Authors: Jon Wells
A Gruesome Discovery
Saturday morning the phone rang on the nightstand beside Bill Murray’s bed. He was supposed to come to Art and Brenda’s place for dinner that night.
“Brenda, what’s up?” he said, barely awake.
She felt numb. It was all so surreal. Brenda spoke evenly.
“You’re not going to believe what’s happened,” she began.
Bill was thinking that maybe Art had been called in to work, and that dinner was off. But why call him at six in the morning?
“Art’s been beaten up and he died.”
“Brenda, where is your head?” Bill said, unable to compute the words. She repeated it. And now he believed. Almost at that exact moment, his kids, aged 14 and 10, walked in the bedroom awakened by the phone. The kids loved Art. Bill didn’t know what to say to them. What else could he say, but relay the news? It shook the kids up bad.
Bill moped around all day, cried on and off, mostly just unable to make sense of it. His friendship with Art was the kind that if one of them had some idea, for a car, anything, one would instantly call the other. For the longest time after he heard the news, a thought would cross Bill’s mind, and he’d actually reach for the phone but had to stop himself. I can’t call him. Art is gone.
Art’s brother Darren was now living up north, in Ironbridge. That morning Darren heard the knock at his front door and answered in his housecoat. It was his mom, standing in the doorway with a panicked look on her face.
“There’s been an accident,” she said.
“What?”
Thoughts rushed through Darren’s mind — perhaps his stepfather, Neil, had had another heart attack. Esther kept looking at Darren, opening her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t say the words.
Darren was almost shouting now. “What — just tell me!”
“Art was killed last night.”
“What — how?”
“He was beaten up in a bar.”
Darren turned from her, barely made it to the bathroom and vomited, then he cried, hard. He showered, still crying, the news ripping his heart, torturing his head. It all made no sense. Beaten up? In a bar? Art could never be in a fight, never bring anything onto himself. Darren? Sure. He knew that he could get himself into a situation. No question about it. Not Art. Ever. A bar fight? How was it possible? How could anyone ever want to hurt Art?
It should have been me
, Darren thought.
Should have been me in that bar
. Not that he wanted to die, but his brother meant so much to others — had a wife, kids, all these people who love him. Art’s sister, Debbie, came north and drove Darren, Neil, and Esther back to Hamilton. All those years before, when he was still a little boy, Darren had gone on that long drive south to Hamilton to see Art. He was doing it again, to attend the funeral.
On Saturday morning, just after 10:30 a.m., the body was wheeled from the sealed morgue fridge in the basement of Hamilton General Hospital into the autopsy room. At 10:40 a.m. forensic pathologist Dr. John Fernandes began the post-mortem examination. Fernandes had performed more than 1,200 forensic autopsies in his career, 90 of them homicides. Also in the room was Kevin Stanley, a detective representing the homicide investigation. Stanley opened his white casebook and made notes. Fernandes spoke aloud as he proceeded, making observations that would appear in his final report: “Male, 43 years old. Height: five feet, 9.7 inches. Weight: 198 lb. Body habitus: Lean, muscular. Scalp & facial hair: Brown-red. Brown-red moustache. Extremities: Hands covered by dry brown paper bags. Hands stained with grease in many of the creases reflective of industrial-type staining of the hands ... Gold tone ring with a single colourless stone on the left fourth finger.”
Kevin Stanley had attended many autopsies in the past. With this one he strained to keep his professional instincts tuned to the job at hand. He was an emotional guy, known to wear his heart on his sleeve. He couldn’t help but think of his own family: he had been married to the same woman for years; was a father of two boys — just like Art Rozendal. He could see himself being in the same situation as Art. Out for dinner with the family, and then it just happens: your life is extinguished just like that. Senseless.
Fernandes ordered X-rays, noted injuries around the head, neck, and chest, swelling and bruising around both eyes. The left cheek was swollen and discoloured. Scratches on the left eyebrow. Right ear extensively bruised. Bruising around the left rib cage measuring 10 x 12 centimetres. His attention was drawn to marks on the skin on Art’s back. There appeared to be a circular pattern to them. He knew that studying trauma patterns on tissue can be instructive about the cause of death.
