Sex.
Had he targeted an adult or child who lived near the Kennedy unit, but was thwarted? Was he visiting, or intending to visit a house of ill-repute nearby? And, if so, what went wrong? Was he turned away, no one available tonight, standing at the closed door consumed with rage and frustrated desire? Take the next best thing. There is underwear hanging on a veranda. Stolen underwear, the thrill of illicit sex. And there is a chink in the curtain of the flat next door to where the underwear is hanging. He can see a baby fast asleep in the bedroom. Vulnerable. Easy prey. Perfect.
But if the man had knocked on the door of a house of ill-repute, wouldn’t police have been told? Unless… unless the residents of the house hadn’t mentioned their late-night caller to police, didn’t want their backyard operation closed down. Best to shut up, say nothing. There is no way of checking the doorknocks: any visitors on those days who have since left Ipswich? But a city as small as Ipswich in 1973, when everyone knew everyone else’s business – was it possible no one mentioned it?
And is it possible that Nugget Carroll, a hard-drinking Totally Permanently Incapacitated pensioner with a penchant for minding other people’s business, deliberately gave a false ID to police of the prowler? Did he know the person and was protecting him?
What happened that night? Someone knows.
The train has pulled into Central Station. I am no more enlightened than I was when I left Ipswich. The best I can come up with is conjecture.
51
There are so many questions that still need answers. I decide to go over things with people already interviewed, tie up some loose ends, re-check some facts.
Dr Ken Brown has agreed to meet me at the old medical school in Adelaide where he still occasionally consults. I have entered the twilight zone of different scientific opinions: teeth supposedly upside down and back to front; mirror images, graphs and scales; mathematical concepts way beyond my understanding. Clearly, one set of dentists got the bite mark upside down. But which one?
Dr Brown is cagey about his age, but his slightly rheumy eyes are a giveaway that he is now, as he describes himself, ‘as old as the Queen’. Occasionally crusty, he is still, nonetheless, sharp as a tack. There are concepts I need clarification on. ‘Dr Brown,’ I start, ‘Cameron Herpich told me that while he and John Garner were in London, Bernard Sims expressed the view that the bruising caused by the teeth marks could have been made either way. That the top teeth could fit the bottom, and the bottom fit the top.’
‘What?’ His head has shot up, his expression incredulous. ‘He told you that?’ It is undisguised anger, contempt that a colleague of international standing could be portrayed in such a way. ‘Bernard Sims is now retired, ill with diabetes, but the man has all his faculties. He knows odontology. Are you seriously telling me he would make a claim such as that?’
Brown has never changed his opinion that it was the odontologists called to the second trial that got the bite mark upside down. He bites his own arm to show how the mark occurred. ‘I’ve done this before many juries,’ he smiles, his flesh now showing definite marks. ‘You can see when my teeth close, they draw up a fold of the skin. In Carroll’s case, as he closed his mouth, the lower teeth pushed that fold against the surface of his upper teeth, which accounts for the unusual-shaped bruise. Our job was to make the jury understand the mechanics of the bite, which is unique, like a rubber stamp. Bernard Sims said the same thing as we did, though he didn’t mark out the same number of teeth, because there was enough evidence in the mark for him to draw his conclusion. It was impossible for Carroll to bite with the tip of his teeth because of the size of his overjet. And this,’ he says, ‘is where the second odontologists made their mistakes, by considering each as a separate mark. They didn’t consider the nature of the baby’s tissue: very flabby, very elastic, and, when teeth approach that, they push in and the fold of the skin is sucked up into the mouth. That is why there were no impressions in the skin. If there had been, they would have disappeared in about 20 minutes when the skin reverted to normal again.’
Brown has packed up his notes. ‘The problems started in the first appeal,’ he says, as we walk out of the old medical school into a blazing hot Adelaide afternoon. ‘A golden rule of any lawyer is “Never ask a question unless you know the answer.” And so with the appeal judges – they had no idea what they were commenting on. No idea at all.’
