Dancing with Demons

by Tim Watson-Munro

  I firmly believe that some of the men and women I have assessed are purely evil. They were born that way and they have no redeeming features. They deserve to be in jail and, in my view, should never be released.

  These individuals are psychopaths. They have no empathy, no remorse, no insight and, given the opportunity, will reoffend. They are not interested in therapy, they are typically motivated by greed and continue their evil ways in prison. Their prognosis is beyond bleak. I am referring here to hit men, serial paedophiles, large commercial drug importers, sex trade traffickers and a host of other repugnant categories of criminal.

  I have written reports about these individuals stating that they should remain in jail. Those reports never see the light of day, however, because my exclusive client base for much of my career has been defence attorneys who are understandably not interested in producing a report which damns their client to years of penal servitude.

  History is replete with examples of pure evil – Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini. In more recent times, the atrocities of Rwanda, the murderous Pol Pot regime, Saddam Hussein and ISIS all tick the boxes.

  When it comes to garden-variety crooks, however, in my view pure evil is mercifully rare. Of those I have dealt with, there are common themes of superior intelligence, lateral and at times gifted creativity, as well as a ruthless drive to win at any cost, even if it means killing witnesses or accomplices.

  When I worked at Parramatta Gaol, I was surrounded by end-of-the-line psychopaths. Johnny Cribb was one of them. Convicted of three counts of murder, three counts of kidnapping, as well false imprisonment and a raft of other serious crimes, his tale of evil still chills my spine. Shortly after I commenced work at Parramatta, Cribb was on parole and broke into a Western Suburbs home, abducting a young mother and her two young children. Their bodies were discovered days later, stuffed into a car boot. Evidence revealed he had raped the mother in front of the children before murdering them in front of her. He killed all three with a knife taken from the family home. Cribb ended up at Parramatta. He was universally loathed by the crooks and the screws. His crimes breached all the codes. It was a real-life horror story. He was kept in solitary confinement as the authorities recognised that he would last mere minutes if he was released into the mainstream prison community.

  About a year after I commenced at the jail, the superintendent, Harry Duff, called me. ‘The fuck’n dog wants to see you, Tim . . . Do you want protection? You can only see him in his cell.’

  I was young and fearless back then. ‘Thanks, mate, I don’t think there will be any problems.’

  I shudder now at my cavalier attitude.

  And so I went into the den of evil to converse with this satanic reincarnate.

  ‘What can I do for you, Johnny?’ My demeanour was icy, yet professional.

  ‘It’s your eyes, mate,’ he retorted, ‘they freak me out.’

  Where to from here? Thinking on my feet, I responded. ‘You’re freaked out, mate. What about your eyes? . . . People in here are terrified.’

  It was a risky approach, but it diffused his paranoia and provided him with a sense of control.

  The tension dissipated and, after a brief chat, I left his cell.

  I never saw him again.

  Cribb and another notorious, evil psychopath, Billy Munday, convinced the mental health authorities that they were mad. They were consequently transferred to the Morisset Psychiatric Hospital, where they were lodged in a section for the criminally insane. I had assessed Munday in Parramatta; he was far from insane. Rather, he was a cruel, calculating rapist who was convicted to fifty-eight years with no parole.

  Both men escaped from Morisset and, before their recapture in Bondi, had abducted two teenage girls, raped them repeatedly and held them hostage for nearly two days.

  As a final demonstration of the power of evil, Cribb was befriended by a nun. She had felt sorry for him and with the liberal exchange of letters allowed at the time, she fell under his satanic spell.

  Harry Duff called me to his office one morning to show me a recent letter from the nun which had been intercepted. Its content was pornographic, describing in lurid detail how she was going to fellate Cribb ‘until your eyes pop out’ during a planned contact visit.

  ‘What are you planning to do?’ I casually enquired, fully expecting that the visit would be cancelled.

  ‘Nothing, Tim,’ Harry chuckled. ‘Let’s see what pops out.’

