The Gangland War (38 page)

Someone who had known Moran for years said of him: ‘Lewis loved money. He was rich but he didn't know how to have a good time.'

He had been introduced to the drug business by his sons and embraced the wealth it generated. Friends said he liked to watch cooking shows during the day, do a little business in the late afternoon and drink from about 6pm. He was notorious for hiding money, much of which has never been found.

Once he hid $14,000 in an oven and was shattered when someone turned it on — shrinking the notes to the size of Monopoly money. But there was a happy ending. His well-connected mate Kinniburgh found a compliant bank manager in Sydney who would accept the cash.

Moran had little formal education but, as an experienced SP bookmaker, was sharp with numbers. After Kinniburgh was murdered he knew his own survival was a long shot.

Despite that, he went to the Brunswick Club every night — regular as clockwork — until time ran out.

He was killed and his mate Bertie Wrout badly wounded the day after Veniamin's wake. It was no coincidence. Some say
revenge is a dish best eaten cold, but Carl was a fast food boy from way back.

Moran saw the gunmen enter the club and said, ‘I think we're off here.'

‘Off' is an underworld expression for dead.

Lewis ran in an arc trying to escape. He didn't have a chance and was shot dead a few metres from where he had been enjoying a quiet beer just seconds earlier. The moments leading up to the murder were caught on the Brunswick Club's security camera, but the killers were wearing balaclavas.

Club staff were deeply traumatised and were said to be worried when a wake was planned at the bar where Lewis was murdered.

A few years earlier, Lewis had still been a powerful figure with powerful friends. When his stepson Mark was killed he was bent on revenge. He refused to help police with their investigations because he still believed he had the pull to deal with his enemies. At first he wasn't sure who was behind the hit, but eventually all roads seemed to lead to Carl Williams.

A secret police report, later to be leaked to the underworld with disastrous consequences, claimed police informer Terence Hodson was offered $50,000 to kill Williams. The offer was allegedly made in May 2001 in the name of Lewis Moran.

Lewis, always careful with the money he stole from other people, was well under the odds with his contract offer. Moran senior was easily trumped when it came to murder by tender.

The man who would later plead guilty to Lewis's murder said he was offered $150,000 to kill Moran although he said he was short-changed $10,000 on settlement.

It's a bit hard to go to the Small Claims Tribunal to argue you've been short changed in an underworld contract killing. And you can't even claim it as a tax deduction.

The killer, known as The Journeyman, talked so that he could get a minimum sentence rather than life with no chance of release. And as he talked he warmed to the task, implicating himself in a murder where he wasn't even a listed suspect.

The Journeyman claimed that the money for the Moran hit came from Carl Williams and Tony Mokbel. Williams would later plead guilty to the murder, while Mokbel continued to declare he was not involved.

Once almost untouchable, in his final year Lewis Moran was close to a spent force. The boys were gone, his friend, Graham Kinniburgh, was dead and his respected associate, Mick Gatto, was in jail.

Isolated and without a power base, Lewis, 58, let it be known he no longer wanted to fight back. Crippled by grief and illness, he was no longer a threat. But his enemies were not sure and they wanted to be. Dead sure.

Lewis was no fool. Shattered by the death of Mark and Jason, the death of his mate was the final straw. He was safe in jail but still fought for bail. When he was bailed on drug charges his former lawyer, an old mate, Andrew Fraser, who was in the same prison on drug charges, farewelled him with the traditional ‘See ya later.' Moran shook his head and said he wouldn't. He knew he'd be gone by the time Fraser was freed.

In the few weeks before the final hit police had been hearing that some would-be-gangsters were offering their services to kill Williams.

Williams maintained he could not imagine why anyone would wish him harm. Carl, nicknamed The Truth by Tony Mokbel, was telling little lies.

There was a confrontation in a western-suburbs Tabaret not long before Lewis Moran's death, when the old crook was called outside by Williams. With no back-up, no guns, arthritis, a 25-year age gap and a 30 kilo handicap, Lewis wisely declined.

