The Beat: A True Account of the Bondi Gay Murders

by I. J. Fenn

  Nowadays, the Crime Scene officer explained, the procedure is more accountable. An audit trail had since been established so that evidence couldn’t easily disappear. Which wasn’t any use to Steve Page in his search. But it was just possible that the hair from John Russell’s hand could have been lodged at the Crime Scene Unit – pre-audit trail – and sent away for analysis. In which case the Division of Analytical Laboratories at the Institute of Clinical Pathology and Medical Research might have a record of having conducted tests on it. The reply from the DAL was brief:

  According to our records for 1989 and 1990, the Forensic Biology laboratory did not receive any items for examination in connection with this matter.

  Did this mean that no items were sent because they had already been lost? Not necessarily. Before the DAL was used to test DNA on evidence samples items were usually sent to staff working at the Lucas Heights Atomic facility for forensic testing. Maybe the hair found on Russell’s hand had been sent there. Steve Page made inquiries.

  The particular part of the Lucas Heights facility that would have dealt with sample testing had since closed but, the detective was told, the staff who would have had responsibility for that work would have been Doctors Robertson and Goulding.

  James Robertson was now employed by the Australian Federal Police Forensic Services and Steve Page emailed him outlining the position of the police regarding the Russell investigation. He not only gave precise details of the hair shown in photographs but also listed the police in attendance at the crime scene for purposes of cross reference, in case the testing had been done under an investigator’s name rather than that of Russell. Robertson replied promptly, sending Page a return email on the same day. Unfortunately, he said, he wasn’t the person to talk to: if the hair sample had been received, he said, it would have automatically gone to Goulding, now retired.

  Robertson had contacted one of Goulding’s former colleagues to contact him and ask that he get in touch with Steve Page with any information he might have that could throw light onto the matter of the missing hairs.

  Goulding’s reply came a week later. After checking his records he could safely say that he never received any hairs in connection with the Russell case.

  Yet there was no doubt that the hair had been collected. Sergeant Ingleby had already stated that he specifically recalled two officers from the Scientific Section at the scene, one of whom he saw place the hairs into a bag which he believed was plastic. Ingleby became aware at the time of the Russell inquest at the beginning of July 1990, he said, that the hair was missing even though he wasn’t present at the inquest himself. The exhibits listed in the Exhibit Register at the coroner’s court included only the brief of evidence, notice of death, identification statement, post-mortem results, analysts certificate, photographs and plan of the area around which Russell’s body had been found. No evidence bag of short blond hairs.

  So it was fair for Detective Sergeant Page to assume that the hairs had gone missing sometime between 24 November 1989 and 2 July 1990, the date of the inquest.

  But what of the hairs themselves? Where had they come from and how had they come to be on the back of John Russell’s hand? Sergeant Nicholas, one of the Taradale team, sent 30 photographs of the crime scene, together with a seven-page letter, to Doctor Cala of the NSW Institute of Forensic Medicine and asked his opinion on a range of issues connected to the case. Doctor Cala replied in some detail.

  After due consideration, he said, the primary impact on the body, after falling from the cliff, appeared to have been on the left side where there were many injuries. The lack of injuries to the right side of the body supported this hypothesis. A bruise beneath the right eye was brownish in colour and was quite possibly old, not associated with the victim’s death. Injuries to the left eyebrow, nose and lower lip could be consistent with the fall but, although there was no evidence of other injuries that might have been assault related, Doctor Cala seemed to leave that door open.

  The injuries described in Doctor Hollinger’s post-mortem report were, Cala stated, unsurvivable. John Russell would have lost consciousness immediately, would not have been able to move at all: the severity of the injuries was too great, Cala said. Russell would, however, have been alive when he fell: possibly not conscious, but definitely alive. And he may not have fallen – he may have been pushed.

