The Gakhal Mass Murder
The name Gakhal probably doesn't mean a whole lot to people who live outside BC, or even Vernon but the Gakhals were the family affected by the second biggest mass murder in Canada. The murders happened just blocks away from the house I grew up in back in 1996. I only new about the incident in the vague sense that I knew something bad had happened, though I was only 9 years old at the time.
My dad was involved with Victims Assistance when I was a kid and volunteered for the Police Department, seeing as we lived in a quiet little town that usually didn't entail much. He wasn't scheduled to work that Easter weekend, but called up saying he'd be willing to. It just so happened that something was happening a few blocks down, but he had to stop by the station to get his volunteer pack. He said he noticed there was a bunch of volunteers and officers there and knew something was up. They all headed down to the location together, listening to the radio, "5 bodies confirmed." A few minutes later, "6 bodies confirmed."
Meanwhile, a friend of my dad's, an officer, was in the neighborhood. He had been getting calls all day about gunshots that had ended up being small bombs set to scare off crows from eating fruit in the orchards. So when he got yet another one he wasn't expecting much. He pulled up into the driveway of the two story house and saw an older woman standing on the balcony holding her jaw, blood dripping down her neck. He called for backup, drew his gun and asked her where he was. She just pointed down to the first story. Obviously, he should have waited for backup, but he ran up the driveway past the lifeless body of the father-in-law. He went inside, another body at the entrance, another in the hallway, an 18 year old boy dead in the bedroom. When he went into the living room he saw the mother dead on the couch, her 6 year old twin daughters were beside her, alive though one had been shot in the leg. He picked them both up and put them in the back of his patrol car and waited for backup to arrive.
My dad and the other volunteers got to the scene which had by then been taped off, drawing a sizable crowd. That day was actually supposed to be the day before the wedding of one of the daughters in the house, and in the Sikh religion friends and relatives of the bride usually stop by to visit and wish her well on that day, so a fair amount of those gathering were family members who had traveled expecting a joyous occasion.
My dad spent around the next two hours taxiing family members to the hospital so they could be near the injured and killed, the hospital sectioned off an area for them. My dad returned to the scene and they heard on the radio that the suspect was reportedly in a certain hotel (which is now an old folks home). Some time passed and it came through that he was cornered, and a while after that he was down, he had shot himself.
Later on in the day, he stopped by the hospital again, and it was full of mourning friends and family members. Some of them recognized him from earlier and asked him if he knew anything, at that point no one new the final number of deceased or who they were. My dad approached one of the detectives he knew and asked for some answers. The looks on the detective's face of complete exhaustion and mental overload said enough and my dad backed off. No one knew anything for certain, and you can't very well start throwing around names of people as deceased unless you know for damn certain it's true. The job of identifying the bodies was eventually handed off to one poor relative.
While he was at the hospital a group of Sikh men surrounded my dad, talking a bit, but mostly huddling together for comfort, feeling that my dad had some sort of authority and stability in the horrible situation. The large group later moved to their temple to mourn, pray and eat. My dad went with them, they still hovered around him as they went through their routines.
At the end of the long and unbelievable day the volunteers and officers regrouped at the station where the dispatchers were. The dispatchers were worn out themselves, people had been calling all day wanting to know what happened. But almost as a final jab at their collective wills a dispatcher recalled a call he had gotten during the day. A Realtor from Vancouver called, asking for a family contact he could reach to ask about selling the home of their murdered relatives.
My dad wasn't a volunteer for very long after that. I guess you can only see so many things before it starts to take it's toll.
My dad told me his story tonight, for the first time in full since in happened. The details may not be 100% accurate since this is now a second hand account but I felt like I should share this.
Here are some links about the story, which has some more information:
A legacy of pain, but also tougher laws
Some wounds even time can't heal (a repost of a now deleted article from the local paper)
I can't find any of the original articles, but those have all the basic information.
My dad was involved with Victims Assistance when I was a kid and volunteered for the Police Department, seeing as we lived in a quiet little town that usually didn't entail much. He wasn't scheduled to work that Easter weekend, but called up saying he'd be willing to. It just so happened that something was happening a few blocks down, but he had to stop by the station to get his volunteer pack. He said he noticed there was a bunch of volunteers and officers there and knew something was up. They all headed down to the location together, listening to the radio, "5 bodies confirmed." A few minutes later, "6 bodies confirmed."
Meanwhile, a friend of my dad's, an officer, was in the neighborhood. He had been getting calls all day about gunshots that had ended up being small bombs set to scare off crows from eating fruit in the orchards. So when he got yet another one he wasn't expecting much. He pulled up into the driveway of the two story house and saw an older woman standing on the balcony holding her jaw, blood dripping down her neck. He called for backup, drew his gun and asked her where he was. She just pointed down to the first story. Obviously, he should have waited for backup, but he ran up the driveway past the lifeless body of the father-in-law. He went inside, another body at the entrance, another in the hallway, an 18 year old boy dead in the bedroom. When he went into the living room he saw the mother dead on the couch, her 6 year old twin daughters were beside her, alive though one had been shot in the leg. He picked them both up and put them in the back of his patrol car and waited for backup to arrive.
My dad and the other volunteers got to the scene which had by then been taped off, drawing a sizable crowd. That day was actually supposed to be the day before the wedding of one of the daughters in the house, and in the Sikh religion friends and relatives of the bride usually stop by to visit and wish her well on that day, so a fair amount of those gathering were family members who had traveled expecting a joyous occasion.
My dad spent around the next two hours taxiing family members to the hospital so they could be near the injured and killed, the hospital sectioned off an area for them. My dad returned to the scene and they heard on the radio that the suspect was reportedly in a certain hotel (which is now an old folks home). Some time passed and it came through that he was cornered, and a while after that he was down, he had shot himself.
Later on in the day, he stopped by the hospital again, and it was full of mourning friends and family members. Some of them recognized him from earlier and asked him if he knew anything, at that point no one new the final number of deceased or who they were. My dad approached one of the detectives he knew and asked for some answers. The looks on the detective's face of complete exhaustion and mental overload said enough and my dad backed off. No one knew anything for certain, and you can't very well start throwing around names of people as deceased unless you know for damn certain it's true. The job of identifying the bodies was eventually handed off to one poor relative.
While he was at the hospital a group of Sikh men surrounded my dad, talking a bit, but mostly huddling together for comfort, feeling that my dad had some sort of authority and stability in the horrible situation. The large group later moved to their temple to mourn, pray and eat. My dad went with them, they still hovered around him as they went through their routines.
At the end of the long and unbelievable day the volunteers and officers regrouped at the station where the dispatchers were. The dispatchers were worn out themselves, people had been calling all day wanting to know what happened. But almost as a final jab at their collective wills a dispatcher recalled a call he had gotten during the day. A Realtor from Vancouver called, asking for a family contact he could reach to ask about selling the home of their murdered relatives.
My dad wasn't a volunteer for very long after that. I guess you can only see so many things before it starts to take it's toll.
My dad told me his story tonight, for the first time in full since in happened. The details may not be 100% accurate since this is now a second hand account but I felt like I should share this.
Here are some links about the story, which has some more information:
A legacy of pain, but also tougher laws
Some wounds even time can't heal (a repost of a now deleted article from the local paper)
I can't find any of the original articles, but those have all the basic information.