Murder at McDonald's by Phonse; Jessome

in blood, and there was no staining anywhere else.
    â€œOh 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.
    â€œWho are you? You shouldn’t be here now.”
    â€œOur 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?”
    â€œNo.”
    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?”
    â€œIf you hang up, I’ll call back in one minute, ma’am. I’ll find out for you.” She must be