Murder at McDonald's by Phonse; Jessome Page A

were on the way; MacVicar had said they’d been called by the taxi dispatcher, but Cleary wanted to be certain.
    Next came the question of going inside. Henry Jantzen would be there any second, but Cleary still needed to decide whether or not they would go in. His first reaction was to call for Emergency Response Team backup, but that would take more than a hour—even if the team was able to fly from Halifax on a moment’s notice. The Sydney RCMP subdivision once had its own ERT, but it had been disbanded; the Halifax-based squad now handled the entire province. ERT members were trained to deal with armed assailants inside a building, but Corporal Cleary knew his first duty as a policeman was the protection of life—and there were injured people inside. Cleary decided to sweep the building alone. Grabbing the portable radio he’d taken from his car, he reported his intention. “I’m going in to see what’s in there. We have several injuries at least.” Cleary’s throat was dry as he released the transmit button and prepared to go in. Before he could move, his radio came to life with a response. “You want me in there with you?” It was Henry Jantzen. The burly, heavy-set constable was on portable radio as he ran across the parking lot to join Cleary. The corporal’s “Yes” was the last radio transmission Stan Jesty would hear from the two officers for several agonizing minutes.
    The first ambulance rolled into the parking lot behind McDonald’s as Kevin Cleary and Henry Jantzen inched inside the restaurant with their guns drawn. At the same moment, Derek Wood ran out from between an Irving gas station and the Sydney Video Entertainment store on Kings Road, about a half-kilometre away from McDonald’s. He ran across the road and headed for a tiny strip mall that housed a fried-chicken franchise, a submarine sandwich shop, and Kings Convenience, a twenty-four-hour variety store with video poker machines that Wood had played a few times before. On familiar ground now, he burst through the door of Kings and ran to the counter, demanding to use the phone. The startled clerk was irritated at first—Wood had interrupted a couple purchasing cigarettes—but when he recognized the young man and saw the state he was in, he left the other customers. “There’s been a shooting at McDonald’s. Call the cops. I need to call the cops,” Wood blurted as he reached the counter.
    The clerk checked the list of emergency numbers next to the phone, dialled, and handed Wood the receiver. Wood thought the clerk had made a mistake—he didn’t think he was talking to the police—but by then he was genuinely panicked and couldn’t be sure. It sounded more like the guy said “Ambulance” when he answered, not “Police.” Whoever it was, the guy said they had people on the way, so Wood hung up. He paced and lit a cigarette and worried, and finally decided he should call the police again. This time a second clerk dialled the RCMP number from memory. Whichever call connected Wood to police, it was Stan Jesty he reached. Jesty recorded the incoming call at 1:21 a.m.
    â€œRCMP Sydney. Emergency.” Jesty’s voice was clipped; he was in the process of directing officers to the scene and was waiting to hear from Cleary and Jantzen.
    Derek Wood quickly got Jesty’s attention. “Hello, yes, I just called a … like, reported fellows shooting.”
    â€œYes.” Jesty was listening.
    â€œI was wondering, like, I’m fuckin’ scared shitless here, eh, ’cause I, like, fuckin’ I was there.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œAh, Derek Wood.”

    An officer stands guard outside the employees’ entrance to the Sydney River McDonald’s, where Jimmy Fagan’s body was found. [RCMP crime scene photo.]
    â€œWere you at McDonald’s, Derek?”
    Wood seized the opportunity