I ask him again, ‘What happened to the original casts? How could they be lost?’
Brown had initially thought the police had thrown them out, a cardinal sin because evidence should be kept. Kon Romaniuk had the originals and had made some copies, preserving the originals that had remained untouched. The casts were submitted as evidence at the first trial; after, Brown picked up two copies and took them back to Adelaide.
Now, he stands on the footpath and relates a story about his colleague. ‘After Kon’s accident, he never really returned to work full time and someone else – a former student of his – took over his forensic lab. I knew that Kon hadn’t taken all of Carroll’s casts into the court and it was out of character for him to throw anything away. Maybe they were just simply thrown out because it was believed he would not be coming back again, or maybe they are still around, somewhere. Who knows what happened to them? It is a mystery.’
Another mystery.
Alex Forrest – Kon’s former student – sighs when I raise the question of the original casts with him. He and John Garner mounted a huge search for them, he says, certain they would turn up. Perhaps they were in a police evidence room somewhere, perhaps stored and forgotten in Romaniuk’s collection? They contacted Adrian Gundelach to see if he knew where they were, but to no avail. They never materialised.
‘What to do with old records is an issue within government departments,’ Garner ventures. ‘This was a dead case. Maybe they ended up somewhere within the DPP. I don’t have a clue where they went, but we weren’t very happy either. Evidence should never be lost.’
Now to Paul Borchert. I want to find out what happened, but first I have to find his family.
There are quite a few Borcherts in the Ipswich area, and I start at the first name in the phone book, hitting pay dirt straight away. Paul’s brother Doug answers the phone.
‘Hel-lo?’
‘Is this the Borchert household?’
‘Yes.’ And yes, Doug says, he had a brother called Paul. He is friendly, happy to chat. ‘How old are you, Doug?’ I ask him.
‘Don’t know.’
‘You would have to be in your thirties. When is your birthday?’
‘June 9.’
‘What year?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘What happened to your brother?’
‘Don’t know. I think he was murdered.’
‘Pardon?’ I am taken aback. ‘I thought he had committed suicide.’
‘I don’t have a clue about how he died, but they reckon he was murdered. Shot outside the picture theatre in Ipswich, they said. And me other brother, David? He’s dead too. Someone punched his nose right up to his brain. Blood everywhere.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t quite know what to say.
‘Mum hasn’t got the phone on but I’ll get a message to her to ring you. OK?’
‘OK.’ I thank him and hang up. His mother, Kathleen, never calls.
Doug’s father, Arthur, separated from his de facto wife Kathleen years ago, married and moved to New South Wales. When I call, his wife answers the telephone. ‘May I speak to Arthur Borchert, please?’
‘Yep. Hang on.’ She doesn’t cup her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s a lady on the phone for you, Arthur,’ she screams. ‘I dunno who she is or what she wants.’
‘Yes?’His voice has a tinny rasp, and he is yelling. ‘What do you want?’
I introduce myself, explain I would like to find out what happened to Paul. ‘I’ve already been in court over this baby case,’ he shouts. ‘What do you want? Eh? Eh?’
‘I am sorry to
bother you, but I would like to find out the details of your son’s suicide,’ I venture. ‘Could you tell me what year it happened?’
‘What suicide? He didn’t commit suicide!’He is so loud, I have to hold the phone away from my ear. ‘He was murdered! You didn’t know that, did you? Eh? Eh?’
Assuming Arthur is yelling because he is deaf, I raise my voice so he can hear me. ‘NO, I DIDN’T KNOW THAT. WHY WAS HE MURDERED?’
‘Stop yelling at me!’ he roars. ‘What do you really want?’
I lower my voice. ‘Arthur, if Paul was murdered, could you tell me what happened?’
‘There’s no need to whisper at me! He had my gun, a Winchester that only takes long bullets. But he was shot with a short bullet, fair through the head. Game of Russian roulette. I know the bloke who done it but they protect their own; they’ll never admit it. Do you know who done it?’
