Mischievously, one of the defence lawyers placed a large newspaper ad in a Melbourne paper accompanied by a photo of Wilson that read, ‘Roger, no need to hide any more. Contact me. Tony.’
Police had a compelling list of witnesses that could prove Wilson feared for his life, that Clarkson had threatened him and that the Flannerys had been mysteriously paid for something following the disappearance.
But the star witness was clearly Debra Boundy. She made a statement (which she later refused to swear to in court) that she was present during the planning, was told by Flannery they were going to kill a man and saw them leave and return.
While other witnesses could recall damaging details, Boundy was the one who was inside the alleged killers’ camp during the act.
If she stood up in court, police believed they were home. So when Boundy walked into the coroner’s court and winked and curtsied to Williams, detectives knew they were in trouble.
While still in court she said to Williams, ‘Hello Sweetie’ and then passionately kissed him.
She said she wanted to marry Williams and have his children, declared she did not make the signed statements over the Wilson murder and that she had no knowledge that could help the inquest.
She complained about police protection, saying it was if she were under ‘house arrest.’
‘They think I might abscond or that something else might happen to me.’
She asked for the protection to be removed and police reluctantly agreed. During the inquest, Boundy was charged with perjury and given bail.
But even without her evidence the three men were committed for trial on 17 November 1980. The murder charge against Kath was dropped but she was immediately recharged with being an accessory after the fact.
She, like Boundy, was given bail. But the accused three knew that police had ‘turned’ Williams’ girlfriend once. What if she turned again?
On Christmas Day, Boundy had lunch with her parents, reported for bail at the Collingwood police station and then slipped over to a Richmond pub for drinks.
She didn’t expect to stay long as she had only $13 and was expected home for dinner with her sister about 6.30pm. She has never been seen since.
Police initially believed she had fled to avoid giving evidence. The theory gained credence after her father received a letter written in her hand and posted 28 December. It read, ‘Dad, sorry to leave you this way. Pressure too much. I know what you and mum have done for me. I’ll get in touch, ring or write to you. Love Deb’.
The grief-stricken father said ‘At least she’s safe – for the time being … It’s hard to believe she’s done this to me.’
The truth was: she hadn’t.
Although police ended up putting Debra Boundy on the top ten wanted list, she was gone forever.
What really happened was someone she knew well lured her from the Royal Oak Hotel in Richmond then forced or tricked her into writing the letter. And then she was murdered.
But who was the killer?
The chief investigator in the case, Frank Bellesini, says one name was nominated as the gunman. ‘Alphonse Gangitano.’
On 22 October 1981, after Victoria’s longest murder trial, the three men were acquitted and so in the eyes of the law Mark Alfred Clarkson was an innocent man. The evidence of a policeman’s wife who swore she had sold Wilson a raffle ticket in Lakes Entrance the day after he went missing did not help the case.
There were hugs and tears. But Flannery’s joy was short-lived. He was immediately re-arrested for the murder of massage parlour boss Raymond ‘Lizard’ Locksley.
The trial would take him back to New South Wales to play out the final scene in his life, which would prove nasty, brutish and short.
Top: Ray Chuck (a.k.a. Bennett), the Great Bookie Robber, executed at Melbourne Magistrates Court in 1979. Middle: Laurie Prendergast, who helped Bennett and Vinnie Mikkelsen (police sketch below) allegedly kill Les Kane in 1978.
Russell ‘Mad Dog’ Cox, who was not mad and whose real name was Melville Schnitzerling. A dashing crook who lived to (not) tell the tale. Yet.
Helen Eva Deane, trained nurse and Cox’s faithful wife before, during and after years on the run.
Hideaway: the Mt Martha ‘safe’ house where Cox shot his henchman Ian Revell Carroll.
Tools of trade (1): cache of weapons found at Cox’s house.
Tools of trade (2): The Cox & Carroll do-it-yourself robbery kit, including pistols, holsters, ammunition, bandages, sub-machine guns with handbooks.
Full bore: the car was shot to bits but Cox walked away unharmed but mighty unhappy.
Run to ground at last: Cox under arrest at Doncaster shopping centre. His singlet must have been bullet proof.
Trophy hunters: Cox humours Victoria’s finest with a picture opportunity but no smile.
Touching moment: Raymond Denning’s getaway car and detective’s car almost collided.
Cop that: buckshot in the boot of Cox’s Fairmont.
Finger of fate: Santo Mercuri’s hand, wounded in fatal Brunswick robbery.
Scientific proof: Mercuri submits to examination of the bullet wound.
Identikit (1): the gunman who shot Ray Chuck, a.k.a. Bennett, at Melbourne Magistrates Court.
Identikit (2): the bogus ‘gardener’ who set up the gunman’s getaway route.
On the wall: a message to Ray Chuck on the court cell wall before he was shot.
Snub noses: short-barrelled revolvers similar to the one used to shoot Ray Chuck, a.k.a. Bennett.
After the event: a detective examines the upstairs court lobby where Ray Chuck was shot.
Tinny: someone had made a hole in the wall of the magistrates’ garage … but who?
Christopher Dale Flannery: mad, bad, dangerous to know.