  In support of this claim Cala noted the most important factors surrounding the crime scene: the position of the body in relation to the cliff and the hairs found on the back of Russell’s hand. The position of John Russell’s body, Cala said, was unusual in a case of jumping or falling from a height. The body was facing towards the cliff – unusual given the relatively low height of the cliff – implying that if the deceased had acted alone, he had been able to twist his body 180 degrees in flight (he wouldn’t have been able to move after landing). Similarly, it would be unusual to find head hairs stuck to the back of the hand of someone who had jumped to his death. This finding is more suggestive of the deceased having pulled the hairs from the head of another person at the time of the fall (implying the presence of at least one other person). This, Cala said, raised the possibility of foul play in relation to John Russell’s death. Especially as there were some injuries to the hands and face suggestive of an assault.

  Still, it didn’t matter how important the hairs were or might have been, the fact remained that to all intents and purposes, they no longer existed.

  Not that that information had to be made public. Not yet.

  ii

  Steve Page went back to the McMahon incident, went back to the identification of McMahon’s assailants. Okay, so McMahon had been less than fully cooperative, had wanted nothing to do with pursuing the matter. Ingleby had originally coaxed a certain participation from the injured man and Page decided to talk to the police senior sergeant.

  After McMahon had been attacked, Ingleby said, after he’d almost been pushed over the cliff at Marks Park and had described his attackers – or at least two of them – as being similar to Sean Cushman and, maybe, Joey Phillips, a group of the Bondi Boys was seen on the Bondi beachfront. Ingleby contacted McMahon and they went together to view the group. Nervous and sweating – it was February, Ingleby said – McMahon looked out of the car window at the youths. They were unaware that they were being watched but McMahon was nonetheless anxious lest he be seen, recognised and perhaps targeted again in the future. He was unable to identify any of the group. Later that year, however, Ingleby had McMahon view photograph books at Bondi Police Station and he admitted that two of those whose pictures were included were ‘similar’ to two of his attackers. They were Daniel Forrer and Darren Carre.

  Detective Sergeant Page re-read the original McMahon statement again. Even though he’d tentatively identified Forrer and Carre as possibly having been present during his assault, the descriptions he’d given of the main perpetrators convinced Page that they were Sean Cushman and Phillips. He contacted McMahon and arranged to meet him at Marks Park: they would conduct a video walk-around, he said.

  At 2.15pm on a Friday David McMahon was introduced to the police video team at Mackenzies Point. The procedure was explained to him and the exercise began.

  ‘David was the victim of a serious assault in this area around 10.30pm on Thursday 21September 1989,’ Detective Dagg said. ‘I intend to ask you some questions about this serious assault. Do you understand that?’

  A long time had passed between the assault and this strange outing, a long time of having tried to forget, of dealing with the emotional damage inflicted by the physical wounds. But McMahon still dreamt about it, still experienced the fear and nausea and turmoil he’d felt that night a dozen years ago. And now he was nervous again: resigned, determined, resolute. But nervous.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. He understood. He understood he was going to have to relive the whole nightmare one more time.

  ‘Are you prepared to go through this electronic interview with us,’ Dagg asked, seeing the e
xpression in McMahon’s eyes.

  Deep breath. ‘Yes.’

  Dagg asked if his original statement to Ingleby still held true. It did, McMahon said. And the subsequent identification of individuals in a second statement later the same evening? Yes, that still held true, too.

  ‘Okay, step by step. Can you tell me who approached you, what they did to you as they grabbed you. Just slowly, as best you can.’

  Another deep breath. ‘They grabbed me by surprise. I was walking home, back to where I lived. I didn’t realise they were there and, er, they put me on the ground. They started to kick me, were punching me as well. Ripped my shoes off … ripped my earring off, too … calling me poofter and … then they said, we’re gonna do what we done to everyone else.’ Feeling the shaking begin inside, the tingling of recollection playing like electricity in his gut, hot sweat starting to gather on his palms, in his groin.

  Dagg saw his discomfort, took it slowly. ‘How many in the group,’ he asked.

  ‘Roughly, I’d say 14 … 16.’

  ‘And how many actually assaulted you?’

