Her Partner Committed The Worst Mass Killing In Canadian History. Why She’s Speaking Out—Again

In July 2022, Lisa Banfield spoke to the public for the first time about her experience as a survivor of Canada’s worst modern-day mass shooting. Two years prior, her partner of 19 years, Gabriel Wortman, killed 22 people  in their hometown of Portapique, N.S.

That fateful day, Banfield had narrowly escaped Wortman, who had abused her throughout their relationship—even in front of other people. In the years that followed, she faced intense scrutiny from the public and media, some of whom blamed her for Wortman’s rampage. 

In an excerpt from her new book, The First Survivor, Banfield recounts addressing the public at the Mass Casualty Commission inquiry in Nova Scotia in 2022—and why she felt compelled to speak out.

The Mass Casualty Commission team led by lawyers Gillian Hnatiw and Emily Hill with the lead investigator, Elizabeth Montgomery, had previously interviewed me for 14 hours during five lengthy interviews in previous weeks. I felt comfortable with them. Though they were bound by strict mandates, they were kind and respectful to me and my family throughout those sessions, which often caused me to break down and reignited the night terrors of that tragic anniversary weekend. 

I awoke with anxiety. Scared but determined, I felt I needed to speak publicly after years of being advised to remain silent because of pending lawsuits. Curious Nova Scotians, the media, angry families of the 22 victims—all had waited more than two years to hear what happened that first night. I hadn’t been able to talk to anyone publicly, especially the media. I had no experience with public speaking, nor did I want to, but the families deserved to have their questions answered. I understood that. What Gabriel did was evil, and part of me empathized with how they needed to blame someone. He was Canada’s worst mass shooter and I was his common-law spouse. Yet I also wanted to face the detractors and doubters who had spun my harrowing escape into a wild conspiracy theory that I somehow knew what Gabriel had planned or, worse, participated in it. The time to set the record straight had come. 

The public inquiry hearings for the Mass Casualty Commission took place at a Marriott hotel on the Halifax waterfront. That morning hundreds of people and the national media showed up to listen to my every word. The support I felt from the commission staff gave me strength. They had offered for me to do a video appearance because of the trauma I still suffered. I declined because I felt the need to be face-to-face with all those directly impacted. 

My only request was that my sisters be allowed to sit by my side and that Gillian be the only one to ask me questions. I had a sense of safety with her. Though I didn’t have any problems answering any questions from the families’ lawyers, this wasn’t a court situation, and I didn’t want to feel attacked, given this was the first time I would be speaking in public. The commission denied direct cross-examination and reiterated that any lawyer could ask questions on behalf of their clients via Gillian. 

In advance of my testimony, some people were angry and wanted answers the RCMP hadn’t provided. The commission was so concerned for my safety that they provided security for me and my sisters. That summer morning, a black SUV showed up at our door. I am from Beaver Bank, Nova Scotia: I had a designated security detail. I felt like I was in a movie. It was surreal. 

The driver’s earpiece freaked me out a bit. As we approached the hotel, he spoke through his device and, like clockwork, staff moved pylons as our car pulled into a side alley. 

Maureen, Janice, and I entered, holding onto each other. They escorted us through the back door of the hotel then crammed into the loading dock elevator. Security guided us through the kitchen toward another elevator. As the two security men in dark suits directed orders through their earpieces, I was a ball of nerves. My body shook and I clenched my jaw to stop my teeth from chattering as we rode upstairs to a private room to wait to testify. When the knock came, indicating it was my turn, we huddled together and prayed. My sisters told me they loved me and that we would get through this together. Prayers have always helped me find the strength to stay focused. I quickly grabbed some Kleenex before being led to the event space filled with vetted spectators, media, families of those murdered, and their respective lawyers. 

Before I was ushered onto the stage, people lined up to walk through metal detectors. A police dog sniffed bags. It really hit me. My life was now a public spectacle: our photos from over the years and intimate details of my life were now part of a public inquiry and internet infamy. The commission released so much about my life with Gabriel and his violence toward me, I felt exposed and vulnerable. The large screen posted images for everyone to see. Though I felt completely out of body, I tried to stay emotionally grounded and focused on Gillian. 

As we walked onto the stage and took our seats at a small table with a microphone, I briefly looked at the hundreds of people in the grand ballroom of the hotel. Some of them were clearly angry, standing up with their arms folded over their chests in disdain. Their visible hostility unnerved me, but I also knew they were in pain and I wanted to help. I hoped I could answer their questions. 

Then I spotted Denise, my best friend since childhood, and other close friends and family members sitting in the front row of the stage. I gulped down the fear and swallowed hard. There were other supporters in the room. “Women’s outreach groups were there,” Denise later recalled. “We’re so proud of you!” shouted women with placards that read, “We’re here for you.” 

