Murder at McDonald's (11 page)

By 5:00 a.m., an eerie calm had settled over the crime scene. Kevin Cleary and the other investigators had either returned to the Sydney detachment building or headed out to conduct the tasks that had been assigned to them. Inside the restaurant, Henry Jantzen stood guard in the basement as James Leadbetter continued his documentation of the scene. Leadbetter marked, photographed, and catalogued the footprints in the training room, and began a search of the upstairs floors, looking for matching prints. He found only one full print, just outside the manager's office; there was a partial print beside the safe, but it was so faint that it could not be photographed. The sticky wax surface on the training-room floor, which had fortuitously stripped debris from the sneaker bottoms to clearly show the tread patterns leading into the restaurant, had also stripped the footwear clean. It was impossible to determine where the killers had walked after leaving the room. Leadbetter began the painstaking job of dusting surfaces throughout the building in the hopes of finding fingerprints that might later help convict those responsible. Trouble was, the killers had worn gloves, and none of the many fingerprints in the restaurant would link them to the scene.

Outside, the officers left guarding the doors stood in silence as ambulance attendants removed the bodies of Neil Burroughs and Donna Warren. For the three of us still waiting in front of the building, there was a haunting calm as the cameras recorded the silent procession. Two ambulances rolled slowly down the driveway and turned onto Kings Road; the normally busy street was empty of traffic. The police roadblocks remained in place as the ambulances drove past Kings Convenience and headed to the Sydney City Hospital, where doctors were frantically working to save Arlene MacNeil. They had already determined that Jimmy Fagan would not survive.

The parents of Jimmy and Arlene had gathered at the hospital hours before, summoned just after the two young people were wheeled into the emergency room. The families of Donna Warren and Neil Burroughs were still fast asleep; the job of notifying the families of the slain victims fell to police, who had been busy at the crime scene and would shortly be making the painful journey to the Warren and Burroughs homes.

The doctor who called the Fagans and the MacNeils had told them only that their children had been shot, and that they were needed to consent to surgical procedures. Theresa and Al Fagan were the first to arrive; they lived only a few blocks from the hospital. Al attempted to calm his wife by suggesting that there must have been some kind of an accident and that Jimmy had probably just been hit in the arm or leg. It was nothing serious, he kept telling his wife—and himself. But that hope faded quickly as the couple rushed into the emergency room to find an ambulance gurney abandoned in the hallway. Theresa Fagan put her hand over her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. The pillow on the gurney was covered in blood, and there was no staining anywhere else.

“Oh my God, Al, he's been shot in the head.” Al Fagan grabbed his wife to comfort her as he looked for someone—anyone—who could tell them about Jimmy. As they ventured farther into the emergency ward they were pushed aside by an emergency medical team rushing past with a body on a stretcher. They saw Arlene MacNeil, her face caked in blood. “My God! What's going on here?” Al Fagan's deep, booming voice filled the narrow hallway as a doctor rushed up.

“Who are you? You shouldn't be here now.”

“Our son Jimmy … He was shot! Where is he?” Theresa Fagan pleaded for an answer; she just wanted to be with her son. Realizing who the couple were, the doctor took them to a “quiet room,” saying he'd be back when he had information for them. There, the Fagans sat agonizing over what they had just seen in the hall. They decided they should phone Jimmy's brothers and sisters in Halifax. But what could they tell them? Al knew his boys would be filled with questions, and he had no answers. Within an hour, a big car left Halifax, bound for Cape Breton: Jimmy's family was coming home.

As Al and Theresa Fagan sat alone in the hospital, at the beginning of what would be a long and harrowing vigil, Germaine MacNeil was speeding towards Sydney. Arlene's mother was trying to understand the call she'd received a few moments earlier. Arlene had been shot … How could that be? Germaine glanced at the speedometer and realized she had to slow down; Arlene needed her, and she could not afford to have an accident. The fastest route to City Hospital was via Kings Road, but as Germaine pointed the car down the exit ramp, she saw the flashing lights of a Louisbourg police car: the entrance to Kings Road was blocked. Germaine shifted back into the lane that continued along the bypass and to the next exit into Sydney, her heart pounding at the sight of more flashing lights around McDonald's. The rest of the drive to the hospital was a blur of intersections and anxiety—a blur that would hang over Germaine MacNeil's life for months to come, as she and her family struggled to understand how their lives could have been changed irrevocably while they slept at home.