  They were standing on the walkway, not far from the Fletcher Street steps, the sky and sea merging in flat blue tones far out on the horizon. David McMahon stared out over the Tasman, staring at nothing, at infinity.

  ‘Two main people,’ he said. ‘I … everyone else sitting beside … They kept trying to push my face into the dirt so as not to see them … but I do vaguely remember seeing girls and … and other people standing around and … and then I don’t remember much else of the other people … Like, I know everyone was there because I could hear them but I didn’t see much at all because they … because they…’

  ‘And this is where they took your shoes?’

  ‘Yeah, my shoe. It was one shoe, I think. And my signet ring … and this is where … where they tried to remove my clothing … And they said that, that … One of them had a stick, not that they hit me with it at all, but they said this was where they’d use the stick, ram it up my arse…’

  ‘They were going to sexually assault you with the stick?’

  God, why did he have to go through this stuff? Why hadn’t he ever mentioned the stick before? Jesus.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘Was that the main two who were mainly assaulting you or was it the whole group?’

  ‘Most of the … the vocal stuff was just the two of them. The rest of the group were just, y’know, just like chatting. I knew they were there but it was … like, I was trying to protect my face all the time and … I don’t know,’ still don’t know, don’t understand, ‘I started to feel the blood … I was … concerned … They started to drag me away and it’s like I had no strength to even fight back. I was yelling, I know that much. That’s when I heard the person up there –’ pointing towards the block of units behind the park ‘saying, I’m not gonna help no poofter.’

  The silence was brief but heavy, the silence of remembering, of reliving. For the police officers it was the silence needed to allow McMahon a chance to gather strength, to compose himself for the next series of questions.

  ‘You mentioned the stick,’ Detective Dagg said softly but firmly enough to suggest he wasn’t going away. ‘Can you describe the stick?’

  ‘It was … just a stick.’ Dull voice as though describing the ordinariness of the stick somehow made it more commonplace: ordinary stick up an ordinary arse.

  Detective Dagg nodded his head. He understood the everyday-ness of the stick, knew how the very unremarkable-ness of the stick made it more sinister, more evil. He nodded his head and moved off, leading the team around the walkway, asking David to describe where each of the events in his statement had taken place: where he’d first seen the gang, where he’d been asked for a cigarette or money, where he’d run towards the stairs, up the stairs into Fletcher Street, Sandridge Street. They went into the park, discussed the layout of the park, went closer to the units from where the voice had come, the voice sneeringly calling, I’m not gonna help no poofter.

  ‘And which unit was it?’ Dagg asked, staring at the chocolate coloured building, at the white painted balconies.

  ‘The bottom one.’ Almost angry now: why had that bastard not helped? Why didn’t he just phone for help, call the police?

  ‘The very last unit? Did you see anyone or did you just hear the voice?’

  ‘No, I heard the voice and I saw the light come on. But that was all.’

  And they went over it again, walking around the park, the walkway, Dagg asking questions, seeking clarification, asking again. The first meeting … the steps, had they changed in appearance … the main two attackers … the place where the gang had said they’d taken someone else…

  ‘When they meant the other guy, what do you think they meant by that?’ Dagg asked. ‘What did they mean, “take you where the other guy went”?’

  ‘Well,’ David answered uncertainly, ‘I’d heard previously of people being bashed here and … a Thai guy was killed at the end,’ pointing along the walkway, ‘and he was kicked to death. Or something like that. I know a guy disappeared or something. It was all around Bondi at the time.’

  So, they went to where he’d been dragged, along the pathway, closer to the cliff edge. Closer to the point where David McMahon nearly died in 1989. And then he was describing his escape, telling it all in a rush, telling how he turned, knocked one of them over, saw his chance and ran, ran like he’d never run before, up the stairs, through the park to Campbell Parade, the words pouring out in a torrent, streaming out into the bright afternoon sunlight, words of nightdark memory … he was running, running for his life, feet pounding behind him, 10 metres, closing in, 5 metres, his heart racing, breath coming hard, lungs bursting with the effort, with the strain, until … until he was suddenly on Campbell Parade and the running behind him had stopped, the pounding feet were no longer there. David McMahon was safe.

