Recently, my partner Constable Sean Taylor and I were on patrol in one of the most crime-ridden, poverty-stricken neighbourhoods of Saskatoon. It's our usual beat, and we work there by choice. There are very few dull moments and we often find ourselves in the thick of things - just the way we like it.

It was about 7:30 in the morning. We were half an hour away from finishing our last 12-hour night shift. By 8:00 a.m. we would be off duty for four days. We were caught-up on our paper work and just making one last tour of the district before heading back to the station. Things were winding down - or so we thought.

Prostitutes
We were cruising slowly through an industrial area where prostitutes usually bring "johns" to complete their transactions. The rising sun was shining brightly and we didn't expect to find any activity in the area. Just then I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye.

Up ahead, to the right of our police cruiser, we saw a young aboriginal woman. She wore a tight sweater and a short mini-skirt. Her hair was dyed orange and she wore heavy make-up. We assume she was one of the "working girls". We thought it was strange that she was alone, walking across a deserted parking lot. There were no vehicles around and she looked upset. Sean steered the car in her direction and as we got closer we could see that her clothes were extremely dishevelled. Her sweater was on backwards and her torn underclothes were visible, hanging like rags.

Assault investigation
As she heard our car approaching, she turned to look at us. Tears had caused her heavy mascara to run down her cheeks and we were sure that she needed help. She glanced at us several times but made no move to come towards us. She continued walking across the lot, obviously not wanting to have anything to do with us. Her pace quickened and she walked with greater determination.

I called out to her, asking if we could speak with her. She began to walk faster as she crossed the gravel yard of the grain terminal lot and we continued to follow her. I asked her again if we could help her. Sean and I had both decided that we were now involved in a sexual assault investigation.

Calming efforts
I continued to try to calm her down. I explained that if she didn't let us help her, the same thing could happen to someone else. She said that her way would ensure "this jerk would get what's coming to him."

I tried several more times to reason with her, but without success.

I have always prided myself on being able to communicate with people, even under extremely difficult conditions. Many times, Sean and I have defused potentially violent domestic disputes simply by talking with the parties involved. We talked a distraught man down from a bridge when suicide seemed his only alternative. And recently, several of my colleagues and I were able to get another emotionally distressed young mental health patient to put down a knife she had been holding at her throat. But this situation presented me with a roadblock. There was no way this upset young woman was going to let me help her. She was not prepared even to tell me her name let alone share with me any of the details of her assault.

White law agents
I also couldn't help but get the feeling that this victim saw me and Sean as agents of the white man's law - a process she didn't trust. It is also quite likely that any contact this young lady had with the police in the past probably had her on the wrong side of the law. There was no way she was going to tell these two white cops what had happened to her.

Dejected, I got back into the car to discuss the situation with Sean. We were not prepared to simply write this one off as "no complaint." Sean also pointed out that the next murder we investigated would be directly related to this incident if we didn't do something.

As we spoke, our victim continued across the railway

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