The Suspicious Deaths of Barry and Honey Sherman: suicide, murder, and insurance money

 The details of this story are based on all available public records at the time of writing. The specifics of the case are accurate; the speculation as to motive is pure conjecture based on the old adage:

“Follow the money.”

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 You be the judge.

On the morning of December 15, 2018, the bodies of Barry and Honey Sherman, wealthy owners of Apotex Pharmaceuticals, were found in their home at 50 Old Colony Road, Toronto, discovered by a real estate agent who had been trying to contact them.

Their deaths were shocking. The passing of such great philanthropists was mourned by family, business associates, and friends. The Toronto Police were called in to investigate and announced that the deaths were “suspicious” and the cause of death was “ligature neck compression” usually associated either with strangulation or hanging. Now the question became, was it a double suicide, or a murder suicide pact, or a double homicide? In the one photo broadcast briefly on television, the crime scene showed two bodies in white robes or coats hanging at the edge of their indoor lap pool posed in symbolic elegance like something out of a Dan Brown novel.

Autopsies were performed. Initial speculation of murder suicide was obtained by the press. The family did not think that reflected well on their parent’s legacy and so they stepped in to the crime scene. This is something that generally only the very wealthy can do. A poverty stricken family of a mentally troubled person who is from a visible minority does not have access to private autopsy doctors or private investigators. They have to go with the standard police investigation, conclusions and report.

If you are very wealthy, and there is a lot at stake in terms of an upper class family brand, inheritance fortunes, insurance money and corporate control, you can do these things. They had their own private autopsy done. No doubt that the owners and partners of Apotex had access to every pharmaceutical under the sun, so who knows what chemical mix could turn up in one or both of the bodies.

What if it turned out that the “murder victim” had been drugged into a total relaxation before the ligature compression was applied? What if a similar pharmaceutical mix was found to have been ingested later by the “suicide victim”?  What if the victims calmly waited side by the side at the edge of the pool until the drugs took effect and the weight of their sagging bodies against the ligatures took care of the strangulation part? If the blind bitch goddess of justice is truly impartial, these are the questions that should be probed by the Toronto Police and not by a purchased private autopsy report or a family financed private investigation. The perception of conflict of interest is tantamount to a conflict of interest, especially when billions of dollars are involved.

When an ongoing investigation does not immediately deem that the deaths are homicides, nor are suspects being sought, and police have stated that there is no public safety risk, it usually indicates that whatever happened at that crime scene is isolated to that crime scene. In this case, the home of Barry and Honey Sherman and the indoor lap pool at 50 Old Colony Road, a home that was up for sale for nearly 5 million dollars.

Besides tarnishing the honourable and philanthropic legacy of Barry and Honey Sherman, a police report of suicide or murder/suicide would slow down the settlement of the estate. It would definitely slow down any life insurance payouts, possibly even eliminate them. Unhappy with the police “suspicious deaths” label, the family hired private investigators to look into the deaths.

A little background: generally, in Canada, if a person commits suicide, insurance policies become null and void. If a person is murdered, the policy goes to the beneficiary. In the case of a double suicide, no insurance money. However, in the case of a murder/suicide, the money of the murdered victim goes to their beneficiary, but the suicide victim gets no payout.

Now, this is where being wealthy and being able to afford really, really good lawyers and a sympathetic judge are important. Who was the murderer and who the suicide victim? In a case where the victim has been stabbed to death and the murderer has a single gunshot wound through the top of the skull, the verdict is pretty clear. The person without a brain is most likely a suicide and the insurance payment goes to the murdered victim’s beneficiary. There are variations on a theme here, like when a murder/suicide pact note is found indicating that both parties wanted out. That nullifies any life insurance payments.

The simplest case of all is when the police determine that the victims were a double homicide. Insurance gets paid as soon as the investigation concludes. That is exactly the conclusion reached by the private investigators hired by the Sherman family. That report was released to the Toronto Daily Star on Friday, January 19. 2018. It proposes that proposes Barry and Honey Sherman were victims of a double homicide. The family purchased private report now contends that that Shermans were found kneeling at the edge of the pool with their hands bound. Insurance problem almost solved.

Almost. But given that this contradicts the Toronto Police report, and that no suspects are being sought and that no public safety warning has been issued by the police, enter really, really good lawyers and judges to settle the dispute. No pressure, but there are millions of dollars and 1% reputations riding on the outcome.

Crime and Punishment in Toronto 2018 … the story has yet to be concluded, but you can write your own conclusions and see how they compare to the next chapter.

Wait for the public autopsy, compare it to the private autopsy and then write one ending from the official police perspective, and one from the Private Investigators hired by the Sherman family. Write one from a Globe & Mail perspective, and one from a Toronto Star perspective. Maybe even one from a Toronto Sun perspective. You be the judge.

