Knight consistently claimed that during the time of the shooting he genuinely believed he was in a war zone engaging the enemy. Having established this in his mind, it then followed that he should do all that he could as a soldier to defend both queen and country. It was his sworn duty. He headed out to Clifton Hill and began firing on cars, which he claimed he believed were armoured tanks leading the invasion. For that one night, he was truly at war, claiming that after the first shot, as a consequence of his training, he had lapsed into combat mode, oblivious to the fact that his private war was being waged on a Sunday night in a quiet inner-city suburb of Melbourne.
Later, during interviews, he eagerly drew a map of the Clifton Hill area to demonstrate his command of strategy. His map focused in particular on the trail he followed while firing at, and evading, the enemy.
Knight was very familiar with the terrain. He had spent many of his adolescent hours exploring the nearby Merri Creek area and the adjoining nooks and crannies surrounding the local railway line, which was dissected by the Ramsden Street level crossing approximately one block from the family home. It was clear from the outset that Knight had the strategic advantage so essential to a successful military outcome.
When Knight narrated his recollection of events, themes of war and destruction were enunciated in chilling detail. He appeared to retain a detailed recall of the sequence of events following his first shot.
‘I had the M14 over my back, the semi-auto in one hand and the shotty in the other. I started shooting at the cars with the .22,’ Knight reported. ‘As soon as I fired the first shot, I couldn’t reload the magazines fast enough. I was really excited, like in a dream. I was aiming at the passengers like pop-up targets, dark silhouetted figures.’
The rounds in the semi-automatic rifle were hastily dispatched. Then followed the twenty-five rounds in the twelve-gauge, in comparison a cumbersome weapon, taking longer to empty. The carbine housed twenty rounds. True to his training, Knight would only fire off a half-magazine of ten before reloading.
He felt he had to shoot all the vehicles that went past. He described a litany of horror including a vivid account of firing at a car which, in the confusion, had stopped directly in front of him. ‘I fired at the windscreen and the side window. A silhouette jerked backwards.’
Shortly afterwards, he fired upon a group of three people huddled for protection behind a few halted cars near a pedestrian crossing. After hearing one of them scream ‘get down!’, he took refuge behind a tree before opening fire again. By this time he had abandoned the shotgun and was shooting with the carbine rifle. His first target was a pedestrian, who immediately fell to the ground. Consistent with his dissociated state, Knight described the victim as ‘a faceless mannequin with a plastic appearance’.
By now, the police were returning his fire. He described ‘another mannequin-like figure’ which he started firing at. But his line of fire was confused. A fog of smoke spewing forth from the weaponry hampered his vision. He decamped to another vantage point behind a rock before dropping a motorcyclist.
His memory was clear: ‘I saw a motorcycle. I aimed and fired . . . it curved off to the right and crashed. The rider was on the road and moaning. I fired and fired again.’
Knight then headed for the railway track, ducking and weaving between the trees. At some point a police helicopter hovered overhead. Knight claimed to believe it was trying to dispatch paratroopers to attack him and he successfully managed to disengage it with a direct hit from one of his firearms.
The atmosphere by then was one of panic and confusion, with Knight discharging rounds at the police when the opportunity presented itself. Inwardly he sensed that the endgame was approaching. His ammo was close to depletion apart from one round which he claimed he had kept for himself.
He eventually backed across the railway and headed for a nearby crescent. His last ten rounds were pumped off at a police van before he stood up from a position just behind a fence, believing at that instant that he would be killed in a volley of bullets. As it eventuated the last round was not discharged and he meekly surrendered to the police when he was discovered.
It was clear to me that Knight’s evil behaviour represented a desperate attempt to purge his anger. By any interpretation, he had been badly treated at Duntroon and it seemed that he was desperate to settle the score with the society he believed had unjustly wronged him. Consistent with the notion of catharsis, Knight seemed remarkably calm when discussing the deaths and the injuries to the survivors. He was also pathologically detached while articulating, with proud military awe, the power of the weapons he used, with their mind-blowing capacity to disintegrate flesh and bone at the moment of impact. He was even drawn into some self-congratulatory praise for his marksmanship, considering he was semi-drunk.
To this day I continue to be haunted by the power of the forensic photos. Happy families were transformed and forever damaged by the sight of loved ones who, in an instant, had been reduced to lumps of shredded meat plastered around the interior of the family car. The photographs were nauseating in their detail.
And yet, Knight was not insane. We seem to be far more forgiving of the truly mad, for their actions are beyond their control. Acts of God, like an earthquake or a tidal wave, are inevitable. Knight, however, had no such defence available to him. He knew what he was doing at the time and, in addition, clearly revelled in the consequence of his actions.
