The other side of the story
An Ottawa woman whose father killed her mother, then himself shares her story
Laura Nicholson was 12 when her father killed her mother before he killed himself. Her experience was not how it was portrayed in the news, and today the aspiring journalist shares some of the things it has taught her. Among the lessons? You can’t believe everything you read, and the media need to be aware, always, of the lasting impact of words.
Photograph by: Julie Oliver, The Ottawa Citizen
When most people think of words to describe their father, killer, control freak, abuser and belittler usually aren’t the first that come to mind. The same goes for their mother; “murder victim” doesn’t ring a bell to most. It does to me. And I have the media to thank for that.
The media gave those labels to my parents when I was 12 years old, when my father shot my mother to death before killing himself. But my parents were much more than those labels, and when I read stories about murder-suicides — especially when there are children involved, as there were in Stittsville earlier this month — my heart goes out to those families.
It makes me sad to think that people who were loved and are missed can be defined by negative headlines, and it makes me worry that the children in the Stittsville murder-suicide will be haunted by the media coverage of their parents’ final days.
Because what you read in the media is never the full story, and what’s news to you for a few days stays with the people involved for the rest of their lives.
***
You could say I’m a lot like my father was. While that may seem shocking, given that I’m comparing myself to a murderer, I like to think the man who gave me life had a positive impact on it.
My father gave me his mile-long legs. Standing 6-3, his lean, athletic frame towered above nearly everyone else as he ran around the Kingston neighbourhood where I grew up. More often, his body was neatly tucked inside his Kingston Police uniform, a garment he wore proudly for more than 20 years.
I also like to think I inherited my father’s sense of direction, one that could arguably rival that of any GPS. When my family travelled to faraway lands, my father and I were the first to check out our surroundings, to learn about the area around our hotel and about the culture — and where we could find the closest restaurants. Now, as an adult travelling alone, I can’t help but remember my father’s love of exploration and I’m grateful that he instilled this in me.
Being the only child, I was the apple of my father’s eye. The moments we spent together — drives in the country, bike rides, cuddles — were sacred to us both. My father’s love for me was undeniable, beautiful and, now, very much missed.
My childhood was certainly not all rainbows and butterflies. One week into December 2003, my parents told me they were getting divorced. It caught me off guard, like a blow to the stomach. But I had no idea how much my comfortable, happy 12-year-old life was about to change.
On Dec. 23, 2003, my extended family and I were going for a Chinese food lunch with my ailing grandmother. My mother decided against going because it was my father’s side of the family, and it would have been “awkward” for her, she told me.
I started the day like a lot of 12-year-olds do: chatting on the computer with a friend. My father came down to the basement but didn’t say anything. His eyes were glazed over and his stare was as cold as ice. Almost as soon as he came down, he turned and went back up the stairs.
It was the last time I would see him alive.
Minutes later, a loud noise pierced my ears. BANG. Then another and another. BANG BANG BANG. Something must have fallen, I said to myself.
Ten minutes later, thinking nothing was wrong, I started up the stairs. I called out to my mother and father. “Mom! Dad!” No answer. I called out again, still no response. As I neared the top of the stairs I noticed the putrid smell of gunpowder. I saw my father lying on the floor, blood pouring out of his chest, and could hear a gurgling noise coming from him. My mother was slumped over the bed, where she had been sleeping when she was shot. With her eyes still closed, she looked much more peaceful than my father.
Panic set in. “Mom. Dad. You can get up off the floor now. Is this a test? ’Cause it’s not funny,” I said, my voice cracking. I lunged for the phone just steps away from my father and called 911. I was told to wait outside, so I stood in the driveway in my pyjamas, sobbing as the snow fell that dreary December morning.
I was whisked away to the Children’s Aid Society while the paramedics tried to revive my parents. I still had hope they were alive. Three hours later, a female police officer came to the CAS offices to tell me both my parents were dead.
The man whom I admired, respected and trusted was now the man who woke up one morning, went to work, got his gun from his locker and left me orphaned and abandoned.
****
Word of their deaths spread like wildfire across Kingston, then the rest of Canada. Once the media got hold of the tragedy, it was in the headlines for weeks, and occasional stories still appeared a year later. “Veteran police officer shoots wife, himself,” read one headline. “Killer’s conduct abusive, controlling, experts say,” said another. Or perhaps the worst of them all: “Abusive spouses treat partners as property.”
The media invasion of my personal situation was deeply painful. And now, after three years in journalism school at Carleton University, I can see how poorly they handled it. I’ve dreamed of a career in journalism since I was seven, but perhaps another motivating factor is that I want to change the face of media to ensure that the coverage of murders and deaths, of someone’s misfortune, is never written the way mine was.
I agree the murder-suicide should have been reported. It is a rarity when someone with such a respectable career in the community selfishly takes the life of his wife before taking his own. It is also rare for a 12-year-old girl to be orphaned at the hands of her own father. The public needed to know this heart-wrenching tale. There are lessons to be learned from my story and people need to be more aware about the stresses of policing.
