Mad Dog Moxley (7 page)

FUGITIVE SCENES

The NSW Police Force finally
decided to implement police dogs
after a sensational hunt for a
murderer by the name of moxley…
HISTORY OF THE NSW POLICE DOG UNIT

Frank Corbett's shot has frightened Moxley in a number of ways. He knows it didn't miss by much - but that isn't the main reason. He thought Corbett was his friend, that he might at least give him a cup of tea, maybe even some advice about what to do. He is confused; everything is happening so quickly. He feels as though a big gap has opened up between him and the young couple he saw in Strathfield, but for everyone else, from what he can tell, nothing else matters but the connection between him and them. Them and him. He reads their names in the papers but he can't remember them; he can't remember their faces – he's not sure that he ever saw them. It was so dark and there were so many strange noises…

He pushes through the scrub, weighed down by the blanket-wrapped shotgun, his kitbag and overcoat, which catches on the bushes. Low branches scratch his face and pull his hat off so that he has to stop, retrieve it and heave the bag and gun into place all over again. He's tired and hungry.
God knows I've been tired before, using that bastard of a cross-cut, hut tired and hungry's something else
. He'd give anything for a few of Linda's scones. Linda - what was that she was always saying when he lost his temper?

‘You're silly, Bill. You're mad. You'd be better off in the bush.'

He thinks she was right. Everything was much simpler in the bush - just cut the timber down, chop and saw it up and sell it. You only had to talk to the horses. He pushes on through the scrub, not sure of where he's going.
Motor cars and trucks, he thinks. They're the things that give a man trouble. Just give me a couple of horses and a dog and the bush and I'd be all right
. He feels light-headed and thinks his hunger and tiredness are making him imagine mad things. Why can't he go back to Burwood, pick up Douglas and go bush – go on the wallaby with the boy and a dog? He knows he can't but he isn't quite sure why. And when he tries to remember why he seems to shrink into himself and become smaller. His head hurts. He wishes he had more Aspros; he has only enough to help him get to sleep for one night. Sleep. He has to find a place to sleep.

He moves on, keeping to the scrub, crossing roads only when he has to and as quickly as he can. Climbing down an embankment he drops the shotgun and hears it clatter against a rock. He wonders if he should just leave it there, take the blanket and leave the gun. But he picks it up and rewraps it. To shoot rabbits? To defend himself? To make someone give him money or food? He doesn't know why. He hears a train in the near distance and moves towards the sound. He thinks if he could get on a goods train it might take him up-country where he'd be safe. He could get work cutting wood.

He finds the railway line and crouches close to it, behind some kind of control box. A few passenger trains go past, moving much too fast. A goods train crawls towards him, its long line of heavily laden trucks snaking away behind it. The train is slow enough but it's no use. He looks at his damaged hand as he juggles his bag, gun and coat; he'd never manage to grab hold of a rail or a chain with that hand. The bandage is ragged and dirty and his hand is throbbing badly. He'd never make it. Most likely fall under the wheels.

He sees some sheds a short distance away. There's no one in sight. He puts his bag and coat down and, holding the gun, keeps low as he moves towards the sheds. They are full of machinery and tools that are no use to him, but he finds a Gladstone bag containing some sandwiches wrapped in newspaper. He resists the impulse to eat the food there and then; instead he puts the parcel inside his shirt and leaves. It's late afternoon, getting cold and with rain in the air. He needs to find somewhere to spend the night. The sheds wouldn't be safe. He retrieves his bag and coat and reluctantly heads back towards the scrub.

He finds an area protected by overhanging branches and he can scrape some bracken up to cover with his coat and make a sleeping nest. He opens the parcel: tongue. He hates tongue but is too hungry to care. He wolfs the sandwiches down and licks the tomato sauce from the paper. The
Daily Mirror
sheets are ten days old and there is nothing about the young couple. The sauce and grease from the food has made much of the print unreadable but on a sports page he reads that Phar Lap's heart is to be brought back to Australia from America. He smiles, remembering that he won £10 from an SP bookie after betting on the horse. The smile fades; he remembers losing the money playing billiards in May's saloon in Sussex Street. In the fading light he spreads the coat and takes out a spare shirt to cover himself with. He keeps his boots on but thinks to wear sandshoes tomorrow if his feet hurt as much as they do now. He puts them by the coat and examines the gun. The extractor is out of whack and has jammed a cartridge in one of the breeches. He'll fix it tomorrow.