How had it come to this? It was apparent from his developmental history that his rage had been brewing for years. The separation of his adoptive parents during his late adolescence was clearly relevant, but in itself could not possibly be considered a plausible reason for such mayhem. Knight attempted to lay the blame squarely at the feet of the military. Certainly there was no argument that he had been grossly affected by his brief but very unhappy time at Duntroon. The repeated acts of bastardisation which he described could explain some of his rage. So, too, could the loss of his dream of a life of glory as a soldier. But none of this could adequately account for the intensity of his rage. I came to believe that the themes of rejection which he had experienced throughout his life held the key as to why he did it. The insights of this analysis did not reveal themselves to me until many years later, after much reflection.
I ultimately came to the conclusion, as reflected in my report, that Knight was not insane. My assessment also indicated that he was a highly intelligent person.
In the end, a consensus of psychiatric and psychological opinion was of a similar mind. As such, there was no possible defence for his crimes available to him. He ultimately pleaded guilty to the murder of seven people in addition to the attempted murder of, and the causing of serious injury to, many others. His decision to plead guilty to the charges provided some glimmer of hope that he had developed a modicum of insight to the immense pain that his actions caused. Hopefully in the future he may acquire some remorse.
*
My involvement in Hoddle Street represented a watershed in my professional and spiritual development. The case was unquestionably responsible for my rapid rise within the profession and the mushrooming of my practice. In the end, I was not called to testify at Knight’s plea, partly due to my scathing criticisms of the Royal Australian Army, which others thought it would not be prudent to have aired in open court.
By the time of Hoddle Street, I had worked in the ‘industry’ for nine years almost to the day. Although to some this was a comparatively brief period, I had been exposed on nearly a daily basis to those murderous and bloody impulses which free-range within our unconscious mind. I had deluded myself that, unlike others, I was immune to it all. ‘Burnout’ was a wimp’s complaint. Consistent with my immature posturing, I had believed that I could resist the stark reality of the dark shadowy figure which potentially lurks within us all. What I had failed to recognise was the insidious process of a gradual rotting of the soul. People involved in stressful occupations frequently fail to realise that they are in trouble until e
verything gives way after years of undetected decay.
Although I did not appreciate it at the time, the massacre had a profound effect on me, due to my close association with Knight. Over time I began to experience some of the symptoms of a post-traumatic stress disorder.
Sue repeatedly told me that I was losing the plot and was too involved in the case. On more than one occasion, she claimed that I was changing from a considerate and sensitive individual into a hardened cynic. After a period of denial, I came to realise the truth in her words.
It was not until I began to assess and counsel some of the survivors of the Hoddle Street massacre that I realised I was suffering from many of the symptoms they were recounting, due to my exposure to the offender and the abundance of forensic material which had crossed my desk.
Like my patients, my sleep had become restless. My own sense of the natural orderliness and goodness of the world, and the attendant security which this belief allows, had been significantly challenged. I was spiralling, without insight, into depression and I was increasingly self-medicating with wine, which helped me numb the graphic images of the deceased.
These had included glossy colour photographs of cadavers. Some showed, in sickening detail, the deceased on the autopsy table. Images of bodies without stomachs, contorted heads without faces and wide-angle shots of Hoddle Street, which resembled a war zone, ultimately proved to be too much for my soul to bear. I was brutally confronted with my own vulnerability and realised for the first time in my life how fragile the tenets which enable society to live in a civilised manner really are. I was also forced to confront my own mortality.
I was confronted with a clear choice: continue in the specialty of forensic psychology and learn and profit from the experience, or branch out into an even more esoteric (though less confronting) area such as ‘pet therapy’. Perhaps foolishly, I opted to continue with my chosen path.
BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO
My work on the Hoddle Street case had a profound effect on my marriage. I became unreachable, the result of my full-on involvement with the assessment process and my increasing reliance on alcohol at the end of the day.
Earlier in the year, I had worried that Jesse would feel displaced by Tom’s arrival and both Sue and I had done our best to ensure she continued to feel secure and special. The real issue, however, was that Sue was beginning to feel less secure with me and, as a consequence of my warped professional priorities, less than special.
By the time of Tom’s birth, my profile in Melbourne was growing, as was my ego. I was increasingly in demand for high-profile cases and all too willing to oblige. Although I did not see it at the time, I had lost my perspective. The prescient warnings of my close friends that I would lose my sensitivity when I took on the Parramatta Gaol job were becoming a reality. As a consequence of my surging workflow, I was able to leave my job at Phillip Institute. It would have been sensible to use the freed time in the evenings at home, supporting my wife and two young kids, like normal blokes did. Instead, I went out with lawyers – dining, wining and coming home late, full of piss and bad manners. I justified my behaviour by rationalising it was good for business. It may have been, but it was catastrophic for my marriage and devastatingly unfair on my family.
I was drowning in a sea of selfish delusion which was further fuelled by working with Julian Knight.
