Walter Roberts, the Reform Party’s candidate for Prime Minister, listened as the last words of his campaign speech echoed around the hall. Hands above his head in a victorious wave, he bounded off the stage to consult with his campaign manager. Roberts stayed to shake hands and chat with fellow politicians, benefactors and constituents. Glad-handing at the end of a speech was Roberts’ least favourite part of the campaign trail, but getting to the grassroots of his country brought in votes. It would get him into 24 Sussex Drive. The Prime Minister’s office and residence.
Half an hour after his speech ended, every hand shook, and every voter greeted, he walked out into the night air and headed home. Soft breeze ruffled his hair as he enjoyed the walk along University Avenue. At Dundas, he cut through Grange Park to his house on the other side, on John Street.
Within sight of his home, he stooped to tie up the shoelace on one of his brown oxfords. Head bowed as he crouched down, he missed seeing the dark blue sedan whip around the corner, leaving traffic bunged up at the intersection behind it. Brakes squealing in protest, the sedan jerked to a stop beside Roberts, making him look up in surprise. Eyes wide, he stared down the muzzle of a Tommy gun.
“Dear God,” fear for his life sent his prayer heavenward, “please take care of my family.”
Shots pierced the night as a shower of bullets rained over the...