Murder at McDonald's

by Jessome, Phonse;

  Laturness was only able to tell officers what they already suspected—that the bloodied fingerprints trailing down the front of the sink were most likely left by the victim, who had been struggling to get up; and that the bloodstains on the basement floor showed a pattern consistent with someone inhaling and regurgitating blood, which Henry Jantzen had seen Arlene MacNeil doing. The expert from Ottawa was not able to tell investigators anything about the people responsible for the murders, even whether they were covered in blood when they left the restaurant. Much of the blood at the scene could have been left behind, because the victims bled slowly after their assailants fled. As difficult as it was for officers who had been at the scene to accept, it was more than possible that the attackers escaped without so much as a drop of blood on their clothes; in fact, the small calibre of the weapon made this almost certain. Although all four victims had been shot in the head at close range, there were no exit wounds. All the bullets had stayed in the bodies of the victims, reducing the amount of blood-spattering that occurred during the shootings. There was some small consolation in this evidence; it relieved some of the sting Kevin Cleary felt about Derek Wood leaving the detachment before anyone bothered to ask him for his clothing. Cleary still would have preferred to have those clothes, but he knew it was too late now.

  So it was hard slogging that would solve the case. The job of keeping track of Derek Wood was handed to the special observation unit of the RCMP, whose members had been brought in from Halifax for the first arrests. The unit was trained in following and observing suspects in major crime cases, but they were having their problems here. The McDonald’s murders had people in the Sydney area jumpy, and a number of occasions helpful citizens phoned the RCMP to report suspicious cars parked at all hours of the night in the Hardwood Hill area. Mounties took the calls, then informed the observers they’d been “made” by the neighbours! Time to find a new place to wait and watch. The ATV parking lot turned out to be a good place for the unit, just up the road from the place where Wood was staying, and almost always full of cars. The arrangement also proved valuable for me. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize the guys parked discreetly in the corner of the lot as police officers. Maybe I could develop a relationship with them and learn something new. At first, the officers were reluctant to do more than confirm they were police and ask if it was all right for them to remain parked in the lot. Later, one of them, who was getting bored sitting in the car for hours while Wood watched movies at Mike Campbell’s, began to open up. We would chat late at night about the duties of the observation unit and how they were kept separate from the main investigative team’s assignments. The officer would not confirm who he was watching, but as I continued to spend time crouched beside the driver’s window talking to him, I found myself picking up other tidbits of information—especially when the officer’s radio squawked an order to move or a report from another observer.

  While the observers kept track of Wood, Constable Pat Murphy worked frantically with prosecutor Brian Williston. The RCMP wanted wiretaps on phones at Mike Campbell’s home and Derek’s brother’s apartment, and on two pay phones he was known to use. Because of the reluctance of courts to tap public telephones, police had been forced to set up surveillance at both pay phones so that Pat Murphy could convince a judge that Wood was using them regularly. Obtaining a wiretap is nothing like the process portrayed in TV crime shows. It is an intricate legal process involving sworn depositions prepared by officers familiar with a case, and requires that officers explain to the court why more-traditional means of investigating a case are insufficient. The courts are not inclined to invade people’s privacy, even if they are suspect in major crimes.

  Williston, like prosecutors Ken Haley and Frank Edwards, had offered his assistance to police. Prosecutors in Cape Breton usually allow police to conduct their own investigations, stepping in only when the file is ready for them to examine. But this time the prosecutors wanted to be involved from the outset—not that they were afraid the RCMP would bungle the investigation, but they simply wanted to be making a contribution to the effort. Williston and Murphy were well-matched for the job they faced: both were sticklers for detail and were more than willing to put in twelve- and fourteen-hour days.

  Pat Murphy had prepared wiretap depositions for drug cases, so he was selected to prepare the court documents for this case. The constable looked more like an NFL linebacker than a police paper-shuffler, however. Light-haired and fair-skinned, he had the kind of physique that would have made him a natural choice to play a cop in a movie. His regular features were creased with worry, as he focused on the toughest job he’d ever faced. Williston’s almost boyish enthusiasm for his job belied his years of experience. Only his greying hair was a testament to the strain of hard work. The prosecutor’s light, almost comical air disguised a sharp litigator’s mind, as those who had crossed him in court well knew.

  It would take five days for Murphy to complete interviews of all the officers involved in the investigations and provide detailed explanations of police suspicions about Derek Wood, and for Williston to complete the necessary documents. Finally, the wiretap request was granted, and would later be extended to other suspects.

  For Brian Williston, being at the centre of such an intense investigation was an eye-opening and unnerving experience. One evening, Sylvan Arsenault pulled him aside to tell him that a squad car had been sent to his home after one of the neighbours reported seeing a prowler in the woods nearby. Williston was the longest-serving prosecutor in the Sydney office, and he was well aware that in such a small community, many of the people he put behind bars knew where he lived. The report turned out to be a false alarm—the “prowler” was a patient who had wandered away from a nearby mental hospital, and there was no threat to the prosecutor or anyone else—but the fact that RCMP reacted by sending a car to Williston’s home reminded him that the officers really were nervous. As long as those responsible for the shootings were still out there, anything could happen.

