The Beat: A True Account of the Bondi Gay Murders (29 page)

The POI said these were the only incidents he’d witnessed, hadn’t been involved in any assaults himself.

When they’d gone to Marks Park, he said, they all knew it was a beat, a gay beat. It was one of the reasons they went there: some of the guys wanted to pick on the gay people, guys like Cushman and Hajdukovic in particular. Cushman and Hajdukovic were always talking about how much they hated gays, he said. Hajdukovic was the leader of the group, was one of the oldest, and he had the real problem with gay men, even more than Cushman. Which was a bit of a problem for him, he said, because he was gay himself, had to keep it quiet really, back then, could’ve been ugly if the others had known.

And yeah, he said, he knew the PTK tag, all these guys used it. It stood for Part Time Killers. He didn’t use the tag, he said, he wasn’t really in the group, just kind of hung out with them, drinking with them. There was another tag around at the time, PSK. But he didn’t know what it stood for. It was used by a gang in Coogee, he thought, a gang led by a Maori guy, a mean-looking guy with his ears too low on his head, a real bastard.

Warren, Russell, McMahon? He’d heard their names on the TV some time ago. Knew nothing about them, himself, didn’t recognise their photographs. Maybe his sister might … His sister once told him about a time in ’89 near Marks Park. Cushman and Hajdukovic had blood on their clothes after they’d rolled someone and they were crying, covered in scratches from the fighting. He knew nothing about it, he said, but his sister should be able to…

vii

While Constable Pincham was taking this statement, Sergeant Nuttall was typing up another interview conducted the day before. Person of interest, John, worked at the Prince of Wales Hospital and seemed only too happy to help the police with their inquiries. He was driven to Maroubra Police Station where he was shown a newspaper article about the investigation.

‘I remember this,’ he said. ‘My dad was staying in Sydney, at South Bondi, when this happened and he told me about it.’

Sergeant Nuttall nodded and dropped the nine-page booklet of photographs onto the table, explaining that he’d like John to identify whoever he recognised by writing the name he knew them by next to the picture.

‘Yeah, no problems,’ John said. When he’d finished he looked up at Sergeant Nuttall. ‘I also wrote down where I know some of these guys from,’ he said. ‘I know heaps of them from Bondi and from school.’ He looked back down at the booklet in front of him. ‘Do you think these guys were involved, do you? We used to hang out in Bondi and stuff like that. We even got into a bit of trouble with the police and stuff because we always drank down the beach. We always drew attention to ourselves.’ He said. ‘We’d smash bottles and fight with each other but we never got involved in anything serious, man.’

‘What about robberies in the area at this time, in 1989?’ Sergeant Nuttall asked, his level voice polite, almost casual.

John looked at him. ‘I never got involved in any stuff like that,’ he said. ‘There was heaps of stuff like that happening but I never got involved in that. I was always too pissed. I had a job. I think I was the only one who had one. I know the others were always short of cash so I think they did what they had to to get it. I used to hear some stuff about people getting rolled.’

And there were other gangs around, he said. Gangs from Bankstown, Mount Druitt, Burwood. Heaps of fights. But nothing like what was in the papers, nothing like that.

viii

Early that evening the woman who had been interviewed by Detectives Page and Nuttall at Waverley Police Station that morning, rang her friend Cathy again. She was jittery but coherent, scared but not frantic.

‘The first – basically, the first thing they told me was, “we know Sean Cushman threw somebody off a cliff ” … like, Sean Cushman threw somebody off a cliff 12 years ago and I’ve been named as being there.’ She waited for a response, steadying her breath. At the other end of the line Cathy said nothing. ‘And, um, I’ve basically gotta prove that I wasn’t. But … but I wasn’t. They reckon I was there.’

‘Did they have your DNA?’ Cathy asked. ‘Like they said?’

‘No … ’ She paused. ‘And yet … They didn’t say they wanted to test me and that.’

‘Oh, he must’ve been a fuckwit, that detective that rang your mum.’

‘Yeah. It was the same one that I had today. The same detective. And he was so hard. He was so mean.’ She paused again. ‘I told them everything,’ she said. ‘I was honest.’

