On November 9, 1985, the morning that Danny Paquette was murdered, he had planned a full day’s worth of work. It was a Saturday, but nonetheless, Danny liked to stay busy. He had a strong work ethic, something he probably learned from his father. The old man had run the Paquette family dairy farm in the 1960s, getting up early in the morning to milk the cows before heading off to put in eight to ten hours as a construction foreman.
Danny’s latest girlfriend, Ruth Szeleste, was new to New Hampshire, having come to the Granite State from Western Pennsylvania with her ex-husband and three teenage sons six months earlier. Like a lot of women in town, she’d found Danny Paquette extremely attractive. She’d liked his rugged looks and his bad-boy demeanor, though her boys hadn’t shared her admiration. In fact, the boys and their mother’s new man had recently had a falling out, which had been brewing for weeks over inane stuff such as the fact that Danny wanted the kids to get their rusty car off his property, and they resented the way he said it. At the heart of matter, Ruth’s boys were sure that Danny just was using their mother. In turn, Danny had no patience with the boys, whom he considered lazy.
Danny Paquette was thirty-six years old when he died. Ruth had warmed his bed the night before; her sons had spent the night back at her place. Danny had a voracious sexual appetite, so she made sure to please him. Even though she hadn’t known him long, she’s already learned that the only side you’d ever want to be on was Danny Paquette’s good side.
***
Richard Duarte got up around seven o’clock on the morning of November 9 and ate breakfast. He wanted to get an early start that Saturday. His plans were to get over to Danny Paquette’s place and work on the car he was keeping in Danny’s garage. He’d bought the 1954 Ford from Danny, who was also letting him use his tools to work on it. The men were friends who’d bonded over cars, and Duarte had already spent the previous evening at Danny’s, monkeying with the Ford until 10:30 p.m. After getting dressed, Duarte drove to the local parts dealer before driving back to Danny’s place, on Whitehall Road in Hooksett, New Hampshire, a small town on the north side of Manchester, the state’s largest city.
Danny’s property had lots of land, a house, a nice barn, and a decent-sized garage. It was perfect for Danny’s real job; he was a welder by trade, and a damn good one. Auto repair was just a hobby. As he pulled up Danny’s driveway at 9:00 a.m., Duarte passed the welded metal sculptures that his friend had fabricated out of leftover parts from his steady stream of jobs. Unlike other men in the welding trade, Danny wasn’t afraid to also consider himself an artist.
Duarte found Danny Paquette with Ruth Szeleste in the garage. They were laughing about something.
“You’re awful,” Ruth scolded Danny, who slapped her on the ass as she made her way out. “I’ll leave you to do your work.”
Danny got one last long look at Ruth walking away before speaking to Duarte. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “I’ve been waiting for that kid who helps me out to give me a call.” He rubbed his hands on a rag. “OK, let’s get to work.” There was no doubt Danny was in a good mood.
Danny told his friend about some people he expected to come over that morning. “You have got to meet these two Canadian guys,” Danny said to Duarte, who had his head under the hood. “They chew cigars and speak broken English. It’s a friggin’ riot.”
“When are they coming?”
“This morning. I made a fuel tank for them.”
As if on cue, Duarte heard a truck pull up and a pair of doors swing open and close. He saw the Canadians come up and shake hands with Danny, but Duarte kept his attention on his troublesome Ford.
The Canadians, Gaby Caron and Eugene Blouin, had met Danny only a week earlier. Blouin’s brother-in-law, Gil Daigle, had been one of Danny Paquette’s neighbors for seven years, and it was Daigle who’d recommended Danny’s services to Blouin and Caron.
Just as Danny described, the men spoke with the thick French Canadian accents common to Quebec, and not unfamiliar to New Hampshirites. Canadians had been traveling south to work in Manchester’s textile mills for the past hundred and twenty-five years.
“Danny,” Caron asked (pronouncing the name “Dan-NEE”), “can you do dat t’ing to da tank?” The men had earlier talked about getting a toolbox welded on top of a fuel tank that they’d bought from Danny.
Danny laughed and led the men out of the garage and around the corner. He had his welding equipment set up next to a bulldozer.
Blouin noted the bulldozer (which he called a “bill-do-ZUR”) and asked if it belonged to Gil Daigle, his brother-in-law.
“Yep. I’m going to do some more work on it this morning,” Danny said.
Danny fired up the torch, welded a two-inch piece of pipe onto the tank, installed a leather pipe, and then welded a strap over the pump. Danny’s speed impressed the Canadians. It took him only about six or seven minutes to complete the task.
