As the questioning continued, the persistence of Trickett and Lambe finally broke Muise’s resolve about the route he and Freeman MacNeil took that night, and he gave them one that he felt kept him and Freeman safely away from McDonald’s and matched what his friend had already told them—at least, he hoped so. Dave Trickett had been in Cape Breton long enough to know the route Muise showed him made no sense—not if Freeman MacNeil had been in a hurry to get his girlfriend’s medicine, as MacNeil had told police. According to Muise, he and MacNeil had driven along the Sydney bypass as far as McDonald’s, where they took the turn-off—but that part of the drive was a blur, because he wasn’t paying attention. It was after the bit about the turn-off that Dave Trickett started thinking that a lie detector would be a good idea; the quickest way to MacNeil’s house was to drive past the restaurant and turn at the intersection—where, indeed, the killers had gone after the crime. Muise said he and MacNeil took Highway 4, away from Sydney and McDonald’s, circled back at Blackett’s Lake to take Coxheath Road in as far as Mountain Road, and then continued to MacNeil’s. That certainly was the long way around; even if they hadn’t gone past McDonald’s, they could have stayed on the bypass for two more exits, then cut back across Beachmont Road.
The trip to the detachment to look at maps was becoming rather serious. After interviewing Muise for more than five hours, Dave Trickett asked if he would consider taking a lie-detector test, something being done with a number of witnesses as an aid to the investigation, he said. Muise wanted to know if he had to take one and was assured he did not, but Trickett explained that it would be helpful, and emphasized the severity of the crime. Glen Lambe noticed that Muise became nervous when any details were mentioned.
Although he would not commit himself to a lie-detector test, Muise agreed to go for a drive with John Trickett; he could show him the route he believed he took, and they could talk about the polygraph.
As Dave Trickett and Darren Muise headed along Highway 4, away from the scene of the crime, they drove past the rear of Our Lady of Fatima church. The church was huddled below the Sydney bypass, at the same exit as McDonald’s and opposite the restaurant on a one-way section of road below the secluded spot where the getaway car had been parked on the night of the murders. Because of the access ramps leading to and from the bypass, you had to drive in front of the church and under the bypass to get to McDonald’s and Sydney, or drive behind the church if you were coming from Sydney and travelling away from the restaurant—as Trickett and Muise were. They could see a crowd of people entering the church as they drove silently past. The people were going to a multifaith ecumenical service for members of the community who wanted to pray for victims of the McDonald’s murders, and for the police hunting their killers.
At the multifaith service in the small church near McDonald’s. Restaurant owner Garfield Lewis is at the centre, beside the minister. [Print from ATV video tape.]
I walked in the front door of the church as a familiar-looking unmarked police car rolled past at the back. Cars like it were everywhere I had been in the past few days, and I figured one of the detectives was either swinging around to come to the services or just heading home. It was the second time since the killing that Darren Muise had passed me in a car; the first incident had occurred about a hundred metres away, when we were both on the bypass in the ninety minutes after the tragedy. Inside the church, I stood at the rear and said a silent prayer—my opportunity to do what many in the area had already done. I found myself standing beside Dave Roper, someone I was seeing more of than my own family at that point. Roper looked like I felt: he was certainly spending more time with reporters than with anyone else. We talked quietly about the excitement the RCMP were feeling after the discovery at the brook, where I had seen him a few hours earlier. We smiled at the realization that we were not really having a break; we were both still working. Roper was in full dress uniform—the postcard red-serge Mountie attending the service on behalf of the force. Still, we were relieved to have an hour of peace in the quiet of the church. Apparently, we weren’t alone in that feeling: hundreds of people were jammed into the church, and those who could not get in were gathered in the large foyer and on the walkway outside, where they could hear the words of Father Stan MacDonald coming from a small speaker. Father MacDonald told the group that a safe community gathering-place had been violently taken away from the people of Sydney River. Roper and I both knew that no-one, ourselves included, would ever feel the same about the Sydney River McDonald’s.
