Who Killed Scott Guy?

by Mike White

  Who Killed

  Scott Guy?

  The case that gripped a nation

  MIKE WHITE

  Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this book are those of the author or of other persons and are not those of the publisher: the publisher has no reasonable cause to believe that the opinions set out in the book are not the genuine opinions of the author or of those other persons.

  First published in 2013

  Copyright © Bauer Media Group (NZ) LP 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Allen & Unwin

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  Auckland 1010, New Zealand

  Phone: (64 9) 377 3800

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065, Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A catalogue record for this book is available

  from the National Library of New Zealand

  ISBN 978 1 877505 34 8

  eISBN 978 1 74343 499 4

  Internal design and map by Darian Causby

  Set in 11.5/17.5 pt Sabon by Post Pre-press Group, Australia

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  1 The murder

  2 The investigation begins

  3 Dark deeds and dead ends

  4 A suspect emerges

  5 King at court

  6 Preparing the defence

  7 Hurdles and hindrance

  8 The trial begins

  9 Simon Asplin—witness or suspect?

  10 Who said shot?

  11 About time

  12 Suspects and puppies

  13 The mystery notes

  14 Kylee and Anna—tragedy and tears

  15 Dive boots—the riddle of the wavy lines

  16 Closing time

  17 Greg King—a courtroom masterclass

  18 Facts or fantasy

  19 The verdict

  20 The aftermath

  21 Leaps of logic

  22 Sentencing

  23 The future

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  INTRODUCTION

  Many of you already know how this story ends.

  The story of Scott Guy, his murder and the trial of his brother-in-law has been endlessly discussed and dissected in New Zealand and has quickly become part of the country’s crime lore. That happens with some cases—the ones that grab the public, who then won’t let them go, like a dog latching on to a favourite stick.

  In New Zealand there have been ten cases, perhaps a dozen, that still spark immediate recognition and reaction when mentioned: the likes of Arthur Allan Thomas, David Bain, Scott Watson, David Tamihere, Mark Lundy, Rex Haig, John Barlow, Chris Kahui, Peter Ellis. All bar Ellis were murders. All have fascinated and gripped the country in a strange mix of honest sympathy, discomforting prurience and whodunit mystery solving. All have remained extremely controversial.

  To this sad and notorious list we’ve now added Scott Guy. Except, unlike the others mentioned, Scott Guy wasn’t the person accused of the crime—he was the victim. But more often than not we refer to this as the Scott Guy case, perhaps because his own story resonated so strongly with us. A young, well-liked, good-looking guy, a salt-of-the-earth farmer, a new dad with another son due in two months, a decent bloke—shot at his gate for no conceivable reason. His bright eyes and half-smile beneath the brim of a cowboy hat became part of our daily viewing on TV and in newspapers.

  His death enthralled us, partly because it was so inexplicable, but also because for months nobody was caught and arrested—nobody even stood out as a suspect. When police did finally accuse someone, public attention only increased. Because the person who they claimed killed Scott Guy was his brother-in-law, Ewen Macdonald, the man who’d asked Scott to be his best man, the man who’d worked side by side with him on their farm in Feilding, near Palmerston North in the North Island, the man who’d carried Scott’s coffin from the church and sombrely visited his grave afterwards.

  There’s no point dressing it up—this case had all the elements: rivalry, romance, revenge, shots in the night, bloody murder, mystery notes, cute puppies, beautiful wives, bereft children. So the media swarmed, the public devoured every development, the gossips had a field day. By the time the case got to court in June 2012, it seemed to overshadow all other news. And for more than four weeks New Zealanders heard the detail and drama, reported breathlessly and instantly, night after night, headline after headline.

  At the end of it, when the 11-strong jury knocked on the courtroom door and said they’d reached a verdict, we all felt knowledgeable and satisfied that our opinions were founded on fact. After all, we’d heard so much about it, knew the list of protagonists by heart and had stared into the eyes of Ewen Macdonald through our TV screens. We knew the case, we knew him.

