by Belinda Neil
It was 3.35 on the morning of 12 October and I was on routine night patrol with my partner. It was almost the end of our shift at Waverley, and we just had to make it to 7am before heading home to bed. Suddenly the police radio sounded with two beeps: ‘Urgent! All cars stand by, 10 18 in pursuit of navy Nissan Starion sedan eastbound on Oxford Street Paddington, cars to assist.’ 10 18 was the Rose Bay marked sedan. Another voice: ‘10 12 on Oxford Street now’. 10 12 was the Paddington marked sedan. I’m sure Tim from my academy class was working from Paddington that night.
Immediately I was wide awake and alert. The pursuit of a stolen vehicle, and it was heading straight for us! We switched on the lights and sirens and went speeding towards Bondi Junction. No sign of tiredness now, every nerve was tingling, and I was glad to be strapped in as we sped around corners.
‘10 18 … suspect vehicle has just done a U-turn and is heading westbound along Oxford Street, opposite Centennial Park.’ And then: ‘10 12 into a pole, ambulance required, persons trapped.’ Again two beeps from the police radio. ‘Pursuit terminated! Cars to assist 10 18 and 10 12.’
My blood went cold. Shit … that’s Tim’s car.
When we arrived at the scene I saw it. The patrol car was wrapped around a telegraph pole, bent into a V. I could see Tim’s partner, Dave, and a new buddy, Wendy – a probationary constable straight from the Academy.
Where was Tim? I looked closely at the front of the car, through the windscreen. Oh my God …
Tim, who had been driving, was now sitting close to the middle of the front console. His eyes were open but his head lolled back and blood was coursing from the top of his skull. Police cars, ambulance, fire engines, cops, ambos and firies were already there. Again, I was numb. The last thing I remember was my partner driving me away from the accident while Tim was still being taken out of the car.
Tim died in hospital from severe head, chest and spinal injuries. He had been a police officer for less than seven months. A full police funeral was held for him at the Greek Orthodox church in Kingsford. Being from the same class, I was a pallbearer, along with another girl.
I contacted Tim’s mother after the funeral to return a typewriter Tim had lent me and to pay my respects. When I arrived at their home both his parents were there and his mother took me straight into the lounge room and brought out a photo album dedicated to her son. She then asked me to come and have a look at his room. I agreed, but was finding it difficult to cope with their grief and sorrow. I was only nineteen and knew nothing about this level of anguish. The knowledge of the family’s pain stayed with me for many years, and Tim’s death would return to haunt me.
At the time I did not realise what a devastating effect these deaths had on me. I was not counselled afterwards: the police then had no formal provision for that, and whatever help was given was directed to Tim’s Paddington colleagues. Instead I did what everyone else did – I drank a lot of alcohol. One night I was out drinking until 6.30am, went home for a quick shower and was at work for a 7am shift. I was too numb to worry about being over the limit: I think I felt that, if I didn’t have long to live I would make the most of what life I had. I even told my parents not to worry if I died as I was doing a job I loved. The thought never entered my head that perhaps I should look for a new career path, that perhaps this job was too dangerous. I loved the type of work I was involved with, it was exciting, challenging, and I enjoyed the camaraderie I shared with my workmates.
CHAPTER
2
Becoming a detective
Because I worked hard I was gradually given more responsibility and even though I was only a probationary constable, I was the senior officer on many occasions. On one of these I had my first brush with a homicide.
I was working a night shift with another female probationer when I noticed a car moving erratically along Bondi Road. A man was driving with a woman passenger. I turned on lights and sirens, and the car pulled into a Caltex service station. As a standard safety measure I told the radio operator where we were. My partner and I got out of our car and approached the driver. He was a very muscular and fit man who gave his name as Joe Bloggs. I told him why he had been pulled over and asked for his driver’s licence. He gave it to me and told me that he and his girlfriend had been heading home from a party. I asked him to wait a few moments while I checked his details. As long as everything was fine with his licence, I had every intention of letting him go, provided he passed a breath test.
