Shot near his own bike shop by a trou­bled for­mer em­ployee, Paul Dra­gan sur­prised ev­ery­one by sur­viv­ing. How did he end up tak­ing a bul­let, and what can other en­trepreneurs learn from his or­deal?

BC Business Magazine - - Front Page - by STEVE BURGESS

It is Tues­day morn­ing, June 10, 2014. At the False Creek end of Van­cou­ver's Davie Street, gro­cery shop­pers come and go at Ur­ban Fare, and a woman pushes a baby car­riage up the street to­ward Pa­cific Boule­vard. A thick-set man with a grey beard, wear­ing a bike hel­met and a large yel­low back­pack, comes around the cor­ner from Mari­na­side Cres­cent onto the east side of Davie. He is car­ry­ing some­thing in­side a white plas­tic bag. Mo­ments later, pedes­tri­ans re­coil from the ex­plo­sive con­cus­sion of a large-cal­i­bre gun­shot. A man drops to the side­walk in front of Star­bucks, bleed­ing out from a mas­sive chest wound.

By chance, two Van­cou­ver Po­lice Depart­ment of­fi­cers in plain clothes have just pulled up, and they jump out of their car with guns drawn. The shooter turns his fire on them and backs away, hand­gun out, white plas­tic bag still flap­ping around his wrist. As he moves around the cor­ner, a bul­let shat­ters the glass of a condo tower lobby. The gunman hops onto a bike and takes off down the sea­wall. Mean­while, a pass­ing doc­tor des­per­ately tries to stop the bleed­ing. The vic­tim is loaded into an am­bu­lance, leav­ing most of his blood on the side­walk. “But the am­bu­lance didn’t move,” lo­cal res­i­dent Adam Hunter later tells a TV re­porter, “so I had a feeling he wasn’t do­ing that good.”

It was among the most dra­matic shootouts ever seen on the streets of Van­cou­ver. And poor Paul Dra­gan missed it all. “I have no mem­ory of any of it,” he says.

Three years later, the owner of three Reck­less Bike Stores looks re­mark­ably healthy—trim, ath­letic, younger than his 55 years. A lit­tle greyer, per­haps, but that tends to hap­pen even when one is not shot in the chest by a for­mer em­ployee. A shirt­less photo would show ex­ten­sive sur­gi­cal scars, and an X-ray a pair of lungs that no longer match. But Dra­gan does not have the ap­pear­ance of a man whose sur­vival once faced the kind of odds as­so­ci­ated with a $25 ticket on the PNE Prize Home.

His shoot­ing may be an ex­treme case, but it’s not un­prece­dented. There are 350,000 cases of work­place vi­o­lence across the coun­try ev­ery year, Sta­tis­tics Canada re­ports. “It ex­ists on a con­tin­uum, from in­ci­vil­ity to dis­re­spect to bul­ly­ing and ha­rass­ment to phys­i­cal vi­o­lence,” says Van­cou­ver- based work­place psy­chol­o­gist Jen­nifer New­man.

Small busi­nesses with­out hu­man re­sources de­part­ments may be most vul­ner­a­ble, es­pe­cially given re­cent labour short­ages. Even a ca­sual em­ployee hired for tem­po­rary work is still a staff mem­ber. “Hir­ing is not some­thing to be tri­fled with,” says Heather Macken­zie, founder and se­nior part­ner of the In­tegrity Group, a Van­cou­ver con­sult­ing firm that helps or­ga­ni­za­tions pre­vent and re­solve work­place ha­rass­ment, dis­crim­i­na­tion and phys­i­cal vi­o­lence. “Em­ploy­ers have to pay at­ten­tion to ev­ery dan­ger sign, from in­ap­pro­pri­ate com­ments to un­civil be­hav­iour.”

Work­safebc logged 1,954 vi­o­lent in­ci­dents in this prov­ince in 2015, a 17 per cent in­crease over the pre­vi­ous year. Be­tween 2006 and 2015, 11 peo­ple died as a re­sult of work­place vi­o­lence, eight of them from gun­shots. That Paul Dra­gan failed to make that list is a story as im­prob­a­ble as any fan­tasy tale of fire­breath­ing mon­sters.

