Murder at McDonald's (20 page)

“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.”

“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.”

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.