PROVIDENCE / Updated 4:05 p.m. -- The day before he opened fire on his
coworkers at The Providence Journal, Carlos Pacheco told a friend that
something was going to happen.
"He said I'd hear about it on the news tomorrow," Nelson Cabral said.
"I'd hear his name."
On Friday afternoon, the two men were sitting on bar stools in the
Acores Cafe, a few blocks from the house where Pacheco lived with his
parents in the city's Washington Park neighborhood.
Pacheco, 38, was usually friendly, but reticent to talk about problems.
This conversation was the first time, Cabral said, that he realized that
Pacheco was having trouble.
Pacheco said he was being harassed, and that it had been going on for
about three years, Cabral said. "They were just torturing him at his
job," Cabral said. "But he wouldn't tell me why."
Pacheco said he'd had enough, Cabral said, but didn't say what he was
planning to do.
"I didn't believe what he was saying," Cabral said. "I took him aside
and said, You're a kid that's never had a record, never got arrested. I
don't know what's going on, but it's not worth it."
Saturday morning, Pacheco carried a gun into The Providence Journal
Production Facility while workers were preparing the Sunday newspaper.
Pacheco killed a supervisor in the building, and wounded another
coworker in the parking lot, the police said. Another coworker was
discovered shot to death in his Warwick home.
Pacheco's car was found ablaze in a parking lot in Warwick, with a body
inside. This afternoon, the state medical examiner officially identified
the body as Pacheco's.
The four men had worked at the production plant. The Providence police
are still investigating the shootings. The Providence Journal Co. is
continuing counseling sessions for employees today. A spokesman for Belo
Corp., The Journal's parent company, said the counseling sessions will
continue as long as needed.
PACHECO WAS employed at The Journal's Production Facility for about 20
years and was recently promoted as an inserter. He worked in the
building at 210 Kinsley Ave., just a few minutes from the main news and
advertising building of The Journal, at 75 Fountain St.
Pacheco told his friend that the harassment had been building over the
past few years, Cabral said, culminating recently in a car chase on
Route 95.
He said the people who had been harassing him were chasing him down the
highway, Cabral said, trying to force him off the road. Pacheco said he
slammed his car to a stop near the breakdown lane, nearly causing an
accident, and a state police detective pulled over, Cabral said.
Pacheco said he told the detective about the other people following him,
but the detective responded that he didn't see what the others did -- he
just saw Pacheco, Cabral said.
Pacheco said the detective didn't give him a ticket, that his name was
Detective James Dougherty, and he was "the only person who knows the
truth."
THIS MORNING, state police Maj. John J. Leyden Jr. said state police
Detective James D. Dougherty had stopped Pacheco for driving erratically
on Route 95, four days before the shootings.
On Tuesday, at 1:20 p.m., Dougherty was driving south on 95 when he
noticed another car braking on the highway near the Cranston-Warwick
line for no apparent reason, said Leyden.
Dougherty was concerned for the safety of the other motorists and
wondered why the car was stopping, Leyden said.
Pacheco was at the wheel of his new, black Nissan Maxima. He asked the
detective if he'd seen "the other car," Leyden said, but Dougherty said
he didn't. The driver then replied, "“It'’s always the second guy that
gets caught.”
Dougherty checked Pacheco's license and registration, then walked back
to the car to return them, Leyden said. He gave Pacheco a verbal
warning, Leyden said.
Pacheco was crying, Leyden said. When asked what was wrong, Pacheco
said, "Nothing."
``He was very appreciative, overly appreciative,'' Leyden said. He asked
for Dougherty's name, and the detective gave it.
Dougherty advised him to be careful pulling back out into traffic. They
had no further conversation, Leyden said.
CABRAL SAID HE HAD BEEN BOTHERED by Pacheco's talk on Friday. "I said,
'I don't know what's running through your head, whether it's the beer or
what,' " Cabral said.
Pacheco, he said, cut him off.
"He said, 'It's not the beer. I just can't take it anymore,' " Cabral
said.
They changed the subject, playing some Keno, then went across the street
to Sollitto Liquors to buy lottery tickets, Cabral said.
Later, at about 9 p.m., Cabral and Pacheco met up again inside the Porto
Soccer Club, at the corner of Ohio and Allens Avenue.
The tiny club holds a pool table and a small bar with side tables, with
soccer posters hanging on the walls.
Pacheco immediately bought everyone -- there were about a dozen people
there -- a round of drinks. He didn't explain his sudden generosity or
why he had decided to stop in, said Jose Andrade, who was also at the
club.