I returned to the police car and gave all the relevant details to the radio operator. A few minutes later he came back on and asked: ‘Is the radio secure?’ These words made me sit up and take note. It usually meant that the person had a criminal history or outstanding warrants.
The operator confirmed his licence details with me. The next words sent my mind spinning. ‘Joe Bloggs has one outstanding warrant for murder.’
Oh shit. It was early in the morning, I was still a probationary constable and we were going to arrest this man for murder. This could get very ugly.
The radio operator asked whether I needed assistance. ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ I said. Immediately other police cars called in that they would head my way, which was a relief.
Now, how to approach this? The radio could provide no further information about the arrest warrant, just that there was one. I weighed up a few options with my partner then made up my mind.
I walked up to Joe, who was starting to become agitated, formally told him about the warrant and said we needed to discuss it at the police station.
‘Can’t we sort this out tomorrow?’ he asked. I said no, because of the nature of the warrant. As his girlfriend had been drinking I offered her a lift back to the station with us, which seemed to appease him.
I was a little surprised, to say the least, that everything had gone so smoothly. I quickly advised the radio operator that all was well and we were taking two people to Waverley police station, thanking the other cars for their assistance. The other Waverley car working that night drove past us, waited, then followed us to the police station. It was nice to know we had backup if needed.
When we arrived at Waverley I asked Joe to follow me in to the dock area inside the charge room, a secure area where we put people being charged with criminal offences. This charge room is small, approximately 3m by 3.5m, not visible to the public, and the dock is about 1 x 1.5m in size and surrounded by metal bars. With Joe safely secured in the dock, I told him he was under arrest for murder. He went berserk, yelling and shouting, banging on the side of the dock area. I was thankful that we were no longer at the service station: things would have been difficult there for sure.
I rang Homicide, who told me Joe had been in a fight outside an inner-city pub. He had punched a man who fell, hit his head on the footpath and died. I told Joe that Homicide detectives would come to interview him; at that stage I think he had resigned himself to being charged. Months later one of the Homicide police told me Joe ended up pleading guilty to manslaughter.
This was my first insight into homicide investigation, and I was thankful it had gone so well. As a result I started thinking about what the future might hold for me. My work at Waverley covered all sorts of issues: from shoplifting to car accidents, break and enters in homes and businesses, robberies, prohibited drugs, missing persons, deaths, domestic violence situations, fires. I found all these things interesting, the problem being that the more interesting the job, the more likely it was that the detectives would take over. I decided fairly early that I wanted to be a detective.
After two years I was accepted to the Waverley detectives’ office, with a month’s probation to see whether I was good enough to train as an investigator. I passed, and was accepted as a plainclothes investigator. I was elated.
Two months later in May 1989 Jeremy, a former detective from our office who had joined the Drug Enforcement Agency, rang and asked whether I was interested in applying for the Undercover Unit, to replace a female operative who had left
. The Drug Enforcement Agency consisted of the Undercover Unit, the Support Unit and four task forces, each of which had specific responsibility for dealing with middle-to upper-level drug supply. I jumped at this opportunity to do something different, to pit my mind against drug dealers. It was a challenge and I loved a challenge!
Once again I showed how inexperienced I was. The only drug I had ever touched was alcohol, albeit in excess since the deaths of Tim and Dana two years earlier. I had never even smoked a cigarette except once at a party when I was sixteen, I had been so giddy that everyone assumed I had taken something stronger. So before my interview a friend of mine took me aside and showed me how to roll a joint and pack a bong. Thank goodness he did because the DEA Undercover Unit supervisors asked me to do exactly that.
I got the job: I don’t think there were any other applicants. The detective senior sergeant in charge of Waverley tried to talk me out of it, but to me it was a very exciting career move. At the Undercover Unit I was given a false identity, driver’s licence, and a car, a red Mazda. I cannot remember the model although I do remember it had a sunroof. Our office was a covert factory in the inner west of Sydney and we worked permanent afternoon shifts unless we were involved in an operation.