At 1:40 p.m. he halted the autopsy. He wanted to see the marks more clearly. Allowing time to pass would allow the bruising on the back to develop more clearly. In the meantime Fernandes wanted to visit the scene of the beating, look for anything that could have produced that kind of pattern on Art Rozendal’s back. While Stanley stood guard at the morgue, another officer drove the forensic pathologist up to O’Grady’s.
Forensic detectives Gary Zwicker and Annette Huys were there, and they walked Fernandes through the bar. He briefly examined the hallway where Art had died. Doorknob? Obstruction of some kind protruding from the wall? There was nothing in that hallway that could have made such a pattern on the back. The doctor returned to the hospital. At 4:20 p.m. the body was sealed again in the morgue freezer.
Back at O’Grady’s that afternoon and into the evening, Huys and Zwicker continued processing the scene. They measured the back hallway and bathroom and other portions of the bar. Zwicker drew a detailed scale diagram of the entire layout inside. The roadhouse was laid bare in the harsh light of day, empty, the air stale. O’Grady’s was non-smoking, but clearly the rules were lax. The detectives collected cigarette butts in the back hallway for saliva DNA. They dusted the door leading to the back hallway and the bathroom walls for prints. But the walls were grimy; there were few quality prints to be had. They photographed and tagged items that might have been handled by the three men witnesses had seen leaving the bar, such as pool cues and balls. Huys opened a container of sterilized water, popped the cap on a tube, drew an amulet, dabbed it in the water and rubbed the rim of a drinking glass. She returned the swab to its container and attached a seal.
All of the samples would be sent to the Centre of Forensic Sciences in Toronto. She placed used drinking straws from the glasses in sealed envelopes for delivery to CFS — and noted which end had been the drinking end. Huys had learned that one from experience — she once got a note back from CFS on one case asking which end of the straw was which. Among the items to be sent for DNA testing was a neck chain found on the floor of the hallway right where the beating took place. Uniform officer Ian Gouthro had been the first to notice it when he reported to the scene. It was a dirty silver chain with a dog tag. There was an inscription on the tag. It read: Daymein P.
On Monday, at 8:05 a.m., Dr. Fernandes re-examined the bruising on Art’s back. The pattern was clearer now: “Patterned injuries noted to the central portion of the back and on the left flank.... Contusion pattern in centre of back measuring six x five centimetres. Pattern appears as a series of somewhat circular lines with intervening zones of sparing around which there appeared to be a radiating pattern of lines perpendicular to the outermost circle.” The marks on the skin, he concluded, “had the appearance of a pattern commonly seen on the soles of shoes or boots.”
Holding his homicide notebook, Det. Kevin Stanley leaned over the body and examined the marks. A gruesome discovery. The tread marks were visceral proof of the brutality of the attack. Someone had stomped on the back so hard that it made an impression through his shirt and into the skin. Stanley, a cop for 24 years, had never seen anything like it. Stanley drew a sketch of the circular pattern in his notebook.
With Kyro Sparks held at Barton Street jail, Det. Mike Maloney pursued leads and tips coming in from officers in the field in the hunt for other suspects. One man had called police concerned that his son might have been at O’Grady’s that night — he was worried his son played a role. Turned out to be a dead end. He also drove to the east end station to meet a 26-year-old man who had been arrested for carrying a concealed weapon — a large kitchen knife up his sleeve. Another dead end. At two that afternoon, Maloney drove to the hospital and headed to the morgue. The forensic pathologist had finished his examination, which meant the body was about to be released by police to the Rozendal family.
Maloney was among those who tried to talk Brenda out of seeing Art’s body in the morgue. He always urged families of homicide victims not to do it. Family members wanted to see their loved one right away, but the morgue’s hangover effect could often end up hurting them more in the long run, he felt. One woman told Maloney she never got over that experience in the bowels of the General — the long walk down the hallway to the morgue, the pungent smell of bleach and other odours. The markings from the beating were still pronounced. Maloney urged Brenda to wait and see Art once the body had been prepared in the funeral home. Liz Repchuck, manager of victim services with Hamilton Police, also advised her against viewing in the morgue.
Brenda knew everyone was trying to protect her. But didn’t they understand? She had been the one there when he died. She needed to be with him again.