• • •

Listening to the taped recordings of the telephone conversations, Steve Page wondered if she had told them everything, if she had been honest. She hadn’t sounded surprised that they’d told her Cushman had thrown somebody off a cliff, hadn’t protested the ludicrousness of the idea to Cathy. Had she heard about it before? Or had she been there when it happened?

Long but productive, the day was only the first in a series of long and productive days of interviews. And meanwhile, the phone traffic continued to offer leads, continued to open up lines of questioning.

[1]
The stabbing of a former boyfriend outside her house.

[2]
In fact, although the Russell family had kept John’s clothing in a cardboard box since November 1989 in the hope that it might one day prove useful as evidence, the clothing had been cleaned and offered up nothing of value when tested earlier in the year.

[3]
Hair samples, he omitted to mention, that had vanished at the time, never to be found again.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Phone Tapping the Alexandria Eight

i

For convenience Detective Sergeant Page had from the outset dubbed those convicted of the Richard Johnson murder, ‘the Alexandria Eight’. On 14December, while interviews with the Bondi Boys continued, the Alexandria Eight were talking among themselves, making calls that they didn’t know were being recorded. The first recorded call came in at 2pm when one of ‘the eight’ rang his parole officer.

‘Good. I’ve been wantin’ to talk to ya,’ the PO said. ‘I’m just really concerned that the coppers weren’t gonna, what were they, what were they wantin’ you about?’

‘Uh, they were just here and I missed ’em by about 10 minutes. Something to do with an incident that happened 12 years ago or somethin’. In the Moore Park area of Sydney. So I don’t know what they’re up to but they want to talk to every one of us that was involved in our incident, so.’

Our incident
, the kicking to death of an innocent civilian. ‘So, they’re goin’ back over old ground, are they?’

‘Yeah. I’d imagine that’s what they’re doin’.’

‘Mate, you, you’ve got no probs though?’

‘Nah,’ dismissive, nonchalant. ‘Don’t even remember it. No, I’ve got nothin’ to tell ’em. I’ll just say, look I don’t even know what youse are on about. I did my time, basically … And boot off back up to Sydney, boys,
’
cause you’ve got no, you’ll get no help from me. I’ve got nothin’ to tell ’em.’

‘Yeah, sounds like they’re just goin’ back tryin’ to clear, clean up a few old cases or somethin’, are they?’

‘Yeah. That’s what I think they’re doin’, but. But everyone of us, when we were, y’know, out … we all said to each other, look you know they’re gonna come an’ ask us questions even in 40 years friggin’ time. I said, it’s just the way it’s gonna be. Just prepare, y’know, and we all sort of knew that. That’s why it’s not botherin’ me. It’s just old ground an’ I knew that’s what they’d be doin’.’

The Parole Officer agreed, told him to say nothing, to maybe tell the truth if there was nothing to tell, but. It’d blow over, he said. Couple of weeks, a few scare tactics. It was nothing.

At seven o’clock that evening he rang his mate Vance.

‘Yeah, guess who shows up on the fuckin’ door today,’ he said, laughing into the phone, sounding to the Taradale detectives like he was saying,
as if I give a fuck
, ‘when I went down to Lakehaven? Two D’s – two detectives … Oh yeah, wantin’ to ask me a question. Just one, one single question. Drove all the way from Sydney to ask me one single question of something that happened 13 fuckin’ years ago.’ More laughter, sneering and thin, filled maybe with hate and disdain. ‘But see, I didn’t talk to ’em. They can go and get fucked, mate. If they want me, they can chase me.’

• • •

Two hours later, at one minute past nine, a male voice left a message with Ron Morgan’s answering service. ‘Hey, Ron! Give us a call, mate,’ Then speaking to someone in the background, ‘no, it’s a message. No.’ Back to the phone, ‘Give us a call, um, there’s a … there’s a fuckin’ investigation goin’ on. Give me a ring back. I’ll let you know.’

In the background, the other voice called out. ‘Hey Ron, you’re a pirate. You’re a Captain Feathersword! An’ I caught ya. At Moore Park toilets with Alex Mihailovic and Justin King.’