On a sunny fall day in 2017, Reck­less on Davie is hop­ping. A lit­tle truck pulls up with a load of wonky bi­cy­cles, sent over from a lo­cal ho­tel for re­pairs. Tourists re­turn­ing rentals clus­ter at the podium out front. A shirt­less and un­shaven man wheels up on a bat­tered bike and asks to use some tools. Dra­gan obliges, and the man sets about tight­en­ing screws. “We don’t like to set a prece­dent for do­ing free re­pairs, but it’s a good pol­icy to help peo­ple out,” Dra­gan says.

That same cor­po­rate phi­los­o­phy had once been ap­plied to an oc­ca­sional Reck­less em­ployee named Ger­ald Bat­tersby. Dra­gan had placed a help-wanted ad for a part-time po­si­tion as­sem­bling bikes. Bat­tersby an­swered. “He had some bike store ex­pe­ri­ence,” Dra­gan re­calls. “A lit­tle cuckoo. But that’s what you get in a bike store. Over the years you get used to that.”

Dra­gan has been in the bike busi­ness a long time, es­pe­cially if you in­clude the two-and-a-half years he spent com­pet­ing on the Euro­pean rac­ing cir­cuit in the early 1980s. “Too many drugs,” he says now. “All those prob­lems you saw sur­round­ing Lance Arm­strong, that’s not re­cent. That’s been go­ing on for 100 years.”

Born in Mon­treal and raised in Nova Sco­tia,

“Hir­ing is not some­thing to be tri­fled with. Em­ploy­ers have to pay at­ten­tion to ev­ery dan­ger sign, from in­ap­pro­pri­ate com­ments to un­civil be­hav­iour” —Heather macken­zie, founder, the In­tegrity group

Dra­gan ended up in Van­cou­ver in 1983. With a cou­ple of part­ners, he opened the first ver­sion of Reck­less—called Reck­less Rider Cy­clery—in May of ’86, catch­ing the Expo wave. Dra­gan sup­ple­mented his in­come by work­ing nights as a waiter at the Ho­tel Van­cou­ver, and the bike shop thrived at first. But four years later his part­ners forced him out, and the busi­ness it­self lasted only an­other year.

His next ven­ture, a com­mer­cial con­struc­tion com­pany, soon gained trac­tion. “We built the Star­bucks in the old Man­hat­tan Build­ing at Bur­rard and Thurlow,” Dra­gan re­calls. “That was a big con­tract for us.” But on Box­ing Day 1992, he no­ticed mov­ing vans out­side the cy­cle shop at West Sec­ond Av­enue and Fir Street—the for­mer lo­ca­tion of Reck­less Rider. Dra­gan, who felt he had learned a lot since his first Reck­less ex­pe­ri­ence, had never lost the bike bug. Strik­ing a deal with the land­lord, he opened Reck­less the Bike Store in Fe­bru­ary 1993. Dra­gan was de­ter­mined to con­cen­trate on cus­tomer ser­vice, draw­ing on his ex­pe­ri­ence as a waiter in the ’80s along with the busi­ness savvy gained in con­struc­tion. “I know how to take money out of their wal­lets and leave smiles on their faces,” he says. In 2000 he launched the Reck­less lo­ca­tion at the foot of Davie.

Dra­gan was con­tent to stick with what he knew—elec­tric bikes weren’t his thing. But in 2011 a kid named Tony Sun started hang­ing around the shop. He and Melody Chan had just launched a line of elec­tric bikes called eprodigy. Dra­gan agreed to put some of their stock on the floor. “As Paul puts it, we started dat­ing be­fore we got mar­ried,” Sun re­calls. In early 2014, the re­la­tion­ship bloomed into a full-fledged Reck­less e-bike shop on Hornby Street, man­aged by Sun. “He was our first dealer,” Sun says. “It was huge for us.” The Reck­less fam­ily had grown to three. Dra­gan, who started with just three staff, now em­ploys a sea­sonal high of 22.

One of his sea­sonal em­ploy­ees, Bat­tersby had started work at the Davie Street lo­ca­tion in the sum­mer of 2013. “He talked a tremen­dous amount,” Dra­gan says. “We tried to use him in the store, but he would say in­ap­pro­pri­ate things, es­pe­cially to women, like ‘I bet you’d look bet­ter if you wore tighter shorts’—you know, weird stuff. We said, ‘We can’t have that guy in the store.’ So no prob­lem, he’s in the base­ment as­sem­bling bikes.”