The criminals’ activities, of course, didn’t revolve around standard police shifts; many of them used licensed premises, pubs, clubs and hotels as their offices. Thus on many occasions I found myself sitting in pubs and drinking beer with the locals. The undercover nature of the work made this necessary, and management accepted this as part of the job of gathering intelligence and sometimes finding more work.
It was an interesting time for a twenty-one-year-old. Now I was living in Sydney’s eastern suburbs and spending my days at the beach developing a tan while in the afternoons and evenings I went out drinking beer at various pubs in the Sydney area. I also spent considerable time at Kings Cross, Sydney’s red-light district and home to various organised-crime gangs.
One controversial spot was Sweethearts café in Darlinghurst Road. In June 1989, only a few months earlier, there had been a drug-related fight there and a man had been shot and killed. Arben Benny Puta was charged with murder but later acquitted. The subsequent police investigation became the subject of corruption allegations at the Wood Royal Commission (formed in 1994 to investigate the existence and extent of corruption within the NSW Police Force).
However, I knew nothing about the police investigation. My job was to find someone at Sweethearts who would sell me cocaine. Initially I went with two other undercover operatives who were going to watch me as a safety precaution. They would be inside having a coffee. I went into the café cold, with no one to introduce me. I was apprehensive, knowing someone had been murdered in the toilets at the back, exactly where I was headed to see the dealer. My hands were clammy; I kept trying to wipe them on the skirt I was wearing, I was so worried I would be caught out, kicked out or worse.
I found the dealer and went straight up to him and said, ‘Can I get a fifty?’ Before I could react, he grabbed my bag off my shoulder and searched it. Fortunately I was not carrying my police ID. I finally managed to say, ‘What the…?’
‘You a cop?’ he said.
‘Nah, just want a fifty.’
After being satisfied I was not a cop he gave me a small foil of cocaine for $50.00, my ‘fifty’. I turned around and walked out of the café and down the street. Finally, being out of danger, I could relax.
Over the next few weeks I bought more fifties from this café. My workmates who had given me cover had other jobs so I went by myself. Eventually my drug dealer was arrested and we were able to put together a good brief of evidence against him. He went to gaol.
One of my favourite workmates was nicknamed BP, an intelligent, good-looking blue-eyed blond guy, who could talk underwater with a mouth full of marbles. I once had to meet him at the Albury Hotel in Oxford Street, a renowned gay hangout, prior to going to another job. I arrived first and it was easy to see BP coming to meet me as the gentlemen in the crowd suddenly parted like the Red Sea to allow this good-looking young man to pass through. BP quickly grabbed me and we left the hotel; I could hardly stop laughing.
BP’s mischievous nature came to the fore on a number of occasions. One time, just before he was about to buy a large quantity of drugs for a buy bust, he was wearing a listening device. After various prearranged signals, arrest teams would move in and arrest him, the drug supplier and anybody else. My role was to sit in a van nearby with a supervisor (I was still very new), and listen to BP’s conversations with the dealer. I was sitting in the van when BP turned on the listening device. He was talking to one of the DEA Support Unit investigators, a guy I did not know. My ears pricked up when I heard BP ask, ‘So, what do you think of our new bird Wendy?’ my code name in the Undercover Unit. His reply suggested that he was unable to fully contain his sexual excitement. I nearly fell off the chair laughing, especially when they told the guy, whose name was Rob, that the listening device was on: he was most embarrassed when he realised he had been set up.
After six months at the Undercover Unit I realised it wasn’t for me. Going to work purporting to be someone else no longer thrilled me. Undercover work was dangerous, required a great deal of skill and was a necessary investigative tool. I didn’t, however, enjoy making up a story to gain a person’s trust. It made me feel uncomfortable, and this is what I was doing every single day. Besides, I had ballooned from a size 10 to a size 14 because I had been drinking beer every night, and I didn’t feel healthy. I was also having a major personality clash with one of the supervisors, who was intelligent and quick-witted but very bombastic. He would constantly belittle me in front of my peers and I couldn’t understand why. No one had treated me with such contempt before.