  The visit occurred later that day. The officers were on standby with strict orders that if the nun’s head disappeared from view in the cubicle, they were to act.

  And they did, bursting in during the final moments of the vinegar run.

  Harry was keen to debrief. ‘It was a terrible mess in there, Tim.’

  Cribb was banned from future contact visits and God only knows what happened to the nun.

  It may surprise some to read that despite the horror associated with the Hoddle Street massacre, I do not consider Julian Knight to be purely evil. When I re-examined him a couple of years ago, he expressed remorse for his actions. When I first met him in 1987, he was a bewildered teenage boy who had committed the worst mass murder in Australian history at the time. His actions were extraordinarily evil, but the boy I met was not. He was angry, misguided and, at the time, heavily intoxicated. Knight clearly was carrying a heavy emotional burden. He was suffering unresolved rage and had nowhere to dump it. His behaviour indicated an escalating psychological malaise, which regrettably had not been detected or treated when he was placed in the army hospital following The Bin nightclub episode. It would seem that the confluence of his car breaking down, the presence of firearms in his mother’s home and the rejection of his associates all contributed to his actions on the night in question – what unfolded was the reaction of a psychologically fragile mind to a compounding series of small but distressing events, rather than the manifestation of any inherent evil.

  In contrast, the offenders responsible for the brutal murder and rape of Anita Cobby in the ’80s were purely evil. I should know, they were lodged at Parramatta Gaol when I worked there.

  *

  Many of those I examine who find themselves before the court are there not because of evil intent but rather due to the conflation of mental disorders, an absence of treatment at critical times in their development, poor parenting, woeful social skills and rapacious substance abuse.

  When I commenced my career in 1978, these fundamental dynamics were no different except the substances were generally alcohol with the older crooks and heroin rather than ice with the younger ones.

  In the wrong place at the wrong time, caught up with the wrong crowd, depressed, anxious, rejected and vulnerable. There for the grace of God goes many of us. Given the wrong mix of these ingredients, I believe there is always the potential to break the law.

  The critical debate has always centred around ‘nature versus nurture’. Are we doomed because of our genetic composition or, even with a bad stack of cards, can the right environment lessen the odds of these genes being activated? Yes and no, is the answer. In some cases, clients who have been raised in deprived, emotionally impoverished homes, exposed to shocking developmental trauma, overseen by chronically intoxicated, abusive psychopathic parents, have nonetheless overcome the odds and, with treatment, become productive, social citizens. They have seized the opportunity for change when it has been offered. Others, no matter how many opportunities they are given, no matter how much support, continue with their misguided ways.

  There is no doubt that the bruising impact of drugs has the potential to rewire the brain and, consequently, impulse control, anger management, judgement and behaviour. In other words, some drugs, such as ice, can reduce the user to a person who is driven by primal urges, devoid of reason and oblivious to consequences. Therein lies the potential for evil behaviour. And sadly, this seems to be increasingly apparent in the community. Random acts of violence, including murder, committed by otherwise seemingly normal peop
le who led productive lives until their free will was surrendered to their addiction. I can recount hundreds of examples of this process in the individuals I have assessed, particularly over the last decade. And when they eventually detoxify in the bleak light of day in a police cell, or as a scheduled patient in a psychiatric ward, they are generally horrified by revelations of their actions and the charges they face. Criminal acts with inevitably lengthy terms of imprisonment certainly have a sobering impact. These people are not evil, but rather through a process of osmosis, through their exposure to the underbelly of the human psyche, compounded by drugs and the combination of alcohol, they perform evil acts.

  This process is not confined to the criminal justice system. I have also encountered evil people who occupy the boardrooms of successful public companies. They ply their destructive skills with the same non-empathetic, ruthless approach as the worst crooks I have examined. In recent years, my practice has moved beyond exclusive criminal work. I am increasingly assessing and assisting victims of workplace bullying. Hard-working, dedicated employees whose lives are reduced to chronic anxiety, destroyed self-esteem and unemployment as a consequence of a sociopathic boss.