I remained standing in the rear of the packed church, taking notes on Father MacDonald’s comments; Roper went forward to participate in a candle-lighting ceremony. Once the candle was lit, Father MacDonald called on everyone to join hands and pray for the victims, their families, and the police officers working so hard to solve this horrible crime. I had just finished trying to get a head count so I could report on the size of the crowd, when everyone stood and began holding hands for the prayer. I was a little taken aback when another reporter standing near me reached over and grabbed my hand; he was a young radio reporter, and I figured if he wanted to take part in the prayer, that was fine. Switching my notepad to my left hand, I looked around and noticed that the other people at the back of the church had joined hands; and I realized that the young reporter had linked the two of us to this chain of people. Before the prayer began, a short, dark-haired woman left the back row of the church, came over and stood on my left, and reached for my free hand. I quickly stuffed my notepad in my pocket and took her hand. I recognized her; she owned the house next door to the Sydney River McDonald’s and had been deeply moved by the carnage that had taken place beside her home. I was a little puzzled by the silent look she gave me. She squeezed my hand hard and looked into my eyes as if to thank me. Because I had been so caught up in the story for the past week, I had not fully grasped how desperate the community was for any news of the murders and the resulting investigation.
Outside the church, several other people approached to thank me. They said that every evening, they waited to find out what the RCMP were doing and felt reassured when I showed them the search teams and reported on the latest briefing from Dave Roper. A few metres away, people were also shaking Roper’s hand and wishing him well. Then, a couple of people I knew came forward to say that they too had made it a point to tune in every evening to see what news there was on the murders. Finally, Father MacDonald, who had been talking with people at the back of the church, came outside. What he had to tell me was what the others had been implying: “I know any day you’ll tell us it’s all over, and those responsible are in jail. I’ll continue to pray for that. Good luck.”
I had a new sense of why I was working late nights and early mornings tracking the movements of the RCMP. People in Cape Breton needed to know what the police were doing. They needed to feel secure after such a violent shock.
Nine
After driving along Muise’s route, Dave Trickett persuaded him to go to North Sydney to talk to the polygraph operator. He assured Muise once again that he did not have to take the test, but said he felt the polygrapher could better answer some of the questions the young man had about the machine and how it worked. At the North Sydney detachment, Trickett was told that the polygraph operator had not arrived, and Muise saw his chance to get away from this persistent policeman, who had, after all, told him that he could leave any time. The eighteen-year-old complained that he was tired, and offered to call Trickett in a day or so if he still wanted to talk to the polygraph guy or if he thought of anything that might help the investigation. The two headed back to Sydney.
Back in Sydney, Constable Pat Murphy was sitting in a small room at the detachment, staring at a tape recorder. He had finally waded through the mounds of paperwork and made his way to a judge willing to allow wiretaps to be placed on four telephones Derek Wood was believed to use. Two were pay phones; the others were at two of the places where Wood was known to spend the night. The tape machines in the
room were activated automatically if someone picked up the phone at any one of those locations. Murphy stayed in the room just in case something was said that officers could act on immediately. If they knew Derek Wood was on his way to a coffee shop, a bar, or some other public place, one of the observers could be sent there ahead of him. He was not likely to be suspicious of someone who was already in a bar when he got there—at least, not as suspicious as he might be about a stranger who walked in after he had arrived. Kevin Cleary also wanted to know if anything said over one of those phones could lead him to the gun. Murphy had listened to every call; nothing worthwhile had transpired. Well, not much, anyway; he would be able to tell the observation unit to relax—Wood had told friends he was staying in for the night to watch a video of the movie Boyz in the Hood.