The message was left because Ron Morgan was, at that very moment, on the phone with Mihailovic, was discussing exactly the same thing, the investigation.

‘There’s a fuckin’ thing goin’ on now, man,’ Mihailovic said.

‘Yeah? I don’t care,’ Morgan said. ‘I couldn’t care less.’

‘They think they’re round up everyone, just like we never … so it doesn’t …There’s nothin’ to worry about.’ Inarticulate with panic? Or maybe just the uneducated parlance of the streets.

‘Yeah,’ Morgan said. ‘Well, 12 years ago, who knows?’

ii

Justin King, mentioned in the message left with Morgan’s voicemail, had been interviewed that morning at Waverley Police Station. Justin King aka Sharkhead.

Detective Sergeant Page and Detective Pincham ran through the introductory preamble to the interview, asking name, address, date of birth and so on. King answered the questions without any apparent emotion, one word answers where one word would suffice, more where necessary. After a brief interlude when the video equipment broke down, the interview continued with audio recording only.

The procedure with the booklet of photographs was quickly under way with King identifying all the members of the ‘Alexandria Eight’, all friends from school, some had lived nearby back in ’89. The aerial photographs of the Marks Park area followed but King claimed he’d only been there once before.

‘And when,’ Steve Page asked, ‘you say you’ve been there once, where have you been?’

‘In that park,’ King said. ‘Probably four years ago. Playing cricket, barbecue. But prior to that I wouldn’t, didn’t know it was there.’

‘Are you aware it’s a gay beat?’

‘No.’

‘In 1989 would you have been aware there was a gay beat at Bondi?’

He wouldn’t. Nor did he recognise the photograph of Ross Warren, had no idea of anything about his disappearance. He didn’t recall hearing or reading anything in connection to Warren, he said. Adding, ‘Sir’. The same answers to similar questions regarding John Russell, David McMahon. Never heard of them, never seen them, knew nothing.

‘Where were you residing in 1989?’ Page asked.

‘Mother’s house in Waterloo.’

And was he working then? He was, he said. He was a porter in a hotel in Kings Cross, shift work, days and nights, weekdays and weekends. At the end of Year 12, it was. Year 12 at Cleveland Street High School. Who did he associate with at school, the detective wanted to know. Everyone, King said. He had a wide variety of friends, different groups. Had he been a graffiti artist? No. How did he feel about gay males back then? Not a problem, he said.

‘What knowledge do you have in relation to offences against members of the gay community in 1989 in the Eastern Suburbs of Sydney?’ Page asked evenly.

‘I heard about it, but. Yeah.’

‘When you say you heard about it, what areas did that involve?’ Page wanted to know.

‘Waterloo area, I suppose.’

What about Marks Park? No. What about PTK? No idea. PSK?

‘PSK? Park Side Killers or something … Some Maroubra mob … graffiti boys doing their stuff. And that was what they were known by, I think.’

‘Were you ever a member of that group?’

‘No.’ And, ‘no’, he didn’t know anyone who was and ‘no’, he never used those letters as a tag. And, ‘no’, he knew nothing about the death of Ross Warren, the death of John Russell, David McMahon, wasn’t involved, wasn’t present, didn’t know who killed them, no, no, no. No.

‘Right. Are you able to tell me the current whereabouts of Adam French or Ron Morgan?’

‘It’s up to you to locate them. I’m sure the Parole Board will know somewhere down the line.’

iii

Little more than an hour later Detective Sergeant Page waited for another person of interest in the foyer of Paddington Police Station: he and Detective Nuttall were going to interview the youth who allegedly stubbed out a cigarette on the penis of a homosexual at Marks Park.

When he arrived, the POI was informed as to the nature of the inquiry, told about the investigation into the deaths of Warren and Russell, the assault on McMahon. Steve Page also explained that he had reason to believe that he, the POI, was involved in the cigarette incident. Nonchalantly, the accused informed the detectives that he would wait until his legal adviser arrived before he said anything and all three waited until the solicitor walked through the door. The solicitor was the brother of the accused and his advice was to refuse to be interviewed. They left the police station together.