  While not breaking the law, these workplace sociopaths are driven by power, lust, greed and a desire to succeed at any price. Lies and ‘alternate facts’ are the bread and butter of their daily interactions with others.

  I have encountered evil in all walks of life. Does it keep me awake at night? Certainly, on occasions it has and does. But I have also been blessed with the love and understanding of a wonderful family, which over many decades has served to keep my feelings in check

  BETRAYAL

  When Andrew Fraser was arrested in September 1999, he spent over twelve hours with the Victorian Drug Squad, giving them information. Based on his misleading information, the drug squad were preparing to raid my home at Hawthorn. They knew it well because for a good month beforehand undercover operatives in government-issue Holden Commodores had been sitting across the road monitoring my movements.

  At the time, I was oblivious to their presence.

  No doubt, they were sorely disappointed by the results of their surveillance. It was just me struggling to my office, getting through the day and organising my coke for the night. That was it.

  Ironically, as it eventuated, the drug squad detectives involved were drug dealers. The depth of their betrayal of the oath of office was revealed months later when Detective Sergeant Malcolm Rosenes was busted while concluding a drug transaction at night in a Caulfield park. The boys who had sworn to ‘uphold the right’ were upended. Their modus operandi was brilliant in its simplicity: persuade the government to pay for the drugs, which were used to entrap unwitting crooks, and then onsell the produce while pocketing the profit.

  Rosenes was charged with conspiracy to traffic cannabis resin (three charges); traffic cannabis resin (two charges); traffic cocaine (six charges); conspiracy to traffic cocaine (five charges); conspiracy to traffic amphetamine; traffic ecstasy; theft; conspiracy to steal; possess ecstasy; and possess cocaine.

  Detective Senior Sergeant Wayne Strawhorn was charged with conspiracy to traffic pseudoephedrine (two charges); traffic pseudoephedrine; theft; and threats to kill (three charges).

  Senior Detective Stephen Paton was charged with conspiracy to traffic pseudoephedrine (two charges); traffic pseudoephedrine; theft; and threats to kill (three charges).

  All of these individuals were senior and longstanding members of the now disbanded Victorian Drug Squad. Their criminality was far worse than Fraser’s. Unlike the hapless lawyer, whose brain had been severely compromised by his addiction, the detectives had no such excuse. Their scheme was well orchestrated and implemented over a period of time. It involved substantial profit. Fraser went to jail as a consequence of being knowingly concerned with a drug importation. A one-off event.

  As a further demonstration of the hatred of the bench towards Fraser, beyond the seven years he received, he was given a further three months for the possession of one ecstasy tablet. His sentence was more crushing than those who arrested him. And to top it all – unlike Fraser who did not make a razoo, lost his profession, and livelihood – the cops kept their pensions.

  After his release, Fraser, on his own and with few other options, penned a tome, Court in the Middle, a fanciful account of his career and my involvement with his life.

  Reflecting the poor insight described by his sentencing judge, Fraser went to great lengths to obfuscate his guilt by shifting the blame for his downfall onto others. It was all a big mistake, he said. All this despite the fact that, in the end, he pleaded guilty as charged.

  Other books followed. In a dazzling display of poor originality, one of them was titled Snouts in the Trough. It created a storm within Victoria’s legal and government circles. Never let principles or pride get in the way of a meagre profit.

  Fraser’s implacable need for attention and a buck didn’t diminish in the slammer. Forever with an eye on the next opportunity, he surfaced some years into his sentence as a witness for the Crown.

  The cops had been trying to crack an unsolved murder of a woman in a graveyard. By their account, the modus operandi pointed to serial killer Peter Dupas but, sadly, there was insufficient evidence. Enter Andrew Fraser, whom of all the souls in the universe, Dupas had decided to confess to. In the ensuing trial, Fraser, consistent with the pantomime that had consumed his life, re-enacted the murder scene, including the stabbing of the victim. While there was great scepticism among some in the legal community, his performance proved convincing and Dupas was convicted. As an aside, Fraser collected a percentage of the one million dollar reward and was released ahead of his parole date.