In another room, Kevin Cleary was staring at his flow charts again. He had talked with Dave Trickett and Glen Lambe before Trickett left with Darren Muise, and he was now looking at four names: Muise, Wood, MacNeil, and Campbell. Freeman MacNeil was still believed to be a helpful witness by some, but others looked at where he lived, and where the evidence had been found that day, and wondered. Mike Campbell was generating a lot of interest among the police because he was spending a great deal of time with Wood; in fact, they were pretty much living together. Clearly looked at the names and wondered: why had Campbell phoned Muise? Why had Wood phoned MacNeil and Campbell? What were MacNeil and Muise doing in the vicinity of the restaurant that night? Time to talk with MacNeil’s girlfriend, Michelle Sharp, about that asthma condition of hers.
MacNeil and Sharp were spending a relaxing evening together. Earlier, they’d driven Derek Wood home, and they were worried about him—he was making comments about committing suicide if Arlene MacNeil died. Michelle didn’t understand why he felt so bad. It wasn’t his fault. Freeman had told her they didn’t rob the restaurant that night. Someone else got there first—it had to be true. Freeman wouldn’t lie to her; she loved him.
Darren Muise might have been expecting a routine evening, too, now that he was finally on his way home. But it was not to be. As the police car left North Sydney, Dave Trickett got a radio message: the polygraph operator had arrived. Trickett persuaded Muise to return with him, emphasizing how important it was for Muise to be helpful. Muise said he wanted to help but was getting tired. Trickett pointed out that it was only eight o’clock—early for a guy who normally stayed out all night. The two headed back to North Sydney.
At 8:16 p.m., Darren Muise met RCMP Sergeant Phil Scharf. The head of RCMP General Investigative Services in the Metro Halifax area, Scharf was one of many experts assigned to the McDonald’s case. The sergeant’s specialties were the polygraph machine and interrogations. Short for a Mountie, under five-ten, Scharf had thick, wiry hair, probing eyes, and an intense personality. He immediately tried to assess the character of anyone he encountered, and his findings were generally clouded by years of working with criminals. Phil Scharf didn’t trust people until they gave him a reason to; he was not easily fooled, nor was he a particularly patient man. His size and temperament made the senior investigator the kind of cop a lying criminal likes to avoid. He was a cross between a fireplug and a pit bull: it was pointless to expect him to move; you could try to go around him, but if he caught a piece of you he wasn’t going to let go.
Muise was discovering a whole new kind of policeman. While he might have felt Dave Trickett was persistent when it came to detailing the route, he soon realized that Trickett was a laid-back pussycat by Phil Scharf’s standards. Trickett had befriended Muise, calling him “bud” or even “my son” in his downhome Newfoundland manner of speaking. Trickett’s antennae had tweaked a couple of times at Muise’s reactions to questions about the route he and MacNeil had taken, but he hid his feelings and bided his time. Phil Scharf had no time to bide. He was there to work on a serious case, and everybody around him had better understand that. Scharf was friendly enough when the two were introduced, but began to get impatient when Muise informed him that he wasn’t sure he wanted to take a polygraph; he just wanted to ask a few questions about it. Phil Scharf wasn’t here to play schoolteacher to some kid in a sweatshirt and walking shorts. The sergeant explained that part of taking a polygraph exam was an extensive information session during which the machine and its functions are completely outlined for the subject. The information session could last more than two hours, and Scharf was certain any questions Muise had would be adequately addressed.
Muise explained that he was really tired; he had been with the police since getting up that morning, and he wasn’t up to taking the test. That was fine by Scharf, who knew that a tired subject was not an ideal subject, so he asked Muise to give him a time when they could do it—maybe the following morning. Muise refused to be pinned down on a time, and then the real Phil Scharf surfaced. Scharf began to lecture as Muise sat cross-legged in the oversized polygraph chair, his elbow on the wide arm of the chair, his hand over his mouth. Muise leaned forward, nodding agreement and trying to figure out how he could get the hell out of there. The sergeant told Muise he only knew of one reason why someone would refuse to take a polygraph. “It’s one of the most horrible things that ever happened in Canada, Darren. They are senseless, cowardly killings. You’re making me think you have some information; you’re being evasive. I look at you and I see a man with a lot of turmoil. The only way I’ll know is to get you on a polygraph. It’s the best way for us to eliminate you from this.” Scharf spoke quickly, leaning close to Muise and bringing his points home with such emphasis that it was hard for Muise to get a word in edgewise as the sergeant pressed on, wanting to know when he would return to take the test.