Lewis was said to have lost his personal taste for violence, although he did not seem to mind when Mark and Jason Moran used guns, baseball bats, fists and feet to exact revenge against real and perceived enemies.

Lewis was another of Melbourne's old-style crooks who seemed to sail through life with few financial concerns and no pressing need to work for a living.

His crime record charts post-war criminal history. In the early days he was chased from a circus when he was discovered to have lifted valuables from members of the audience.

He was said to be involved in protecting backyard abortionists, SP bookmaking and steal-to-order break-in rings before moving into modern crime and, inevitably, drug trafficking.

When his sons were running hot he moved into semi-retirement, but his notorious love of a dollar drew him back into the drug business with its rivers of cash.

For Lewis, the day would begin by checking the form, placing a few bets and then turning on the cable TV. But he would not spend his time glued to the racing channel. Like many of his generation of gangsters, he was besotted by the cooking channel.

Even during the middle of the underworld war Lewis would sit and watch good, bad and indifferent television chefs cooking up international dishes.

Then, between 4pm and 6pm, he would often visit associates to talk business before heading to the pub. There the subject would revert to the day's television recipes.

Gunmen, drug dealers, former armed robbers and try-hards would exchange tips on how to avoid gluggy risotto or overcooking crispy skinned salmon.

It was a long way from a pie at the races.

Police say there was no need to shoot Moran's friend, Bertie Wrout. At 62, tall, thin, popular and relatively harmless, he could
not have been seen as a threat by the two gunmen who walked into the Brunswick Club and opened fire.

Wrout survived the gunshot wounds but doctors were puzzled when they found one more entry wound than bullets. The puzzle was solved in a painful way for Bertie. Much later, while going to the toilet he felt burning pains more usually felt by brothel clients who insist on unprotected sex — and that wasn't Bertie's caper. When he heard a metallic noise at the bottom of the urinal, the pain stopped. Bertie had passed shrapnel. It is not known if police collected the vital evidence.

Less than an hour after Lewis Moran's murder, Williams was not his chatty self, saying: ‘I've got no more to say.' When asked if he feared for his life he said: ‘I'm all right.'

But Roberta was more animated. ‘My heart goes out to them (the Morans),' she said. ‘I don't know anything about it. This is insane. It just has to stop.'

While police and politicians expressed outrage over the Moran murder, Melbourne citizens seemed to have become accustomed to bloodshed on their doorsteps.

Upstairs at the Brunswick Club is a billiard room. Hours after the murder, two snooker players tried to pass the police lines to head upstairs for a game.

Even though Moran's body was visible, they twice argued with police that they should be allowed inside to play.

After all, life goes on. For some.

From his prison cell, Gatto was able to organise a death notice for his mate. It read: ‘Lewis, you knew it was coming, you just didn't care … Deepest condolences to Tuppence (Lewis's brother) and the Moran family. Rest in peace my Mate and a big hello to Pa. (Kinniburgh) — Mick Gatto.'

The funeral was not a lavish affair, but Judy Moran would not let the story die with her estranged second husband.

‘Lewis and I were both worried about his safety, but he didn't care; he was sick and tired of it all. I was horrified when I found out he'd been murdered, about three minutes after it happened.

‘But I am outraged that my family has been portrayed in the way they have. They were good people, not bad people, but they keep calling Lewis a drug baron — which is not true.

‘I am doing this for my grandchildren as a legacy to their grandfather.'

In her acknowledgements at the end of her book she thanked several people, including her photographer, the lady who helped her chose her outfits ‘at a very difficult time' and a gentleman in the fashion industry for providing her with ‘lovely shoes.'

She thanked her hairdresser, ‘for all the hairstyles you created for me for the funerals of all my family.'

However, she omitted to thank the Purana Taskforce that was working to solve the murders of her family.

He was off to have a drink
with some mates.
Or at least he thought
they were mates.

 

LEWIS Caine was tough, confident and at the peak of his powers until he found too late that in the underworld tough guys often end up dead.

