The Death of Leo Santostefano

Leo lifting my brother during our family vacation in Myrtle Beach. He would have been about 18 at the time.

I have debated whether to write about a family friend, who in the early hours of Sunday March 7 was found dead on the outskirts of Canada’s capital; his 40-year-old body strewn on a snowmobile trail, off a desolate country road, bloodied and murdered.

Leo was a good friend of my brother’s growing up. He even came with us on a family vacation to Myrtle Beach one summer. As young adults, I remember seeing him at Zaphod Beeblebrox, an old Ottawa nightclub where he was a bouncer, and where I used to go dancing with friends. At about 6 feet 5 inches and 240 pounds, Leo was big bear of a man. But his imposing, powerful frame was in utter contrast to his personality, which was extraordinarily mild, sweet, and accompanied by a sense of humour as witty as it was bone-dry.

I have debated whether to write because I don’t know what words would bestow him some small honour. The conflict arises when anybody dies: to say something or be silent. There is something profane trying to condense the vastness of a human life into an obituary, a tombstone, or these days, a tweet.

Silence is more pious, and yet that too grates the soul. The dead can’t be seen and so we feel compelled to call their name lest they feel forgotten, or lest we ourselves forget.

And so I find myself writing, driven to say something, even after this terrible tragedy which has left so many bewildered, even after not seeing him in many years, and even though I knew but a fragment of his life.

I truly do not know what to say.

Shall I criticize the lack of news coverage? Murders in Ottawa used to be a big deal, and yet the mysterious circumstances around his death have drawn little curiosity from the hollowed-out newsrooms of today.

Shall I remember him in his prime at Zaphod’s? Standing under the neon lights, his chest puffed out, filled with pride at being the centre of attention and keeping the peace on a Saturday night.

Shall I confess that I think about his final moments? That I am haunted by how lonely he must have felt, and wonder what words he whispered during his dying heartbeats.

I heard a story about Leo that I keep thinking about. He once went to Mexico for a vacation with a buddy. Halfway through the holiday he disappeared. For a whole week his friend didn’t know where he was. No phone call. No text. A week later he walked through the door.

“Where were you?” his friend asked, incredulously.

“Belize,” Leo replied.

“Why didn’t you call?”

“What are you, my father?”

That was Leo. Living in the moment.

I am told that Leo was in a notably good mood on the day he died. Whatever happened to him that day, I assume he never saw coming.

I hope that is true.

Perhaps it is better I do not mourn he died early. Sir Thomas Browne said, “when all things are completed in it, its age is accomplished.” Those words would certainly apply to Leo, for he was his own man and did what he wanted, when he wanted. He traveled the world, often by himself, living moment to moment to such a rare degree, I doubt he even misses tomorrow.