Charming, handsome, well-dressed … and a psychopath. Flannery reputedly killed fourteen people.
Kath Flannery: blood loyal to career killer.
Roger Wilson: clean-living lawyer, businessman, husband and father duped into pulling over for a ‘police car’ that wasn’t. His body was never found, although Flannery had to move it once to make sure.
Debra Boundy: she recanted her evidence against Flannery and his co-accused, but it was too late. She vanished. Some say Alphonse Gangitano was the last to see her alive.
Dab hand with a blowtorch: former Sydney detective Roger Caleb Rogerson making an honest living.
Lennie ‘Mr Big’ McPherson: standover man, murderer, rapist and thief with cops and politicians on his pay roll. Below: McPherson kangaroo shooting with visiting American mobster Joe Dan Testa and friend.
‘Tough Tom’ Domican: dodged Flannery’s attempted hit and most charges levelled against him ever since.
Tony ‘Spaghetti’ Eustace: a staunch crook who wouldn’t reveal who had shot him.
George Freeman: if he didn’t kill Flannery he knew who did. Rubbed shoulders with the cream of Sydney society.
SYDNEY
FOR SALE
12
TRAVELLING NORTH
FLANNERY BEATS ANOTHER ONE
‘Anyone who wasn’t scared by him didn’t know the man.’
THE hit man was sitting in the homicide squad office, crying.
A jury had just acquitted him of murder but he wasn’t crying with relief. He was crying because the moment he had glimpsed freedom the cell door had slammed shut again. Police had been waiting outside court busting to give him the bad news: he was to be arrested immediately and extradited to Sydney.
One of the detectives who served the papers interrupted the killer as he was giving his wife an affectionate post-acquittal cuddle to tell him it was a case of premature celebration. He wasn’t going anywhere except by prison van.
‘He was reasonably accepting,’ the policeman would recall. ‘He just said, “You’ve just got to have a win, don’t ya”?
‘But Kath went berserk.’
And that was how Christopher Dale Flannery – and his loyal wife, Kathleen –
got the news that although he had beaten the rap for murdering Melbourne barrister and businessman Roger Wilson, he would be charged with another murder: that of Raymond Francis ‘Lizard’ Locksley – a Melbourne massage parlour heavy whose body had turned up with four bullet wounds in the southern Sydney suburb of Menai in May 1979.
Flannery would get a little emotional in the homicide office later. Not out of any finer feelings – apart, possibly, from the possibility that he was frightened of his wife. He was reputed to be frightened of little else, a fatal flaw that would later condemn him to the sort of violent death he had inflicted on several others. Such as Ray Locksley …
‘LIZARD’ managed a massage parlour owned by one Ron Feeney but he was a glutton for too many fringe benefits – including free sex. This was considered bad manners and bad for business, which led to his sudden death. That was what the police wanted to talk to Flannery about.
A veteran detective called Brian Murphy knew Flannery so he was asked to try to persuade the contract killer to talk.
According to Murphy, he did talk. Murphy made a statement that Flannery confessed to him as follows: ‘Lizard was hustling the girls at the parlour and trying to undermine Feeney.’
Police believe Ron Feeney ordered the hit, but demanded it be done outside Victoria.
Police claimed Flannery persuaded Locksley to drive to Sydney with him. The Lizard had been bragging to the girls in the parlour that he was a hit man and the rumour goes that Flannery ‘recruited’ Locksley on the pretence they were going interstate for a contract killing.
It was said that as they were waiting together, Locksley asked the identity of their victim and Flannery said, ‘You!’ and shot him.
In that game you ask a silly question and you can get a deadly answer.
Murphy swore that Flannery told him: ‘One thing I am worried about is that Lizard stopped for petrol at a garage on the way up. Ray called the bloke over and introduced me to him. I can only hope he can’t identify me. I don’t think he can because I covered my face a bit.’
Police say after shooting Locksley in the head, neck and twice in the chest Flannery dumped the body and had the gold Ford he was driving ‘detailed’ twice on the way back to Melbourne.
Murphy believes Flannery had opened up to him because he feared he would not see his stepson and daughter grow up. After one heavy interview with detectives he saw a Police Life magazine on the desk and asked if he could take it ‘for the boy’.
For once the hit man’s mask had slipped. ‘He was saying he had made a mess of his life and just wanted the kids to be able to grow up and be normal,’ Murphy would recall.
But at that moment two women walked in. One was Ron Feeney’s wife and the other was Kath Flannery.
When Flannery saw them, the tears stopped and he returned to his public persona as ‘Rentakill’ – the ice-cold killer.
One of the New South Wales homicide detectives who came to fetch him was the personable Billy Duff – a man who would later be dismissed for being corrupt. He was found to have had inappropriate relationships with a number of serious gangsters – including Flannery.
But back then he was seen as a good-humoured detective with a ready laugh, a shallow nature and a deep thirst. And a lot of good suits.
Flannery was extradited to Sydney and sent for trial. It looked an open and shut case until three witnesses turned up to say good old Chris had been in Melbourne at the time of the killing.
In October 1982 a jury failed to return a verdict.
