— 11 —

Three Kings

Brenda Rozendal’s eyes stared emptily out the window. The stone for Art’s burial plot in Woodland Cemetery had not yet been put in, so she sat in her parked van, out of the cold, looking at the spot where it would eventually go. She awoke early most every day, alone but for the denim shirt in bed with her. The shirt was Art’s. At bedtime each night, Brenda pulled one of his work shirts out of the closet and held it close to her under the covers.

Each morning she picked up a cup of apple-cinnamon tea and parked by his plot, along the winding road in the cemetery. She lit a cigarette, alone with her thoughts. Sometimes, if the detectives had called her with updates on the investigation, she would walk over to the plot and tell Art the latest news.

Brenda felt a bond with the detectives; she loved those guys. But she was anxious for the police to arrest the others who had beat up Art. It was coming up on two months since he was killed. Bev, Brenda’s sister, was not shy reminding police of that fact.

“How is the investigation going? Are you working on it? Any new leads?” That was how Bev greeted Hamilton Police Chief Brian Mullan when she saw him in the grocery store on occasion.

The first week in March, a benefit for the Rozendals was held. Five hundred people showed: family, friends, police officers. They had raffles, draws. The money raised went toward an education trust fund for Neil and Jordan. The Rozendal boys also decided to donate some of the money to victims of crime.

Some people who never even knew Art dropped by. One guy donated an electric guitar to the raffle. “It’s a testament to the kind of person he was,” Art’s brother-in-law, Chris Seraphin, said in a Hamilton Spectator story. “If we could all have this many friends, we’d be in great shape.”

While the Rozendals waited for the police to catch the other attackers and tried to adjust to life without Art, Cory McLeod continued to wait in his cell in Maplehurst Correctional Complex in Milton. He knew how it all worked; knew his DNA profile was on file with police from previous convictions, and knew that if Hamilton police found his DNA at O’Gradys, they could match it to him. And yet, all this time had passed since that night, January 14, almost two months, and he had heard nothing from the cops.

He waited for his next court date on the Kitchener assault charge, certain that he could get a speedy trial, be found innocent. Then he could leave town, perhaps the country. Cory had had no contact with Kyro Sparks since Kyro’s arrest. No letters, calls. He knew that was not wise. But Sherri, that was a different matter. He loved that girl. He opened one of her letters:

March 6, 2005

Cory, Hey how are you doing? Hey, I’m all right still. I’m in a good mood actually cause I got to talk to you three times today.... I miss you so much....

I can’t wait till we get to be together again, I just never want to be taken away for this long ever again ...

March 8, 2005

I don’t like that I can only get to talk to you over the phone, and when I go see you, I can only see you through glass....

You asked me why I hooked up with you, well here’s why.

You are an amazing person, you are sweet, nice, you make me laugh, I feel so comfortable around you....

Holla back.

One love.

Ur wife, Sherri Price

P.S. Are we still engaged or were u joking around?

Just after 6:00 p.m. on Tuesday, March 8, Mike Maloney took a call from Alexandra Welsh at CFS. She had more results from the testing of the running shoes. She had developed a DNA profile from the insole of the left shoe. The profile indicated that the shoe had been worn by Cory McLeod. The next morning, at 7:30, Sherri’s mother heard a knock at the door. She opened it and looked up into the square-jawed face of Detective Greg Jackson. Behind him were several uniformed Waterloo police officers.

“We’re here to arrest Sherri Foreman for accessory after the fact of murder,” Jackson said. “We have a search warrant for your house.”

At that moment, Sherri walked down the stairs. Jackson looked at her. We’re back, he thought to himself with satisfaction. Her mother looked pretty surprised; so did Sherri, although she wasn’t crying or anything. Two officers searched the house. They found letters written between Cory and Sherri. At the same time, Mike Maloney showed up at the door of Katrina McLennan’s parents. Katrina, girlfriend of Kyro Sparks, was arrested on the same charge. The girls were each driven to Hamilton. There, Maloney sat with Katrina in an interview room.

“My lawyer advised me not to say anything,” she said.

“That’s good advice,” Maloney replied. “Unfortunately, your lawyer is not the one sitting in the seat here.... What do you think is going to happen to you? You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“This is a serious offence. That man was a lovely guy, had a wife and two children. The whole community of Hamilton loved him.”

Maloney showed Katrina a photo of Art’s bruised face and asked about Sparks. “There he is; there is the result of your friends beating him.... You think Kyro’s worth throwing your life away on?”

“My lawyer advised me not to say anything.”

It went on like this — Katrina saying little. “Is there going to be a time when you tell the truth about this? What are you thinking about Katrina?”

“The stain on my pants.”

“The stain on your pants.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

A drawing found in Cory McLeod’s notebook.
Hamilton Police Service.

At the same time, Jackson questioned Sherri in a separate room. “Do you know anyone by the name of Daymein P?”

Sherri said nothing.

“It’s a simple yes or no answer. Do you know anyone by the name of Daymein P?”

“I won’t say anything. I’m not answering nothing.”

“We found papers in your room with Daymein P. written all over them. I’m going to suggest to you that Daymein P. is Cory McLeod. Is that right?”

“I’m not answering nothing. I told you.”

Maloney showed her a photo of the Nike shoe found in the garbage. “Whose shoe is that?” he asked.