  Reality and delusion were frequently blurred in Fraser’s mind. A miniseries about his life, Killing Time, hit the airwaves. A gritty romanticised account, it often blurred the line between fact and delusion. As with his first work, Court in the Middle, Fraser tried to bring me down with an inaccurate, and at times, highly dishonest portrayal of my work and me.

  Fraser, too, was not without enemies. Some years after his incarceration, one of his disenchanted, still-to-be-paid lawyers attended my Melbourne office to deliver a brief. The conversation inevitably turned to his former client.

  ‘He still doesn’t get it, mate,’ he cautiously volunteered. ‘He blames everyone else . . . you know, he was desperate in the end, he travelled to Canberra and gave the AFP sixty names in an attempt to save his skin.’

  He concluded, ‘They weren’t interested, it was too little, too late.’

  I wasn’t surprised. I had firsthand experience of Fraser’s duplicity. But, by then, I had let the past go.

  Others hadn’t.

  A seriously heavy crook contacted me seeking an urgent appointment just prior to his incarceration. He had been a client of Fraser’s.

  I sensed the brittle nature of the man’s request and organised to see him that afternoon.

  In the intervening hours, he had visited the pub. By the time of his arrival he was full of piss and bad manners.

  Behind the slurs and belches I felt the venom in his tone. Not directed my way, but rather towards Fraser.

  ‘I can’t let it go, Doc,’ he slobbered. ‘I know where the dog lives. He swims most days. I’m waiting for the right time. He ripped me off for plenty, I’m going to settle the score.’

  At that point, he produced a wicker basket, the type my nana used to cart her shopping with in days of old. With fumbling, quivering hands, he reached for its content, snuggled deeply under some cloth. ‘See this?’

  Even for a hardened campaigner like me, his tone was menacing.

  He unravelled an old-fashioned cake tin. The type used in the ’50s to convey a freshly baked sponge to the local fete. It’s colourful, decorative enamel coating belied his sinister intent.

  ‘When I leave here, I’m going down to his joint and I’m gunna knock him. And then, I’m gunna bring the fuck’n head back to you
in this fuck’n tin.’ He hooted, nearly falling off his chair in uncontrollable, buoyant elation.

  I realised, to my relief, that it was a gag.

  Not long before there had been a salacious headline, suggesting there was a $20,000 contract placed on Fraser’s head. They were very dark times and the tone was edgy.

  I can also not overstate the positive power of forgiveness. For many years (indeed at least sixteen), I had been full of anger about how I was dealt with and, in particular, by Fraser. I have let it go. We were both immersed in a cauldron of crap that was way beyond our control, particularly given my impaired judgement and emotion within our respective addictions.

  Andrew, in my view, you were harshly dealt with and it remains a source of considerable outrage that those who set you up, arrested you and sent you to jail received a lesser sentence than you, and retained their superannuation. At this time in my life, I understand that life is too short to ruminate about the past beyond learning from the experience. It’s time to move forward.

  UNCOUPLED

  The end of my marriage to Carla was dramatic and sudden.

  During what I refer to as the boom days, we had enjoyed a number of overseas trips with our children. It was my way of sharing the fruits of my success. Above all else, family has been my lifeblood. When I had spare time, I simply refused to go anywhere without them.

  When my third eldest, Gabby, was enjoying an exchange scholarship at UCLA we travelled to the US for a visit. In order to give the kids some exposure to another culture and language, we also took in Mexico. We stayed in the port city of Acapulco, which was in the middle of a battle between rival drug cartels. The city was edgy and hard. We were constantly on our guard and I was relieved to get out of town in exchange for the more predictable excitement of Christmas Eve at Santa Monica beach.