Murder at McDonald's

by Jessome, Phonse;

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  Murder at McDonald’s

  The Killers Next Door

  Phonse Jessome

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Donna Warren, Neil Burroughs, and Jimmy Fagan. You are missed and loved by many. It is also a tribute to the bravery of Arlene MacNeil, who continues to struggle to regain control of her life. You are an inspiration.

  FOREWORD

  While I was working in an embattled Detroit newsroom, I found myself becoming hardened to the horrific stories of violence unfolding around me. Six people shot dead in a crack house; a twelve-year-old girl killed in a drive-by shooting on her way to school; a drug dealer gunned down in a suburban street battle—the stories were frighteningly common. Another human being dead, with no apparent motive and no suspects. There were people trying to stem the tide—trying to take back their neighbourhoods—but there were always the murders.

  When I moved to the Maritimes, I found it ironic to see that my former station was being carried on the region’s cable system. Its news seemed so out of place, so foreign to the East Coast reality. Surely there couldn’t be incidents happening here that were as brutal and senseless as those I remembered from Detroit. Indeed, the commonly held belief was that things like that don’t happen here in the Maritimes. The sense of community outrage when it did happen was overwhelming.

  ATV’s Phonse Jessome was on the scene at the Sydney River McDonald’s in the early hours of May 7, 1992, minutes after a holdup in which three young men from Cape Breton systematically killed three young restaurant employees and left a fourth for dead. This is the story of what happened that night—the police search for the killers, the interrogations, the ordeals of the victims’ families, and the volatile trials, punctuated with gripping testimony and outbursts of powerful emotion.

  As the story Unfolded and the ATV Evening News coverage continued, Phonse Jessome became obsessed with learning every detail of what had happened, and his knowledge expanded with every story he prepared and every person he interviewed. He talked to everyone involved with the tragedy, spending hours discussing the case with the lawyers who prosecuted and defended the three young people charged, and he was able to obtain confidential police information on the investigation of the crime.

  This is the true story of the killers next door—and the madness they unleashed.

  —Bill Patrick

  Network News Director, ATV/ASN

  PREFACE

  A reporter’s job is to tell a story. Early on the morning of May 7, 1992, I was awakened by a phone call that led to one of the most difficult stories I have ever had to tell. Four young employees at the Sydney River McDonald’s restaurant had just been gunned down during a robbery. Three of the victims died; the fourth remains disabled. Three young men from the Sydney area were arrested and eventually convicted.

  I covered this story for a year and a half, from the police investigation that began that morning, through to the trials, held in Sydney and Halifax. I was helped in my work by the investigators, prosecutors, and defence attorneys involved, and by the many people affected by the shootings. I watched as those caught up in this tragedy rode an emotional roller coaster; although shaken to the core by this brutal crime, they had the courage to explain, in public—on the evening news—what they were going through.

  Many of the relatives of the victims shared a concern: they wanted to know if anyone would ever have the time to tell the whole story. This book is my attempt to address that concern, and it is my way of thanking the people who let me shed public light on their private pain.

  By way of explanation to those who were closest to this story, the names of five people have been changed in the writing of this book: The cousin of Derek Wood, one of the three convicted in the McDonald’s murders, is called Mike Campbell; the three men at the centre of the first, ill-fated arrests in the case have been named Gary McIssac, Bill O’Handley, and Glen Delaney; and the sister of one of these suspects is called Cynthia Long. The names have been changed because the suspects were never involved in the crime.

  I should also explain that my description, early in the book, of the commission of the crime is presented from the perspective of the victims, by using information in the confessions by the three men convicted in the case. The three confessions have common elements, but they differ in some ways; the disparities become apparent later in the story.

  Although this book singles out only a few of the investigators involved in this case, this is in no way an indication that the others were less important a part of the investigating team. Those who are named would be the first to insist that everyone involved in the investigation and subsequent trials deserves equal billing. I would like to thank all the officers involved, for this is also your story. To Kevin Cleary, Pat Murphy, John Trickett, and Dave Roper, thanks for the time you took away from your tasks to talk with me.