The guys joked around some more. Blouin showed Danny how to balance ten nails on the head of one, a trick that really impressed the welder.
“Hey, is there a party going on here I wasn’t invited to?” Gil Daigle ribbed, as he walked up Danny’s driveway and saluted the other men. He had come over to borrow a caulking gun for a home project.
Caron looked at his wristwatch and realized that he and Blouin had to leave for an 11:00 a.m. appointment they had at the Chevrolet dealership. Duarte yelled for a missing part, and Danny told him to look in the trunk of one of the other cars nearby.
“Can I give you a hand with that?” Daigle helped Blouin lift the fuel tank on to the back of his 1977 Chevy pickup before following Danny around the corner to look at his bulldozer.
“What do you think, Danny?”
“I should have it ready for you today,” he said. “I’m still waiting on this kid from work to show up to help me paint some of the tanks.”
Just then, seventeen-year-old Court Burton walked up the driveway, waving nervously. The kid stood around as Danny accepted a check for $244 from the Canadians, then went scrounging for the caulking gun Daigle needed.
Daigle walked home to put it to use while he waited for Danny to finish working on the bulldozer. The Canadians pulled out of the driveway and aimed their truck toward Manchester for their appointment. Driving down Whitehall Road, they passed a series of hunters who had just pulled to the side of the road and disappeared into the woods, toting rifles on their backs.
***
Court Burton had met Danny Paquette while working construction. Danny had a steady job welding for a utility company, but he also made plenty of money on the side as a freelance, or “gypsy,” welder working by the hour at construction sites. Danny took an interest in Burton, and even though he was more than twice the kid’s age, he quickly befriended the teen laborer.
“I like your work ethic,” he’d told Burton. “You work hard. You take pride in what you do. You’ll go far.” Danny would then bitch to Burton about his girlfriend’s teenage boys, and how they didn’t live up to his particular standards of manliness.
Burton had agreed to come by Danny’s place in Hooksett on Saturday, even though he didn’t have a way to get there. Danny had been expecting him to call for a pickup. Instead, the kid had hitchhiked, which had taken longer than he’d expected. Although he was late, Danny didn’t seem upset.
“Help me weld a plate on this bulldozer; then I’m going to have you mix some paint so you can paint my fuel tanks.”
Burton was eager to help. He followed Danny back across the garage and around the corner. As he walked past the garage door, he saw another guy inside tinkering with a vintage Ford. Danny told him that Duarte was working on the old car’s brakes.
“Danny, do you mind heating the star gears again?” Duarte asked. Danny paused to help his friend while Burton watched.
Danny then led the kid over to Daigle’s bulldozer and handed him a metal plate. “Hold it right here while I weld it in place.” Danny was wearing his leather gloves and overalls and dropped the face guard on his welding helmet. “Don’t look,” he teased Burton, just as plums of yellow and orange sparks blossomed from his electric torch.
The bulldozer sat by itself, but it was far from the only vehicle on the Paquette property. There were several cars, including the one abandoned by Ruth’s sons, and some Danny planned to use for parts or a future restoration projects. Some had less potential then others and were mostly used for target practice; they were filled with bullet holes, the product of thrill shooting and boredom among Danny and his friends. Compared to the well-kept ranch-style and gambrel-roofed homes that abutted Danny’s property, the Paquette place was a bit of an eyesore.
The bulldozer was parked alongside an outbuilding. Through the opening in the driver’s cab, it was possible to see the woods along the far end of the land, about three hundred yards back. It was early November and well past the peak of the foliage season, though not all of the trees had given up the last of their brown, dying leaves. The day was cloudy, a little cool. It was the first day of hunting season in New Hampshire, but the woods were still quiet.
Danny switched off the arc and lifted his mask. The plate securely in place, he led Burton back into the garage. “Here’s how I want you to mix this paint,” he told the kid, then left him with Duarte in the garage as he went out to finish his work on Gil Daigle’s bulldozer.
***
Duarte was getting frustrated with the breaks and the star gears. He had someplace to be at 11 a.m. and he’d thought he’d be further along with the Ford by now.
Duarte didn’t mind the kid who was hanging out in the garage. It was the kind of thing he expected from Danny. It seemed Danny was always helping out kids in the neighborhood, fixing their tricycles or bikes. He had heard Danny talk about some of the young girls who lived in his neighborhood, too, saying there was one who he’d been dating on the side. Duarte wasn’t sure how old the girl was—maybe fifteen? He also knew that Danny had shown an interest in Duarte’s own teenage daughter. He’d talked to her about it, but it wasn’t just the inappropriateness of such a relationship that bothered Duarte. He worried that somehow his daughter might come between him and Danny. He worked almost seventy hours a week and had few friends. There weren’t many people he trusted, and he didn’t want to lose a friend.
