Gary Jubelin - I Catch Killers: The Life and Many Deaths of a Homicide Detective

Contents

Dedicated to the memory of:

James Kelly

Eileen Cantlay

Martin Davidson

Bernadette Matthews

Colleen Walker-Craig

Evelyn Greenup

Clinton Speedy-Duroux

Barbara Saunders

Jayden March

Caroline Byrne

Terry Falconer

Michael Davies

Michelle Pogmore

Bob Ljubic

Ian Draper

Ryan Pringle

Matthew Leveson

William Tyrrell

Tori Johnson

Katrina Dawson

Courtney Topic

Mengmei Leng

Theresa Binge

Clint Starkey

and to all the other victims, their families and the cops who try to solve these cases.

The trauma ripples out.

Compassion leads to courage.

Lao Tzu

Contents

This is Not Going to be Simple

F uck you, policeman!

The voice comes through the closed front door beside which I am sheltering. Weve got a warrant, I shout back.

Fuck off! The mans voice gets louder and more violent.

Were not going anywhere. Open the door. Youre trapped in the fucking unit, stupid, I think. If you dont open the door, were going to knock it down.

Fuck youse. Go on, get fucked! he shouts.

I look across the doorway at the other detective who, like me, has his pistol drawn and his back flat against the wall. A tough unit who played reserve-grade footy and goes by the nickname Strongboy, his eyes tell me hes thinking the same as I am: This is not going to be simple.

Two other cops standing in the shadows of the stairwell are also waiting for my decision on how to play this. If only this fucking idiot would unlock the door, then I could turn, reach out and force it open. Then wed be through it and inside his place in a few seconds.

Except, we dont know who is in there with him. And we dont know if he is armed.

Just open up and talk to us, I shout.

Get fucked! he shouts again from inside the unit.

Drop the knife! Another voice.

Whats going on?

The quick sound of a gunshot.

Silence.

A woman screams.

We start kicking the door only it doesnt buckle.

With Strongboy, I shoulder-charge the door, one at a time at first, then both of us together until it breaks off its hinges and falls down flat, sending the two of us crashing into the apartment.

Inside, a mans body is lying on the floor in front of us, with a long-bladed knife beside him.

The woman is on my left, bent over, still screaming.

In front of me is a policeman, still holding his gun.

Late 1960s

M y father stands above me, forcing one of my arms back and up until it hurts, then forcing it further.

The easy thing would be to cry out.

Like every time he does this, it started off as a wrestle, the two of us grappling on the floor of our little house in North Epping, me in my pyjamas, a kid of five or six. Then he started twisting my arm behind my back until it feels as if the shoulder will pop free of its socket.

The pain makes me gasp.

Do you give up? he asks. It is a test.

No, I tell him.

Another twist.

I could beg him to stop, but Dads trying to teach me something. Something he doesnt seem to need to teach his other children. I am his first son, and he wants me to be tough, like he is. Hes teaching me to be a man because he knows that life is hard.

Give up?

Not giving up.

However much he hurts me, I wont cry out. I am as much a part of this as he is. I am not going to fail him.

He laughs and lets me go. Ive passed the test. The pain subsides.

I look at him.

My dad, Kevin, can hold a rooms attention. Sometimes it seems as if hes too large for any room to hold him. A tradie, Dad is working his way up and will one day retire as General Manager of the New South Wales Building Services Corporation, one of the last people to get to the top of the public service without formal qualifications. I want to be like him myself when I am older.

When hes at work, I know that Dad is smart, decent, a leader. When hes at home, hes different. If hes cranky then the house is full of tension, but if hes happy the whole house relaxes. During the summer evenings, he sits outside by the barbecue with men from work or with our neighbours late into the evening, playing cards and laughing. As kids, we dont understand what getting drunk is, but they seem to be happy and we like it when he smiles.

There are fun times, when Dad leads the athletics competitions at our birthday parties, leaping over lounges and hitting the walls, or when he pours so much petrol on the bonfire at Cracker Night that we all run, screaming, at the explosion.

Other times I think I shouldnt have to take this.

My father is a bully. You can dress it up, say that hes a hard man or whatever, or that its just the way men are. But Ive seen him control his temper when he wants to. He chooses to let it control him at home.

At home, I am often in trouble. Im the kid whos crying in the corner, unable to get what he wants but too proud to back down. Men dont cry, Dad says, leaning down and holding my shoulders with his big hands, his face close to mine. The way I understand it, hes telling me: You dont show weakness.

Sometimes, he also hits me. I think its more out of temper than chastisement. There is never a closed fist, he never knocks my teeth out. It is a slap, or hell grab me and throw me around.

Sometimes, he takes the feather duster to me, whipping me with the hard, wooden handle. One day, when Im six or seven, were having lunch in the backyard and I think about that feather duster. I decide to throw it on the barbecue.

My dad sees what Im doing and warns me, I dare you. I throw it right into the flames and watch it burn with satisfaction. It is gone.

He stands above me, suddenly enormous. Hes angry, but to my surprise I realise hes also proud of my rebellion. Dad laughs. Its confusing.

I think my father is a decent person, despite all his anger.

Born in 1936, so long ago I cant imagine what the world was like then, and the youngest of four, he was called Tiny by the rest of his family. His lost his mum when he was eight, not much older than I am when I destroy the feather duster. His elder sister married and started her own family when he was in his early teens, leaving Dad with just his brothers and his father. The three boys stole the few clean clothes that they had from each other.

My only memory of Dads father is from the hospital before he died. Dad was a young man then himself. He told me about how hard his father found it, bringing up four children on his own.

One time, his father refused to let him in the house. Another, his father shot at him through the closed front door but missed.

Maybe Dad wants to make sure Im better able to deal with what life is going to throw at me than he was. He didnt have a mother to teach him how to deal with his emotions, and so I like to think that when he grew up and thought, What can I give my son?, the only answer he came up with was to teach me toughness.

I know that he loves me, but neither of us ever says I love you to the other. Instead, I learn my lessons. Dont show weakness. Swallow your anger and resentment. Let them burn inside you.

So when he asks me: Do you give up? I reply, Not giving up.

Not giving up, no matter how much it hurts.

Early 1984

T wo policemen run past as Im having lunch with my girlfriend Debbie on the grass in Ryde Park, in Sydneys northwest suburbs. Theyre chasing someone down the main road towards the local shopping centre.

That looks good, I say to Debbie. She looks at me and frowns, but cant see what Im thinking.