  Ken Haley, Brian Williston, and Marc Chisholm lived with this tragedy for many months. As the prosecutors responsible for handling the three trials, they showed great dedication and professionalism. Thank you for finding time to answer my questions.

  I would also like to thank Dr. Jim Manos of Dalhousie University, who gave me a crash course in adolescent behaviour and the group dynamic.

  There are a few people who were not involved in the story, but who were key to seeing it written. Dorothy Blythe, the managing editor at Nimbus, is the one who felt the McDonald’s tragedy should be told in book form, and who called to ask me to write it. And although I have been writing professionally for more than thirteen years, it is a Nimbus editor, Liane Heller, who gently guided me in an entirely new craft. Writing news for broadcast is based on conveying information orally, while writing a book is a much more formal process, engaging the eye and the inner ear of a reader’s imagination. If this book does not read like an incredibly lengthy newscast, it is because of Liane’s professionalism and dedication. I would also like to mention Greg Boone, a colleague and friend for many years. In the months spent preparing this book, he offered support and encouragement bordering on harassment; it helped. Lawrence Bourque is another close friend whose unwavering confidence in my ability to write this book left me believing I could.

  There are a number of photographs included here, and for their use I must thank my employer, the Atlantic Television System; most of the photos are prints from ATV video tape. In particular, thanks to Bill Patrick for allowing me to use the tape, and thanks to the camera operators who recorded the shots: Bruce Hennessey, Gary Mansfield, George Reeves, Stuart MacDougall, Sandra Kipis, Cyril Worth, Jim Kvammen, Chris Murphy, Steve Rafuse, and Tom Tynes. I would also like to acknowledge Mike Aitkens, the editor who helped prepare the video tape for recording in still form; and Steve Townsend, who took the photograph of me.

  Finally, on a more personal note, I would like to thank my wife, Barbara, for her help and patience as I attempted to juggle two jobs in the preparation of this book. I must also thank our daughter, Barbara Michelle, for sacrificing her “quality time” with Dad; and our son, Paul, for the perspective on the nature of today’s adolescents.

  One

  Shortly after midnight on Thursday, May 7, 1992, Jimmy Fagan headed out for the last walk of his life. Jimmy did not know that was what he was doing, as he locked the front door of his parents’ home and walked down the steps to the sidewalk. His parents didn’t know it either, when they went to bed without saying goodnight. Jimmy had been down in the basement watching TV when they retired for the night, after looking in on him to make sure he was still awake to go to work. Not sayi
ng goodbye that night was one of the many little things that would haunt them in the difficult months ahead.

  Of course Jimmy had every right to expect a normal night at work, and his parents had every right to expect to see their son in the morning. They would see him in about two hours, but he would not be the Jimmy they knew. They would never again see the happy-go-lucky boy they loved so much.

  Al and Theresa Fagan had worked hard all their lives to raise and support Jimmy, his five brothers, and his two sisters. Al, who was retired, now had the time to look back on his life—all the years at the Sydney steel plant, and all the weekends when they took off for the cottage in a station wagon loaded with kids. Theresa still worked at a local senior citizens home, but she too enjoyed recalling the memories of a house full of kids, and the couple spent many a happy evening talking over old times. Both were proud of their children and looked forward to years of family gatherings, as the ranks of the Fagan family swelled with sons, and daughters-in-law—and, of course, grandchildren. The old house seemed to come alive when it reverberated with the sounds of children yelling and running, and that was just fine with Al and Theresa. The more, the merrier.

