The Devil's Garden (9 page)

The Macro taskforce officers do a quick mental check. Sarah abducted in summer, Jane in winter, Ciara in autumn. Is there some pattern in this? All disappeared on long weekend holidays. Sarah on Australia Day; Jane, the Queen's birthday (not celebrated in WA) and Ciara, Canberra Day in the ACT. There is five months between Sarah and Jane. Nine months between Jane and Ciara.
Nine between Jane and Ciara
.Why has the killer's cooling-off period become longer, instead of shorter as is their usual pattern? Has the police heat kept him lying low? Or has he, God forbid, acted somewhere else in the meantime, moving back to Claremont out of a desperate, uncontrollable urge to return?

The Commissioner, too, is highly visible. A hush descends on the normally rowdy crowd at a night football game at Subiaco Oval, near Claremont, when Bob Falconer makes an unscheduled, emotional address for them to help police solve the Claremont mystery. He also makes a plea through the press. Alarmed at the 'panic, paranoia, fear and mistrust' that have gripped the city, he urges the community 'not to self-destruct'.

The taskforce implements a location register to identify persons who were present in the Claremont area on the night Ciara went missing. Through extensive media coverage, potential witnesses are asked to register if they had been in Claremont, the time they were there, their movements within the area, their observations and a description of themselves with the clothing they had worn on the night. While it allows the taskforce to build a picture of Claremont on that night, it also eliminates suspects from witness accounts by referencing the register. 'If, for example, a witness had contacted the taskforce and advised they were at a particular location at a set time and were wearing a red dress,' Tony Potts says, 'and another witness had already mentioned they had seen a woman in a red dress, we could then cross-reference that information to identify and eliminate persons from the inquiry.'

Within days of Ciara's disappearance, a new fundraising arm takes shape: the Secure Community Foundation (SCF). Denis Glennon has clout – serious clout. If he rings the police commissioner, Falconer takes Glennon's call. And if he wants to start a fundraiser, the heavyweights will come on board. They need no persuasion. Terry O'Connor QC, Chairman of the Anti-Corruption Commission and a close personal friend of Denis Glennon. Julie Bishop, who will later become a Federal MP. Michael Chaney, Wesfarmers boss. Top number-cruncher Peter Middleton and Neil Fearis. 'The Secure Community Foundation,' Fearis admits, 'was unashamedly pitched at the big end of town. This was no rattling of tins on street corners.' But it cauterised opinion as nothing else to date had done.

Denis Glennon's company, Environmental Solutions International, chipped in $50,000; law firm Blake Dawson Waldron, where Ciara worked, another $100,000. Big names in the Perth business community provided the rest. 'We went straight to those people with power, connections and money,' Fearis says. 'It was a corporate fundraiser, targeting captains of industry and all those who sport Armani suits in St George's Terrace. Our plea was simple. "Get on the phone to 20 of your wealthy mates and send us a cheque." But despite that, total strangers also walked in off the street, offering money to help. It was very humbling.'

It was also urgent. Behind the phone calls was the raw desperation that if they hurry and bolster police resources they might, just might, get to Ciara, alive. And every day, Fearis wades through the flowers and cards from well-wishers left in the foyer of his law firm. Ciara Glennon's disappearance has galvanised the city, linking the rich with the poor.

Police media liaison has the task of convincing the media that the foundation has not been set up to supplement a lack of police funds. The structure of the foundation is clear. From the start, police fund any required outlays and the money is then reimbursed. The structure is designed for transparency, to sidestep any possible allegation from the public that the powerful private figures on the board have any undue or improper influence on the police investigation. But for all their intentions, the transparency does not work.

Within a few weeks the initial fundraiser has secured $600,000 – money that pours out as quickly as it pours in. Not one of the eight proposals put before the SCF committee was rejected. An upmarket media campaign, including commercials with the theme, 'You may have a suspicion. Act on it now,' appeals for information from the public. Ten thousand responses flow in. Perth's Forensic Laboratory, the Path-Centre, which handles DNA profiling, was equipped with a quarter of a million dollars worth of genetic analysing equipment. Now used at Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital, the state government – the taxpayer – also put in a substantial amount toward the machine. This would become a bone of contention in scientific circles: a decade on, the centre has still not used the equipment for the Macro investigation.

The SCF and Macro officers also looked overseas for innovative, sophisticated means to investigate the case. The use of lie detectors – not admissible in any Australian court – was one avenue. The foundation would fund several trips to Perth for international experts, including polygraph operator, Ron Homer – twice – and criminal psychiatrists. The tactics used didn't always appear credible. The average punter on the street looked at the international maestros waving their credentials at Perth airport and the whiz-bang technology and asked: all well and good, but where are the results?

Within weeks, the foundation funds a haunting re-enactment of Ciara's last movements as she breezes around the Conti-nental catching up with friends before moving outside. Her friends, including Neil Fearis, agree to play their own roles in the re-enactment. An eerie silence hangs over the actors in between takes, but some revellers at the pub, fuelled by booze and bad manners, start heckling. They stop abruptly when a furious and distraught Fearis warns them to shut up.