  Dave Roper knew his role in the investigation was to try to ease the anxiety in the community after word of the release of the three suspects. Roper met with reporters on May 9 to explain that even while the raids on the first suspects were being contemplated, officers were pursuing other avenues. He was stretching the truth a bit: investigators later admitted that virtually all their energies were directed towards the false lead and the fruitless arrests. Roper conceded that the arrests had been unfortunate, but insisted that they in no way impeded the flow of the continuing investigator; they were just one part of a much bigger picture.

  Roper’s job was about to be made easier by a terrible tragedy elsewhere in Nova Scotia. Roper preferred to deal with local reporters, whom he knew and trusted; he was not so sure about some of the national reporters who had flown in to cover the story. He and other officers were afraid that all the media attention would end with someone uncovering a critical piece of information and running it on the news before the police could track it down. Reporters were already pestering the City Wide cab company for an interview with the driver who had reported the shootings, and the Mounties knew those same reporters would eventually find their way to Derek Wood. By noon on May 9, however, the attention of the national and international media was drawn away from Cape Breton.

  About three hundred kilometres southwest of the Sydney River McDonald’s, an explosion had ripped through the underground workings of the Westray coal mine. Twenty-six miners were trapped underground, and despite days of searching by some of Canada’s best mine-rescue teams, all the men died. The Westray disaster became the top story in the country, and Dave Roper was left to work with the handful of reporters who had been covering the McDonald’s murders since the early morning of May 7.

  For Freeman MacNeil, the evening of May 9, a Saturday, passed uneventfully—a quiet evening spent drinking beer with a few friends at the Cossitt Heights Industrial Park in Sydney. The industrial park was home to a couple of businesse
s, but mostly it was a deserted array of gravel roads and tree-filled lots where municipal planners hoped small businesses would someday locate. The quiet, secluded area made it perfect for late-night drinking parties, and MacNeil and his friends often went there to light small fires, tell stories, and enjoy one another’s company. Those present on May 9 were interested in MacNeil’s story about his friend Derek Wood, who had been working at McDonald’s on the night of the murders but who had run away at the sound of gunfire. When the topic of the McDonald’s murders was raised, another friend offered what he felt was a reasonable punishment for those responsible: “Whoever did that should be hung by the balls, have his legs cut off, and be left to bleed to death.”

  Like the others around the fire, Freeman MacNeil agreed this was an appropriate response, then continued to talk about his pal Derek as the conversation turned to the RCMP foul-up in Glace Bay. MacNeil told the others that Wood had been questioned by the Mounties—that they had even taken his sneakers for comparison with prints at the restaurant. MacNeil said he was afraid Wood might commit suicide; he was all alone, and the RCMP were ganging up on him. Those at the gathering saw nothing unusual in their friend’s behaviour; Freeman was his usual laid-back self that night. Earlier that day, another acquaintance had gotten a similar impression when Freeman came to pick up a used car-stereo amplifier and a set of speakers on which he had put a down payment a few weeks earlier. The only unusual thing Paul MacKinnon noticed about the business deal was the method of payment. Freeman MacNeil used five-dollar bills to pay MacKinnon the seventy-five dollars he owed him. When MacKinnon gave him a puzzled look, MacNeil quickly explained: “Don’t cash your pogey cheque at Woolco.” Another friend of MacNeil’s also took note of his use of five-dollar bills when he put about fifty dollars down on another car-stereo component at a local shop—to which he would return on Monday.

  Darren Muise and Derek Wood also spent an uneventful Saturday evening. They were together at Pockets Pool Room in Sydney, a regular haunt for Muise in the months since he had dropped out of school. Pockets doesn’t fit the grungy pool-hall stereotype of the movies. Located on a downtown street, between an automotive supply store and a dental clinic, the spacious, fairly bright room features six pool tables, each lit by fixtures hung from the ceiling. Pockets also offers a number of video arcade games, pinball machines, and video-gambling machines, for patrons not inclined to try the tables. A classic Wurlitzer jukebox offers an assortment of country and rock-and-roll favourites; next to it sits a vintage Coke machine. People who work at Pockets feel confident enough about their regulars to openly count and roll the quarters from the various games on the same serving counter where they hand pool balls to the players. The money is easily within reach of anyone interested in trying a grab-and-run robbery. All told, Pockets is the kind of place where it is not uncommon to see a father and a son together, enjoying a game. Members of the Sydney Police street crimes unit say drugs could be obtained from some of the regulars there, but quickly add that the same can be said of almost any business catering to young people—or any high school, for that matter. Sydney police did not have any problems with the pool hall.

  Regulars at Pockets were used to seeing Muise, and they knew Wood as well, so they thought nothing of seeing the two there a few times in the week after the McDonald’s murders, although one patron was taking more careful note of Darren Muise. He had suspicions about the young man, which would intensify as time went on. The only other unusual thing anyone can remember was that Muise was spending money, which he didn’t often have. In fact, he was buying ten-dollar rolls of quarters for the gambling machines. But Derek Wood didn’t seem to be spending any more than he normally would.