He sleeps fitfully, waking because he's cold and going back to sleep because he's exhausted. A shower of rain in the early hours doesn't help and shortly after dawn he is jolted awake by the sound of dogs barking and voices. The noises are close and getting closer. He has been sleeping fully clothed, in shirt, trousers and jacket. He throws off the shirt he used as a cover, grabs his bag and bolts into the bush, leaving his coat, sandshoes and the gun behind him.

The Malvern Star roadster is old and heavy, with a slightly buckled front wheel. He pedalled frantically away from where he stole it and now he is tired, having used leg muscles not in play since he was a boy. He has used a length of rope he found to tie his bag to the handlebars but it doesn't make steering any easier. He feels better after drinking from a bubbler in a park and cleaning the wound to his hand. It still hurts, but as the bike has a footbrake he doesn't have to apply too much hand pressure.

He is still thinking of what Linda said about going bush. He feels safer in areas where trees outnumber buildings and there are fewer people around, but he knows he's no bushman, knows he can't live off the land, especially with the shotgun gone. His best bet is to cling to the outskirts of the city, where he can raid gardens or steal from shops and houses; but somewhere well away from Holsworthy, where he's known. He decides to cross the harbour on the new bridge and head north to Frenchs Forest, where his mother once lived. She's gone now, along with his father. He remembers writing
Deceased
next to his father's name on the army application form and being glad to do it.

He pedals through Newtown, passes the railway station and sees a policeman watching the gate. He keeps his head down along George Street. It's early morning and the traffic is light on the approach to the bridge. There are a few bicycles, some cars and trucks, and people walking. He stops at the booth and speaks the first words he's uttered for days.

‘Bikes have to pay?'

The booth attendant grins. ‘Too right, mate. Threepence.'

He pays his money and pedals slowly across the bridge, looking left and right at the city below him and the boats glistening on the water. As he rides he remembers William MacKay and de Groot.
Not even Mr MacKay can help me now.

He has to grip the handlebars tighter to work his way uphill once across the water, and his hand begins to sting. He knows he can't risk a doctor or a hospital, so he stops at a chemist and buys Condy's crystals to make a solution to soak his fingers in. He's not the only person around who looks down on his luck - and he does have the bicycle. He buys fish and chips in Mosman and eats them ravenously as he wheels the bike. No one bothers to look closely at him.
People have their own worries
, he thinks,
and a man wheeling a bicycle isn't suspicious like a man walking a dog.

He sleeps in a park. He finds an empty jam tin, fills it with water and soaks his fingers in the crystals solution. He moves on, riding and walking, but worries about staying so long on the main road. As soon as he reaches Frenchs Forest he turns off onto a side road. There are fewer cars now but one is coming slowly towards him as he walks. He drops his head as if to examine something on the bike as it passes.

A rough track takes him into the bush. He feels the need for rest and a chance to think. He finds a shallow cave and puts his bike and kitbag there. A high rock stands nearby and with the last of his strength he climbs it to look around, to see how well concealed he is. But his vision blurs and he almost falls. He feels one of his dizzy spells coming on and he stumbles. It's early afternoon and there's some warmth in the sun. He thinks he'll feel better if he can only get warm. He crawls to a flat rock and stretches out on it. The warmth of the rock soothes his muscles, stressed from the pedalling.
Like a lizard on a rock
, he thinks. His head is pounding. His hand is sore. He wishes he'd stayed in hospital for the second operation after that bastard Devine shot him. He wishes…

THE
OTHER MAN

This is a terrible thin…
WILLIAM CYRIL MOXLEY

No lawyer today would permit Moxley and the police to proceed as they did. Moxley offered to take MacKay and others to the places where he held up Dorothy Denzel and Frank Wilkinson, to point out where the vehicles were situated and to show them the house at Moorebank where he allegedly left them unharmed. Moxley thought this would help him. He said that it had been raining on the night of 5 April and that the girl's footprints would show in the soft ground. He was hoping ‘to get something there that will prove I am telling the truth'.

