Murder at McDonald's

by Jessome, Phonse;

  Police might now have that bag, too—but for circumstance. The morning of May 7, Corporal Baldwin and his dog were exploring Mountain Road to see if Derek Wood might have disposed of any evidence there, during his late-night walk. The team started just a little farther than Wood said he had walked—down the other side of Mountain Road, at the intersection with Beaton Road. There, Baldwin pulled his big truck over and let the dog run down Beaton Road for a few metres and relieve himself in the ditch. The tracking dog was within two hundred metres of the kitbag filled with MacNeil’s and Muise’s bloodstained clothing, but Baldwin had no reason to begin his search on Beaton Road. He was already past the point where Wood was believed to have ended his walk, and it would be a few hours before police learned that Wood had phoned Freeman MacNeil from Kings, and that MacNeil lived on Beaton, only a short distance away. By the time that information was available, the dog teams were concentrating their efforts closer to the crime scene—and MacNeil had burned the evidence. Kim Baldwin has repeatedly asked himself a painful question since that morning: “What if I’d let the dog run a little farther up that road?” There was no question that the dog would have detected the kitbag; blood has a strong odour, and the dog would have reacted very quickly to that familiar scent. Had that bag been found that morning, the investigation might not have gone as far off the rails as it did.

  But Baldwin would soon turn up some very significant evidence, and the Grantmire search had proved fruitful. The change pouches, marked with a golden M, had to be from the Sydney River restaurant; the divers felt certain of it, and they were equally sure that the clumped papers, bearing numbers and codes, were somehow connected to the crime. Before long they recovered an object they were not so certain about. A dark deck-shoe was stuck at the side of the brook, and this, along with the other objects, was handed to Henry Jantzen.

  George Reeves and I arrived at the brook just as Constable Jantzen was working his way through the dense underbrush beside the water toward the Ident station wagon with Corporal Leadbetter. Jantzen wore heavy black rubber boots to keep his pants dry as he moved around the brook, and was carrying a green plastic garbage bag. As soon as I saw the bag, I asked George to film the officers as they came out of the woods. The two of us had headed for the Grantmire Brook after getting a tip that the diving team was working in that area; neither of us knew where it was, but the caller named Beachmont Road, so we located it on a map and found our way there. When the officer who had been guarding the brook for the night saw us pull up, he radioed the Sydney detachment building and told Dave Roper that he should come out to the search scene; the media were beginning to arrive.

  When Henry Jantzen noticed the camera, he just smiled and said good morning, casually placing the evidence bag in a large cardboard box in the rear of the police car. Jantzen had no time for me as I approached to ask what the divers had found and what he had in the bag. “I have what they uncovered, and that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Is what they uncovered connected to the McDonald’s murders?”

  “That’s why we’re all here.” Jantzen smiled, and made it clear he would not answer any questions. The burly young man was friendly enough, but it quickly became evident that he was one of those police officers who prefer their TV reporters safely on the screen, where they can be controlled with the remote. The other officer at the scene flagged me over; he didn’t want me bothering Jantzen, either, but he also didn’t want to ask us to leave the area. “Look, guys, Dave Roper is headed out here to talk to you, so if you could just stay up here on the road and wait for him, that would be great.”

  “Sure,” I said. “We’ll just get a few shots of the guys searching while we wait.”

  “Yeah, just make sure you don’t step off the pavement. The dogs are searching the grass, and no-one is allowed down there.”

  “Thanks.”

  John Trickett and Storm were working in another area that morning, so the ground search was being handled by Baldwin and a third dog master assigned to the team. Baldwin and his dog found something that added to the mounting belief that the gun could have disposed of near here. It was a small black throwing knife with a dragon carved into its black plastic handle. There was no sign of blood on the knife, but investigators felt it might be the weapon that had been used on Neil Burroughs. The search was expanded, and officers were told to search the sides of the road where the steep bank descended into the thick underbrush that surrounded the brook. Reporters weren’t the only ones restricted to the pavement; no-one wanted to step on evidence or contaminate a scent that might lead one of the dogs to the gun. A utility truck arrived, equipped with a long, telescoping boom that had a Fibreglas basket at the end—the kind of truck frequently used by telephone, power, or cable television companies. A young constable was placed in the basket, and the boom was moved out over the roadside as the truck slowly moved forward. When the constable spotted something, other officers walked in to examine or collect the item without destroying any trail the dogs might find nearby. Beer bottles, cigarette packages, and all kinds of other things foreign to Mother Nature—everything was checked.

