Murder at McDonald's (21 page)

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 like 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.

At home, Muise took a razor blade and cut his left wrist; it was not a deep cut and did not threaten his life. He also took some pills and wrote a lengthy suicide note:

To all my love ones,

I was told I know too much and they said they are going to get me! To my mother, I love you with all my heart. As the years went by I've been a pain in the ass but you have got me through many things. I learned to love and feel kindness.

To my Father, I also love you. I love you! I hope you can forgive me.

Muise's note contained messages to his three brothers, his former girlfriend, and other friends and relatives. He offered some of his belongings to the people he loved and asked them to remember him fondly, but it was clear he expected the note to be read by the RCMP. He knew they were closing in, and he used his suicide attempt, genuine or faked, as a means to mislead them. Dave Trickett was included in the list of people he wanted to say goodbye to:

To Cst. Trickett—I told you everything I remember except about the guys trying to kill me. I thank you for being my friend. I hope I helped you. I don't know the names of the guys who did it but I know they are from the Halifax area. It did matter if I told you that before, they would still get me.

To all my friends
—
I love you and try not to hate me. I have to do this. I'd rather do it than them doing it.

My last requests are to be buried with a Tae Kwan Do uniform on. And let the public know I had nothing to do with the murders. I never pulled a trigger. I want my parents to be left alone. They are the nicest people in the world. By the way the polygrapher was good I did hold back so I could protect myself.

To God! I know will never forgive me but please let my family live long and healthy. I'm doing this for them. It's a cruel way to kill myself but I guess I deserve it.

I also give my deep regards to the family of the victims. Don't worry the police will get the guys. They just have to look in Halifax.

Mom I leave my love. You're the hardest to say goodbye because I know you don't want to be alone. Please treasure this
—
this is the most important thing I have had to left you my courage. I want you to go out and get two bottles of Whiskey, gather the family and have a drink. Remember me in a happy way. The other bottle I want to save it as a reminder of your past. And keep it sealed to reminder of what the future holds. Please do not open it.

I guess this is it. I love you everybody.

Muise signed this letter, folded it, and placed it in a tennis-racket cover in his bedroom. While the kind and amount of pills he took isn't clear, he may have been high as he wrote his farewell, as the rambling nature of the letter indicates: he suggested he was in danger, yet hinted at his own guilt by saying God would not forgive him.

Muise's parents had asked him to stay close to home after his long day with police; instead, he slipped out his bedroom window and went to a nearby ball field, where he smoked, contemplated life, and considered his situation. He concluded that he would not kill himself after all; he would ride it out. He returned home but did not destroy the suicide note.

The morning of Thursday, May 14, brought an upbeat briefing at the RCMP detachment. It had been a week since the murders, and the investigative team was on the right track; they could sense it. Two officers assigned to brief the victims' families continued to assure them that the investigation was proceeding. The officers could not say anything about the suspects, or even that there were specific suspects, but for the relatives of the slain McDonald's workers, more contact from the RCMP was reassuring enough. Their questions were being answered, and they felt they were part of the process.