Stacey Halvorson seems reserved, slightly nervous. She’s weary of media after her friend’s shooting. She spoke to news outlets who chose clips of the interview that made her sound like she hated the police.  

 

“I just don’t want you to twist my words around,” she says. “Cause I already know that once this goes out the cops are going to be on my ass.”

 

She doesn’t hate them, but Halvorson is decidedly distrustful of the Calgary Police Service (CPS).

 

In her Forest Lawn bungalow, she moves some children’s toys aside and sits down.

 

The wall is covered with framed photos of a little boy.

 

She explains that a couple years ago, while suffering from postpartum depression, her sister took her life, leaving her one-year-old behind. Halvorson is now raising the child as her own.

 

With the sun brightening her face and illuminating her rainbow-streaked white-blonde braids, she tells me that she was sitting there, in that exact spot, when she saw the officer walking up to her front door to tell her that her sister was dead.

 

And that isn’t her only bad experience with police.

 

Sadly, Halvorson is no stranger to loss.  

 

She met Sanjai Prasad, or “Kilo” as he was known, almost eight years ago. ‘“I met him through a buddy,” she says, adding she was happy to call Kilo one of her best friends.

 

“He was genuine. Like he had a big heart for his friends and family. He would do anything to make sure that I was okay before he was okay,” she says. “We just became really good friends and we continued that friendship up until he was gone.”

 

Gone is a vague term for Prasad’s disappearance from Halvorson’s life. On July 15, 2016, the 41-year-old was killed by police in an Inglewood condo parkade.

 

Initially called in on reports of car prowling, Calgary Police Service (CPS) arrived at the parkade around 8 p.m.

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Prasad was driving what was later confirmed to be stolen SUV with two other people inside, both friends of Halvorson.

According to an ASIRT press release, the SUV allegedly continued to circle the parkade even after police asked Prasad to stop. Eventually the SUV struck a parked car. After the front passenger got out of the vehicle to flee, there was a confrontation between CPS officers and the remaining occupants of the SUV.
 

“During the confrontation, shots were fired by one officer,” reads the ASIRT release. “The SUV crashed into a parked vehicle and came to rest."

 

Prasad was pronounced dead at the scene.

 

But according to Halvorson, the “facts” released by ASIRT are missing

some key details.

 

She says that on the evening of July 15, 2016, she had made plans to see

Prasad. Around 5 p.m., he called her and said he would come by in a

few hours.

 

It was 9 p.m. when Halvorson started to worry.

 

“I tried calling him [and] his phone just rang. I called back and it

went straight to voicemail,” she recalls.  

 

Around 1 a.m. she got a call from another friend.

From her friend’s tone, Halvorson knew right away that something

had happened.

 

‘Are you sitting down?’ her friend asked. ‘Kilo was shot and killed.’

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When she found out the police are responsible for his death, Halvorson was in disbelief. She says Prasad would never do something as drastic as trying to hurt officers. 

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“No, no, no,” she says, shaking her head. “I know for a fact that he would not be like ‘K guys I’m gonna just drive towards the cops and get us all killed.’”

 

“I think his story needs to be told because they didn’t have to kill him,” she adds. “Like they shot him three times. I just don’t understand why they didn’t just talk to him.”  

 

Halvorson doesn’t pretend Prasad was a Saint. She knew he had a criminal history, but she says he didn’t talk about it much with her.

 

“He may have been a criminal but he didn’t deserve to die,” she says. “His criminal history is his past. Everybody makes mistakes and everybody learns from [their] mistakes.”

 

She felt that after his death, Prasad was portrayed as a hardened criminal.

 

“That’s why I think they brought up his criminal record,” she says. “To make the public eye, you know, be on [the police’s] side so [people would think] ‘oh just one less criminal out there.’”

 

Halvorson pauses.

 

“But that criminal that everybody thinks he is was still a man. He still had a mom and dad and sister. He still had friends. He was a human being.”

 

“It’s just not right,” she adds, shaking her head.

 

Halvorson is frank about her motivation for speaking, even though she thinks the police won’t like it.

 

“I just want people to know that he didn’t deserve to die,” she says. “...And there could have been a million and one different ways that they could have handled it and it’s not fair that [...] his life is over now.”

 

The sun creates dancing patterns on the floor through the curtain. A look of sentiment crosses her face as Halvorson says she watches videos of Prasad to keep her friend’s memory alive.

 

She spent Christmas with his parents and says it was an especially difficult day for them.

 

“They still haven’t got his personal belongings back or the autopsy report or anything,” she says. “So it’s been hard for them because they just want answers. They don’t get it.”

 

Halvorson’s anger is mixed with resignation. She can’t trust the police. Her friend is gone forever, and she might never know what really happened in his final moments.

Softly she says, “He’ll never have a family. He’ll never get married. He’ll never have another birthday [and] he’ll never feel the sunshine again.”