*

The public session began at 9:30 a.m. The names of the people whose lives were taken and also those harmed by Gabriel were posted on the screen as the proceedings got underway. The Mass Casualty Commission was overseen by Michael MacDonald (a retired chief justice of Nova Scotia), Leanne Fitch (a retired New Brunswick police officer), and Commissioner Kim Stanton (a Toronto lawyer with experience in intimate partner violence). Gillian Hnatiw would be asking the questions.

My sisters sat on either side of me at the conference table. As big as that moment was, I felt small. I focused on Gillian. She opened by summarizing previous witnesses who testified about the connections between mass shootings and gender-based violence in the context of rural communities in Atlantic Canada. Brenda Forbes—my former neighbour from Portapique, who I hadn’t talked to since she left Nova Scotia years ago—had also testified about Gabriel’s violent behaviour. I couldn’t bear to watch the earlier hearings, so my sisters had filled me in on what people said about me and Gabriel. It was hard to absorb, especially the long-term affairs he had that I didn’t know about. For the first time, I heard of his deplorable actions: how he intimidated and threatened marginalized women in exchange for sexual favours and traded denture services for “other services.” Once confronted with the truth, I could no longer deny Gabriel’s depravity. I began to mentally separate from him.

“All this information helps us to focus on possible pathways for prevention, intervention, and lessons to be learned as we work to make recommendations to help make our communities safer in the future,” Gillian said, setting the context for those who hadn’t paid attention until that day. 

I took the Bible and swore to tell the truth, which I did. She asked about my family, my first date with Gabriel, and then got me to describe our cottage at 200 Portapique Beach Road and our nearby warehouse on 136 Orchard Beach Drive. The photos I had provided to the police and commission flashed up on the screen. By mid-morning, Gillian zeroed in on Gabriel’s obsession with buying four decommissioned police cars during 2019. I described the white Ford Taurus vehicles in detail and testified that he got them from Nova Scotia Crown Assets. We drove two of them, one with stripes and one without. Gabriel liked driving them because it made him feel powerful. 

A third, undriveable one, was used for parts, and the fourth, now infamous replica, he stored in our warehouse. Gillian wanted to know where Gabriel got the materials and decals to make the police car look like a replica RCMP vehicle; he told me he got them from the internet and a guy from Crown Assets. She asked me why he built it. I told her he wanted the replica for parties, for show. It was not a registered vehicle, so it could not be driven. At one point Gabriel told me he wanted to have the names of fallen RCMP officers on the hood and perhaps be featured in parades. Pictures I had provided appeared on the screen that showed the inside of the car he had locked me in on April 18 and the Plexiglas that slid open, which I had crawled through. For some reason, the police never released these to the commission as evidence of my story, but the commission entered them as exhibits. 

“Did you have any concerns about the fact that he seemed to have a fully marked RCMP vehicle at his disposal?” Gillian asked. 

“Yes,” I said. I had concerns and raised them with Gabriel. “‘You need to find out if you’re even allowed to have this,’ I said, and he’s like, ‘Oh, yeah, I’ll—.’ And I said, ‘If you don’t, I’ll call and ask them so you don’t have to worry about it.’ And he’s like, ‘No, Lisa, don’t. I will look after it.’ So then I would ask him again, ‘Did you find out if you can?’ And he said he went to a Crown prosecutor, and they said, ‘As long as you don’t drive it.’” It was the same response he gave to others as well. 

I never saw Gabriel drive the replica RCMP car. When Gillian asked if I thought he would drive it, I told her no. 

The next question left the room gasping at my response. “Do you know who Bruce Gilmour is?” 

“Yes.” 

“OK, who is he?” 

“From Mercedes. I think he’s the manager from Mercedes.” 

Gillian continued, “In a statement to the commission, Mr. Gilmour said that sometime in the winter of 2020, we think January, he suggests, January 30, 2020, that he saw the perpetrator drop you off at the Mercedes dealership in the fully decked-out RCMP car.” 

“Never happened; it would have been the one with the stripes.” 

Gillian paused. “And so, Mr. Gilmour was quite firm in his recollection that he provided to the commission.” 

Without hesitation, I answered, “I’m firm in mine.” I knew the truth. I had never been in the replica RCMP car. 

For the next 12 seconds, the room collectively hushed. I felt the audience hadn’t anticipated my answer to be as sharp as it sounded. Up until then, I felt uneasy, and my voice appeared shaky and quiet. Afterwards, my sisters said it was the one moment they heard conviction in my voice. They told me how proud they were that I stood up for myself at that moment. 