Dra­gan owned a rental prop­erty in Ker­ris­dale that was oc­cu­pied by a men­tally chal­lenged man named Joel, the son of a fam­ily friend. Over the sum­mer, Bat­tersby and Joel be­came beer-drink­ing bud­dies. One day in Au­gust, Bat­tersby ap­proached Dra­gan with a pro­posal: “‘Joel’s got an ex­tra room

“We tried to use [Bat­tersby] in the store, but he would say in­ap­pro­pri­ate things, es­pe­cially to women, like ‘I bet you’d look bet­ter if you wore tighter shorts’—you know, weird stuff” —Paul dra­gan, owner, reck­less Bike stores

up­stairs, and he’d like me to move in.’ I said I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

But Bat­tersby per­sisted. “So I sat down with them and drew up a con­tract,” Dra­gan says. “I said, ‘At the end of 90 days, if it isn’t work­ing out for what­ever rea­son, Gerry, you are leav­ing.’ And I had told him I had no more work for him af­ter Septem­ber. He’d have to find some­thing else.”

Things at the Ker­ris­dale house de­gen­er­ated quickly. By De­cem­ber, po­lice had been called about a phys­i­cal al­ter­ca­tion be­tween the room­mates. “I said to Gerry, ‘You’ve gotta go,’” Dra­gan re­counts. “‘You need to be out by the end of the month.’ Fi­nally got him out of the house by the end of April. The place was stacked high with news­pa­pers, pieces of string, plas­tic mar­garine con­tain­ers—the guy was a hoarder. I sep­a­rated the good stuff and put it in the car­port with a tarp over it. Even­tu­ally I got a text from him say­ing, ‘You ass­hole, you put all my stuff out in the rain.’”

Some­one had ap­par­ently re­moved Bat­tersby’s goods from the car­port. Dra­gan doesn’t know who, but he sus­pects Joel had some­thing to do with it. Bat­tersby was en­raged. His brother, Carl, later told CBC News re­porter Bal Brach about a con­ver­sa­tion he had with Ger­ald: “He says, ‘Don’t be sur­prised if you hear I’ve gone and killed some­body.’”

As it turns out, Bat­tersby hadn’t lost all of his most valu­able pos­ses­sions. Some­how, along with the news­pa­pers, mar­garine tubs and bits of string, he had man­aged to ac­quire a .44 re­volver.

Sur­veil­lance video from June 10, 2014, shows Bat­tersby on his bi­cy­cle hang­ing around the foot of Davie Street. By 11:13 a.m., Dra­gan and then–reck­less store man­ager Lee Miller are sit­ting out front of Star­bucks as Bat­tersby is seen strid­ing to­ward them. Vis­i­ble be­hind him is a blue Ford Fo­cus, wait­ing for a park­ing spot. In­side are two Van­cou­ver Po­lice de­tec­tives, Christo­pher Berda and Gly­nis Grif­fiths, on a rou­tine cof­fee run.

You can meet a lot of peo­ple at a Star­bucks— baris­tas, small busi­ness own­ers, doc­tors, life­guards, po­lice of­fi­cers. At 11:14 a.m., all of those are present at the south Davie branch. Physi­cian Clif­ford Chase is in the lineup. The cops have just pulled up to the curb when shout­ing is heard from the side­walk. Berda re­calls: “Gly­nis looks back and says, ‘What’s go­ing on over here?’ I look out the rear pas­sen­ger win­dow and see a gun come up. A very big gun.” “You screwed me over,” Bat­tersby shouts. “The shot was deaf­en­ing,” Berda re­mem­bers. Dra­gan is hit in the up­per right chest. Ac­cord­ing to Miller, Dra­gan man­ages to say, “Gerry, you shot me.” Then he falls.

Berda and Grif­fiths are now out of their car, guns drawn, shout­ing, “Po­lice! Drop the gun!” Bat­tersby fires at them while back­ing away around the cor­ner. The of­fi­cers shoot back. One of Berda’s bul­lets blows out the lobby glass of the Aquar­ius 1 condo tower. “My fear is he’s go­ing to make his way into that build­ing,” Berda says. “I want to stop him from bar­ri­cad­ing him­self.”