  Late Saturday evening, Sylvan Arsenault realized it would be Mother’s Day in a few hours, and he asked the officers working that night if they had remembered to pick up cards for their wives and mothers. It turned out that the officers who had not purchased a card or gift before the crime took place had entirely forgotten about Mother’s Day. Cards were picked up at the last minute and handed out for officers to sign—not a very personal approach, but then, there would be plenty of time for that after the case was solved—something the wives and mothers of dedicated police officers understand. A few days later, Neil Burroughs’s sister would deliver the Mother’s Day gift Neil had bought for Julia before he was killed. It was one of the many painful moments Julia Burroughs would experience in the months ahead, as she tried to adjust to life without her husband.

  For the mothers of the victims, there would be no celebrating. Mother’s Day would be spent in funeral homes in Sydney, North Sydney, and Glace Bay by Theresa Fagan, Olive Warren, and Carmel Burroughs. Germaine MacNeil would spend the day in an ambulance with her only child; Arlene was going to be moved to a hospital in Halifax, where she would undergo more brain surgery.

  Eight

  The families of Donna Warren, Jimmy Fagan, and Neil Burroughs attended crowded funeral services in churches near their homes on Monday, May 11. People who had never met the victims also went to the services, trying to show support for the grief-stricken families. For the relatives, the proceedings were a blur of words and condolences in a world gone crazy. An emotional numbness had taken hold. Eventually the numbness would be replaced by anger, but in the days following the murders, the deep sense of loss and the persistent, unanswered question—Why?—left the mourners exhausted and confused. For many, the reality of what had happened had yet to take hold.

  Inside the large white wooden church in Dominion, thoughts of Neil Burroughs filled the minds of his wife, his parents, his brothers, and his sisters. Neil meant something different to each of them, but loosing him was difficult for everyone to accept. The words, the music, and the heat in the church swirled in the minds of the mourners, occasionally replaced by powerful memories. The image of a mischievous brother, for example, who would jump out of a closet just to watch his sister scream with sudden fright and then as quickly win her forgiveness with a silly grin and a teasing laugh. For Julia Burroughs, the memories were of a devoted young father who spent every spare moment with his son; when Justin was born, it was as though her husband had grown another limb. It was difficult to think of Neil without thinking of Justin, and that made this day even more painful, because from now on Justin was going to be without Neil. Helping her son adjust to that reality would be the first thing the new widow would have to do as she tried to build a normal life for their child. Neil’s brother Joey was also thinking about Justin and trying not to shake with the anger building inside, as the memories of father and son flooded his mind. Someone would have to pay for this, and Joey promised Neil he would see it through. This vow was silently being repeated by others in the packed church, as they watched Carmel Burroughs grieve for her son. The family would make damn sure those responsible paid the price.

  Reporters were also at the three services, discreetly writing down the words of ministers trying to comfort people in their loss and bring a rational perspective to a senseless tragedy. I was sent to the funeral of Donna Warren in North Sydney, but decided to remain outside with the camera operators. I had covered enough funerals to know that quotations from the minister would ring hollow on television or the radio. There was no way to ease the pain being felt by Donna’s friends and relatives, and the presence of an unwanted stranger at the back of the church was an unnecessary intrusion. The camera could dramatically demonstrate the loss by recording the emotional procession from a distance as it left the church.

  Video-taping a funeral procession is always a difficult assignment. In most cases, funerals warranting coverage are those of celebrities or others who have served the community in such a capacity as to make their passing a matter of public concern. On such occasions, the relatives of the deceased often feel the intrusion of television cameras, but media attention is something they have dealt with throughout their relative’s life. The same cannot be said for the parents of a young woman gunned down while she worked. While pu
blic attention was certainly to be expected, Donna Warren’s family did not need to be subjected to the spectacle of photographers waiting on the church steps as they followed her coffin to the hearse. In a larger community, I may not have been allowed to mix compassion with editorial judgment. If there were a number of other news teams camped outside the church door, we would have been forced to look for a comparable camera position. However, in Cape Breton, I knew compassion would be expected and felt that ATV, as a member of the community, should show the same respect its viewers demonstrated for the families affected by this tragedy. I was happy and surprised when senior producers in Halifax accepted my recommendation that they not send a camera to the funeral of Jimmy Fagan; the Fagan family had asked that they be allowed to say goodbye to Jimmy privately. There were cameras located across the street from the church when Jimmy’s casket was walked out into the sun, but ATV had stayed away.

  George Reeves was the cameraman sent to Donna Warren’s funeral with me, and we both decided that if we had to show the community the terrible loss being experienced by the Warren family, we’d do it from a distance. We parked the news truck on a side street not far from the church and walked to an area where we could see the steps but not easily be seen by those leaving. George flipped the extender switch on his camera, which made the lens more sensitive and allowed him to push the viewers’ perspective much closer to what he was recording. As we stood there, a few people walking in the warm spring sun stopped to reflect on what was happening. Although we felt awkward, the residents of Donna’s home town were, in a strange way, happy to see us. It was as though they felt our presence confirmed what they felt inside—this was somehow much bigger than the loss of a local girl. The tragedy reached well beyond the borders of their small town.