Eastham and Constable Claude Oullette flew to Ontario and Quebec to conduct a media campaign. Meanwhile, Dalen and Officer Laurie Dewitt embarked on a three-week drive from Kamloops to Montreal in the same vehicles used in the Global re-enactment. Signs reading HAVE YOU SEEN THIS TRUCK ? hung from the camper. The intention was not only to maintain awareness of the case, but also to test the veracity of the eyewitness testimonies that had poured in from across the country. Would the small discrepancies between these vehicles and the Bentleys’ go unnoticed, and if so, how reliable were the sightings in the first place?
When summer finally arrived, campgrounds across Ontario and Quebec were inundated with information sheets and “wanted” posters featuring the composite sketches. In late August, an auto body mechanic in Windsor, Ontario, came forward with some promising information. A few months prior, two Francophones had arrived at his shop in a vehicle that he claimed was identical to the Bentleys’ Ford F-150. It even sported the same modifications George had made to the bumpers and truck bed. Promising to pay him in cash, the men had brought it in to be painted overnight and mentioned that a camper had recently been detached. If that wasn’t incriminating enough, they showed the mechanic a Ruger and a .410/.22 over-under rifle, asking his opinion on the best way to dispose of the weapons. No stranger to criminal activity, the mechanic had referred them to a colleague in Detroit and sent them on their way. As incredible as his story was, he had noted details of the vehicles that were hitherto unreleased to the public — intricacies extending far beyond the realm of coincidence.
Then, on October 18, as the investigation stood poised to cross over into the United States, an unexpected call came in from Clearwater. It was Frank Baruta. They had found the vehicles — dumped on a mountainside and set alight — a mere forty-eight kilometres from the murder site. Just when all of the evidence had pointed east, forcing the investigators to second-guess themselves, it turned out their gut instinct had been right. The lost pieces of the puzzle had been discarded in their own backyard. Now, the wrath of the Canadian media was about to rain down on the RCMP for failing to locate them sooner. Though the investigators were elated to have finally recovered the missing vehicles, from a public relations perspective it was a decidedly Pyrrhic victory.
Backtrack to Tumbler Ridge
A few weeks earlier, on September 22, while driving home from his shift at the Tumbler Ridge RCMP detachment, Constable Ron German had spotted a yellow Ford pickup with three dark figures huddled inside. Along with missing tail lights, a cracked windshield, and a box loaded with expensive tools, a single cycloptic headlight glared ominously onto the road. Suspicious, German signalled for the vehicle to pull over, and blasted his off-road lights. He was just preparing to exit when a man clambered hurriedly out of the pickup’s driver-side door and began stumbling toward the cruiser. He was stocky, with tousled brown curls, a droopy moustache, and a black denim jacket.
“Hey there! How are you doing tonight?” German greeted him.
“Not too bad, officer.” The man shuffled nervously.
“Could I see your driver’s licence?”
“Sure.” The man handed German a card that read, “David William Shearing.”
“So where are you heading?” German passed the licence back.
“Just back to Quadra Camp from work.” Shearing’s eyes flitted about, avoiding the constable’s gaze. “Going to go there for a bit, then head back home.”
“Okay then. So what have you got in the back of the truck?”
German and Shearing strode up to the box of the yellow Ford. Inside the cab, the two mysterious figures sat as still as statues. Shearing revealed the contents of the box: a compressor, wrenches, various impact tools — German estimated they were hauling
When summer finally arrived, campgrounds across Ontario and Quebec were inundated with information sheets and “wanted” posters featuring the composite sketches. In late August, an auto body mechanic in Windsor, Ontario, came forward with some promising information. A few months prior, two Francophones had arrived at his shop in a vehicle that he claimed was identical to the Bentleys’ Ford F-150. It even sported the same modifications George had made to the bumpers and truck bed. Promising to pay him in cash, the men had brought it in to be painted overnight and mentioned that a camper had recently been detached. If that wasn’t incriminating enough, they showed the mechanic a Ruger and a .410/.22 over-under rifle, asking his opinion on the best way to dispose of the weapons. No stranger to criminal activity, the mechanic had referred them to a colleague in Detroit and sent them on their way. As incredible as his story was, he had noted details of the vehicles that were hitherto unreleased to the public — intricacies extending far beyond the realm of coincidence.
Then, on October 18, as the investigation stood poised to cross over into the United States, an unexpected call came in from Clearwater. It was Frank Baruta. They had found the vehicles — dumped on a mountainside and set alight — a mere forty-eight kilometres from the murder site. Just when all of the evidence had pointed east, forcing the investigators to second-guess themselves, it turned out their gut instinct had been right. The lost pieces of the puzzle had been discarded in their own backyard. Now, the wrath of the Canadian media was about to rain down on the RCMP for failing to locate them sooner. Though the investigators were elated to have finally recovered the missing vehicles, from a public relations perspective it was a decidedly Pyrrhic victory.
Backtrack to Tumbler Ridge
A few weeks earlier, on September 22, while driving home from his shift at the Tumbler Ridge RCMP detachment, Constable Ron German had spotted a yellow Ford pickup with three dark figures huddled inside. Along with missing tail lights, a cracked windshield, and a box loaded with expensive tools, a single cycloptic headlight glared ominously onto the road. Suspicious, German signalled for the vehicle to pull over, and blasted his off-road lights. He was just preparing to exit when a man clambered hurriedly out of the pickup’s driver-side door and began stumbling toward the cruiser. He was stocky, with tousled brown curls, a droopy moustache, and a black denim jacket.
“Hey there! How are you doing tonight?” German greeted him.
“Not too bad, officer.” The man shuffled nervously.
“Could I see your driver’s licence?”
“Sure.” The man handed German a card that read, “David William Shearing.”
“So where are you heading?” German passed the licence back.
“Just back to Quadra Camp from work.” Shearing’s eyes flitted about, avoiding the constable’s gaze. “Going to go there for a bit, then head back home.”
“Okay then. So what have you got in the back of the truck?”
German and Shearing strode up to the box of the yellow Ford. Inside the cab, the two mysterious figures sat as still as statues. Shearing revealed the contents of the box: a compressor, wrenches, various impact tools — German estimated they were hauling
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