True and Fascinating Canadian History
The Mystery of the Mountie
And A Gun Gone Missing
by J. J. Healy
On the average shift, whether it be day or night, police officers meet a wide variety of interesting people. Employees on dayshift can be noticed in the banks, post offices, community confectionaries, business offices and schools. They are a hurried lot -- often too busy to talk. Now a days, even the gas jockey is too busy for a yak or a yarn.
The pace and pull of work is different on graveyard shift. On midnights, for instance, one can easily spot the regulars who also work unusal hours, say between midnight and eight AM. Here are the people who rarely sleep. They prefer to toil while everyone else's dreams are snarled somewhere between dreamland and slumberland.
In the early morning hours, garbage collectors roam the back alleys of retail shops, taxi drivers can be spotted around hotels as they search for fares, newspaper delivery people toss bundles of print with ease in doorways from moving trucks and on-duty mechanics carry out their jobs while radios blast. All of these people are employed in a wide variey of important service industry jobs that keep the ecomomy humming along. Even the emergency ward employs doctors and nurses who prefer nightshift. Medics find the late shift the most frenzy. 'More frenzy', they say, 'more fun'. All in all, it's as if night people help normal people get through their day.
Night shift is close community time. Night work gives police officers a wee chance to stop the cruiser and talk with others also working late. One can listen to their life story, about their orgins and background and their family. Every life hosts a stack of stories. Sometimes in the story there is a valuable lesson about life which might pertain to all police officers.
Oftentimes, night shifters can identify unusual happenings in the near vicinity. Very often, they are witnesses to crime in progress -- theft of gas, car thefts, armed robberies or break and enters. Night shifters often depend on the police as often as the police depend on them. Cabbies know the location of all the police cruisers and police officers keep tab on cabbies and their customers. On the street, there is little privacy in public on night shift.
As one looks back over a long police career, one is reminded of certain people. Especially those who had a good story. The story will remind all police officers that a person's seemingly small encounter with the RCMP can last a life time. This one is fuuny.
I once met a man whom I befriended. He was an electrician by the name of Frank McGraw. Frank was eighty five years old and he was extra special for several reaons; he was good natured, he was a native New Brunswicker and he loved to tell stories about his boyhood days. His wife was employed for thirty five years in the RCMP's Pay and Benefit Branch. Frank's memory of olden days in New Brunsick was remarkable.
Frank was born in the small, historic French village of Caraquet in northern New Brunswick about 1928. Caraguet was founded in 1730 and although he was Irish, Frank played with French speaking kids and he learned to speak French as a small boy. Having the ability to speak both languages gave Frank an advantage when he sought work across Canada. As an accomplished and qualified electrician, Frank was never out of work.
Reaching back to the days when he was a small boy in Caraquet, Frank recalled the following incident about 1940 which also involved he and a member of the RCMP.
As a little boy, Frank said that he used to collect comic books. He was always in the market to trade a few comic book for ones which he had not read. One day, a new boy moved into Caraquet from Boston, MA. The new boy made quite an impression on the Caraquet boys who had never wandered farther away from home than the local church.
One day, the boy from Boston showed Frank a small pistol which had had its firing pin dismantled. Frank thought to himself, 'I'd sure like to have that gun, I had never seen anything like that gun'.
Frank said that he made arrangments for the boy from Boston to select whichever comic books he wanted in fair trade for the gun. The switch was made -- the boy from Boston got a pile to comic books and Frank got himself a non-functional gun. Frank said, 'I was some proud of that gun'.
As time passed, Frank thought it would be interesting if he showed his new gun to all his teenage friends in Caraguet. He took the gun down the street and all his pals had a chance to inspect the gun and hold it. 'Someday', the boys thought, 'we'll all own a gun like Frank's'. But, at that particular moment, neither Frank or his friends realized that the RCMP would soon be tracking Frank down to gain possession of his gun.
One day, after school, Frank was on his way home. The old gun was secure in his pocket. Out of the dust, rode the Town RCMP Constable on his black shiny horse. It was Constable Marcelin Theriault. From high on his horse, Constable Theriault said, 'Frank, I hear you have a gun. Let's see it'!
Frank showed his gun to Constable Theriault. Frank said, 'I reached up in the air and handed Constable Theriault the gun. He put it in his pocket. It was the last time I saw my gun'.
Over seventy five years have passed since Frank was a little boy in Caraquet, New Brunswick. When he told me the story about the gun and he mentioned Constable Theriault's name, I had to check the RCMP Graves database. Sure enough, Constable Theriault was listed as deceased along with his photo in Red Serge and a photo of his grave in New Brunswick.
I reported my findings back to Frank McGraw. I said, Frank, 'Constable Theriault died in 1966 and he was buried in New Brunswick.'
As quick as a gun could load, Frank fired off his reply, 'I wish I knew whatever he did with my gun'!
The end.
Reporting from the Fort,
J. J. Healy
December 20, 2013
The kind note which follows was received in December, 2016
Hi Joe,
I just wanted to thank you for an article you wrote about my grandfather in December of 2013.
My sister found it this weekend. His name was Marcelin Theriault and it was a story about a gun he confiscated from a teenage boy.
I loved the story as I don't know a lot about that side of my grandfather.
He still has two daughters that are alive and I forwarded the article to them. They were very touched by it.
My aunts remember his horse. For the joy you gave my aunts I can't thank you enough.
Keep up the good work. I'm sure you've touched a lot of lives.
Merry Christmas,
Giselle Marchand.
December, 2016
[redcedar60@gmail.com]