In less than an hour, Pacheco was saying good-bye, Cabral said.
Pacheco hugged him, Cabral said. "He said, 'Whatever you do, just don't
hold it against my family.' "
Then, Pacheco was gone.
TWELVE HOURS later, Pacheco drove to The Journal's production plant for
the last time.
Pacheco wasn't expected to work on Saturday. Clutching a handgun,
Pacheco walked into the main production area, the police said, where
supervisor Robert Benetti, 38, and several other people were preparing
for the night production of The Providence Sunday Journal.
Pacheco shot Benetti. The supervisor collapsed and died.
Pacheco then walked outside, shot and wounded another Journal employee,
Charles Johnson, 30, who was sitting in his Ford pickup about 50 yards
from the main entrance of the production facility.
Pacheco got into his Maxima and drove away.
Inside the building, a woman called 911.
A few minutes later, so did Pacheco. He placed three 911 calls within 17
minutes.
The first call was at 9:28 a.m. "I just shot two people, hopefully
killed," Pacheco said. "I'd like to speak to a state police detective .
. . If it's not him, I'm going to be less than happy. Some more people
might get hurt."
The second call was at 9:40. "My name is Carlos Pacheco. Maybe you're
looking for me." He asked for Dougherty.
The third time, at 9:45, Pacheco gave his name and hung up.
About five minutes after his last call, an off-duty firefighter working
at a Little League field, in Warwick, noticed a car engulfed in flames
in a nearby parking lot, next to the Kenney Manufacturing Co., at 1000
Jefferson Blvd.
A body was in the driver's seat, a fire official said. By the time the
firefighters had extinguished the fire, the body had been burned beyond
recognition, the police said.
More than an hour after Pacheco's car caught on fire, the Warwick police
discovered the body of Matthew Fandetti, 29, who had been shot dead in
his house. He had also worked with Pacheco at The Journal's production
plant.
WHILE THREE families make funeral arrangements, the police are
continuing their investigation into the shootings and Pacheco's motives.
But yesterday, Sunday, there were no new developments announced in the
case.
Johnson, who survived a gunshot wound to his cheek, was released from
Rhode Island Hospital yesterday afternoon. He left with his wife and
daughter.
Meanwhile, neighbors and friends of Pacheco's other victims were trying
to figure out why.
Benetti and his wife, Lora, who also worked at The Journal, lived with
their three children in a tan ranch-style house on Toledo Avenue, in the
Fairlawn section of Pawtucket, for the last 10 to 12 years.
"He was a good neighbor, a real family man," said Delphis Gagnon, who
lives nearby at 206 Toledo Ave.
The neighbors often saw Benetti outside playing with the children.
During school hours, he drove his son, Robert, and daughters Alyssa and
Ariana home at midday so they could have lunch together, said another
neighbor, Enrico Tartaglia.
"I couldn't believe it when I heard he had been killed," said Tartaglia.
"I was stunned. I can't believe anybody would do something like that to
him."
Pacheco's family declined comment at their house on Alabama Avenue, but
on Saturday, his sister-in-law Patricia Bogacz told The Journal that he
had been harassed by coworkers for not joining the Teamsters Local 64.
"We are unaware of any harassment," Frank A. Manfredi, the local's
president, said yesterday. "We are not aware of any grievance being
filed, or any sign of disenchantment."
Manfredi couldn't say yesterday how many of the four men belonged to the
union.
THROUGHOUT THE DAY YESTERDAY, employees at The Journal's production
plant attended meetings with their managers meant to talk about the
shootings and offer reassurance, said Belo Corp. spokesman Scott
Baradell. Grief counselors were already on hand.
Yesterday afternoon, Cabral sat on a bar stool in the Acores Cafe. The
stool next to him, where Pacheco had sat on Friday, was empty.
"His whole life, his dream was to take care of his parents and make sure
they were all right," Cabral said. "He wouldn't hurt anybody."
Cabral wept.
"He kept everything inside. To this day, his family, his friends, nobody
knew what he had to do," Cabral said. "He just couldn't take it anymore.
They tortured this kid too much."
TODAY, state police Maj. Leyden said that after Pacheco made the 911
call asking to talk to Dougherty, a trooper tracked down the state
police detective.
Dougherty then called Pacheco, Leyden said, but got his voice mail.
-- With staff reports from Richard Dujardin, Karen Lee Ziner and Michael
Smith