Critics of the foundation start baying early. Civil libertarian and defence lawyer Terry O'Gorman slams the use of private money as funding 'Mickey Mouse' techniques, such as the lie detector, that would never stand up to serious legal scrutiny. Worse, he says, it blurs the lines between what is kept secret in the investigation and what is told to those who are injecting the money. The premise of a fair trial must balance on police investigations independent of private funding.

Paul Ferguson is also initially critical. 'Ciara's murder changed the axis of the investigation,' he recalls. 'Prior to this it had been community based. But Denis Glennon – himself a victim – had barbecues at Premier Richard Court's house and the political connection was undeniable. Suddenly, there was another arm of the investigation that we had to deal with, like a hungry octopus. I raised objections but it achieved nothing. Falconer left us to do our job, but the reality was, it was his way or no way when it came to dealing with people in power. And Falconer was incredibly media savvy.'

But Dave Caporn doesn't flinch through the onslaught. The use of private funds, he says, is welcomed. Whatever it takes. Denis Glennon is unsurprisingly defensive of the money being used to help bolster Macro's coffers. He doesn't agree that any of the techniques are controversial. It is, he says, a cooperative approach to tackling the investigation, a means of involving the community in the fight. It is his daughter out there, missing.

Whatever it takes.

Nine days after Ciara vanishes, an editorial in
The West Australian
encapsulates the public fears.

...It is the predatory nature of the disappearance that shakes the foundations of the community. The thought that there is someone out there who is biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike. Someone who possibly is not what he appears...three women have disappeared but police do not appear soon to be any closer to solving the mystery. Everyone has a theory – but theories are not hard to find in Perth at the moment. The only certainty is that we are uncertain, the only established fact is that we don't know – or to be more precise, most of us don't know. The nightmare can't continue.

The clairvoyants circle again with wild, fanciful ideas. Denis Glennon – tough, grief-stricken – does not suffer fools, but they come at him from all angles, sorrow attracting them like moths to a flame. He dispatches them, curtly and quickly. Unless they have real information, they are of no value to him.

They are not all clairvoyants and soothsayers. Neil Fearis receives a visit from Perth GP Dr Andrew Dunn. He has information to pass on, he says, that has been given to him by a female patient whom he does not name. He has gone to the police with the information, he tells Fearis, but they have not taken him seriously. This patient has told him that Ciara is being held captive in a house where black magic rituals will take place to appease the gods at the autumnal equinox. Come the Easter long weekend, she will be offered up as a human sacrifice, like the sacrificial lamb. Fearis, too, passes the information to the Macro taskforce. 'We were all so desperate to get Ciara back,' he recalls. 'But they didn't take the information at all seriously, so unbeknown to Denis Glennon, whom we knew did not need this extra stress, we hired private detective Mick Buckley to keep watch on the house in the hills for three days.'

After leaving the police force, Buckley became a private investigator in 1983. 'I got a phone call around 6 pm on Easter Thursday,' he recalls, 'asking me to start surveillance on this female patient. The information was that Ciara Glennon's murder would take place at The Spot in Yanchep. I rotated with two private investigators, tailing the woman when she came out of her house.' Keeping around-the-clock surveillance, Buckley reports back. There is no sign of anything odd, he says. Nothing at all.

'Who knows why this information was passed on in the first place?' Fearis shrugs, weariness showing in his voice. 'Maybe the woman was simply a crackpot, maybe someone wanted to insert themselves into the investigation for their own reasons. Who knows?'

Another female caller rings to advise that her husband has information about the Claremont offender that he wants to pass on. Fearis requests that the man call him when he has finished work. 'Oh, he doesn't work,' the woman says. 'He hasn't worked in years.'

'Well, in that case,' Fearis adds politely, 'could you ask him to call me now, please?'

'He can't do that, neither. He's at Casuarina.' Accustomed to moving in select social circles, Fearis doesn't understand what she means. 'Casuarina,' she repeats in an exasperated tone. 'Casuarina Prison.'

But they are not all strange calls from strange people. An Irish woman sends a CD of Irish lullabies to the Glennon family. They may, she hopes, be of some comfort to them. Denise's wedding goes ahead, but not as planned. No black-tie reception, no bridesmaid; just a quiet ceremony, private and sacred. Denis thanks the guests for attending, and the bride and groom go home. This is a time for prayers, not celebrations.

***

Fear is paralysing commonsense and women react in different ways. Petrified of strangers, one who lives in Claremont is chased by police after refusing to stop at a roadblock on a country road. An intoxicated teenager walking alone through Claremont late at night gives police a spray of abuse when they warn her she should take more precautions. They let her walk, following her from a discreet distance.