“May I contact you?” Muise hoped he could leave with a promise to call later.
“Yes, of course.”
“Then may I leave now? I’ll get some rest and see if I can remember anything.”
Scharf did not understand why Muise wanted to leave without committing himself to a time. Here was a kid with no prior history of criminal activity, who claimed he wanted to help but did not want to take the test. To Scharf that meant only one thing. “Look, Darren,” he said. “You should be saying, ‘I want to help.’ You’ve never been in trouble, but if you would protect someone like that … Those McDonald’s workers would do anything to help in this case if they could, but they were killed in cold blood.”
Muise wanted to make it clear he was not protecting anyone. The officer was making him nervous. “I wouldn’t care if it was my brother that did this. I’d tell. That’s why I stayed all day, but if you don’t mind, can we stop this? Can we go?” He leaned forward in his chair, trying to get closer to the door. The room was set up pretty much like the one where he’d been in Sydney, but when this Scharf character came in, it sure got crowded. Muise wanted Dave Trickett to come back; he said he’d only be a few minutes. If Dave came back, he could get out of there. Dave Trickett was in a room near the polygraph suite, watching the proceedings on a TV monitor. All activity in the suite was recorded, and officers could watch from the monitoring room.
Trying to get Scharf off the topic, Muise pretended to be interested in the machine. Well, it was more than a feigned interest; he was becoming intimidated by the machine and the man who operated it. “Is it accurate?”
“It’s very, very accurate. No one could fool it.” That was all Muise needed to hear. As long as they said he did not have to take the test, he wasn’t going to. Scharf persisted: “I see a young fellow scared to death.”
“I just don’t want to take it.”
Scharf leaned back in his chair. “I think I see someone involved in this crime,” he said. “Maybe not pulling the trigger, but involved after the fact. You have information. You got to have courage. Stand up and be counted; help us catch these vicious cowards. The investigators will track down those involved—if the people on the jury had ropes, there’d be no judge and jury. They’d take them out and hang them. This is something you would expect from someone li
ke Clifford Olson or Ted Bundy.”
This was not really something the RCMP thought a young man like Darren Muise would be involved in, but they were beginning to wonder. They felt fairly certain he knew something; they just weren’t sure what. Scharf told Muise that criminal behaviourists at the FBI and Interpol were putting together profiles of the killers. He warned Muise that when those responsible were caught, and the courts learned of people who had the opportunity to help but refused, the system would not be lenient on those people. It would be too late to decide to help after the arrests. This argument might have worked if Muise had been protecting someone other than himself, but Muise had had enough. He didn’t want to know what judges or juries were likely to do to him. “When would I be able to leave?” There was agitation and a hint of panic in his voice. “I had nothing to do with it. You said I can leave when I want to.”
“You can.”
“Can I leave?”
“Yes.”
Both men stood. “I’ll call you,” Muise offered.
“Give me your word.”
“Yes.”
“Give this some thought,” Scharf urged as Muise walked away.
Dave Trickett and Darren Muise returned to Sydney shortly before 9:00 p.m. On the way, Muise told Trickett he did not like Sergeant Scharf or his approach; he wanted to help in the investigation, and it wasn’t fair for Scharf to treat him like he was involved. Trickett explained that sometimes people just don’t hit it off, but insisted it wasn’t a problem; the RCMP were working with two polygraph operators—would Muise meet the other operator the next day? Muise said he’d think about it, and told the officer to call him in the afternoon. Then he asked to be taken to Pockets; he didn’t feel like going home. A few hours later, Muise did head home, with a lot on his mind.
Murder at McDonald's Page 15