  Jimmy had nothing more pressing than the weather on his mind as he walked towards Prince Street, one of Sydney’s main thoroughfares. He didn’t even bother looking back at the big white house where he’d shared so much with his family, good times and hard alike. At about five-foot-nine and two hundred pounds, he was stocky and short compared to his brothers, who all edged close to or beyond the six-foot mark. His dark hair, thick eyebrows, and deep-set eyes could have given the twenty-seven-year-old a brooding appearance had it not been for the most dominant feature on his rounded face—his smile. Jimmy had a smile that lit up his entire body, and he was always ready to flash it. He loved life, and it showed. Not that he had much to smile about that night, as he walked along, huddled against a cold, brisk wind. Small piles of snow still clung to the ground beneath the shrubs, trees, and bushes along the way; the arrival of May was no guarantee that a Cape Breton winter was quite ready to surrender to the warmer weeks ahead. Jimmy had a keen interest in the snow and was watching closely each night as the piles got smaller and smaller.

  Jimmy Fagan relaxes in the living room of his parents’ home, his irrepressible smile illuminating his dark eyes and strong features. [Print from ATV video tape.]

  As soon as the last remnants of snow had disappeared for another year, he could say goodbye to the job at McDonald’s—and to these midnight strolls—and get back to working outside again, for his brother’s landscaping company. It wasn’t that Jimmy disliked working at McDonald’s; in fact, he really liked it there. For one thing, he was getting a lot more work at the restaurant than he would have by returning to his old job at Zellers. Jimmy had left the department store the previous spring, when his brother offered him the landscaping job—the problem was, landscaping work fell off in the fall, and his brother couldn’t afford to keep him on the payroll. Jimmy had complained to the family about the prospect of another winter at the department store; it would be all right until Christmas, but, after that, shifts would be few and far between. It was Marie, his sister-in-law, who came up with the solution; she knew Jimmy wanted to be working full time. Marie was a shift manager at the Sydney River McDonald’s, a few kilometres outside the city, and the restaurant needed a back-shift maintenance worker. She would put in a good word for Jimmy if he was interested in the job. It sounded like a good opportunity, but what really sold Jimmy on the idea was that he would not be letting the restaurant down if he quit and went back to landscaping in the spring. Marie told him McDonald’s always had a long list of students looking for summer jobs. If Jimmy stayed until the universities let out, he wouldn’t be causing a problem by leaving, and she was also fairly certain he could get hired on again in the fall, when the students headed back to school and the landscaping work slowed down again. It was an ideal set-up for Jimmy, who had managed to keep himself working since high school; staying home and collecting unemployment insurance was not something he wanted to get into.

  Only a week or so, Jimmy told himself, taking a last glance at the stubborn remains of winter as he continued walking; then he could give his notice at McDonald’s and get back to some outdoor daytime work for the short Cape Breton summer. He knew he’d miss some of his new friends at the restaurant, though. Jimmy was quick to make friends; he loved to sit and chat with people, whatever the topic. His father once proudly described Jimmy as someone who never saw ugly people. He just saw people, and he liked them all.

  Neil Burroughs, the other night-time maintenance worker at McDonald’s, was one of Jimmy’s new friends. They enjoyed each other’s company on long winter nights, as they got the restaurant ready for the breakfast crew. Fortunately for the two men, their personalities were in sync. The long hours of the back shift can be tough on you, but if the time is spent talking, joking, and sharing the workload with someone you like, well, it doesn’t wear on you so much. Jimmy and Neil both enjoyed a good joke or a tall tale, and they exchanged plenty of both as they cleaned, polished, and repaired whatever needed their attention before the customers and morning crew arrived.

  Neil was already at the restaurant, working Jimmy’s shift. The two maintenance workers had staggered shifts—11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. and 2:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m. Jimmy was usually on the early shift, but agreed to give it to Neil, who had hurt his back in a car accident a couple of months before. The early shift involved mostly cleaning and light duties; the guy on the second shift did the heavier work. Although he didn’t have to be at work for almost two hours, Jimmy always headed to the restaurant early, so he could chat with the early-evening staff for an hour or so, before they went home. He was pretty sure Donna Warren and Arlene MacNeil would still be there when he arrived. Donna was a shift manager like Marie, and Arlene worked the cash counter; the two women were friends and usually left together.