“Next,” she replied. “Next picture.”

“Whose shoe is that?”

“Next picture.”

The questioning for each girl took just over an hour. The detectives got nowhere. Katrina and Sherri were taken to the lockup. An undercover female officer sat in a cell between them, listening. The girls said little. Sherri was overheard saying: “You guys threw shoes in the garbage?”

That afternoon in the forensic identification department, detectives Gary Zwicker and Annette Huys examined the papers found in Sherri’s room. Huys had heard how the interrogations had gone. She was astounded by the girls’ behaviour. Teenagers, in the middle of a murder investigation, and they didn’t budge. Standing by their man, she reflected sardonically.

She studied a sketchbook of drawings by Cory McLeod. Buried in among his doodles she noticed a stick figure drawing. It depicted three figures, wearing crowns, who appeared to be stomping on a fourth, who did not wear a crown. Her eyes lit up. Waterloo Police had said McLeod and Sparks were members of a Kitchener gang called the Kings.

The morning arrests of Katrina and Sherri were just phase one on arrest day. Peter Abi-Rashed had developed an operational plan assigning 17 Hamilton officers and three from Waterloo to make arrests and search residences.

At 3:15 p.m. that day, Cory McLeod was led by a jail official into an interview room at Maplehurst. In through another door walked two men in suits. Maloney and Jackson.

“Cory McLeod,” Maloney said, “you are under arrest for murder in the second degree of Arthur Rozendal in Hamilton on January 14, 2005.”

Jackson read him his rights, then he was cuffed and taken back to Hamilton. Among his personal items were a pair of white Nike shoes that had “Kings” and “D.P” written on them. In the Major Crime Unit, he was led through a room where the detectives had posted investigation photos, maps, diagrams. It was tactical — give the accused a sense of what they have. Shock him. We already know it all, you might as well talk.

Cory was shaken by what he saw. There were autopsy photos on the wall. He had never seen anything like it. The images stayed in his mind’s eye; he could not shake them. Still, while taken aback by the display, and surprised at how quickly the police had gathered so much evidence against him, Cory was not about to talk. He knew the drill.

At 8:00 p.m. Maloney began the interrogation. “Back on January 14, when this happened, were you living in Hamilton or Kitchener?” he asked.

“I don’t have anything to say about any of these things. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Anything regarding the homicide type of thing?”

“Yeah.”

“You are in way over your head.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Sometimes we come in here and tap dance and try to trick you into giving a statement, but you know what? We have so much evidence against you I don’t have to do that.... I see you have a tattoo on your wrist. The Kings. Is that some street gang?”

“No, it’s not a gang.”

“What is ‘the Kings’?”

“I think I’m a king.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“I see you have DP on your shoe. What does that mean?”

“It’s personal.”

Maloney held up a photocopy of the crown-wearing stick figures doodle from Cory’s sketchbook.

“I’m wondering, Cory, if that’s you and your two Kings gang buddies stomping someone. Because if that’s a fact, then it’s first degree murder.”

“That’s doodling.”

“Done by you. Just so happens our murder, January 14, there were three males who stomped a guy to death. Just coincidence?”

“Yeah.”

After Maloney, Greg Jackson entered and continued the questions. Cory refused to answer. Didn’t do anything to anybody, he claimed. No comment on whether he was Daymein P.

Cory waited for the one playing bad cop. Just after midnight, he arrived. After the cool manner of Jackson and Maloney, Abi-Rashed entered the room like a brewing storm.

“Cory,” he said. “Cory, Cory, Cory. I’m their boss. You got nothing to say, right?”

“Yeah. I’m done talking.”

“You’re done talking?”

Abi-Rashed chuckled, then sat quietly, tapping his thick fingers on the table. “How are the sandwiches? Cheese. No ham? What shall we talk about? How you’re going away for a long time? When’s the last time you kissed Sherri? On the 14th or 15th? You know that’s the last time you will kiss her, right? You know what second-degree murder is? Life. The more I listen to you saying, ‘I got nothing to say, I didn’t have anything to do with it,’ the more I get excited, because that’s what I want you to repeat.”

He held up a photo of Art and his family. “Look at the picture of a nice family with two teenagers, a wife. Nice man, never hurt anybody. And who’s behind his death? Cory. Right?”

He said nothing.

“We have been going, ‘You know what? I don’t think we need to work on this case anymore because Cory is done like dinner.’ The victim’s blood is on your shoes. You do the math, Cory. We got your chain, we got Daymein P.; your girlfriend calls you that. We got your DNA. You were there, Cory.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Good one! That’s what I wanna hear. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The more you say that, the better it is for me, because every time you say it, it’s a lie. You’ve been lying all night.... I want to thank you for making this a pretty easy case for us. Thanks buddy. Hang tight eh?”

Cory McLeod was locked up downstairs.

The next day Mike Maloney and another officer sat with him. Maloney told Cory they needed to take a fresh DNA sample. His profile existed on a national database but by the book they were required to do another. If he refused to give a sample, Maloney said, they could use any amount of force necessary to get it.

“What, you and him?” Cory said, motioning to the other officer in the room. Maloney grinned. Gang punks think they’re tough, but only fight when they have weapons or outnumber a victim.

“No, Cory. Actually, if it comes to that I’ll ask him to leave,” Maloney said.