And then write the screenplay. It will be riveting.

Well, I thought they would have all been down in Virginia defending their statues, but no. As I walked into a local coffee shop this morning, I was accosted by a balding older man who started to shout insults and obscenities at me. When I tried to get a closer look, he challenged me for even looking at him. Now, since my stroke and heart failure last summer, my memory recall on faces and events is a little foggy at times, so I genuinely didn’t remember this angy old white man, until I came out of the restaurant.

As I left the coffee shop he challenged me with more epithets, including the news that he had checked me out, that I must think I was pretty “special” and that I had given oral pleasures, to put it in the Pulp Fiction vernacular, to our current Prime Minister.  Then he made the mistake of saying, “There’s a group of guys waiting for you at McDonald’s (Bolton) – they’re going to get you.”

His verbal threat clicked my memory bank all back in place. One of the basket of deplorables right here in Caledon.Then I recognized him – one of the “ignorant elders” gang I had written about back in the spring of this year. TThis was the collective who adores Donald Trump, wants to put our Premier and Prime Minister in their “crosshairs”, and gets all their fake news from outlets like Fox, Breitbart, and the Drudge Report.

I told him exactly what I thought of his threats as he followed me to my car. After asking him to get out of my space, I took a deep breathe to relieve the stress, and drove home. Cortisol surge is not good for heart patients., so I regarded his verbal assault as a potentially life-threatening situation.

Well. Dear readers, a verbal threat of assault is worth reporting. So once again, a call to the Ontario Provincial Police to record the time (8:00am), location (Tim Horton’s south, Bolton), and description of the elder offender (older white male, slim, grey hair comb back, 5’8”ish.) Hopefully, I won’t get the “right to free speech” lecture I got last time.

Now it is out of my hands and into the legal process. Report called in and registered.  I’m looking forward to a coffee next week. Sure wish the PM could be there.

***

Skid Crease, Caledon

One day Harry felt like going for a hike. He missed his parent’s farm and woodlot trails, but he knew a friend who had a farm nearby. He called his friend.

“Johanna,” said Harry, “I need to go on a hike.”

“Well,” answered Johanna, “My young son Henry is just getting home from school. He would be a great guide for a hike.”

“Done,” said Harry. He jumped in his car and drove over to the farm. Henry had just arrived home. His dogs, big Burke and little Bruno met Harry in the driveway.

Big Burke normally ate visitors to the farm, but she liked Harry. She licked his ear and he rubbed her head and they were ready to go.

Henry knew all of the trails on his farm. With Burke leading the way, Henry and Harry made their way past the horses and the chickens and the goat and headed into the forest. There were trilliums and trout lilies blooming everywhere. Spring was finally really here!

“You have to watch out for the arrows,” said Henry, casually.

“What?” exclaimed Harry, getting ready to duck.

“Before we moved here, they used to do archery,” explained Henry. “Sometimes I find arrows in the forest. You have to look for the yellow ends.”

“Ahh,” replied Harry, relaxing. “So old arrows on the ground with yellow nocks. I get it,” said Harry. “You know, Henry, I have bow collection of my own.”

“Really?!” said Henry.

“Yes indeedy. All wood, old school – I used to pretend I was Robin Hood on my farm. I’ll bring them over next time.”

“When I find the arrows, I fix them up,” said Henry.

“Then we’ll have to call you Henry Fletcher,” laughed Harry. “A fletcher is a person who fixes arrows.”

They walked and talked for quite a while, and then Henry said, “There’s a big old house back here, near the toboggan hill. It’s abandoned.”

“Seriously,” asked Harry.

“Yes. I got in trouble there once. I went hiking over with another kid and we looked in and he threw rocks and we went inside and a can of paint sprayed all over me and when we got back home he blamed me but my dad called his dad and he apologized.”

“Well,” said Harry, “You don’t need friends like that.”

“He wasn’t a friend,” replied Henry, matter of factly, “just a boy visiting.”

Harry smiled. Innocence keeps it all so simple. Then he looked up and saw the house across the field. The toboggan hill loomed off to one side, but there was no mistaking the house, if you could call it that. It looked like a big white monster mansion, not what you’d expect to find in the back forty.

“There it is,” said Henry. “Nothing inside now, they took the insides away. Just some old junk now. And broken stuff.” Harry had his theories about who would build something like this way back here. Being an investigative reporter he was going to do a little “Clark Kent” on this one.

“Henry,” he mused, “How about if you and I take a little closer look next time we go on a hike? Like detectives. With your parent’s permission of course.”

“Sure!” exclaimed Henry.

Harry’s cell phone alarm vibrated. “Henry, we have to head back. Not only do I tell stories, and write the news, and have bows and arrows, but I am also the cook and I have a dinner to prepare.”