However, what the public didn’t need to see were pictures of my parents’ bodies being rolled away on stretchers. And people didn’t need to hear from experts trying to “analyse” why my father did what he did or read detailed coverage of my mother’s funeral.
I remember looking at some of the articles a few years after the incident. I could feel the anger rising up inside as I came across a photo with the caption: “Funeral home workers remove the bodies of Ian Nicholson and his wife, Maureen, from their east-end house.” In the picture, caution tape surrounds my childhood home as a police officer props the door open for the workers. Next to the photo is the name of the photographer: our neighbour and a friend of my parents. The same photographer gave me his condolences at my mother’s funeral, knowing all too well he profited from the worst time in my life.
The photo haunts me to this day. It’s an image no child should ever have to see, especially when it involves your own parents. A journalist should be able to paint an accurate depiction of the situation with words, rather than upset the public — and especially the family — with a disturbing image.
In the local media, my father quickly became the poster-boy for domestic violence. The newspaper consulted therapists to determine what may have led my father to kill my mother. It is a question I still struggle with, and a therapist who never knew my father certainly can’t answer it.
Family and friends were devastated when reading headlines like: “Reports of Nicholson’s behaviour set bells ringing for therapists,” or, “She called her husband a control freak.” This couldn’t have been the Ian they all knew and loved. And it wasn’t. The Ian they cherished was a kind, loving man, a man who volunteered at the hospital, a constable who worked to keep his city safe despite his hatred for a job that made him fear for his safety. The Ian they knew was a soft-spoken, caring individual who would give the shirt off his back to someone in need.
The media didn’t know this side of my father, however. Reporters defined my father’s life by the one tragic decision he made rather than focus on his other 42 years, which he lived respectably and with dignity.
My father was not in his right mind when he murdered my mother. Insanity, loss of hope and sadness had set it. I am not excusing his actions, but I encourage journalists to look deeper at the person they are writing about — to look at someone who was a son, a brother, a husband, a father and a friend. While readers may only remember articles for a brief time after the event, they linger forever with the family. My heart and soul break for my father, a man who felt so hopeless he believed death was his only way out.
As a future journalist, I will be extra cautious to choose sources who knew the people involved in the story. Women who were acquainted with my mother ran to the media to tell their sides of the story, tarnishing my father’s reputation and deeply hurting my family and me. One of the “friends” of my mother quoted by the newspaper had known her for less than a year and didn’t know my father well, yet the reporter described them as “confidantes.”
One neighbour professed to be “best of friends” with my mother. Truth be known, this woman had not talked to my mom in years, and my mother often said how much that hurt her.
“He was like two different people,” that woman said of my father after telling a story of his “abuse.” Apparently, she said, when my father was in charge of organizing the police Christmas party, he’d give the task to my mother and would be “embarrassed” by the poor job she did. I can’t help but ask, where did these sources get their information?
In fact, true friends protect the people they love. They don’t crave attention so desperately they work to have their own names plastered all over the local paper. I want this to be another lesson for myself and other journalists: be wary of people so insistent on providing you with information about their friends.
My mother’s funeral was packed with those who loved her. And rightly so, as she was the kindest, warmest, most thoughtful woman I have ever known. The chapel was so filled that an overflow room was used for mourners who couldn’t squeeze in.
The day after the funeral, the headline read: “Daughter speaks at mother’s memorial.” A detailed description of my appearance was included. This means a reporter took up a seat in the chapel, leaving someone who loved my mother to sit in the overflow room. It fills me with anger and disgust to think my tragedy and my speech at the funeral was profited upon, particularly at the cost of other mourners. A newspaper is a business, but tact should be used when the business is intruding on the most fragile time in someone’s life.
Journalists lose credibility when they do not work with solid facts. The first story describing the event actually provided readers to the wrong house address, a fact which could have easily been checked. The paper also reported I awoke to gunshots and found my parents downstairs. I was awake and made the life-altering trek upstairs to find my parents’ bodies.
In one article, the reporter wrote, “Ian Nicholson was, in the words of his wife, ‘a control freak’ who belittled and humiliated her.” Never once did I hear my mother say this, but by listening to gossip and hearsay, the reporter deemed this a credible fact.
Had my father survived, I believe these accusations about his character would never have been published. He would have been able to sue for libel since the charges were untrue. Because he died, the media were free to publish whatever they pleased at the cost of the family.
As a lesson to myself and other journalists: be sensitive to the reputations of the dead. Even though they are not alive to defend themselves, the family is left to pick up the pieces of emotional turmoil as a result of false information.
I have no doubts this tragedy will make me a better journalist. I have gained a special empathy, which unfortunately came at a very great cost. While I try to cling to the good memories of my father, the images of his body in the photograph and the horror stories of his double personality will haunt me forever.
I choose to remember the father I knew, the kind, selfless, knowledgeable man whom I respected and adored. It breaks my heart that the real man was so drastically distorted by journalists who should have known better, who could have checked their facts, who could have looked more deeply into their hearts.
© Copyright (c) The Ottawa Citizen
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