Murder at McDonald's by Phonse; Jessome Page A

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?”
    â€œNo, that’s why I’m calling.”
    â€œDo you still live at the same address in North Sydney?”
    â€œYes, yes, I do—now can you tell me anything about what happened at McDonald’s?”
    â€œMrs. Warren, an officer has been sent to your home to explain the entire situation to you. He should be there any moment now.”
    â€œSomeone’s coming here?”
    â€œYes, ma’am, and he can answer all your questions if you could just wait a few more moments.”
    â€œThank 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.
    â€œMa’am, is there anyone else at home?”
    â€œYes. My husband.”
    â€œCould 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.
    â€œIs 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.
    â€œI’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