  The reality is, though, most of us knew very little, despite what we thought. Consider this. Each day the jury heard more than five hours of evidence and argument. Each night the public saw about three minutes summarising the day’s events in court. Each day about 70 pages of transcript were produced from proceedings. Each morning you got to read 400–500 words of that. If that doesn’t convince you that only a fraction of the case was ever reported or revealed, then also think about this. Prior to the trial, the police and prosecution handed over close to 60,000 pages of evidence to Macdonald’s lawyers. Some of this was covered or alluded to in the trial but a great deal wasn’t. Some of it was routine, some of it irrelevant, but much of it provided crucial background and context in a complex case.

  To the outsider, the case seemed so obvious, so logical. Ewen Macdonald was an aggrieved and angry man who secretly hated his brother-in-law and business partner, Scott Guy. While on the surface a hardworking husband and father of four, Macdonald had an alter ego and alternative life of violence and retribution. And violence of a kind that most people could never understand—wild and frightening violence: burning down houses, smashing property with an axe, killing calves with a single hammer blow. So when he began to have concerns about the farm’s future and Scott pushing him aside, he took the simplest step to solve the problem—he killed Scott, gunning him down in his driveway as he went to work.

  This was the premise on which the police based their charge, this was the thread of the prosecution case in court, this was the secure assumption of those who followed the trial. It seemed so straightforward. But most people’s opinions missed the minutiae of the case, the vital details, the chinks and cracks and at times chasms in the case against Macdonald.

  In court there was shock and revelation—and, afterwards, astonishment and recrimination. But to understand what happened and why it happened you need to set aside what you think you know of the case and start over again, from the beginning, from that first dark midwinter morning.

  And while even this book can’t reproduce every detail of the case, every step and slip and statement, by the end you’ll know everything the jury did—and much more.

  CHAPTER 1

  The murder

  Whoever it was knew what they were doing. Whoever shot Scott Guy early on 8 July 2010 didn’t mean to scare him or wound him or threaten him—they meant to kill him. In a case that’s attracted extraordinary controversy and conjecture, this is one certainty.

  The forensic scientist who examined Scott Guy’s body and the murder scene estimated the two blasts from the shotgun were fired from b
etween 2 and 6 metres away, most likely between 3 and 4 metres. The first shot hit him in his throat, destroying his voice box, with some pellets coming to rest in his upper chest. It tore a 13-centimetre hole in his neck. His jaw shattered as pellets passed upwards through his mouth and eye socket and into his brain. The second shot struck Scott’s face and left arm, possibly as he was falling from the first blast. The scientist suggested it was as if Scott had his left hand raised near his face when he was hit the second time.

  He collapsed on his driveway, spread-eagled on his back with his arms flung behind him. His cap, shredded by pellets, fell to his right. Blood seeped into the driveway soil, staining a large area around his head and shoulders. There was blood on his face and also down his leg.

  The killer had shot 31-year-old Scott as he headed to work early that Thursday morning, on his way to milk cows on the family dairy farm near Feilding. Scott was on the early shift, due to start about 4.50 am. Exactly when he was shot isn’t clear, but what is known is that after getting up he’d switched on his computer and checked a few websites, accessing the last site at 4.41 am.

  It’s assumed he probably finished the coffee he’d made, put his cup on the bench as he walked out to the garage where his coat and boots were, then went outside and got into his silver Hilux ute. It was about 100 metres down the driveway from his house to Aorangi Road, but when he got there his front gates were closed. Normally they stayed open all the time, except when cattle were being moved between paddocks.

  So Scott pulled up, wondering who’d bothered to shut the gates since he arrived home the night before with his wife, Kylee, and 2-year-old son, Hunter. Walking out in front of the ute, silhouetted by its headlights, he swung the right-hand gate open. It was stiff and only just cleared the driveway. The left-hand gate had dropped slightly and scraped on the gravel so had to be lifted back out of the way. He’d just done that when someone stepped out from the darkness, pointed a shotgun at him and fired.