  The video interview had taken 25 minutes.

  • • •

  Back in Paddington Police Station David McMahon made a verbal statement confirming the events recorded earlier at Marks Park. Additional questions were put to him and his answers were written down. Why, for instance, had he never before mentioned the attempted assault with the stick? The reason? Because of the police attitude towards gay men in 1989, he said. There was very little sympathy, very little tolerance of gays back then. Marks Park was a beat, it was known throughout the gay community in Sydney – in the world, for that matter: if you go to a beat, the police seemed to be saying back in 1989, you get what you deserve.

  As he made his statement, an Inspector showed him a series of photographs on a CD, on a computer. McMahon studied the 20 or so pictures writing down the numbers of those he thought were familiar from his assault: numbers 2, 6, 9 and 12 he said, reminded him of gang members from that night a dozen years ago. Detective Sergeant Page took the piece of paper and studied the numbers before taking McMahon through each of the photographs he felt had triggered something in his mind. Was it anything … Nothing definite, McMahon said. Just … he’d seen the person in number 2 before, he knew the person depicted but couldn’t say from where. It was the same with number 6, less so with number 9. And number 12? Number 12 provided the strongest trigger, he said. Number 12 – was it the arrogance, he asked, it was something – number 12 was one of them.

  The person shown in photograph number 12 was Sean Cushman.

  iii

  The cards were stacking against the Bondi Boys, it seemed, and against Sean Cushman in particular. With a long record of violent behaviour behind him, despite being only 27 years old, he was a habitual recidivist, a homophobe and one of those responsible for the death of Brian Hagland. It was only a matter of time, the officers from Operation Taradale believed, before they had him. Someone would give him up, some other petty criminal with a score to settle or some witness who refused to be intimidated. Or he would make a mistake, would talk to the wrong person, would – in the usual way that these people f
ound irresistible – brag of his exploits in front of an undercover police officer, would, in effect, bring about his own undoing. The fact that he hadn’t done so yet had more to do with poor policing prior to Operation Taradale, than with Cushman’s intellect. But now, now Steve Page was determined to bring down his quarry.

  The telephone intercepts were in place, the undercover operation had approval and was in the process of being finalised. In the meantime, there was plenty to occupy the detectives: some of the finer details of the Warren, Russell and McMahon cases had yet to be attended to.

  iv

  If David McMahon was right in his identification of the unit from which the voice had called out, I’m not gonna help you, you poofter, then the occupant at the time was Harry Lesley, a retired schoolteacher who now lived in a retirement home. In September 1989, however, he lived in the unit on Wilga Street.

  The 82-year-old was told that McMahon had called out for help when being robbed in Marks Park late in the evening and that he had seen a light come on in Lesley’s unit. He was then told that a male voice replied, shouting that he wasn’t about to help a ‘poofter’. That voice, Lesley insisted wasn’t his: it must have come from another unit.

  Did he hear the call for help? Did he turn on the light? The old man couldn’t say, it was too long ago. What he was certain of, though, was that he would never call anyone a ‘poofter’ and he would always help anyone in trouble: Harry Lesley knew what it was like to be victimised, he said, because he’d often suffered anti-Jewish taunts and he’d been a prisoner of war in Changi. Yes, he knew what it was like to be victimised.

  So David McMahon was wrong in his identifying the exact unit from which he’d heard the rejection of his call for help. Maybe, given the trauma he was going through at the time, he’d misheard the voice completely, misheard the words themselves. Maybe, one of the gang who were beating him, trying to insert a stick into his anus, ripping his earring from his ear and dragging him towards the cliff edge with the stated intention of throwing him to his death, maybe one of them had said something along the lines of, No-one’s gonna help you, you poofter. If that someone had been lurking at the back of the group of 16 thugs it could easily have seemed like the reply had come from elsewhere during the painful confusion of the moment. In fact, it even seemed likely. The line of inquiry was terminated.