This was a bizarre offer. Three weeks had passed and it was unlikely that any footprints could be seen. Even if they were, it would scarcely carry much weight against the other evidence the police had accumulated, at least some of which Moxley must have known about from the newspapers. According to the police his manner was calm, but his statement and behaviour suggest that he was not thinking very clearly.

MacKay agreed to the plan. In the company of Detective Sergeant Hill and Detective Constable Newton, whose involvement was evidently a partial reward for his role in capturing Moxley, they set out in a squad car followed by another car with three more detectives. Hill noticed that Moxley had several days' growth on his face and dark marks across his upper lip and eyebrows. He evidently knew Moxley's appearance for he said, ‘You've grown a mo, Bill.' Moxley denied it, saying that the marks were grease from the chain of the bicycle.

Moxley drew a rough plan of the places he intended to show the police and when MacKay told him to follow the exact route he'd taken and direct the driver where to stop, Moxley relied, ‘Right-ho.'

The convoy stopped first in Strathfield, near the golf course, and Moxley indicated precisely where he had stopped his lorry, where the Alvis had been parked, and where the couple had been sitting when he approached them. He gave no details of the encounter, not mentioning the mask or the gun or the confrontation with Frank Wilkinson.

The cars then headed for Bankstown and Moorebank. Moxley pointed out where he had attempted to buy petrol and then conducted the police to the empty house on Illawarra Road. He showed them how ‘we' – meaning himself and his still-unnamed accomplice – had taken the couple and put the woman in the house and the man in an adjoining shed. A search was made for footprints but none were found.

MacKay then told Moxley he'd be shown where the bodies had been found. As the car moved off, Moxley wrote something on a piece of paper but his handwriting was shaky and MacKay could not decipher it. When the car stopped MacKay asked Moxley what he had written. Moxley said, ‘Snowy Mumby.'

‘Just take things easy for a while,' MacKay said.

They reached the place where Frank Wilkinson had been buried and where the signs of the grave were still plainly evident. Moxley made no comment. The police noticed that a number of newspaper reporters had begun to follow them. MacKay confronted them, telling them they were interfering with a police investigation and could be charged. The reporters backed off a little but continued to hang around, forcing MacKay to call off the operation.

MacKay, although prompting with an initial question, told Moxley that Detective Inspector Walsh would be in charge of his case and that he should tell him about Mumby. Detective Godwin made a shorthand record of their conversation.

Moxley: He is known as Snowy Mumby.

MacKay: What sort of a fellow is he?

Moxley: About 30 years old, about 5ft. 8 or 9in. high, slim to medium build, fair hair brushed back, normal crop, blue or grey eyes, dressed in blue or pepper and salt clothing. He has been in the military and has a military crime history. I knew him in the military. I never met him in gaol. He is a great bloke with sheilas. I think his work is robbing men when they are drunk, but I never knew him to break and enter. I have seen him two or three times. I will show you where he can be found. There is a dumping house alongside Clays in Elizabeth Street – West Street – Brisbane Street. You remember May's billiard saloon, he used to go there; he used to knock about there four or five years ago. There used to be a terrible good billiard player who used to go in there. He was known as Bill. He used to live in that street. Is May still keeping that baker's shop in Darlinghurst? If he is still living in Darlinghurst he is his mate. I know he is always hanging around sheilas.

Walsh: Did he go with you to Burwood?

Moxley: We both came out together. We both walked out to Burwood together.

Walsh: At what time?

Moxley does not answer.

Walsh: Is he clean shaven?

Moxley: Yes, he was clean shaven, fair.

Walsh: Any scars or marks?

Moxley: No.

Walsh: Did he have a gun?

