuous situation was absolutely unbelievable. We had no money, no badge, and no gun. The cab driver did not believe what I told him (who could blame him, really?), and he wasn’t budging an inch. This was no time to continue small talk when violent strangers were about to break the windows and yank us out. Without consideration for my actions, I instinctively leaned over next to the driver and with my left hand I forcefully grabbed control over the steering wheel. I jammed the gear selector into drive and then pushed down on the gas pedal as fast and hard as I could. The cab driver was speechless and unable to react other than to go along with me as I was commandeering his cab. We drove like a bat out of hell for about five blocks. I drove the cab to a variety store where I felt it was safe to stop. I think Bull was in shock because he had not said a word since we broke away from the curbside where we almost died.
As Bull and I exited the car, I said, “We are the police. Thanks for helping us back there. I really appreciate it. Give me your name, and I will get you some cab money.”
He looked at me great disbelief and said, “You’re shitting me! You’re not cops. Get out of my cab, you assholes, before I call the real cops.”
Amazingly Bull and I were able to meet back at our prearranged pickup point. We just sat quietly on the bus on our way back to the classroom. When we arrived at Headquarters our undercover training instructors held a debriefing of the night’s events. Each team had to make their presentation of the experiences they encountered. One team had coins and cash, another team had food, and another team was able to score a bona fide train ticket. Bull and I handed in some hash and showed our bruises and our cuts to win the training day competition. The undercover instructors and classmates were absolutely stupefied of what we did.
These training scenarios are no longer part of the undercover training program standards. Bull went on several months later to successfully infiltrate the Outlaws Motorcycle Gang and make many arrests and seizures. Some undercover projects or assignments are more dangerous than others. It takes special skills, abilities, and guts to accept potentially dangerous assignments and to ensure that they are brought to a successful completion.
Police work, especially working in an undercover capacity, is very dangerous and not for the faint hearted. When your life is dependant on your partner, you must be able to put your life in someone else’s hands. Bull and I worked dangerously together and together we fought in battle. We both share an uncommon trust or bond that can only be appreciated by those who have worked on the front lines, not by those who are merely pedestrians in life. I can confidently say that I would proudly take Bull anywhere, any time on my tour of duty.
~~~
Chapter 4 – Drug Threats