  Jimmy stuck his hands deep into his pockets as a blast of cold air from the ice-filled Sydney harbour swept up Prince Street. He decided to stop at Tim Hortons to get a cup of coffee to carry as he walked the rest of the way downtown. The cup would keep his fingers warm, and the coffee would help keep him from getting too tired at work.

  As Jimmy waited to order his coffee, his co-workers were busy inside the McDonald’s restaurant in Sydney River, a bedroom community on the outskirts of Sydney. Kings Road, the main thoroughfare to and from Sydney, is lined with restaurants, gas stations, and an assortment of other small businesses, of which McDonald’s is the farthest from the city. The restaurant is perched on a hill at the point just before Kings Road dips beneath the concrete hulk of the four-lane Sydney bypass and merges with Highway 4, one of two major highways that run the length of Cape Breton Island. It’s hard for hungry motorists to miss the restaurant, whether they’re driving on Highway 4 or on the newer stretch of the Trans-Canada Highway that links up with the bypass on the north side of Sydney harbour and takes travellers through the centre of Cape Breton, on the northwest side of the Bras d’Or Lakes. Coming in on Highway 4 means driving right by the entrance to the restaurant, while motorists speeding along the bypass need only glance below to see the familiar golden arches.

  The restaurant is typical of the single-storey McDonald’s design, with its caplike roof, brown brick walls, and large windows and glass doors. The driveway climbs a steep bank to the parking lot, at the rear of the building; beyond the parking area is a field that borders the property and leads to the bypass. Along with the brightly lit glass entrances used by the public, there are two large steel doors. One of them, at the back of the restaurant, opens into the busy kitchen; this door is used by employees. The other, down at the front corner of the building, near the street, is rarely used. Like the employees’ entrance, the basement door can only be opened from the inside, and even restaurant workers rarely use it, since they have little occasion to venture into that area of the basement. So there was no reason for anyone to notic
e, in those early-morning hours of May 7, that the basement door was slightly ajar.

  The Kings Road area of Sydney River, near the McDonald’s where shooting victims Arlene MacNeil, Donna Warren, Neil Burroughs, and Jimmy Fagan worked.

  Upstairs in the kitchen, Neil Burroughs was chatting with Donna Warren. Donna was in the manager’s small office; the door was open, and Neil stood outside, his slim, compact body relaxed as he leaned against the handle of his mop. His thick black hair and moustache accented his smiling eyes and ever-present grin; Neil often saw humour where others did not.

  Neil Burroughs celebrates with friends and relatives at a family wedding. The mischievous grin means a friendly quip is not far behind. [Print from ATV video tape.]

  “So now I know how you can afford that fancy new car,” Neil teased, as Donna looked up from the stacks of bills she was counting out for each daytime worker’s float—a cash register insert with compartments for one hundred dollars in various denominations. Preparing the floats and locking them in the safe was one of her last duties before going off shift. “Yep, a loonie here and a quarter there,” she said. “You should have seen the look on the salesman’s face when I handed him a pillowcase filled with small change.”

  They both laughed as Neil returned to cleaning the floors. Donna was proud of her new car, a blue Toyota Tercel, and everyone knew it. What they didn’t know was how long she had agonized over the purchase, weighing the commitment of a bank loan against her plans to go to law school someday. But the allure of that little car was more than the twenty-two-year-old could resist; besides, Donna had spent years working full time while taking courses she felt would be helpful for her career. In fact, the following week was her high-school graduation—the second one. Although she already had her diploma, Donna had enrolled in the radio and television program at Memorial High School to gain the communications skills she would need in the courtroom when she finally became a defence attorney. It had been a long haul, and she deserved the reward.