“I want to see him,” she said. “And it is my right.”
Up at the Rozendal house, family had gathered, supporting one another — among them Darren, and Art’s dad, Neil, his mom, Frances, sisters Debbie and Sandi. Neil said he wanted to come down to the morgue with Brenda, too. Brenda tried talking him out of it. Neil Rozendal was 71 and had a serious heart condition — one heart attack and bypass surgery three times — and had not seen what Brenda had that night.
“You don’t want to see your son that way,” she said.
It was not a long conversation.
“I’m going,” Neil said.
At the morgue Art’s father and wife were advised not to touch the body, not in its current state. The funeral home would be a better place for that. Brenda, Neil, Mike Maloney, and Liz Repchuck stood at the viewing window. A curtain over the glass parted. Art’s body lay on a table, a sheet covering him up to his neck. They stood and watched for a couple of minutes in silence. It wasn’t enough. Brenda and Neil wanted to get closer. They were escorted into the room, walked up close, leaned over his face. Brenda desperately wanted to touch him. Art’s dad Neil could not hold back. He held his boy’s hand, kissed his fingers, and held them against his cheek.
“I love you,” he said.
White Heat
POLICE CHARGE ONE, HUNT TWO OTHERS IN MOUNTAIN MURDER
. That was the headline on the front page of Monday’s
Hamilton Spectator
. Peter Abi-Rashed, the investigation case manager, had spoken to a reporter from the newspaper. At this early stage in the case, exposure in the media could only help to encourage tips from the public; it might even convince the other men involved in the attack to come forward. Abi-Rashed, a burly cop with a booming voice, was not one for beating around the bush.
“Get a lawyer and come on in,” Abi-Rashed was quoted in the story. “Because it’s only a matter of time before we come after you.”
Brenda Rozendal was also quoted: “If there’s somebody out there with more information, please come forward. There were a lot of people at the place we were at. There’s got to be somebody who saw more.”
The detectives knew that Kyro Sparks was not a perfect suspect. He had admitted nothing and refused to even be interviewed. Eyewitness accounts of the man with the silver grills in his mouth kicking Art in the head, daring a customer to intervene, and leaving the bar, were damning, certainly — but not all of the witnesses at O’Grady’s had been able to pick Sparks out of a photo lineup. In addition Sparks’s post-offence conduct had been bizarre. Maloney and Abi-Rashed discussed it. Why was Sparks still in the area of the homicide an hour after the offence? If he had just murdered somebody, why would he hang around with police crawling around everywhere? Made no sense. The detectives had to pose the question: Do we have the right guy?
Still, assuming Sparks was one of Art Rozendal’s killers, he might hold the key to catching the other two. Maloney studied Sparks’s criminal record. It included robbery, drug possession for the purpose of trafficking, assaulting a peace officer. He was convicted for extortion in 2001. For that incident Waterloo police had charged him with use of firearm during commission of an offence, which was later withdrawn. He had also been flagged by Waterloo police as having a “street gang association.” Might he have been out with gang members at O’Grady’s?
Maloney put out a “zone alert” to other police services. It included details of the Rozendal homicide, descriptions of the suspects, and background on Kyro Sparks. Detective Constable Ben Hadfield of Waterloo Intelligence Gang Unit sent an email in response. The note said Kyro Sparks had been on an “observation category” with police. And Hadfield passed along names of known associates of Sparks. The first of four names read: Cory McLeod. DOB: 1985/April 20. Last known address: Kitchener. Nicknames: Spits. Exile. King Dama. Daymein.
On Monday afternoon the body was moved from the hospital to the Clark funeral home on Upper Wellington Street and prepared for the funeral. When Brenda had first viewed Art’s body, she felt conflicting emotions. She told Art she loved him, but she also felt anger, told him she was mad at him for dying on her. But sitting alone with him in the funeral home, it was different. Brenda ran her fingers through Art’s hair, fixed it — they had not made it up quite right, she decided. She cried, and she kissed him. His lips felt cold against hers.