At five that morning, Olive Warren was awakened by her husband. She generally rose early to get ready for work at a nearby motel, but this morning Olive would not go to work. “There was a report on the radio about a shooting at McDonald's,” said Donald Warren. “It says people were killed.”

Olive looked at her husband. “What? Where's Donna; is she home?”

“No.”

She ran to the kitchen, grabbed the phone, and quickly dialled the restaurant. Donna was the manager; if something had happened, she would have to stay, but surely she'd answer the phone. It seemed an eternity before the frantic mother accepted that no-one was going to answer. She quickly looked up the number for the RCMP in Sydney, but instead of calling the emergency number, she dialled information—and the Mounties had stopped answering that line as they began the initial coordination of the biggest investigation the detachment had ever handled.

Olive Warren's son was just coming into the kitchen as she slammed the phone down, then looked for the number of the Sydney police and debated going to the restaurant to see what was happening. No. She would call the Sydney police first. The night duty sergeant at Sydney police headquarters told Olive he was not sure what had happened at the restaurant, and that the RCMP were handling it. Olive explained why she was calling. “My daughter was working there last night, and she's not home. Who can tell me if she's all right?”

“If you hang up, I'll call back in one minute, ma'am. I'll find out for you.” She must be O.K., the family agreed, sitting in the dark kitchen and waiting anxiously for the sergeant in Sydney to phone again. When he did, the officer gave Olive Warren a new number to dial and told her someone was waiting for her call. That someone was Dave Roper; the information officer had been told that Mrs. Warren was trying to find out about her daughter. Roper did not want to take the call; there was no way he wanted to break news like this to someone over the phone, and he had no idea what to expect as he picked up the phone. Olive quickly identified herself and explained that she was trying to find out what was happening at McDonald's.

Roper stalled. “Has your daughter arrived home yet, Mrs. Warren?”

“No, that's why I'm calling.”

“Do you still live at the same address in North Sydney?”

“Yes, yes, I do—now can you tell me anything about what happened at McDonald's?”

“Mrs. Warren, an officer has been sent to your home to explain the entire situation to you. He should be there any moment now.”

“Someone's coming here?”

“Yes, ma'am, and he can answer all your questions if you could just wait a few more moments.”

“Thank you, thank you very much.” Olive Warren hung up, and as she turned from the phone, her son noticed two cars pulling into the driveway. It was the RCMP and a North Sydney police car. Olive Warren knew at that moment that Donna was not coming home. Outside, Constable David Trickett braced himself for the job every policeman hates.

While Dave Trickett was steeling himself to knock on the door of the Warren home, Constable Darryl Aucoine was standing in front of the home of Neil and Carmel Burroughs, in the small community of Dominion, just outside Glace Bay. Aucoine had enlisted the help of the town police department; a constable from the Dominion force stood uncomfortably beside the Mountie as he knocked hard on the front door.

Upstairs, Carmel Burroughs awoke with a start. “Neil! Neil, wake up, there's someone at the door.” Neil Burroughs, Sr., rolled over and said to his wife: “It's probably Neil. Go let him in.” Their son often stopped on his way home from the back shift, to see if there was anything he could do to help his parents before going home to see Justin and Julia. Carmel Burroughs jumped out of bed and grabbed her robe. Surely that couldn't be Neil, she thought. It was too early. When she got downstairs, she realized the knock was at the front door; now that was
not
Neil. Carmel was confused as Darryl Aucoine identified himself; she vaguely recognized the other officer.

“Ma'am, is there anyone else at home?”

