Fifty Years from Riverview

In mid-December 1974, two Moncton policemen went missing. They’d been pursuing two suspects in the kidnapping-for-ransom of the teenage son of a local restaurant owner. Thankfully, the boy was released unharmed after a grocery bag full of ten-dollar bills was dropped off. An extensive search was underway to find the missing men, and also to track down the suspects. Boys in blue went door-to-door at our building on a Friday evening, the day after the kidnapping, showing us a black-and-white picture, which may have been a mug shot. I had never seen the person, but Larry recognized the guy in the photo. Two nights prior, our next-door neighbour had his car hood open, working on the engine, so Larry had offered to help. My husband wasn’t much of a mechanic, but he was able to point a flashlight.

One of the officers told us the tenant on the other side of our wall was James Hutchison (his real name) who was wanted by police in connection with the criminal activity being splashed all over the media. It was disturbing to hear that such a person lived beside us, and unsettling to think that Larry might have unwittingly helped this miscreant prepare himself to commit evil felonies.

We stayed up till all hours talking and drinking wine, and were glad the next day was Saturday. By the time we arose and went downstairs, it was approaching lunch time. We put the coffee on and looked out our front kitchen window. We could see cars in the parking lot over on the next street, which was farther up the hill from us. I didn’t notice anything in particular, but Larry fancied himself a bit of a cop-whisperer because of his student gig as a night-beat cabbie in Vancouver. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and commented that the unmarked car containing two police officers, which was pointed in our direction, was way too obvious as a stakeout vehicle. He was certain they were watching Hutchison’s door for any activity, and decided our kitchen chairs near the window would be a more discreet vantage point. He threw on a jacket and boots, trudged up the hill and spoke with the men for a minute or two. Then the trio trooped down, all smiles, and must have stomped their snowy feet on our doormat before entering. I was only 23 at the time, but the two clean-shaven constables looked much younger.

I plunked steaming mugs onto the table along with spoons, cream and sugar. We engaged in breezy small talk, making no mention of the criminals or the high anxiety level in the community. After a few slurps of hot java, Cop#1 said, “Hey, why don’t we order some pizza, our treat!” He stood up and lifted the handset from our pastel-coloured kitchen wall phone. He spoke with the pizza place, then paused to ask, “The special is pepp-and-mush. That okay with you?” We nodded. Suddenly, Cop#2, who’d been looking out the window, leapt to his feet and shouted, “We gotta go!” Cop#1 hung up the phone before he’d given the address, and they both dashed out of the house. Rumour had it that Hutchison’s girlfriend had entered the premises to collect some of her belongings, presumably nothing incriminating. We never saw them again, let alone the pizza.