The retrial was set for January 1984 but Flannery was desperate to have the case delayed. It has been said he was told the judge scheduled to hear the case was a touch stern and so he wanted to indulge in a little judge shopping. It is also possible he had heard a witness was sick and if he could drag out the court process then the Crown case would be weakened.
Either way, he knew that a delay on medical grounds would be healthy for him.
Enter the colourful medical entrepreneur and onetime owner of the Sydney Swans football team, Dr Geoffrey Edelsten.
When the professional healer met the professional harmer there was instant chemistry.
Edelsten surgically removed a tattoo for his new best friend. (He had one on his stomach – LUNCHTIME – with an arrow pointing down to his groin). When he realised his patient’s line of work, the doctor saw an opportunity.
Edelsten was being harassed by an ex-patient and asked if Flannery could help. The hit man explained the rates – $50,000 for a permanent solution and $10,000 for a severe beating. When the doc queried the price he was told, ‘Baseball bats are expensive.’
And you can’t bulkbill bashings on Medicare no matter how well deserved.
In a tapped conversation between Edelsten and his then wife, Leanne, she asks, ‘Bashing up people, is that all he does?’
‘No, he kills people. Nice young fella,’ the doctor replies.
While the patient was never bashed, Edelsten was later jailed for conspiracy to pervert the course of justice for issuing Flannery with a medical certificate to delay his trial.
For Flannery the ruse seemed to work perfectly. His second trial was due to start 31 January 1984 but because the accused was deemed unfit it was adjourned until later that year.
In June 1984 a judge directed that Flannery should be acquitted because a witness had died, meaning that the jury didn’t get to judge the case on the facts. Flannery was freed on a technicality.
The witness, Dr Denis Maxwell Gomez, gave evidence at the first trial that differed from his committal testimony over the time of Locksley’s death. But as Dr Gomez had died in May before the re-trial, the matter could not be clarified. He might have given evidence if the trial had gone ahead on schedule.
Flannery walked out of court a free man – and decided to make a new start in Sydney. He saw it as a city with opportunities for a man in his line of work.
‘We were never going back to Melbourne,’ Kath said. She was right.
THERE was violence in the Sydney underworld but entrenched corruption worked too efficiently to let it interfere with business. The heavyweight crooks made sure they didn’t turn on each other.
For bad people, life was good if they were in on ‘the giggle’. The top men were ‘green lighted’ by senior police and politicians to do what they liked as long as the lawmakers and enforcers skimmed their share.
There was one caveat – don’t leave bodies on the street that could embarrass the police and politicians who were taking a cut.
In the beginning, the bribe money came from so-called victimless crimes such as vice, drugs, illegal gambling and sly-grog.
But it spread to a share of payroll robberies, professional burglaries and standover rackets: serious violent crimes.
At its worst, a corrupt cell high in the New South Wales police force was franchising crime. Many of the well-known Sydney gangsters had become celebrities and were invited to A-list functions to be photographed with fawning community leaders who leaned on them for donations to their favourite charities. Big-time crooks were attending the opening of new bars when they should have been behind them.
Flannery began working for a casino operator called Bruce Hardin but eventually moved up the pecking order and became a heavy for underworld supremo George Freeman.
Freeman was a cunning crook who had grown rich on his ability to read the play. For a quarter of a century, everyone seemed to know he was an organised crime figure – everyone, that is, except New South Wales’s finest.
By the time he was a teenager, Freeman had started his apprenticeship in crime. His record was long but unimpressive.
It included convictions for evading rail fares, stealing knives, shirts, fountain pens, a tin of biscuits and a car radio. Mr Big he wasn’t, but he was learning.
In 1954, he was sentenced to three years hard labour for breaking and entering. In the early days, street police seemed to have no trouble catching him but, as his influence grew, he seemed to vanish from
the law-enforcement radar.
He was regularly referred to as a crime boss, yet police arrested him for only a few minor gaming offences. He was able to pay the fines out of petty cash.
Freeman made the leap from street crim to mobster by capitalising on the contacts he needed to survive and thrive. He built bridges with other influential criminals, including Stan ‘The Man’ Smith and Lennie ‘Mr Big’ McPherson, and he had influential friends in legitimate society.
Stan the Man once tried to expand his business into Victoria. He got as far as the airport when a remarkably switched-on top Consorting Squad detective ‘found’ a matchbox filled with cannabis in Smith’s coat pocket. Stan got the message and returned to Sydney. ‘They run red hot down there,’ he said. But he later did jail time in Melbourne, where he teamed up with Flannery.
Freeman was one of the few gangsters who could look as comfortable in the members’ reserve at Randwick races with then chief magistrate, Murray Farquhar, as standing around a bar drinking with wharfies. His network included gunmen, gangsters, jockeys, tame reporters, greedy police and upwardly mobile politicians.
The police he corrupted along the way eventually moved into positions of power where they were able to protect Freeman’s growing empire.
Freeman always saw the big picture – even before he was a Mr Big. In 1965, he met suspected US Mafia figure, Joe Testa, and three years later he flew to Chicago to stay with his new friend.
They were to set up a construction company together but there was no evidence they were interested in the building trade.
A Tale of Two Cities Page 23