Prior to the visitation, Brenda allowed her two sisters, Bev and Diane, to view Art’s body in the funeral home, but denied others in the family a chance to see it. She decided that there would be a closed casket. Clark’s had made him up as best as possible, but the bruising was still visible and his eyes were swollen. The fact that he had been in the morgue for a couple of days did not help. Brenda didn’t want the family to remember him like that. Art and Brenda’s sons, Neil and Jordan, both wanted to see him, but she refused. Bev and Diane later told her that they regretted seeing the body and had nightmares about it.
The visitation was on Wednesday, January 19. It snowed and the wind chill hit minus 16 degrees Celsius that morning. Despite the cold people lined up outside the funeral home right around the block. Among those offering condolences was Mike Maloney and the other homicide detectives. Nancy Lutz was there, a uniform officer who had driven Brenda to the hospital that night. So was Ian Gouthro, who had been first on the scene. The two officers walked up to greet her together.
“Here are my angels,” Brenda said.
“No, you are the angel.”
Gouthro looked at Brenda. He was not a talkative guy, but he just sensed that he needed to say it. She struck him as a very strong woman. Heroic. He felt she needed to know.
“You did everything possible to save your husband,” he said. “I want you to know that.”
Art had been beaten, but Brenda did not know the official cause of his death. The detectives didn’t know, either — they were waiting on the final post-mortem report. Brenda had wondered: did she do something wrong when she tried to revive Art? Performed CPR incorrectly? Gouthro’s words now brought some comfort. But it was difficult to focus any of her thoughts or feelings.
The next day about 200 people attended the funeral presided over Rev. John Hibbs, who had married Art and Brenda and helped them renew their vows.
“Art had a great sense of humour, unique one-liners and a distinctive laugh,” he told the congregation. “Art had a hug and a kiss for everyone, even me. He loved people.”
The crime against him, Hibbs said, was hard to comprehend for anybody with “a common humanity, decency and respect for life.” But do not dwell upon the forces that took him. “We will leave justice to be done to others.”
Debbie, one of Art’s younger sisters, also spoke. She talked of her brother’s love of cars and animals. “Art was there when I opened my eyes for the first time,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I thought he would be there when I closed my eyes for the last time. There was a change in plans.”
All of Art’s co-workers at Stelco attended, too. The flag flying outside Stelco was lowered to half-mast. All the guys were in shock. How could anyone want to hurt Art of all people? Art’s locker remained packed with his gear. His white helmet, dusty and tarnished, the one with his name on it, still hung from a hook on the wall. No one touched it.
Charlie Montgomery was there, as well. He had spent two years working with him on the same shift and had grown very close. You work in a heavy industrial environment, you have to trust the other guy with your life, trust him to do the right thing. He could always trust Art.
Montgomery had been to many funerals over the years, his parents never hid death from them when they were kids. When his great aunts and uncles had died, their funerals were celebrations of life. Charlie spoke at his dad’s funeral. People asked him, where he had found the strength. Death is part of life, he had explained. Charlie could handle death, but not this time. It was too much; he could make no sense of it. Sitting in the church with everyone, maybe it was because he was trying to understand, or keep his emotions in check, but sitting there Charlie felt this … this fever, this white heat wrapped around his head the whole time.
Something strange happened at the burial — it seemed unreal, but several people saw it, and that included Art’s buddy Bill Murray. Bill wasn’t into paranormal stuff or anything like that. But he saw what he saw. There they all were in Woodlands Cemetery, freezing cold, snow falling on and off, the burial service underway, and Reverend Hibbs speaking, family and close friends gathered around the casket. Midway through the service, though, Bill turned, and there it was: a car stopped nearby on the narrow driveway that winds through the cemetery. Bill couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a street rod, a 1968 Buick Gran Sport, mint shape. Just like the kind Bill and Art used to put up on blocks and restore. No one drove a car like that in winter, he thought. Ever. You brought it out in summer, if the weather was perfect. Guys didn’t even drive them in rain, much less through snow or salt. But there it was. A Gran Sport, Art’s favourite. And it was white, of all things, with blacked tinted windows.
Bill thought he could see someone get out of the car, but he couldn’t see a face; the car blocked his view. And then, seconds later, the car glided away, the engine barely audible, if at all. Bill knew every car guy around, and he had never seen anyone with a car like that. Bill asked Art’s old friends about it. No one knew who it could have been. Never did find out.