Duarte cleaned up the shop, intent on coming back and figuring out some more about the 1954 Ford he’d gotten himself into. It was close to eleven o’clock, so Duarte started to walk outside to clean his hands before he left.
Crack!
The noise was sudden, and loud enough that he heard it clearly over the noise of Danny’s welding generator. Duarte had been a U.S. Marine in Vietnam, and the noise reminded him of an M2 Carbine rifle shot or of a helmet falling on a rock. Though his mind drifted to the jungle, his senses involuntarily pulling him back into combat, he shook it off and headed toward the garage door.
When Duarte made it to the door, he saw Court Burton standing in the opening. The kid had been coming to look for him. There was panic in his eyes.
“There’s something wrong with Dan,” he said.
***
Richard Duarte looked toward the bulldozer. The first thing he saw was Danny Paquette’s empty welding helmet rolling on the ground. He looked for his friend, but didn’t see him standing next to the dozer as he should have been. Instead, Danny was lying flat on his back, his arms outstretched, the electric torch still humming on the ground.
Jesus Christ, he’s arced himself, Duarte thought.
Duarte ran and kneeled next to the man, thinking Danny had been accidentally electrocuted. He grabbed Danny’s legs and picked them up.
“Go call the fire rescue!” he ordered the kid. In 1985, the emergency number 911 had not yet been instituted in the more rural parts of New Hampshire. Burton turned and ran around the corner, out of sight.
Duarte felt helpless, unsure of what to do. He dropped Danny’s legs and started pumping on his chest. He didn’t know if it was doing any good. He put his hand up to Danny’s mouth and nose and couldn’t feel any breath coming out.
“Wake up, Danny! Wake up!”
Duarte stood up to look for the kid, but he was nowhere in sight. He got back down on his knees and started pumping on Danny’s chest again.
Duarte’s hands were pumping steadily, rhythmically, but his head was whipping around like mad. He was looking everywhere for help. Then he saw a neighbor outside a house across the street.
***
Kevin Cote was walking to the end of his driveway with a handful of envelopes he was about to stick in the mailbox when he noticed someone waving frantically at him from the Paquette place.
“Call the rescue!” the man shouted across the street. “I think Danny’s been electrocuted!”
Cote shouted to his wife to call the fire department, then dashed across Whitehall Road and followed the man to check on his fallen neighbor.
When they got to the bulldozer, Cote saw the torch was still running, and though Danny Paquette still had on both of his leather gloves, he was sprawled flat on his back, spread-eagled and not moving. Cote was afraid to touch the body, wondering if it was still electrified. He followed the running torch to the extension cord back to the welding machine. The two men choked off the generator and ripped the cables out. Cote thought it was now safe to touch the unconscious man.
Cote kneeled at Danny’s head and started mouth-to-mouth respirations. Duarte started pumping on Danny’s chest again. This time, as he pressed down on the breastbone beneath the leather overalls, Duarte felt something wet. He looked at the palms of his hands. Cote could hear something bubbling inside Danny’s mouth.
“He’s bleeding.” The two men looked at each other, unsure of what to do next. Had he not been electrocuted after all?
Duarte jumped up from Danny’s limp form and ran into the garage. He was trying to find something to stop the bleeding. He grabbed some plaster of Paris and brought it back outside. Cote had continued CPR while Duarte was gone.
“Put this on him!” Duarte called out. Cote wasn’t sure what the plaster was supposed to accomplish, but he relinquished his efforts at chest compressions to allow the man to smear the white paste across Danny’s torso.
Cote looked up to see another person, a teenage boy, standing over the scene. “Where you been?” Duarte snapped.
“The rescue’s on the way.” In the distance, they could hear the sirens coming.
Richard Duarte, Kevin Cote, and Court Burton waited for the sirens to reach them and rescue their friend. They’d done all they could; now all they could do was wait.
In those fleeting moments, they still believed Danny had been injured while working on the bulldozer. They’d all been so busy just before Danny collapsed, and then so preoccupied with running to help try to save his life when they saw his fallen form, none of them had thought twice about the sound they’d heard, not even for a moment.
But that moment had passed anyway; even before Danny Paquette had hit the ground, the muzzle of a hunting rifle had already retracted silently into the trees across the barren field, leaving a puff of blue smoke in its wake.
