— I —

She took her first breath on a Saturday in June and her last on a cold Wednesday in March. This is the story on the gravestone. Just 26 years passed in between — her life all prologue. An old man shuffled up the row in the cemetery, sun shining off his silver hair, moving well considering the hip and knee replacements. He remarked on how many graves had joined his daughter’s over the years. His name is on the stone, too, the date of death left vacant.

A woman visited a while back, left flowers and a letter. She knew the victim not at all in life, but in death feels a connection that mystifies and haunts her. She researches the case, sits in the house where the homicide happened, and thinks of her.

A man and his two sons come to the cemetery to visit the graves where family members lie, but each time the man wanders off on his own. He does not tell his boys why it is he pauses wordlessly in Section 15, Row 25; does not reveal that he’s thinking of the woman with the silky blonde hair.

The old detective does not visit. He lives up north on two acres, by cool water and tall pines. He speaks in a gravelly baritone, his face softened by a grey beard, hands still rugged and hard, the eyes deep green. He says he closed the drawer on the past when he retired. Still, on occasion, it floats into his mind’s eye, the scene in that basement a long time ago. No, he does not dwell on the past. But he also does not forget that when all was said and done, he still had a case left out there.

March 29, 1978

2:30 a.m.

Hamilton, Ontario

The man held the hostage at knife-point. It was his own son. He demanded a flight out of Canada for both of them. The Hamilton detective, who was tall, with dark hair and green eyes, dressed in a jacket and tie, stood on the other side of the apartment door, speaking calmly in the deep baritone, stalling.

“It’s going to take a little longer,” said Don Crath. “We just need a little more time. Got to finish arrangements for the flights.”

To lessen the man’s tension, stall for time, Crath tried to make a connection with the man. “Do you have a picture of your son? You show me a picture of your son and I’ll show you a picture of my two boys.”

The man slid a photo under the door.

“Nice looking boy. You don’t want to harm your boy, do you, Bill? I know you don’t want to hurt anybody. I sure don’t want to get any of my policemen hurt. Just hang on.”

He kept the man with the knife talking for more than two hours. Then he and officers Bill McCulloch and Vern Cummins burst through the door, rescued the boy, made the arrest. The story would make headlines in the Spectator the next day; reporter Darryl Gibson had been listening to the whole thing.

Crath drove back to the weathered old detectives’ office on King William Street, where he worked in the Criminal Investigations Division. The place was old school; cops there sat in beat-up wooden chairs and smoked, the interrogation room had flecks of blood on the wall. Known for wearing natty suits, Crath usually stood out. However, he felt rather beat-up himself that morning. He loosened his tie, rubbed his tired eyes, and typed his report as morning broke.

Crath was 41 and had started as a cop in his early twenties. That had been soon after his wife Darlene gave birth, to twin boys. He figured that policing was a solid family job, better than getting stuck on the road in sales. Turned out he liked being a cop and was good at it. Solid police work, he knew, was about trusting your gut. Keep it simple, use common sense. It usually worked.

Don Crath was an old-school cop known for wearing natty suits while on the police force.
Hamilton Spectator.

One year after the hostage case, Don Crath was blindsided. He lost his wife, the two boys their mother. Darlene died.

Mauro Iacoboni entered a bar with his cousin near Barton and Strathearn. It was November 1981. Mauro was 27, from an Italian family, his first name pronounced Mah-ro, with a rolling r. Guys at the factory where he worked didn’t roll their r’s all that well, though. He got called Moe.

He saw her for the first time in the bar and was instantly attracted. She was petite, with long blonde hair — very pretty, he thought. And just his luck, she was with a woman he knew. He left his cousin, walked over, said hi, chatted with both of them, his eyes mostly on the blonde. She said her name was Trisha Roach. Moments later Mauro turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” Trisha asked. The blunt tone caught him off guard.

“I … I have to work in the morning.”

Trisha continued talking with him. By the end of the night they had exchanged phone numbers and he had learned more about her.

Trisha was 26 and lived alone in a house on Montclair Avenue, just east of Gage Park. Until recently she had shared it with her husband, Terry Paraszczuk (Paraz-chuck). Trisha had dated Terry at Bishop Ryan high school. where they were in the same grade. She had been crazy about him. He was handsome, a charmer, the life of the party. He was more outgoing than Trisha, who usually came across as more reserved.