Next door at Provence Mari­na­side restau­rant, maître d’ Em­rys Horton rec­og­nizes the sound of gun­fire and yells at his staffers to take cover in the kitchen. As Horton calls 911, sev­eral din­ers have their phones out to record the scene. “One woman runs to the win­dow to see,” he says, “and a bul­let hits the build­ing prob­a­bly two inches from where she is stand­ing.”

Bat­tersby is now on the sea­wall. The of­fi­cers are hold­ing their fire—“the park is full of peo­ple,” Berda says. Sirens are grow­ing louder. A fire truck ar­rives. “We have enough peo­ple in Yale­town,” Berda tells dis­patch. “Start send­ing them to Sci­ence World.”

Chase reaches Dra­gan mo­ments af­ter the shoot­ing. “He was bleed­ing to death,” Chase says. Rolling him onto his side, Chase sees an exit wound at least six inches wide. With the Star­bucks staff pressed into ser­vice as trauma nurses (our apolo­gies, ma’am—your low-fat vanilla latte may be de­layed), he calls for a large towel and jams it into the hole in Dra­gan’s back. Still, Chase says later, “I didn’t think he’d even make it to the op­er­at­ing room.”

“From the time we were dis­patched to the time we reached VGH was 14 min­utes. Some­times, when we’re hav­ing a beer with other paramedics, they want to call bull­shit on that” —Jason davies, paramedic

The call to Bri­tish Columbia Am­bu­lance Ser­vice Sta­tion 261 at Columbia Street and West Sev­enth Av­enue is fielded by Jason Davies and Scott Bai­ley. As the howl­ing am­bu­lance speeds over the Cam­bie Bridge, Bat­tersby is still on the loose some­where be­low. That’s typ­i­cally bad news for first re­spon­ders and vic­tims alike. “It’s very rare that we get im­me­di­ate clear­ance when there’s an ac­tive shooter,” Davies says. But on the worst day of his life, Dra­gan is start­ing a re­mark­able run of good luck. Be­cause Berda and Grif­fiths have been able to con­firm that Bat­tersby has fled, the paramedics are in­stantly cleared for ac­tion. And this is just the team you want to have for a se­ri­ous gun­shot wound— ad­vanced life sup­port paramedics with ex­tra train­ing for emer­gency sit­u­a­tions.

By the time Bat­tersby reaches Sci­ence World, an un­marked car is al­ready on the walk­way to the south while other of­fi­cers are in place. Bat­tersby charges out from his hid­ing spot and to­ward the car, fir­ing his .44. A bul­let shat­ters the pas­sen­ger-side win­dow, and Const. Nadia D’an­drea is struck by fly­ing glass. Bat­tersby runs to the driver’s side of the car, chas­ing Const. Josef Mancin around to the back of the ve­hi­cle. Of­fi­cers open fire. The sus­pect drops, wounded in sev­eral places. Berda and other of­fi­cers swarm in to cuff him. “What’s your name?” Berda asks.

“Don’t you know who I am?” Bat­tersby replies.

De­spite all the shots fired, Bat­tersby’s wounds and D’an­drea’s glass lac­er­a­tions are the only in­juries. Ex­cept, of course, for the man ly­ing in front of Star­bucks in a spread­ing lake of blood.

Dra­gan has no pulse. Davies, Bai­ley and the fire­men get him into the am­bu­lance and strap him down. Davies drills into the bone be­hind Dra­gan’s knee to start a trans­fu­sion pro­ce­dure. As a fire­fighter per­forms CPR, Bai­ley in­serts a tra­cheal breath­ing tube. Davies be­gins pump­ing a saline wash and a shot of ep­i­neph­rine into Dra­gan’s sys­tem. He has a pulse again. But there’s not much to cir­cu­late—dra­gan has 75 per cent less blood than he started the day with.

A rel­a­tively quiet Tues­day morn­ing at Van­cou­ver Gen­eral Hos­pi­tal has

given way to fevered prepa­ra­tion. “From the time we were dis­patched to the time we reached VGH was 14 min­utes,” Davies says. “Some­times when we’re hav­ing a beer with other paramedics, they want to call bull­shit on that. ‘Four­teen min­utes, in an ac­tive shooter sit­u­a­tion? Come on.’”

Dr. Mo­rad Hameed asks Dra­gan’s wife, Ericka, for per­mis­sion for a last­gasp pro­ce­dure, a tho­ra­co­tomy that will cut open her hus­band’s breast­plate. Hameed dis­man­tles Dra­gan’s chest like a Lego set and mas­sages his heart by hand. “He told me later,” Dra­gan says, “that it went thump... thump... thump thump thump thump. When they got that heart­beat, the en­tire mood in the trauma bay changed.”