Good looking and with piercing eyes, Caine could have been mistaken as a former sportsman on a gradual decline — the type who is past his best but remains a formidable opponent.

But fellow crooks and police knew without asking that he had done some serious jail time — the giveaway was the way he moved. He had a cocky, almost confrontational walk that some men pick up in prison. A cross between a boxer's strut and a street brawler's stride. It gave a message that he was always ready for action and was confident he could handle any challenge. He was wrong.

Caine, a self-proclaimed karate expert, kicked a man to death outside a Melbourne nightclub in 1988. He was convicted of
murder and was considered dangerous enough to spend most of his ten years inside in maximum security.

Caine, 39, was a friend of Mick Gatto but also an associate of Carl Williams. It was enormously difficult to remain neutral and Caine was from Tasmania, not Switzerland (although he would end up looking a little like Swiss-cheese). People in the underworld were expected to pick sides. It may be that Caine chose the wrong one.

Roberta Williams said she saw Caine only days before his murder. Both Williams and Caine had abandoned anonymous suburban life, choosing to live in central Melbourne high-rise apartments. It may have been the nightlife, but more likely they knew that secure city buildings with lockup underground car parks, swipe card doors and working state-of-the-art closed circuit recorders were sizeable obstacles to would-be hit men.

It was a sound argument. Certainly Mark Moran, Frank Benvenuto, Mario Condello, Charlie Hegyalji, Dino Dibra, Graham Kinniburgh and Michael Marshall were in no position to dispute the logic — they were all killed outside their suburban homes.

Roberta Williams told the author, ‘He came over to say hi. We didn't know him well. He seemed like such a nice person.'

She said Caine's killing was ‘just another kick in the guts' and added: ‘When is this all going to end?'

It was a rhetorical question. She should have asked her husband.

Most criminals go bad by degrees. They start with minor property offences as kids, graduate to theft and then become violent. These are the building blocks of the gangster.

But Caine was not your average ‘crim'. He went from indecent language to carrying a gun to murder — with little in between.

The son of a Tasmanian police inspector, he loved the idea of being a hard man but lacked the discipline to prove himself in a legitimate way. According to a confidential police report, he
joined the army on 11 May 1982, but went AWOL five months later and was discharged.

He was born Adrian Bruce Bligh in Devonport, Tasmania, on 22 April 1965. His parents divorced and his mother moved to Queensland. According to police he had ‘an intense hatred of his father'. He claimed to be a martial arts expert but police found it was a lie. ‘He did some classes, but was only a beginner,' one officer noted. But he knew enough to kick a harmless man to death.

It was obvious Caine was fascinated by death and destruction. When he was arrested for murder he was found to have books on terrorism, Special Forces tactics and weaponry. Earlier he had been found with a book on explosives.

He was a courier who once injured both wrists in a motorbike accident. According to a police report, at the time of his arrest, ‘Caine was under suspicion of being a large drug dealer, using his employment as a courier as a cover for his trafficking activities.' It was believed that Caine's position in the syndicate was one under the actual importer. He would not sell to street addicts, only to other heroin dealers.

In the early hours of 18 September 1988, two lives collided: one of the man who courted violence and the other of a bloke just out for a good time.

David Templeton was 34 years old when he crossed Caine. He lived with his parents in Williamstown until he married in 1978 and moved to Essendon. In 1984 he separated and later divorced. He then returned to live with his parents until 1985, when he bought a house in Newport.

Templeton was always gainfully employed and regularly promoted. After leaving Williamstown Technical School, he had worked for three years as a bank teller. He then moved to Medibank where he started as a clerk and was later promoted to branch manager.

After 10 years with Medibank he decided he needed a change and became a sales representative.

His family described him as honest, hardworking and community minded. He was an active member of the North Melbourne and Point Gellibrand Rotary Clubs.

But on the night of Saturday 17 September 1988, the likeable and responsible Templeton was for once a pain in the neck.