Trisha’s parents were Ray and Floria Roach, who had both grown up in the city’s north end. Ray’s father cut ice off the bay in winter and sold it year-round. Ray carried on the family business, running a delivery service called Roach Ice. Terry’s parents, Michael and Maria, had Ukrainian roots; Michael worked at a hardware store, Maria in a hospital.

Trisha married Terry on August 26, 1978, at Blessed Sacrament Roman Catholic Church on a perfect summer day. She was 23. Trisha’s sister, Cathy, her only sibling, was maid of honour. The sisters were close, born just 11 months apart; both were nurses. Now that his daughter was a Paraszczuk, Ray Roach carried a slip of paper in his wallet with the new name on it so he wouldn’t forget the spelling.

The crime scene in Trisha’s house was a disaster from the fire and the water used to douse it.
Hamilton Spectator.

Trisha and Terry bought the old red brick two-and-a-half storey house at 944 Montclair. Terry had recently started a job as a customs officer, while Trisha had worked for three years as a nurse in the neurology department at Hamilton General Hospital. She put up $10,000 of her savings toward the down payment. Terry’s father, Michael, who lived just around the corner, did some work on the unfinished basement.

The couple’s dating life had been stormy on occasion; marriage did not smooth the waters. Trisha, who was a small woman, less than 100 pounds, came across as quiet, but she stood up for herself. In 1981 they separated. Trisha returned to using her maiden name, Roach, but legally still carried Terry’s. The house was put up for sale. Michael Paraszczuk told Trisha that he wanted to be repaid for his expenses fixing up some of the basement, which upset her. Ray Roach said Michael further served Trisha a lawsuit to recoup the money.

Toward the end of 1981, Trisha started dating Mauro Iacoboni. He played drums in a band with three of his cousins, and on their first date he picked her up in his van with the kit in the back. To Mauro, who lived with his parents, Trisha seemed mature, independent. She kept the house on Montclair immaculate. Although she was a smoker, the house usually smelled of cookies rather than cigarette smoke because she was always baking. She also knitted. She made a blanket for her mother, Floria, for Christmas in Floria’s favourite powder blue. She sewed on her back porch in the sun.

Being with Trisha was just so easy, Mauro felt. She was sweet and pretty, and it just worked. He loved her long hair; on the job at the hospital she had to wear it up, but with him it was always down. They used to just relax in her house; ordered in Chinese food a lot, her favourite. Mauro got to know her parents, too. He’ d kick back with Ray and watch hockey games at Trisha’s house. He felt his relationship with Trisha deepen.

On New Year’s Eve, 1981, his band played an all-night show at Queen’s Banquet Centre on Barton Street, and she went to see him play. She fitted right in with Mauro’s friends. At midnight the band paused, Trisha joined Mauro on stage and kissed him as the year turned to 1982.

Things were looking up for Trisha. She continued working at the hospital, where her co-workers and bosses loved her. She regularly attended St. John the Baptist Roman Catholic Church, and now met privately with her priest, Father Ron Cote. He asked if she had considered having her marriage to Terry annulled. She was interested and took home some reading on the topic, showed it to a friend. Trisha said she wanted to start over, get married again, and start a family. She decided that she needed to sell the house, so she started to look for an apartment. She had a dog, a large unruly Dalmatian named Jakes; she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep him in an apartment, so she gave him away, returned him to the breeder. The house sold and she met with Terry on Thursday, February 25, to sign papers approving the sale.

A week later, Wednesday, March 3, Trisha looked at apartments with Floria and Cathy. She also had plans to meet her friend Sandra for coffee, but Sandra was under the weather and had to cancel. Floria planned to come to Trisha’s house that night to join her for dinner. But Floria felt ill, stayed in bed instead.

Mauro worked the evening shift at American Can on the stamping production line. At his 7:30 p.m. break, he phoned Trisha. They chatted for almost a half-hour. She told him she had moved some boxes to the basement, getting ready for the move.

“I’ll see you later,” Mauro said, signing off.

“Okay, bye, pumpkin,” she replied, and they hung up.

Pumpkin. Mauro smiled. It was a pet name he had heard Trisha call her nephew. She had never called him that. It felt good.