When Dra­gan fi­nally reaches the op­er­at­ing room, the top of his lung is re­moved along with bul­let frag­ments. He spends the next six days in an in­duced coma. “I went to get cof­fee, I woke up in the hos­pi­tal a week later, and my wife told me I had been shot,” Dra­gan says. “I looked down and there were all these tubes com­ing out of my chest.

“Be­cause I have no rec­ol­lec­tion of any­thing, I of­ten feel like it hap­pened to some­one else and they switched me with that guy in the hos­pi­tal,” he adds. “It’s like I’m Burt Reynolds, ex­cept some stunt dou­ble did the whole movie for me and I just stepped in to show my face at the end. Now I’m at the Acad­emy Awards ac­cept­ing con­grat­u­la­tions. It’s a bit sur­real.”

Ap­par­ently killing Paul Dra­gan had only been step one in Bat­tersby’s plan—his for­mer room­mate and Ericka Dra­gan were to be next. A per­sonal day plan­ner re­cov­ered out­side Sci­ence World con­tained an en­try dated June 9: “Kill—joel G., Paul D. and Erika [ sic] D.... Adios ass­holes.” The phrase “death by cop” was also noted.

Even­tu­ally Bat­tersby would plead guilty to three counts of at­tempted mur­der (for Dra­gan, Mancin and D’an­drea—shoot­ing at Berda and Grif­fiths didn’t even make that list) and two firearms of­fences. In Oc­to­ber 2016, he was sen­tenced to 18 years in prison.

There’s of­ten a de­sire to draw lessons from such a trau­matic event—how Not to Be Shot by a Ma­ni­a­cal Em­ployee. Dra­gan is re­luc­tant. “It was such an anom­aly,” he says. “I would ex­pect a dis­grun­tled em­ployee to key my car, throw a rock through the win­dow, write ‘Paul Dra­gan is an ass­hole’ on the door, but never in my wildest dreams did I ex­pect some­thing so se­vere.”

But is there any way to spot this kind of se­ri­ous trou­ble de­vel­op­ing?

Cori Maedel, founder and CEO of Van­cou­ver-based HR con­sult­ing firm Jouta Per­for­mance Group, be­lieves there may be lessons. “As em­ploy­ers, it’s our duty to in­quire about changes in be­hav­iour,” Maedel says. She warns against ig­nor­ing signs of stress and trou­ble in an em­ployee’s life. “Don’t avoid it and hope it will go away,” Maedel says. “Talk about it be­fore it es­ca­lates.”

Dra­gan’s sit­u­a­tion with Bat­tersby was more com­plex be­cause it had ceased to be sim­ply a work­place is­sue—he had be­come Bat­tersby’s land­lord. “I sup­pose my mis­take was try­ing to help him find a place to live,” Dra­gan ad­mits.

“How­ever well-in­ten­tioned, in­ter­ven­tion in an em­ployee’s per­sonal life can have con­se­quences,” Maedel says. “I con­sulted with one busi­ness that planned to lend an em­ployee $150,000. What if it goes wrong? You need to be very care­ful about cross­ing that line from the pro­fes­sional into the per­sonal.”

The In­tegrity Group’s Macken­zie rec­om­mends that em­ploy­ers ob­tain work­place threat as­sess­ments from com­pa­nies like Lions Gate Risk Man­age­ment Group and Proac­tive Res­o­lu­tions Inc., or con­tact Work­safebc for free ex­pert ad­vice. And, if nec­es­sary, they should call the cops. “Lis­ten to your gut,” Macken­zie says. “There will be sit­u­a­tions where an em­ployee is ex­pe­ri­enc­ing prob­lems, per­haps with a per­sis­tent cus­tomer or a dis­grun­tled spouse. You can’t ig­nore it. No one is go­ing to blame you if you call the po­lice and say, ‘These are my con­cerns about the sit­u­a­tion.’”

Macken­zie also sug­gests mak­ing plans for sce­nar­ios rang­ing from em­ployee vi­o­lence to rob­bery. “Equip your space,” she says. “Do you have a panic but­ton? Do you have se­cu­rity cam­eras that are prop­erly an­gled to see faces? Do you have a proper money trans­fer process?”