Moxley: No, he has an impediment in his speech, a kind of hesitation. He has been knuckling around with women all his life.

Walsh: Has he got a woman at all now?

Moxley: He is always knuckling around with women.

Walsh: What was he in the military?

Moxley: He went to Egypt first and came back and went away with the 13 th General Reinforcement, GSB. I know his name as Mumby.

Modern investigators have developed a system known as statement analysis to examine testimonies, probing for inconsistencies and other indicators of untruthfulness. This is scarcely necessary in Moxley's case – the flaws and devices are obvious: ‘Snowy', the name Moxley assigned to Mumby, was in fact a nickname frequently given to him; the physical description fits fairly closely Moxley's own characteristics; the good billiard player is ‘Bill', the name Moxley was most known by. He also referred to a speech defect, a hesitancy, which was again a characteristic of Moxley himself. It is significant that Moxley insisted on Mumby's relationship with women – this would appear to be suggesting that Mumby was likely to be a rapist. Consistent with his claim to have met Mumby in the army, Moxley named his own unit as the one Mumby had served in.

(In the interest of thoroughness, the police searched the 1st Australian Imperial Force (AIF) records and reported that no one by the name of Mumby was registered as having served. Presumably, these records were less organised and accessible in 1932; a search of the now digitalised and complete records shows that several people named Mumby served in the 1st AIF, but none approximate to the individual described by Moxley.)

Referring to Linda Fletcher, the woman he boarded with and whose name he sometimes used, Moxley said, ‘wonder what Lin is thinking about this matter. I don't suppose she'll want to see me again.'

‘Well if I'm any judge of a woman,' MacKay replied, ‘Lin would come and see you if you wanted to see her.'

It was evening by then and MacKay offered to fetch Mrs Fletcher in a car because it was too late for her to catch a tram. Moxley expressed his gratitude and MacKay travelled to Burwood and brought her back to the police station.

This solicitude seems out of character for MacKay, a hard-bitten detective with a reputation for severity. It suggests their earlier relationship had been close, even friendly, or possibly that MacKay was careful to give Moxley no grounds for complaint about his treatment that could affect subsequent proceedings. He and another detective sat in the same room as Moxley and his visitor, but at a distance. MacKay testified, ‘ A sad scene took place between them and they then conversed in low tones, which I could not overhear.' MacKay told Moxley he was to be taken to a cell and he escorted Mrs Fletcher to a car.

The police took Moxley's naming of his accomplice seriously enough to permit him to conduct them on a tour of the inner-city locations he mentioned, but not seriously enough to prompt a detailed investigation. It is not clear whether Moxley thought his accusation would hold together, but in any case he soon abandoned it in favour of another tack.

In a curious conversation, Moxley encouraged MacKay and another detective to reveal what they thought when they heard that Moxley was linked to the murders. The detectives said that they were dumbfounded; MacKay said, ‘Moxley must have been off his head to do something like that.'

Moxley said, ‘You're right, I must have been.' He then admitted to MacKay that he'd been lying.

‘This is a terrible thing I'm charged with. Look, Mr MacKay, what I told you today about Mumby was all wrong, and I don't want you to waste your and the police's time investigating along those lines. I realise my position. As you said, I must have been mad and I want to tell you the truth so far as I can remember it.'

In the presence of MacKay and Detectives Walsh (who interposed some searching questions) and Hill, Moxley then made a long, rambling statement, the thrust of which was that he admitted that, acting alone, he had held up the couple and taken them to the house in Moorebank – but that his mind was a blank from that point on. A stenographer took down the statement in shorthand and had it typed up. Moxley read it, signed it and was charged with murder.

GRAVE OF DOROTHY DENZEL (ABOVE) AND FRANK WILKINSON (BELOW) WHEN FIRST DISCOVERED

The next day, this time without newspaper reporters in attendance, Moxley was taken back to Moorebank and shown the grave of Dorothy Denzel. If this was an attempt to get him to say more or revise his statement, it failed. He made no comment and even asked if it was necessary for him to get out of the car. It wasn't.