  When Trickett and Storm arrived, they were assigned to search an area on the opposite side of Beachmont Road, away from the section of the brook that had proved to be so rich in evidence. Trickett shrugged; he was last on the scene, so the others had already been given the most promising areas to examine. Still, he hoped something was left for Storm to find; Trickette remained worried about the hours the dog had been working without praise he could only receive when he found something. Storm knew he was going back to work, and as always the dog became excited; he wanted to find something—anything—that would please his master. The dog headed down into the ditch along the side of the road and began his search, while Trickett watched carefully for signs that he was on to a scent. It wasn’t a long wait. Storm perked up at the sight of an object in the tall grass, and stood above it, waiting for his master. Trickett rushed over to see what the dog had found. It was a knife, a brown-handled hunting knife with what appeared to be a rusty blade. The sight of the rust diminished Trickett’s initial excitement, but he hid this from the dog. Kneeling down, the officer affectionately rewarded the powerful police dog; it was time for Storm to get some much-deserved compensation. With the congratulations completed, Corporal Trickett took a closer look at the knife, moving the grass away from the blade and looking at the rust. His heart skipped a beat as he realized the blade was not rusty at all. It was bloodstained.

  “Atta boy, Storm. Good work, partner.” Trickett again heaped praise on the dog, patting his head and roughhousing a little. This time, the officer was as excited as the dog; and afterwards, Storm was happy and eager to return to work. “Hang on, buddy. Let’s look after this first.” Trickett grabbed the cellular phone he was carrying and dialled the detachment. Most of the other officers had already left the area, and Trickett needed Henry Jantzen and James Leadbetter. The Ident man would photograph and bag the knife, then turn it over to the exhibit officer. The RCMP were working under the assumption that their cellular phone conversations were being monitored, so Trickett told Kevin Cleary he had found the object the officer wanted, but did not identify the object. He did not want to say it was a knife. Cleary hung up the phone, a new rush of adrenaline surging through his veins, and sent Henry Jantzen back to Beachmont Road, where he believed Storm had located the gun.

  As he waited for the recovery team, Trickett took a closer look at the blade. The thick metal was not only bloodstained, it was bent. When Jantzen arrived and asked where the gun was, Trickett looked puzzled but then realized Cleary had misunderstood him. He showed the young officer what Storm had found, and after Jantzen left, the team went deeper into the woods, the dog looking for anything that would make his trainer excited and happy again. As he walked behind Storm, John Trickett was anything but excited. In the quiet hours spent following the dog, Trickett often found his mind wandering, and he did not like where it was headed now. One
of the advantages investigators have when working on a particularly gruesome case is the company of a partner—someone to talk things out with. When your partner is a dog, and you spend your time tramping around isolated fields and wooded areas you hope were frequented by killers, there isn’t much to stop you from getting spooked. For Trickett, the bloodstained and bent knife blade kept returning to his mind, along with the grisly image of Neil Burroughs in a wide pool of blood. The hair of the back of Trickett’s neck stood on end, and he moved a little closer to his partner. The image of weapon and victim became imprinted in his mind, and he would not soon banish it.

  As John Trickett tried to shake the haunting image, his younger brother, Dave, was spending the day with the man who had used that knife to stab Neil Burroughs. Shortly after ten that morning, Dave Trickett and Glen Lambe were sent to the residence of Darren Muise. Lambe had taken Freeman MacNeil’s statement, which he expected Muise to verify; the trip was not exactly a waste of time, but Lambe was confident he was just tying up a loose end. Still, you never know what might come up in an interview. Trickett drove the car as the two headed out to Patnic Avenue, off Mira Road. Muise’s house was not far from where Derek Wood was staying, they noted as they pulled off the Sydney bypass.