Apart from the big cases, I was becoming increasingly involved in other business ventures with David Sime. Arising from our pioneering work in dealing with the sharp end of trauma debriefing, we were invited to give joint papers at international conferences. These included an address to a combined sitting of the British and Australian Colleges of Psychiatry in London and then Bristol in 1988. I was torn. It was a great honour to be invited. However, I knew my real responsibility lay with my family. My ego, however, prevailed and I agreed to travel to the UK, via LA where I reasoned we may have opportunities to set up a debriefing company. Sue pleaded with me to remain in Australia, but I could not be dissuaded.
During my week in the US, I had meetings with the head of HR for the Bank of America as well as Texaco Oil. They were enamoured with our methodology and I believed we had a real chance of establishing a beachhead in North America. Sue, however, was nonplussed: ‘Just come home, Tim.’ Her tone was becoming less tolerant and more insistent. I was tone deaf to the nuance.
By the time I returned to Melbourne several weeks later, it was clear there had been a marked shift in the dynamic of our relationship. This was not helped by my developing relationship with Carla.
My involvement with Carla had started innocently enough. It was early 1983 and I was by that stage becoming well established. The phone at my Victoria Parade office would busily chirp throughout the day and it was time to employ a PA. I also needed someone who could take on the role of counsellor under my supervision. Carla had been highly recommended by a fellow psychologist. A post-graduate from Melbourne University, with 1st class honours, she had come within three marks of topping her year. Smarter than the average bear, I mused. I was optimistic she could manage the unusual natures of my client base.
I eventually located her through her very Dutch mother, whom, while commenting that I had a nice voice, had nonetheless refused to disclose her number. Carla made contact with me. An interview was hastily arranged and the job, involving several hours per week, was hers. I was immediately impressed by her clear thinking, reliability and organisational skills. I felt very comfortable in passing over clients to her and the feedback was consistently positive.
Carla eventually secured a highly sought-after position as a clinical psychologist with the Outer Eastern Community Mental Health Service. After honing her skills, she was placed at the Maroondah Hospital Psychiatric Unit.
Although I saw very little of her once she gained full-time government work, our friendship prevailed. We would occasionally meet for lunch, primarily to discuss work. She was highly skilled and ambitious. I enjoyed her company, although romance was not on my mind. In any event, I was married.
In retrospect, I lacked the maturity and life skills to negotiate both my ascending success and family life. I was also drinking way too much. Long lunches, long days, long dinners, all took a toll. The typical bloke’s excuse. I found myself feeling isolated and misunderstood. I began spending more time with Carla, rationalising my behaviour that it was ‘all to do with work’. In reality, however, I was too engrossed in stoking my ego to recognise the increasing sadness I was causing Sue and our two young children. Both Carla and I should have known better. In our respective ways, we were driven by selfishness.
Notwithstanding my long hours and absence from the home, Sue, stoic as ever, was a saint. She rarely complained and did an amazing job with the kids. To my continuing shame, I neglected her.
Eventually Sue declared she’d had enough. And who could blame her. I was an absent father with a runaway ego. It was clear that despite all the promise of our shared history, we had drifted so far apart there was no chance of return.
Hindsight can be a wonderful thing. It is, however, a two-edged sword. I should have been a better husband and father. I failed my family. I was dishonest to myself and others about my emotions. At times the guilt crippled me. My solution was to work even harder, eventually drawing me into the arms of Carla.
By the time Carla and I became ‘involved’, my marriage with Sue was beyond repair. Within months of that fateful overseas trip I had taken with David Sime, Sue and I had separated.
There was the usual post-separation acrimony: property, seeing the kids, dealing with manipulative lawyers . . . however, above it all, we maintained our dignity. Sue could quite justifiably have returned to Sydney. To her credit, she chose to remain in Melbourne. She placed the needs of Jesse and Tom to have a relationship with me, above her own.
Because of this rude awakening, I resolved to become more involved as a father. The US plans, tantalising as they had seemed, were scuttled. The breakdown in our marriage had
a huge effect on our broader family. My mother, in particular, though always dignified, could not accept the sad reality. David flew to Sydney with me in attempt to reassure her and my father. The visit was a disaster, fuelled by too much booze and insufficient insight on my behalf. Although with time the landscape settled, my mother dropped dead from a stroke ten months later. The doctors reassured me it was not my fault, but my guilt could not be assuaged. Although he never said it, I was convinced my father, at some level, held me responsible.
Sue, despite her anger and pain, at no stage interfered with my contact with Jesse and Tom.
I was desperate to make amends and, to this end, we negotiated liberal access. I would come to the house every evening and play with them in addition to them staying with me mid-week for an evening as well as alternate weekends. When Sue returned to the workforce, this increased to every Saturday morning.
Sue never criticised me in front of the children and did double contortions to enable regular contact. Through communication and respect, with an absence of well poisoning, it worked.
Dancing with Demons Page 9