  Only the killer knows if anything was said between them, if Scott asked what the hell was going on, if he tried to fend him off. No one knows what raced through Scott’s mind—the sheer surprise of it all, an instant of realisation of what was about to happen, a split second of panic? Maybe it all happened too fast and it was just a figure. But maybe there was recognition of a face or voice, the chance he glimpsed his killer in that moment before he was shot, lit up by the ute, someone stepping from the wings to centre stage and the spotlight. Then just a muzzle flash and nothing else.

  It’s almost certain he would have died instantly, the wound to his neck being so grave he could never have survived it. Police speculate that after firing the shots, the killer walked forward and stood over Scott, beside his head, to see if he was dead. Satisfied, the killer then turned and fled, while Scott’s blood slowly flowed into the footprints they left behind.

  For more than two hours Scott’s body lay there unnoticed, the Hilux still idling, the lights still illuminating the macrocarpa windbreak across the road like a movie projector after the film has run out.

  Just before 7 am, truck driver David Berry walked out of his house on Aorangi Road on his way to work, carting stock to the freezing works. It was still dark and, as Berry headed to his truck, he noticed the headlights of Scott’s ute shining down his driveway 300 metres away and wondered what his neighbour was up to. Berry kicked the truck’s tyres, filled in his logbook, then started up the 44-tonne Volvo and headed slowly up the road, letting the engine warm up. As he passed Scott’s drive at 293 Aorangi Road, he was momentarily blinded by the headlights but then suddenly picked out Scott’s boots on the driveway and the outline of a body. Berry slammed on his brakes so hard that tyre marks were left on the road as he skidded to a stop. Backing up as fast as he could, Berry saw Scott lying there and immediately thought he must have been knocked over when shifting stock. But as he leapt out of his truck and ran over to Scott, he saw the blood and realised it was something much more serious. Kneeling down, Berry felt for a pulse on Scott’s neck, but though his eyes were open, his skin was cold and it was clear he was dead.

  At 7.08 am Berry punched 111 into his cellphone and told the operator what had happened. ‘I need the police here, too—my neighbour has had his bloody throat cut,’ he blurted. ‘He’s just lying there cold . . . he’s dead I think . . . probably a knife by the look of it.’ The emergency operator asked if it was possible to perform CPR on Scott, but Berry replied, ‘No, he’s past that by the look of it.’

  When the operator warned him the killer could still be around, Berry leapt back into the cab of his truck and locked the door. He then rang his landlord, Bruce Johnstone, who lived 500 metres away at the end of Aorangi Road and was settled over a bowl of porridge at the time. Within minutes Johnstone had arrived on his quad bike with his partner’s son, Ashley Hislop.

  Johnstone, a deer farmer, walked to within 2 metres of Scott but could tell he was dead, with a gaping hole in his throat, his head lolling to one side, blood flowing from it. After checking with David Berry, Johnstone quickly phoned Ewen Macdonald, Scott’s brother-in-law and co-manager on the farm, who lived just down the road. Macdonald had worked on the Guy farm, Byreburn, since he left school and married Scott’s sister Anna in 2001. He and Scott ran the farm with Scott’s father, Bryan, who retained overall control. Johnstone figured Macdonald was closest and would know what to do and who to call.

  That morning, Ewen Macdonald had arrived at the farm workshop expecting to find Scott already there because it was Scott’s turn to do the early start. When he didn’t arrive, Macdonald assumed he’d slept in, something that had often happened in the past, and made a joke to farm workers Matthew Ireland and Simon Asplin: ‘Sleeping Beauty strikes again.’ At 5.03 am he sent Scott a text, ‘R u up’, and headed off to start milking with Ireland and Asplin, knowing they could cope until Scott showed up. When Scott still hadn’t arrived by 5.40 am, Macdonald rang him but there was no reply and the call went to voicemail.