‘No, it’s the first I’ve even heard of this,’ I admit. ‘Who are you talking about? Who protects their own?’
‘Well, if you have to ask that, you’re not as smart as you think then, eh? Eh? I’m not going to talk to you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re a journalist.’
I try to steer him back to the topic. ‘Arthur, was there ever any question that Paul may have been involved in the death of Deidre Kennedy? I have heard that he possibly committed suicide because he couldn’t live with his guilt. I’m just trying to check the facts. Can you help me?’
‘My son didn’t kill that baby!’ He is shouting fit to burst. ‘My son didn’t kill that baby! He was only a boy, still doing paper rounds. You want to know who I reckon murdered her?’
‘Yes, I would like to know that.’
He is cackling. ‘Course I know who done it! Well, you think you’re so clever – you work it out! You can’t, can you? Eh?’
He hangs up.
John Reynolds is surprised that Paul Borchert may have been murdered. ‘No, I’ve never heard that one,’ he tells me. ‘Far as I knew, he cheated the hangman. I’ll get back to you. Leave it with me.’
He calls the next morning, early. Old habits die hard: he has been up before dawn, on the phone networking, hassling old contacts for information. ‘Nup, Arthur’s got it wrong,’ he says. ‘Paul Borchert wasn’t murdered. He committed suicide. Drugs. Maybe it was accidental, maybe not. But he definitely wasn’t murdered.’
‘Was this around the same time that Raymond Carroll was convicted?
‘No, don’t think so. It was later.’
‘What year?’
‘Don’t know,’ he says. ‘I’ll get back to you. Leave it with me.’ He is never able to give me the date.
The grim set of Herpich’s face betrays more than he says. A career policeman, he does not put a foot wrong. He picks his way through his sentences with exquisite care, following the beaten path to the letter of the law.
‘As far as the service is concerned,’ he says, ‘Raymond Carroll has been acquitted. That’s the system.’ He swallows and indicates, with a flinty look, that he will not say any more. ‘We get paid to do a job, and that’s to investigate crimes. Carroll has been acquitted. That’s the system.’
Faye regards him as her saviour, a fact he accepts. ‘It’s hard to turn someone’s life upside down and not become attached to them. They depend so much on the copper that they’re dealing with and everything that they know about the justice system gets funnelled through that person. So it invariably comes to a situation where the victims depend a lot on the police.’
In mid July 2004, I forward some questions to Cameron Herpich, via the normal channel of the QPS Media Service. Reiterating what defence lawyer Peter Davis had said regarding Keith Kennedy – how was he exonerated? – I ask for Herpich’s comments. And what of Carroll’s entrance and exit into Boggo Road Jail? I query the truth or otherwise of statements made from the Bar table. Were the prison records lost? Were the bail documents found? Quoting the defence line in the second trial: ‘It shows a general incompetence in the investigation by Herpich …’, I ask if he has a copy of this section showing both the prosecution and defence line? Can he respond to Davis’s assertions? I conclude by advising him that I hope to catch up with Faye in Sydney the following weekend – three days’ time – and to meet her daughter, Stephanie.
The QPS response arrives Friday morning, answering my questions and expressing concern about the direction of the book, particularly if defence comments that clouded the issues were taken seriously and created possible damage to Herpich’s policing career. Would this material, they want to know, be included in the book? They would take issue with any reference to ‘incompetence’.
My return email makes it clear that my role is to look at the entire case, flawed or otherwise; that I cannot be expected to toe a line that suits and that I must work independently to maintain balance. Faye, I assure them, was well aware of the extent of my questions and research.
I had first met Faye in February 2004, on a miserable, stinking hot Ipswich day when the thermometer reached 44 degrees. She remained composed, serene, took the heat and the questions in her stride, but I didn’t. Too hot for me to bear, we decamped to a five-star hotel in Brisbane, with air-conditioning that worked. And that’s where it happened, when Faye’s inscrutable mask broke, where she sobbed uncontrollably about her daughter’s loss and the emptiness she can’t fill. I watched, a hopeless onlooker to her pain. Nothing – nothing I said – could ever help.