Al­though Macken­zie agrees that the Bat­tersby case falls out­side the nor­mal realm of work­place vi­o­lence—“it’s al­most more of a do­mes­tic vi­o­lence sit­u­a­tion”—she be­lieves there are still lessons for em­ploy­ers. “Bound­aries are im­por­tant,” she stresses. “Work is not just about tasks. It’s about re­spect­ful in­ter­ac­tions.”

Not sur­pris­ingly, the ex­pe­ri­ence has af­fected Dra­gan’s ap­proach. “I am more guarded about the help that I give,” he con­cedes. “My wife says, ‘Don’t hire any more nut­cases, Paul.’ I say, ‘You don’t un­der­stand the bike busi­ness.’ But she’s right. There’s a rule in re­tail: hire slowly, fire quickly. We were prob­a­bly do­ing the re­verse.”

About six weeks af­ter the shoot­ing, po­lice of­fi­cers Berda and Grif­fiths paid a visit to Dra­gan’s

“I don’t know what I ex­pected to see. A guy in a hos­pi­tal bed, per­haps. We come in, and he’s up and do­ing some busi­ness at his com­puter. He says, ‘Be with you in a sec’” —Christo­pher berda, Van­cou­ver po­lice de­tec­tive

home. “I don’t know what I ex­pected to see,” Berda says. “A guy in a hos­pi­tal bed, per­haps. We come in, and he’s up and do­ing some busi­ness at his com­puter. He says, ‘Be with you in a sec.’ I was as­tounded. I’m still as­tounded.”

The fol­low­ing June, Paul was in Toronto with Ericka to re­ceive the 2015 In­de­pen­dent Re­tail Am­bas­sador of the Year Award from the Re­tail Coun­cil of Canada.

For all those who saw Dra­gan ly­ing on the side­walk on that ter­ri­ble day in 2014, his rou­tine ex­is­tence might seem like HBO spe­cial ef­fects. But stay­ing alive wasn’t about magic. “When­ever I go back to the hos­pi­tal, peo­ple come up and say, ‘Hi, Paul, you don’t know me, but I was here the day you first came in, and I’m so glad to see you,’” he says. “My sur­vival is a tes­ta­ment to their skills. They can look at me and say, ‘All that stuff we worked on, it re­ally works. We saved that guy’s life.’”

Bai­ley and Davies of­fered Dra­gan a rare me­mento—their “col­lar dogs,” the cov­eted lapel pins that ad­vanced life sup­port paramedics re­ceive af­ter cer­ti­fi­ca­tion. “I told Paul that help­ing him pull through was like win­ning the Stan­ley Cup,” Bai­ley says. “A once-in-al­ife­time thing.”

Dra­gan’s phys­i­cal re­silience has been re­mark­able, but the bike busi­ness takes some for­ti­tude, too. Al­though Van­cou­ver’s Mobi by Shaw Go street bike rental ser­vice has im­pacted sales, he says op­por­tu­ni­ties have mul­ti­plied. In­creas­ingly, Reck­less is team­ing up with ho­tels and condo de­vel­op­ers to pro­vide and re­pair bikes of­fered to guests and res­i­dents. “My fo­cus now is, how do I go get rev­enue in­stead of wait­ing for it?” Dra­gan says. Reck­less, which has a mo­bile ser­vice ve­hi­cle, pro­vided me­chan­i­cal as­sis­tance for last Septem­ber’s Gran­fondo Whistler ride free of charge. “It’s a way to con­nect with cur­rent cus­tomers and meet new ones,” Dra­gan says. “It’s all about per­sonal re­la­tion­ships.”

These days Paul Dra­gan ap­pears to be in ex­cel­lent health. And he has a new GP to keep him that way. The doc­tor’s name is Clif­ford Chase. It’s just good busi­ness—you take new cus­tomers wher­ever you find them.

por­trait by LIND­SAY SIU

MAN DOWN Physi­cian Clif­ford Chase (right) attends to a wounded Paul Dra­gan in June 2014

NO TIME TO WASTE First re­spon­ders move Dra­gan to an am­bu­lance

FIR­ING OF­FENCE Ger­ald Bat­tersby (shown here in a sur­veil­lance video) was con­victed of three counts of at­tempted mur­der

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