  Typical of most hard-working adults, the Muises wanted an easier life for their children. Darren was the youngest boy, and they hoped he would follow through on his latest stated ambition, to become a social worker. It certainly appealed to them more than his earlier plans to be a professional athlete, but now, three months after Darren had dropped out of school, his parents could see his chances of finding a truly rewarding career slipping past. Convincing an eighteen-year-old that he doesn’t have all the answers is almost impossible. Sandy Muise was working as a cab driver in Sydney, and he wanted more for himself and for his boys, as he frequently reminded Darren. But that just created tension, and so far Sandy’s efforts had not succeeded in getting a commitment that the boy would return to school. Sandy even tried telling Darren that he himself would like to go back to school, maybe get a trade in computer repair or something that could help him set up his own business. He had worked for many years running a men’s clothing store for his brother, and wanted the chance to work for himself and maybe employ one or two of his sons.

  With no school to get up for, Muise spent much of the day asleep in bed and then headed out to the pool hall for the evening. When Pockets closed, he would often go to Tim Hortons for a coffee and some conversation with friends, or go over to Sanitary Dairy and play the video poker machines, if he had the money. Muise stayed out most of the night, then went home to sleep all day again. The multiple murders at Sydney River McDonald’s had not even put a brief dent in the daily routine; Muise was still sleeping until about three in the afternoon and then going down to the pool hall. On Wednesday, May 13, Darren Muise would not get to sleep in. Glen Lambe knocked on the door at Darren’s house and was greeted by Gail Muise. Darren’s mother, a warm and friendly woman, was a senior sales clerk at a local women’s clothing store and was accustomed to dealing with strangers—but a police officer arriving at her door to see her youngest child was a little unnerving. It was especially unnerving in light of what the officer said he was investigating—in the past six days, people at the mall had talked of little else.

  Gail had told her friends at work how she had been called at three in the morning the night of the McDonald’s murders. It was Mike Campbell, a friend of Darren’s, asking if Darren knew what had happened at McDonald’s. Gail checked but Darren wasn’t home, so she told Mike she’d have him call when he got in. Gail explained to her friends that Mike wanted to know if Darren had seen Derek—he was the one who ran from the restaurant and called police. Yes, Darren knew the poor boy who was working with those people before they were killed. Like most people in Sydney, Gail’s friends at the store were anxious to hear anything about the case. They were fascinated by her story; the next time they saw Darren in the mall, they’d have to ask him about his friend.

  Now Gail was worried. It was O.K. for Darren to know someone who was innocently involved, but why did the police want to see him? Constable Lambe reassured the worried mother. It was just a routine interview; her son’s name had come up in connection with Derek Wood, and they just wanted to see if he could help them in any way. Well, that was fine. Gail wanted Darren to help the police if he could. Darren followed the officer outside and jumped in the back of the car. Lambe and Trickett introduced themselves and explained why they were there. They had talked with Freeman MacNeil, and he mentioned that he was with Darren on the night of the murders. They just wanted to know what Darren had to say about that night. No problem; Muise agree to help the officers. After all, answering questions hadn’t hurt Freeman, and Derek had survived a prolonged interrogation, even though he hadn’t quite been himself since.

  “O.K., Darren, on the evening of May sixth and the morning of May seventh, where were you?”

  “I was at Pockets Pool Hall on George Street until about one-fifteen that morning. I left alone and walked towards Tim Hortons. I saw Freeman MacNeil, he picked me up, and we went towards my place on Hardwood Hill. He was talking about going up to his place to pick up his puffer. I went for the drive ’cause I was bored.”