Radio station Triple M kicks off a personal safety campaign for women. 'The best plan is to have a plan. Decide before you go out how you'll get home.' They keep hammering the messages. 'Meeting Mr Wonderful is every girl's dream, but sometimes connecting in a smoky nightclub can cloud your vision. If you think you want to go home with someone you've just met, tell your friends, and if he won't give his name or phone number, go no further! Don't walk alone. Tell your family and friends where you are going. Write down the taxi number if a friend gets in. Key an emergency police number into your mobile phone. Be alert. Be careful. Take no chances.'

And the young heed the warnings. For a time.

3 April 1997: four days after Easter. There is a body lying in the scrub, slushy in death. Jason, a 24-year-old labourer, is wandering through the bush, jarring to a halt as he sees her. It is not yet lunchtime but the sun is high and the sharp, hard light morbidly illuminates the pitiful scene. Despite being concealed by branches and twigs, he can just make out a partly naked body. He turns away, fearful and distraught, and runs to the nearby house of his former boss, George Kyme, to call the police. He can barely articulate what he has seen, shaking and gibbering that there is a dead woman out there. He splutters it out the best way he knows how. 'Whoever did this,' he blurts, 'is one sick fuck.' Taken into the station where he is questioned by police, he is made to sign a confidentiality agreement that he will not divulge to anyone what he has seen. Ever.

Telstra workers in the area had smelt the decomposing body days earlier but had reasoned it was a dead kangaroo. Ciara Glennon has been missing for 19 days. This time, it is Assistant Commissioner Bob Ibbotson himself who knocks on the Glennons' door.

If ever the family need to call on their faith, it is now.

Don Spiers's family hears the news through the media, his wife, Carol, hears it via a friend. A woman's body has been found in the bush and police are yet to identify who it is. Within a short time Don is told it is not Sarah, but the shock elicits a heartbreaking response from him. 'Every time I hear of a similar case, I know what those parents are going through and I relive it. It's an endless, endless torment.' But he is angry, too. It's not good enough, he grimaces, to hear news like that through the press. The media should consult first with police to see whether the victims' families will be distressed by the reports. They are pariahs.

Across the river, the Rimmers watch and listen to the news on radio and television, silently uniting with the Glennons in their despair. Is it Ciara?

Driving back from the funeral of a business partner who had died of cancer, Neil Fearis hears that a body, believed to be Ciara's, has been found in the scrub. He calls the police and offers to identify her body. 'That won't be necessary, Mr Fearis,' they tell him. 'Thank you, anyway.' He has the impression there is perhaps little left to identify.

He calls to see the Glennons two hours after they have received the news. There was, he remembers, a heartbreaking sense of loss in the room, a mixture of sadness and resignation but relief, too, that the uncertainty was finally over. Denis is composed, grateful for the visit. It is a composure that will not last.

The forensic team know only too well what they will find. Ciara has been here for 19 days, dumped to become a banquet for foxes, crows and other wild creatures: dogs, cats, rats, pigs. Lying here through an uncharacteristically hot March, with autumn temperatures in the mid-30s and torrential thunder-storms that drenched her semi-naked body. Her flesh will be fetid and decomposed; insects would have started feasting within 20 minutes, laying eggs within 12 hours. This weather is a perfect incubator for nature's creatures. The hideous sight of Ciara in situ will return again and again to haunt the police officers who are first at the scene, turn their stomachs and make them determined to find whoever did this to her.

Ciara's disposal site, on a sandy track off the unsealed Pipidinny Road, is isolated, remote, the nearest house 500 metres east. Acacia trees and a sudden drop conceal the area from traffic that passes day and night on the track. Police know that, on average, offenders travel 27 kilometres to dump their first body, a distance that becomes shorter as the murders continue. Ciara's killer has travelled even further: 40 kilometres. He would have turned his car onto the track and dumped her, not hanging around the area unless he wanted to.

Mick Buckley recalls the information passed on from Dr Dunn's patient, that Ciara's murder would take place at Yanchep. 'When they found Ciara's body, she was only a few kilometres from Yanchep. That was very, very odd.'

The media are camped two kilometres from where Ciara's body was discovered, held back by a strong police presence. A television crew desperate to break from the pack and get exclusive images sneaks around another way, walking on sand tracks and getting within 70 metres of Ciara's body before they are spotted and told by a ropable Tony Potts to piss off. The reporter, spying a blonde hair on a tree trunk, feeds the public the story that police are searching for a suspect with blonde hair. It is not only frustrating for police; the information is dangerously wrong, leading the public in a scattered direction and giving the killer further confidence. A confident killer will strike again, soon. It isn't human hair. It is horse hair.

The tension and pressure are so palpable, Tony Potts – media savvy and usually placid – threatens to arrest Rex Haw when the reporter swears at him for wanting to call a news conference in the city at 4.30 pm. They are 40 kilometres away; it will take them at least an hour to get back to the city. And they have a news broadcast to get out by 6.30 pm.

Forensic pathologist Karen Margolis and Macro officers Richard Lane and Paul Ferguson attend at the scene. By six o'clock, when their sad business is done, Ciara's body is taken to the city morgue.