“Yes. My husband.”

“Could you wake him please, Mrs. Burroughs?” Carmel was too confused to wonder about the request; she went to get her husband. The Burroughs had raised seven children, and they knew a visit from the police in the middle of the night meant something was wrong.

“Is it Neil?” Carmel asked when they came back downstairs; her son was still on her mind. There was no easy way to say what had to be said. Darryl Aucoine had a reputation at work as an officer with a keen sense of humour, who loved to make people laugh. But now, it was as if his cheerfulness had been drained right out of him, and all he felt was sick at heart.

“I'm afraid your son Neil has been brutally murdered.” The words came out almost on their own. They hit Carmel Burroughs hard and fast. Panic and blackness engulfed her as she dropped to the kitchen floor. Her husband and Corporal Aucoine quickly picked her up and eased her into a chair as the other officer grabbed a glass of water. Carmel slowly came around, but she never fully recovered from the words she had just heard. Her little boy, her helper, her friend—
my God, Neil was gone.

Once he had helped to comfort Carmel Burroughs as best he could, Darryl Aucoine faced yet another painful duty—informing Neil Burroughs's young wife that she was now a widow. He could see Julia Burroughs fighting for control as he spoke with her, but the shock in her eyes told another story.
Please, Lord, this can't be happening. Justin loves his daddy. Don't take his daddy away.

In North Sydney, Dave Trickett tried to console Olive Warren as she reached for the telephone. There were people to call, things to arrange. Olive was acting out of reflex, trying to busy herself, and the young officer knew her state of mind could change at any second. He offered to wait with the family until the calls were made and relatives came to the house. Olive declined, and Dave Trickett headed back to his car, leaving a tearful and shocked family behind him. He was not sure what role he would play in this investigation, but the young constable wanted to help find those responsible for making him the bearer of such emotionally shattering news. Olive Warren's life had been changed forever when a bombshell was dropped by a policeman she did not know and whose name she quickly forgot as he drove away in silence.

With the painful job of notifying the families completed, it was time to tell the public what had happened at McDonald's. Dave Roper had been busy writing a statement for reporters, who stood huddled in the cold outside the Sydney detachment, but he could not read it until he got clearance from Kevin Cleary and Herb Davies, the two officers in charge of the case. They were both busy debriefing officers who had been at the scene and formulating a plan for the next few hours. The first twenty-four hours are the most critical in any major investigation, and the RCMP were determined not to let this trail grow cold. Roadblocks had been set up in several key areas on the island; John Trickett was preparing to take his dog Storm on a daytime search of the area around McDonald's; and the restaurant owner and managers were being questioned about any possible motive for the shooting, other than robbery. Police wondered, for example, whether only one of the four victims was the target of the attack, and whether the others had just gotten in the way. There was also the question of the possible eyewitness, Derek Wood, still squirming in his uncomfortable chair in the interrogation room, elsewhere in the building.

Finally, Dave Roper came outside and invited the reporters into the building. The briefing was held in the reception area of the detachment, with Constable Roper standing behind the counter and reporters on the other side, reaching towards him with their outstretched microphones.

“Shortly after 1:00 a.m., RCMP received a report of gunshots fired at the McDonald's restaurant in Sydney River.… Investigation at the scene revealed that as a result of an apparent armed robbery, two persons were killed and two other persons were shot and are in critical condition.… All four victims are employees of the restaurant. Sydney detachment of the RCMP is requesting the assistance of the general public. Anyone who may have been in the area … is asked to call.” The call for public assistance became Roper's signature in the days ahead, and it paid off; the phones began to ring steadily and continued to do so for days. At the end of the prepared statement, the questions began.

“Was the restaurant open at the time of the shootings?”

“No, and we want to make it very clear that all of the victims were employees of McDonald's. This is not a case of someone walking into an open restaurant and shooting people.”

“Can you tell us the type of weapon or weapons used?”

“We believe at this time it was not a rifle.”

“So it was a handgun?”

“We believe so, yes.”