We had met again earlier this month at her spotless, comfortable home, where she met me at the door and started crying, immediately. Tense, wound up, nervous, she was glad I was there, so we could start the interview. Talking was cathartic.
We talked for almost two days.
Faye had cried often during that interview, breaking down when she looked at photos of Deidre, when she recalled a small memory, when she spoke of her daughter’s funeral.
Then, without warning, following my email to the QPS, Faye does not respond to my numerous phone calls that weekend in Sydney, nor do I meet Stephanie in person. Bewildered and saddened by Faye’s sudden and unexpected silence, I receive a text message from Stephanie – with whom I had spoken several times by phone but not met – apologising for the mix-up. Stephanie had not been aware, she explains, of any plans for us to meet.
I do not hear from Faye again until after I contact her in May 2005.
I had kept all the papers she had given me at our interview, countless newspaper reports on Deidre’s death and letters from journalists wanting to tell her story. Dear Mrs Kennedy … I am a reporter with Channel 7. Now that Carroll has been convicted, I would again respectfully request an interview with you and your family … I appreciate it is still very difficult for the family to deal with the incident …
Dear Faye, I am a producer with the Nine Network … I am interested in airing a story on the police investigation and subsequent perjury trial … While the court cases, verdicts, media stories and public reaction come and go, what you feel will never change …
Dear Mr Byrne … My colleagues have previously contacted your office and put in a request to speak with you and the Kennedy family … If it is suitable, I would propose doing something with you all today …
Sometimes Faye responded, sometimes she didn’t. It depended on how strong she was feeling.
Letters and card from strangers had poured in after each trial and appeal. Dear Faye, Our hearts break for you …
Dear Mrs Kennedy, May God give you peace …
To the Kennedy family, We are thinking of you …
I pack the papers up to return to Faye, as I promised I would. Thousands of words. They haven’t brought Deidre back, but they give her strength.
On Monday 19 July, I receive a response to my last email to Cameron Herpich, answering some further questions.
At the end of July, I send the following message to the QPS:
Could you please pass this to the appropriate person for comment, (probably Came
ron [Herpich])?
1. Can you please confirm whether a gentleman made a verbal or written statement to police re finding Deidre’s body in a rubbish bin inside the park? If so, when was it made, what was the nature of the allegation and how, according to this person did Deidre end up on the roof? Did police take this seriously? If this person does not exist, is it simply rumour that is repeated by various sources?
2. Who made the final decision to clear early suspects? (Did it move through chain of command or was it made as it individually came up?)
3. Are statements from the early suspects available? I can’t see that they were tendered (in court) but are they still around?
4.Was there any resolution on the origin of the grass seed? (John Reynolds did not know.)
5. Was there a theory re the pilchers on the roof of the units?
Many weeks later, I send a second request asking if I could expect a response to the questions. My queries have been forwarded to DS Herpich, I am assured.
I do not receive a reply from him.
52
In 2004, Adrian Gundelach defends serial killer Lenny Frazer – originally accused of murdering teenager Natasha Ryan who emerged from hiding in a cupboard at her boyfriend’s house years after she disappeared. Truth, Gundelach says wryly of that story, is stranger than fiction. And he has another story, equally bizarre, perplexing.
During Lenny Frazer’s trial, Gundelach was approached by Homicide Detective Senior-Sergeant Dave Hickey. Nine months before, Hickey said, an 84-year-old man had come to see him, told him he wanted to get something off his chest. He was dying of cancer and scared he would take the secret to his grave. It was about that baby who was found in Limestone Park 31 years ago.
It had been the man’s habit to walk through the park early in the morning. And he had done so on 14 April 1973, just before dawn. There were dogs hanging around a rubbish bin deep inside the park, barking, excited, their front legs extended and pawing the bin. Something inside it had caught their attention, something they were desperately trying to retrieve. Curious, the man approached the bin and looked inside, reeled when he saw what it was.
Justice In Jeopardy Page 33