Excerpt- Chapter 2 Tightrope

Behind the Yellow Tape

The yellow police tape is a symbol most people associate with crime scenes—a barrier that separates the known from the unknown. For those of us in policing, what lies beyond the tape is often more complex than what the public sees on television or in headlines. It’s a world of raw emotion, human suffering, and the relentless pursuit of truth and justice.

In this chapter, I’ll take you behind the tape and into the files that defined my career. These are the stories of motor vehicle accidents where lives were shattered in an instant, and of serious investigations that demanded every ounce of skill and determination to solve. They include moments of supporting victims through their darkest hours and relentless efforts to bring offenders to justice.

Please note that these stories include references to sexual abuse, child abuse, trauma, and suicide, which some readers may find distressing.

But this world isn’t perfect, and neither is the justice system. There were times when, despite our best efforts, we couldn’t get it right. Times when good people suffered, and bad people went free. Those moments leave scars, not just on the victims but also on the officers who carry the weight of those failures.

Through it all, the cases beyond the yellow tape have shaped me as a police officer and as a person. They taught me lessons about humanity, resilience, and the limits of the system we work within. And, most importantly, they showed me the power of persistence and compassion in the face of tragedy and injustice.

I happen to have a few of those stories about policing that books and movies are made of—literally. As one of the few female officers on my watch, I often took on calls involving sexual assaults and incidents concerning sex trade workers. It was a responsibility that would lead me to a case that continues to haunt and shape me.

In New Westminster in 1998, the sex trade workers operated on 12th Street. The “strip” stretched from approximately 4th Avenue to the border of Burnaby, past 10th Avenue. The hill was lined with businesses and apartment buildings, and the women would spread themselves along the many blocks, from the bottom of the hill to the top. I learned quickly that this hierarchy also extended to their earnings: women at the bottom of the hill typically charged $30, while those at the top charged $100. The sad truth was that even within this dangerous profession, there was a stark delineation of perceived value.

I got to know most of the women who worked that area. There were always ten to fifteen regulars who recognized me, and I them. Others came and went, disappearing after a few months, often with little trace. Their stories stayed with me, shaping how I viewed the world. I was slowly coming to understand that people living on the street were not there by “choice” but by need. Almost all had fled some home life that was abusive and dangerous. Life on the street was a better, safer choice than remaining in their so called “home.” If they could go back and have a safe life, most would. It became important to avoid judging them for that decision.

As a young female officer, I was occasionally asked to participate in undercover operations targeting drug dealers and “johns”—men who solicited sex workers. My “training” for this role consisted of a thirty-minute briefing on the rules: never get into a car, give a signal if solicited, and wait for backup to intervene. Looking back, it’s hard to believe how little preparation I received for such high-risk work. I’d later learn that proper undercover training involves extensive assessment and preparation.

During my one night undercover as a sex trade worker, I found myself unable to hide my disgust. Seeing baby seats in the back of vans, wealthy men treating me as a commodity, and the sheer arrogance of some johns fuelled my anger. My frustration with the system only deepened my commitment to protect these women and prevent their victimization.

Instead of following the prevailing practice of relocating sex trade workers across city borders, I began to engage with them, offering hot drinks or food on cold nights. I listened to their stories and learned about their lives. One woman, a young mother trying to make ends meet for her eight-year-old son, left a heartbreaking impression on me.

I remember the night I first saw her. She stood out because she didn’t look like she belonged on the street; she looked like she could be a friend of mine. Her decision to turn to sex work stemmed not from addiction, but from a deep desire to provide a better life for her child. I will never forget what it felt like when she told me that coming out on the street just two nights a week gave her enough to buy her son new clothes, give birthday presents to his friends, and create moments of joy—simple things that many take for granted.

Just telling that story again creates the same pang in my stomach as when she first told me. I don’t know what happened to her. I told her to be safe, gave her my card, and said she could call me if she needed help.