“Follow me,” said Henry, and they headed back through the beautiful woods to the farm with Burke leading the way.  Suddenly Henry stopped. “Hey, look at this!”

It was a pile of feathers on the ground. Some bird had been plucked for dinner. “I wonder if it’s coyotes.” said Henry, “They took the head off one of our chickens last night.” He picked up a feather. “I wonder how they put this on an arrow?”

Harry thought the chicken killer was more likely a weasel or a raccoon or even an owl, but he’d keep that for the next hike. “Well, then it’s a good thing we’re hiking with Burke,” he exclaimed, “Don’t want any old coyotes plucking off our heads! And keep that feather – next time I’ll bring over an arrow and you can fletch it.”  Henry smiled.

When they got back to the farm, Henry shook Harry’s hand, and took off to play. Henry’s Mom came over to say goodbye.

“Quite a boy,” said Harry, “Great guide on the trails. I’m going to write down his stories. I’m already looking forward to our next hike. Thank you for sharing.”

“Thank you for caring,” answered Johanna, “Henry will love the story.”

Harry patted Burke and Bruno goodbye and got in his car. “I wonder,” he thought as he drove home, “who owned that big abandoned mansion hidden in the back forty? Curious and curiouser ….” Harry knew exactly what he and Henry were going to do on their next hike.

***

Coming soon: Part 2 – Henry and Harry, fletchers and detectives

It has been a rejuvenation over the past several months, to have met some of the most wonderful people I will have ever known right here in my own community.  I didn’t have to travel to Tibet for Xanadu meditations. I didn’t have to visit Rome for spiritual enrichment. I didn’t have to climb to Machu Pichu for to understand the brilliance of past civilizations. No, everything I needed to make me laugh, share in community, to make my heart soar like an eagle, to make me feel young again was right here in my own backyard.

Sometimes, just sitting with friends, sharing stories, breaking bread together around a table surrounded by adults and children and dogs and yes, once in a while, even the goat, is all you really need.

This past weekend, in a totally unplanned twist, while I was visiting an old friend’s new property in Caledon, he got an invitation to the home of “The Raven Haired Angel” … “Bring Skid,” she said. The next thing I knew, I was walking past their chickens and cows and horses, and goat, nuzzled by two beautiful dogs, surrounded by a pack of children running, laughing and having fun. The property was a new purchase and a work in progress. It was heaven.

A little background for those readers who think this does not sound like their idea of heaven. My father sold our farm in Northumberland County in the late 70’s. I used to help clear our fields of groundhogs so that Everett Cole could pasture his cattle on our acreage. Dogs and cows and horses and old beaters to repair and barn roofs to cover with a fresh coat of aluminum paint and space to explore. I started teaching in North York in the late sixties, a pretty tough inner city school, and our farm was my escape on the weekends.

As soon as I’d get there on a Friday night, I’d head to the back forty, with our dogs at my side, to a beautiful woodlot, a small pond, and a high point outlook;  the worries of the world would wash away. I ended up taking all of my classes from my that school camping there on the weekends, but that’s another story…

Needless to say, it was special. My parents both passed away in the early nineties and that was the last time I visited the farm. So, it brought back a flood of memories to walk this new landscape with my friend, the Raven Haired Angel. The wooded acreage behind the fields was filled with trilliums and trout lilies just beginning to bloom. Back in heaven.

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Raven Family Wisdoms:

On watching a whirlwind of children play around her home, the farm fields, the forest trails, unfettered by constant adult leashing:

“I raise free-range children.”

On having a tough day on the job, arriving home exhausted, and discovering the goat standing in your newly finished kitchen:

“It’s a “goat-in-the-kitchen” kind of day.”

On how to judge people, as her French Mastiff licked my ear then put his head between my legs for a good jowls rub:

“Looks like he’s accepted you. Usually he bites people.”

On dealing with the acrid scent of manure drifting across the farm field:

“I have no sense of smell. But we’re still not getting pigs.”

On how to deal with the stress of the job and coming home to children’s enthusiasm and the “work in progress” property:

“Well aged Italian grape juice.”

From the Raven’s spouse on comparing his fabulous beef sausages to venison pepperettes:

“My sausages are better; the venison pepperettes are delicious but they give you those real bad explosive farts the next day.”     Note to self: only go for the venison if you are taking a long hike the next day, and stay at the back.

 ***

Postscript: A Raven Family discussion about pigs:

Spouse: “We are getting those pigs,”  Raven: “We are NOT getting pigs.”   Spouse: “Oh yes we are, we ARE getting those pigs.”

Stay tuned , dear readers; I’m betting that I won’t be seeing pigs there anytime soon. Raven Haired Angels have their ways.

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Skid Crease, Caledon