Chapter 9

The Wake-Up Call That Wasn’t

Mark Moran was getting into his Commodore ute outside his luxury home in the normally quiet cul-de-sac Melbourne suburb of Aberfeldie when he was ambushed and executed. Four loud shots were heard by neighbours as pellets from a 12-gauge shotgun and a handgun were pumped into his chest at close range. It was just after eight pm, Thursday, 15 June 2000, and in the early evening shadows, the dawn of what was a new era in very public and bloody gangland deaths. The murder is still officially unsolved. All that Melbourne Coroner Frank Hender could find as to culpability in February 2002 was that ‘a person or persons killed him by gunshots’. As Mr Hender had noted there were two guns used to kill Mark, but it did not ‘indicate the presence of more than one person on the scene’.

And there you have the official breakdown. But for me, the execution of Mark was far more real and heart-wrenching than a summary of what the police have deemed suitable for public consumption. On the night Mark Moran was hit, seven of us gathered at Lewis’s flat in Washington St, Essendon, a few streets away from where his stepson lay dead. There were the usual suspects around the kitchen table – Lewis, Munster, myself and three or four others – a few of the trusted confidantes. No Jason, though; he was in Fulham Prison at the time. Our gathering was later speculated by police, and dutifully in the press, to be a ‘war council’. But to those of us actually there it was simply a wake, a show of respect. And more’s the pity.

There were no raging bulls. Only the occasional ring of a mobile or shuffle of heavy feet for another bottle of Johnnie Walker Black broke the long minutes of stilted silence. Lewis stared into his glass and simply let out an occasional groan, almost as though gasping for breath. Munster was like a mirror statue of Lewis, seated by his side at the old laminate table, occasionally breaking the stale lifeless air by slamming his fist. It was a sombre get together alright, hardly anyone would speak up. No one would say here’s the situation, let’s take revenge, let’s do this or that. So much for a war council, or kitchen cabinet as proclaimed by some absolute media dimwit.

A coffin council would have been a better description. It was no normal gathering from the start, and it was made all the more weird by the fact it was also a portent for the majority of those gathered around the table that night.

Mark was our most obvious heir apparent, our future, and he was gone. The old guard, especially Lewis, was garrotted by a grim reality they always knew possible but had never really accepted. Then you’ve got Mark’s friends one, two and three – who must for legal reasons remain nameless. Fat lot of good they proved to be in a fix. If the opposition tactic was to shock and awe, as the Victoria Police once described a road blitz, then they sure as fuck succeeded.

Stunned would have to be the best word. Shit, we were all stunned – the shockwaves of a huge bomb being felt by each of us. No plots were discussed, no accusations made. It was as if every person there was waiting for the other to talk first. There were no spur of the moment decisions made that night. But in hindsight, it’s a pity no one acted there and then. Nobody took control, not that night. And so the die was cast.

No doubt in the following days, war councils were called and tactics discussed. But these were meetings I was not privy to. As usual, I kept my thoughts to myself and waited for Lewis to act. As time passed I wondered what the hell Lewis and Graham Kinniburgh were up to. Maybe if Lewis wasn’t such a tightarse it could have been finished there and then. Who could have foreseen what was to befall us in the days to come?

A question that needs to be pointedly asked is: Where were Mark’s friends after he was actually hit? It was as if a secret pact was brokered so as not to disturb the lucrative trade that lined the nests of so many participants in this drama. I believe Mark was sacrificed for greed and convenience. Some of those he trusted most had turned their backs to save themselves and their allies from having to take sides. They didn’t want to jeopardise their very comfortable lifestyles.

An even better question, and not only for the Office of Police Integrity(OPI), is just who gave the instruction to drug squad detectives to shut down their 24-hour surveillance of Mark? Why was the decision made to stop surveillance just hours before he was shot? No explanation has ever been given, as far as I know. There have been mutterings from an ever compliant press about a simple lack of cooperation between different police departments, but that is a crock of shit. Again the public is expected to believe a load of bull just because it is in print. Well, there is a reason both the above questions have gone unanswered, and that’s because they are very much connected.