  It was winter and, with only 300 cows to deal with, they’d managed without Scott. Macdonald had just washed down the shed when Johnstone rang at 7.16 am.

  ‘Ewen, is that you? Something has happened to Scotty. There’s been an accident—he’s dead, he’s dead, mate.’

  ‘What? You’re joking,’ stammered Macdonald.

  ‘You’ve got to come up here, mate,’ Johnstone replied.

  Around this time, the first two police cars arrived, driven by Senior Constable Neil Martin and Constable Leanna Smith from Feilding station, and parked on the roadside just before the driveway. Martin approached Scott and could see his eyes were open but glazed over. Bending down, he put on rubber gloves and also felt for a pulse, but there was nothing and Scott’s skin held no warmth. Smith followed him but stopped a few metres from the body. It was close enough to see his skin was white and blotchy and that he was clearly dead.

  Not long afterwards, St John paramedic Robert Hiscox arrived at the scene. A quick look at Scott, the wound to his throat and the amount of blood on the driveway confirmed nothing could be done.

  Ewen Macdonald had followed the police cars up Aorangi Road. David Berry later remembered how he’d never heard a farm bike going so fast, tyres tearing at the road. Still dressed in his milking gear of green overalls, a fleece jacket and brown gumboots, Macdonald braked to a halt beside Berry’s truck and joined the other men. Berry noticed he was distressed and shaking, his eyes streaming from speeding in the cold morning air.

  ‘I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry,’ Johnstone repeated to him.

  Macdonald could see Scott lying on the drive and began walking towards him, but was stopped 6–10 metres away by Constable Smith, who stressed it was a crime scene, so he retreated to the road. But Macdonald and Johnstone then realised that Kylee and Hunter were probably still in the house so asked the police to check on them. Aware the killer could still be in the area, Smith went to the boot of her patrol car, took out her Bushmaster M4 rifle and loaded it.

 
Senior Constable Martin headed up the driveway, Smith following with the rifle, but they had only got halfway when Kylee appeared on the front doorstep holding Hunter. Martin called out to stay where she was and when he reached her said there’d been an accident and it was serious. Kylee slumped to the ground, instinctively knowing Scott was dead. Martin helped her up and then returned to the road as Kylee and Hunter went inside.

  At 7.21 am Macdonald phoned Scott’s father, Bryan Guy, who lived in Feilding, about 6 kilometres or a five- to seven-minute drive away. Bryan was home alone at the time, on the internet; his wife Jo was taking an early swim at the local pool. The call only lasted 22 seconds, and Bryan recalled Macdonald was very distressed, almost incoherent. But the message got through—something had happened to Scott, there was something about his face, and Macdonald told him to get out there quickly. As he got close to Aorangi Road, an ambulance passed him heading in the opposite direction and Bryan thought, ‘You’re going the wrong way. We might need you.’

  In the confusion and shock that followed Macdonald’s call to him, Bryan didn’t understand where to go, so, guessing there’d been a farm accident, he raced to the milking shed in his Hilux ute with its BOSGUY number plates. Nobody was there so he went to the silage pits but again couldn’t find anyone, so eventually he headed towards Scott and Kylee’s house. About 400 metres before he got there, Bryan saw Ewen Macdonald sitting on his quad bike at the edge of Aorangi Road, waiting for him. Bryan wound down the passenger window and asked what had happened.

  ‘Someone’s killed Scott,’ Macdonald told him.

  Bryan carried on to where police tape had now been strung across the road near the driveway to keep people away from Scott’s body and the scene. Bruce Johnstone walked to meet him, said sorry, gave him a hug and told him not to go and see Scott, whose body was still lying across the driveway. Bryan could only see his son’s legs, the fence that ran alongside the road obscuring the rest of his body. Everything in him wanted to go up to Scott but police repeated it was a crime scene and he couldn’t enter. Instead, Bryan turned his attention to Kylee and got permission from police to jump the fence and cross the adjacent paddock to the house.