*

I also testified about Gabriel’s guns, which I believe he got while in the States with his friend Sean. I never wanted anything to do with guns and insisted he never bring them across the border with me in the vehicle. 

“I never reported him. I know it doesn’t make sense. He was my partner and I was afraid of him. There were a couple of times during a fight he would put a gun to my head to scare me. He said that he could blow my head off. I said, ‘I’m not going to say anything to anyone.’” 

Gillian followed up, “So given that you were scared and that he sometimes used those firearms to threaten you, why didn’t you think of calling the police and asking them to come get those guns?” 

It was a fair question. Why didn’t I call the police over the years? I couldn’t trust what he would do. Police, neighbours, and even my family couldn’t protect me. Whenever I threatened to leave, Gabriel warned me that I would regret it. It felt dangerous not only for me but for those I loved. I believed to my core that I was alone in this; no one but God could keep me safe. 

To those who think it’s easy to leave, all I can say is you’d have to be in my shoes and under his complete and total control to understand. I wept as Gillian asked me this. 

“No,” I testified, “I never thought of calling the police. I feared what he would do, and grown men who knew he had guns didn’t say anything either. They were scared of him, so what am I going to do?” This response made headlines the next day. 

*

By the afternoon, there were fewer people there, as some of the families of the victims left for the day, frustrated by the process. They wanted the opportunity to ask me questions directly and to cross-examine me. The trauma-informed parameters for all witness testimony were outlined well in advance.

The most emotionally difficult part was the questions about why Gabriel would target certain people that night, or if I knew about any grievances he had with our neighbours in Portapique, including some whom I didn’t personally know. I wish I could have offered the families something, but I had absolutely no idea about his intentions or his reasons for killing any of them. 

“Is it possible that he had gone to their home looking for you?” 

“This haunts me, even today, because I feel he was targeting me and my family. If I didn’t get out of that car, I think, would any of those people have died? So that’s something that haunts me all the time because I feel that he was looking for me in the beginning.” 

I knew so little about the people Gabriel murdered; I’m sure it was discouraging for their loved ones who hoped I could share more insight into his reasons for killing their family members. I don’t know why to this day. 

During breaks, the commission team met with the lawyers to elicit any final questions for me. I barely held it together. My voice shook and cracked as I tried to speak free of emotion.

Gillian’s final question was about what would have helped me: “You’ve described at a number of points in your evidence today and in your interviews with the commission that there were those in the community who observed the assaults, who, as you described, were also afraid of him. If you had more support from the community, do you think that it would have made a difference in your ability to either seek help or leave the relationship?” 

I shook my head. “I don’t think I would have, just because he threatened my family, so it’s one thing that I can hide or get help, but what are they all going to do? I couldn’t take the risk, knowing that he could come after any of my family.” 

I would answer it the same way today. I do wonder if the police had interviewed me during that first assault and held him accountable, whether my life would have taken a different turn. Looking back now, I wish they had. 

When asked if I needed more support, I looked at my sisters. “If it wasn’t for my family, I don’t know where I’d be living, what I would be doing. And it’s hard for me to say this, because I know I’m here, and my family’s here, and there are so many people that aren’t here. I don’t want to complain about what I don’t have.” 

*

On March 30, 2023—almost three years after Gabriel’s rampage—we got a phone call from my lawyers. The commission was about to release their final report, titled Turning the Tide Together. My lawyers, James Lockyer and Jessica Zita, pored over the 130 recommendations contained in the report, many related to intimate partner violence. 

I appreciated all the thought that went into the report and the efforts to change the justice system. But on that day, I felt relief when Chief Justice MacDonald said he’d heard and believed me. After testimony from 61 witnesses and interviews with over 230 people, he concluded, “It is clear for 19 years Lisa Banfield was abused by her spouse, and it culminated on April 18. We highlight that she was clearly the first victim, and our view, as stated in the report, is that she ought to have been immediately recognized as such.” 

The commission found critical gaps in the RCMP response and public communications to warn people Gabriel was still on the loose after lighting fires and killing people. Whether they could have prevented even some of the murders is an issue that still reverberates today. 

The commissioners concluded that I never saw myself as the same level of victim as the families of the 22 dead people, including widower Nick Beaton, who also lost his unborn child. “Not victim enough” rang so true. I believed God spared me. I’m a survivor who found my voice to speak the truth of my life with Gabriel. I still had to find my inner resilience to face the legal challenges and blame that hung over me.

Adapted from The First Survivor: Life with Canada's Deadliest Mass Shooter. Copyright ©2026 Lisa Banfield, Sherri Aikenhead and Maureen Banfield. Reprinted by permission of Sutherland House Books.