A token act of retaliation was performed; the only pathetic reprisal mounted that night, when a few shots were fired at the house where Carl Williams was believed to be living in North Fitzroy. Integrity and honour died that night. It wasn’t only Mark who perished, but with him went those simpering, spineless arseholes with hearts as big as peas; his so-called friends. They vapourised from our world virtually overnight.

In the following days, no doubt Lewis and the Munster must have realised how isolated they really were. Not even a sudden burst of real religious fervour and severe penance could save them from the storm that loomed ahead.

Mark’s funeral was at St Therese’s Church in Essendon and it was a huge affair, with 1000 or more mourners. Many of them were dressed in traditional gangster black coats and dark sun­glasses, but there was also a healthy show of support from the Hells Angels, all in full colours. Many mourners were also from Mark’s much loved local football clubs, North Kensington and Moonee Ponds. Even the former club president, Jeff Milne, who’d been pinched by the coppers the day after Mark was shot, poor bastard, because the cops already knew from surveillance that he had a three-kilo stash of Mark’s speed and more at his home.

Jason managed to get day leave from prison for the funeral and sat under armed guard. His glassy eyes sought out Lewis several times during the service, with short, piercing stabs, before a slight upward jerk of his chin. It wouldn’t have taken an FBI facial expressions expert to work out his message – an angry question about just what was being done to avenge Mark’s death. And the frustration he felt as he slumped forward to bury his head in his hands. Jason had a need for blood to be spilled. If he had been a free man that day, there would have been a full on massacre unleashed.

As it was, all Jason could use at the time were words, which he put into a death notice. It was fairly evident he wanted to take things further as he wrote: ‘Words could never, ever express the way I am feeling. This is only the beginning. It will never be the end, REMEMBER, I WILL NEVER FORGET.’

Among the throng at Mark’s funeral, both before and after the service, there were several promises of retribution whispered in certain circles and plots hatched by faceless men. But in the end those who most obviously, or fearfully, wanted their support known – Mark’s supposed friends – proved to be the worst cowards of the lot.

Then Jason himself, and Paddy Barbaro, were gunned down while Lewis and I were in jail. Paddy was staunch to the end. But I wonder just how well his family were looked after? Probably the same as me: kicked in the arse and conveniently forgotten. And once again, who stood up when they were killed? Nobody!

Jason’s funeral was at St Mary’s Star of the Sea Catholic Church, West Melbourne, the same place Alphonse Gangitano had his funeral. The same place where I served as an altar boy. The event was attended by friend and foe alike – plus a healthy media contingent, onlookers and of course the obligatory surveillance police. It was a real circus for the dead. Photographers even scampered up ladders in a laneway to access a second-storey rooftop.

Oddly enough, St Mary’s is also the only church in Victoria under the auspices of Opus Dei. But from what I’ve heard, its religious stature would scarcely humble that of the self-importance perceived by most guests that day. A nice bit of history here too, in that the church was blessed by a Cardinal Pat Moran back in the year 1900. Well, the church was blessed by another Moran that day, spot on a century later, but the modern one probably had fewer morals or boundaries. Certainly none of any religious nature. I imagine the church still collected a healthy contribution toward their $10 million building restoration project for the service.

Christ, the enemy were even confident enough to plan the execution of Lewis while he was still in jail. It was a plot that Judy Moran, that twisted excuse for a woman – vile, vindictive creature that she is – implicated me in, whatever her warped reasoning. I was subjected to intense pressure by the Purana Task Force to explain these unwarranted accusations, made two years after Lewis and I were gunned down at the Brunswick Club.

It was obvious that Judy was deadly seriously about making me suffer. What a fine gang to throw your lot in with. I can’t help but think of that famous comedy duo, Oliver Hardy and Stan Laurel. Hardy would berate Laurel and say to him: ‘Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve got me into!’ I have a framed photo of the duo in my modest flat and cannot help but think of Lewis when I look at it, his stupidity and greed.