  “What route did you take when you went to Freeman’s?” After less then ten minutes with police, Darren Muise was already wishing he were somewhere else. He was not sure what route he should describe; Freeman hadn’t told him what he’d said to police, and Darren knew he was supposed to be confirming Freeman’s story. Well, when in doubt make up a lie—but not one that can be easily detected. Muise told the officers he wasn’t paying attention during the drive because he was fooling with the stereo and looking at some books in the car. Trickett and Lambe both thought it was odd that a young man who’d spent his entire life in the Sydney area did not know what route he’d taken to a friend’s house, particularly a trip that took place on a night when most local residents could recall what they were doing simply because of the magnitude of the incident—sort of like people knowing what they were doing when John Kennedy was assassinated. Driving to the MacNeil residence was not like heading to a home in a crowded residential area, where one block looks pretty much like the others. It was a drive out in the country, and each of the three possible routes leading from Sydney to Beaton Road takes you through vastly different areas. For someone familiar with the region, even a brief glance out the window at any time during the drive would immediately confirm which highway you were on.

  But no matter how they pressed, or which of the routes they discussed, Darren Muise would not be pinned to one or another. He suggested at one point that they had passed his school, but later took that back; he and Freeman could not have passed Riverview without driving past McDonald’s, and he did not want to say they had done that. The officers finally decided to invite Darren to come to the detachment to look at some maps, and he agreed. Glen Lambe got out of the car and returned to the house, telling Gail Muise her son had agreed to help them look at some maps. Nothing for her to worry about.

  Darren remained quiet on the way to the detachment, and Dave Trickett began to get an uneasy feeling about the young man in the back seat. At the detachment, Muise was placed in the same interview room where Derek Wood had been the week before. He had a cigarette and waited while the officers went to look for their maps. Didn’t matter to him how many maps they got; he wasn’t going to commit himself to a route. It became a sticking point throughout the afternoon, as Trickett and Lambe attempted to get a written statement from Muise. The officers noted that Muise was calm and laid-back as they discussed the issue, even laughing at himself and saying he had the worst memory in the world. Still, they were a little concerned, and noted that his voice sounded high, and a little strained, when he answered yes to the question: “Do you know Derek Wood?” Trickett continued the questioning:

  “How do you know him?”

  “From school. Elementary.”
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  “Have you talked to him since the shootings?” Trickett was wondering how close the two were.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday I was talking to him, and the day before. The day before, he showed up with Mike Campbell at Pockets.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I asked him how he was doing. He sounded really depressed, though. I asked him about McDonald’s, but he said he’s not allowed to talk about it. Me, him, and Mike played a game of pool to try to cheer him up.”

  “Who won the game?” Glen Lambe wanted to know more about what Derek Wood was doing at Pockets. The special observation team knew Wood had been in the pool hall, but it was difficult for them to see what he was up to inside.

  “Me and Mike—we played a few games.”

  “How well do you know Mike?”

  “Pretty well.”

  “Have you known Mike Campbell … Derek Wood to use or be fond of handguns?”

  “No.” Muise couldn’t figure out why the police were interested in Derek’s cousin, but since Mike wasn’t involved, it couldn’t hurt his friend to talk about him to police—or so Muise believed. Anyway, answering questions about Mike kept them away from the stupid route he and Freeman were supposed to have taken.

  “What can you tell me about Derek Wood telling you things about the McDonald’s shootings?” Muise decided to move away from Wood and into safer territory: “He didn’t mention anything about it. It was Mike. Mike told me that Derek went to Kings and called police. Mike called my house because he thought Freeman was supposed to pick Derek up. I guess he thought I’d be in the car too. When I got home at about 6:00 a.m., I tried to call Mike at his house, but there was no answer. I called when I woke up, about 3:00 p.m. He told me there was a shooting at McDonald’s—the police have Derek downtown. That was about it. I ate and cleaned up and left home and went to Pockets. I’m not sure if I called Mike from home or at Pockets. I talked to him twice. I called Freeman before 4:00 p.m., and I asked him, ‘Did you hear that Derek was at the police station?’ I think he said no.”