There was nothing unusual on Kim Golaub’s calendar that Sunday in August 2009, nothing remarkable for his last day alive. Thirty-four years old, husband, father, furniture maker. In his white, weathered Toyota Corolla, driving around the good and sometimes mean streets of ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½, he had one thing on his mind. He was hungry.
“When will the food be ready?” Golaub asked, standing at the gate to a backyard barbecue on Mount Olive Drive. He’d just parked at the curb and snapped on his four-way flashers.ÌýHis friend Winsome Santokie was the host.Ìý
The air was so hot it felt like it was on fire. Colourful party balloons were expanding and popping. Each time, the guests jumped and laughed. The rusted-out barbecue in the corner was hissing with chicken and burgers. Kids running around the tiny patch of grass, burnt brown by the sun, playfully battled for ice cubes and popsicles. In this northwest corner of ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½, most people don’t own cottages or take trips to the lake.
Golaub was wearing blue jean shorts, Nike shoes and a red golf shirt.ÌýHis first name is Bishen, but everyone calls him Kim.Ìý
“Kim was standing just outside of the gate,” Kimorha Robertson recalled. “All three of my boys were there, and my aunt Winsome walked towards the gate to talk to him. My youngest son ran up to say hi, and he was standing right there and they were all talking.” Everyone was laughing, having a great time.Ìý
“Along the street comes a guy,” said retired homicide detective Doug Sansom, who worked the case for ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½ police. “Three shots, boom boom boom. He goes down.”
“‘At first we thought that it was the balloons that were still up,” Robertson said. “Because they had been popping all day.”
On the other side of the gate, Golaub staggered forward. There was a dark spot on his shirt, getting bigger. Then Golaub fell to the grass just outside the gate.
“Oh my God he’s been shot,” Winsome Santokie yelled.Ìý
Bishen Golaub, known as Kim, was shot at the gate to a backyard barbecue on Mount Olive Drive.
ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½ Star illustration using photos from Richard Lautens, YouTube, DreamstimeIt was like a movie scene, guests recall. A man in a grey hoodie had walked up, flipped up his hood, then fired into Golaub’s back. Three shots, two together, then a third. Then he ran back the way he had come. Someone else spotted another guy on the street, smoking a joint. Some wondered: Was he involved?
“911, what’s your emergency?”
Marjorie Boland lived two units over. Phone in hand, she was looking out her window at the unfolding scene. “Ah, can you tell me the police number, a gentleman just walked by here, my heart’s beating so bad, he had a gun in his hand and there were shots.” She’d lived on Mount Olive for a year. She didn’t get out much, and certainly not on a day as hot as this. Plus she had mobility issues. Years ago, at the company where she’d worked, she was run over by a forklift.
“I just saw it very fast, because I didn’t know if it was a shot, but I did see the gun in his hand and he had like a grey top with a hood on.”
At the barbecue, the children were rushed inside. A nurse who happened to be driving along Mount Olive stopped her car andÌýhurried over. Two of the barbecue guests brought out a pillow and a bag of ice. Golaub’s eyes were open. He was taking huge gasps of air, a sign that a lung had collapsed.
“Where’s the ambulance?” Golaub asked. His friend Kimorha Robertson leaned over him. Sirens are approaching.
“Open your eyes, open your eyes,” Robertson said, recalling what happened in her video statement to police. “We hear them. They’re coming and coming. Don’t worry. They’re coming.”
Listen to the podcast:
- Kevin Donovan
One bullet had struck Golaub in the back, between his shoulder blades, passing through his left lung. It grazed his heart, lodging in the muscle in the front of his chest. A second bullet also entered through the back, this one near his armpit. It exited his body in the front. The trajectory was from his back on the right, but the bullet travelled upward. This bullet likely hit Golaub as he was bending over from the impact of the first shot. The third wound was to his right hand and that’s where that bullet stayed, caught in the muscles and bones and cartilage.
Kimorha Robertson, a witness who was at the barbecue, gives a statement to ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½ police after the shooting.
ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½ Star illustration using photos from court files, DreamstimeGolaub was on his side. Robertson, who was kneeling down beside the nurse, could seeÌýthey were losing the battle. “His eyes were kind of rolling back andÌýwe were tapping his face,Ìýsaying, no, no, look at us. Stay awake, look at us.” Under Golaub, the pool of blood expanded.
An ambulance and two police cars pulled up. Golaub’s only chance was Sunnybrook hospital, a trauma centre. Paramedics got him onto a gurney, strapped him down. One paramedic drove, the other stayed with Golaub in the back of the ambulance. One of the cops jumped into the passenger seat and they roared off.Ìý
The shooting happened at 1:48 p.m.. By 2:08 p.m., Golaub was en route to hospital. There had been several shootings in this part of ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½ recently. It was not as bad as the infamous “Summer of the Gun” a few years back, but close. In the small yard that had been festive a few minutes ago, people were standing around. Quiet. A few were crying. Police started taking statements. There’s one man they told to sit tight.Ìý
“Just wait for Homicide,” a uniformed officer told Narjit Singh.Ìý
Police investigate the scene of the afternoon shooting, including the victim’s car at the curb.
ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½ Star illustration using photos from Henry Stancu and DreamstimeSingh was a welder at an auto parts company. Today, his day off, he was helping a friend who was developmentally delayed. They were on their way to pick up a pizza when he heard shots. Singh called 911 seconds after Marjorie Boland.
“Hello, I’m just walking here on Silverstone, somebody shoot here three times.”
At first he thought the sounds were fireworks. Reminded him of the sound made by Diwali celebration firecrackers. When it happened, he was just around the corner, maybe about 30 metres away. Then he saw a man running.Ìý
“The person shoot and he’s run away from us. Guy with a gun,” Singh told the dispatcher. By this time, he’d rounded the corner from Silverstone onto Mount Olive, saw the man on the grass, people standing around him.Ìý
“The guy’s bleeding, can you send an ambulance,” Singh yelled into the phone. The dispatcher said we’ve got this, we had another call. The ambulance is on the way. “The guy with a gun,” the dispatcher asked, “what did he look like?”
“He’s a … Black, Black, Black. Like, look like Somalian guy, young guy, like, maybe 22, 23 year old. Maybe six feet. Tall, slim build.”
The dispatcher kept Singh talking. He said he’s worried he’ll be next.Ìý
“I’m scared,” Singh said. “Because I’m the one who’s on the intersection when he shoots three times.”
What happened to the running man? the dispatcher asked. Singh said the man turned the corner and got into a car.Ìý
“How many people were in the car?” the dispatcher asked.
“Two people. One is the driver, one is the guy who shoot.”
Anything else, the dispatcher asked.
“Yes,” Singh said. “The car is a Mazda. Silver. The plate, 544 S. I couldn’t get the rest because the guy, I’m afraid the guy would be looking at me and shoot me, too.”