Her story brought home the harsh realities of life on the street. It reminded me of how fortunate I had been in my upbringing, and that some childhoods and lives just turn out better than others. There was almost a randomness about it. But most of all, for me, it underscored the importance of compassion in my work. Years later, after becoming a mother myself, I understood her sacrifices on an even deeper level.

On March 20, 1999, while on night patrol, I noticed a vehicle moving suspiciously along 12th Street. It would slow down, drift toward the curb near a sex trade worker, then continue on. Suspecting an impaired driver, I followed the vehicle into Burnaby before it turned around and returned to New Westminster. I decided to pull the vehicle over.

The driver was Robert Pickton. At the time, no one knew he was a serial killer, the worst in Canada. He had a female passenger, Lynn Ellingson, who would later become a key witness in his trial. As I questioned Pickton and ran his details through dispatch, I learned that he had a history of violence toward sex trade workers. He had previously attacked one, who had escaped after slashing his throat.

Pickton’s demeanour was unsettling. When I asked him what he was doing on 12th Street, he replied chillingly, “Why do you care?” I made it clear that I cared deeply about what happened on my streets. My parting words to him were a warning: if he returned, I would be watching.

The look he gave me sent shivers down my spine. His eyes were filled with malice, and for a brief moment, I felt as though I was staring into the face of pure evil.

Though I had no legal reason to hold him that night, I filed a detailed report and alerted other agencies, including the Vancouver Police and the Coquitlam RCMP, who both had listed interest in him. Over the following months, I learned more about Pickton’s activities and began to show his photo to sex trade workers, warning them never to get into his vehicle.

At the same time, I spearheaded a DNA registry for sex trade workers in New Westminster. With permission from my superiors, I collected blood samples, fingerprints, and photographs, ensuring we had records to identify these women in case they went missing. It was a grim necessity, driven by rumours that women were being murdered and disposed of on Pickton’s farm.

Years later, when Pickton was arrested and charged with the murders of twenty-six women—a number believed to be closer to forty-nine—I was the ninety-sixth witness called to testify. During my pre-trial interview, I learned that my traffic stop had likely prevented the murder of a New Westminster woman that night. Pickton’s passenger, Lynn Ellingson, confirmed that they were hunting for a victim and left New Westminster because of my intervention and picked up a woman from another city.

She quoted Pickton as saying, “That blonde bitch cop is paying too much attention.” She would later testify that Pickton killed the woman they picked up the same night. This evidence and my traffic stop allowed prosecutors to establish a timeline for one of the murders by using my evidence at trial.

It took many years for me to learn about the value I brought to this case. Such a small piece of the pie and yet packed with so much legal importance.

The Pickton case was a tragic reminder of the limits of policing. Despite our best efforts, we can’t save everyone. But we can make a difference, even if it’s one life at a time. My early instincts and actions, driven by inexperience and determination, became part of this case.

I also learned during the Missing Women’s Inquiry (stemming from the Pickton investigation) that I was, unknowingly, the last documented person to interact with one of Pickton’s victims: Andrea Joesbury.

On March 17, 2001, I had stopped a vehicle containing two men and a female sex trade worker, removing Andrea from the car for her safety. I had no idea then that it would be one of her last known sightings. When her name and my report surfaced during the inquiry, it was a gut-wrenching moment. I realized the profound limitations of our efforts—despite doing everything right in that moment, her tragic fate was already set in motion. I sat at the table reading the report, wondering on which day Andrea made the fatal decision to get into a vehicle with Robert Pickton.

While reading through my old reports, I was struck by how much we don’t know as police officers. We are often only involved in one chapter of someone’s story, and the endings can be heartbreaking. Andrea’s case was a painful reminder that our best efforts don’t always lead to the outcomes we hope for. However, it reinforced my commitment to act whenever and however I could—knowing that even small actions can have profound impacts.

This experience taught me to trust my instincts, to act boldly when others might hesitate, and to never underestimate the potential impact of seemingly small actions. It also reinforced the importance of listening to junior officers and recognizing the value they bring to the table. You never know who might be onto something that could change the course of history.

New West Patrol when I stopped Robert Pickton