I told the senior supervisor that I preferred the investigation and arrest phases of drug work and would like a transfer back to Waverley. He said he understood why, and said the supervisor who had been causing me problems was leaving and I should stay. I was shocked: I hadn’t mentioned the real reason for my request. I chose to leave anyway and joined the DEA Support Unit, which allowed me to be involved in the investigation side as well as the occasional undercover job. The hours were better, no longer permanent afternoon shifts. I was eager for a fresh start.
One day I was running solo surveillance on the home of a suspected drug dealer in Sydney’s inner west. I was trying to gather evidence, such as potential drug users coming and going and any sightings of drugs and drug paraphernalia. I wanted to get a search warrant for his home. The courts don’t simply provide one every time police ask for it, and a magistrate has to be given a valid reason.
As I was sitting alone in my surveillance car I saw him come out, get into a car parked in the street and drive off. I followed him and radioed back to my colleagues at the DEA office to check the car’s registration. It became clear that he was driving a stolen vehicle, and several colleagues said they were on their way to help me.
This drug dealer, whose name was Ian, was no choirboy. He had a long record of drugs and violence, including robbery and assault. He was also known as a ‘runner’ (a person who would run when confronted by police). I was not keen to take on a dangerous criminal by myself so the rest of the team and I decided that once backup had arrived, we would follow him until we could arrest him safely and search the car for drugs.
Ian was heading west out of Sydney on Parramatta Road, driving under the speed limit so as not to draw attention to himself in a stolen car. He didn’t realise he was being followed.
He turned right onto Silverwater Road. My backup had still not arrived even though I knew they would be travelling at breakneck speed. We continued along Silverwater Road, then he took the turn into the Mulawa and Silverwater correctional centres before turning into the car park of Mulawa women’s prison. I couldn’t believe the cheek of it: Ian was heading straight for the prison in a stolen car! My backup was now only a few minutes away and I told my supervisor
Bones, a highly experienced officer whom I respected, that if Ian got out of the vehicle I was going to arrest him.
As I drove I ran a number of possibilities through my mind and I started to worry. What would I do if he ran? He was a known runner after all. What if he ran at me, or jumped back in the car and rammed into me. What would I do if he pulled a gun or a knife?
I felt for my police ID because I wasn’t wearing uniform. Check. Firearm, check. It was a small five-shot Model 36 Smith & Wesson revolver, with a one-inch barrel. The standard police-issue firearm was a six-shot, Model 10 Smith & Wesson revolver with a three-inch barrel. Many undercover police preferred the five-shot Smith & Wesson because the barrel was shorter, making the weapon lighter and more easy to conceal, even though it was less accurate. This posed another problem, as shooting was not my strong point. I should have been using the standard police issue but I preferred the smaller version. I figured that with my shooting record I would have to be very close, so Ian was actually pretty safe.
Ian parked the car and opened the door. I stopped my car at an angle behind his and drew my gun. My police ID was tucked into my jeans pocket with just the badge visible. With blood rushing through my veins and a barrage of thoughts about what could go wrong, I got out of my car, moved towards Ian pointing my gun and in my best voice I screamed, ‘Police! Get out of the fucking car!’
So much for being assertive.
Ian stopped, looked at me and hesitated. My heart was racing, I wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He could quite easily have a weapon on the seat next to him and I couldn’t see his left hand.
He continued getting out of the car. ‘Face down on the ground now!’ I yelled.
I didn’t realise that the bitumen car park was feeling the full effects of a very hot summer’s day. The ground was scorching. My main concern was to make sure he didn’t run. There was no way I would have fired on him, for I had no authority as I could see no weapon. However, what would happen if he ran towards me just didn’t bear thinking about.