The worst thing was that Lewis wanted to take me with him, and I allowed it to happen. What the hell was I thinking? Knowing that Lewis had only one aim, his own self-preservation, I chanced the odds every day on the bet I would not be another statistic. Whether by Lewis using me as a shield or by dropping my guard, I could become another victim in an instant, my life snuffed out faster than a mozzie hit with Mortein.

My vigilance was maintained, ever ready for danger, real or imagined. So I thought. Great job I did at the Brunswick Club when those dogs burst in and gunned Lewis and I down. A hard way to prove my integrity and courage.

The slaughter of Graham Kinniburgh, the Munster, lifelong friend and confidant of Lewis, respected and even revered by many in the police, criminals and fence sitters alike, was something I didn’t see coming. Short on words but large in heart, in December 2003 he became another statistic of the mad­ness, fodder for the press and eager readers who devoured every reported moment of this underworld war. Mr and Mrs Average, cocooned out in suburbia far from our grubby dog eat dog battle­ground, relished the unrelenting drama. They were in no real danger of being placed in the arena, and many expressed relief, and even delight, in the entertainment value of villain killings.

But let me assure you, those cowardly, as yet unidentified killers who gunned Graham down in his driveway are the real absolute dogs. The Munster was much more a man than they’ll ever be. And at least he was able to stand tall and proud as he managed to get a shot off at the bastards. The Munster was the stuff of legends, a former gun shearer and ship rigger who spoke with his fists and survived the painters and dockers war. He gained notoriety and significant underworld status as a master safe cracker, the leader of the Magnetic Drill Gang, responsible for a string of multi-million dollar heists in the 1970s and 1980s. As an associate of the infamous Kangaroo Gang, Graham also helped move their shoplifting booty as they stripped some of the best fashion houses in Britain and Europe of their luxury goods. In the 1990s, he was charged with conspiracy to import hashish worth $225 million.

Police had alleged they snared the fourth such drug run, by a trawler that the Munster had rigged and fitted with communications equipment. That would make around $675 million worth of hash already safely imported, stooked and ready for distribution, perhaps by then even sold. Certainly enough to satisfy a lot of very happy community stoners at places such as Nimbin and the like. And the Munster had a sizeable stake, allegedly, along with the Grandfather Mob, who comprised some of the former Kangaroo Gang members. The haul that had been intercepted and seized was coming in via Hervey Bay, Queensland, the state known as a playground for elite southern criminals for many generations. But the evidence against the Munster was flimsy and he beat the charges, acquitted by a jury in 1997.

According to some, Graham was the Mr Big of crime in Melbourne. He may well have been, though I doubt it. The Munster was certainly bigger than Lewis in every respect, including financially. In his later days, the Munster was also a silent partner in one of Melbourne’s most prestigious restaurants, the Flower Drum, in Market Lane. This was where he also had a special set of pure gold chopsticks, which were kept at the restaurant and brought out for him every time he dined there, which was two or three times a week with Lewis alone. Every Saturday night was a regular dinner date for the Munster and Lewis at the Flower Drum. On the odd occasion the venue would be changed for the Florentino, but most weeks it was Chinese tucker not so takeaway.

While Graham lived in the affluent Melbourne suburb of Kew, a neighbour to neurosurgeons and the like, I suspect that was more to please his wife Sybil than any personal desire to live in a patch any leafier than the largely industrial Richmond, where he was reared. Shit a brick, he would even submit to walking the family’s fluffy white toy dog, a Maltese–Shih tzu cross like the mutt Paris Hilton would stuff in her handbag. It was much more his thing to chill out in front of the television, beer in hand, watching a good sports program. Munster also sent his three children, two sons and a daughter, to private schools, while Sybil for many years ran a new age shop at the Queen Victoria Market. Adored by all who knew her, Sybil was not as much an elitist as her home may have suggested. She was a very down-to-earth, ever cheery, respectful and caring woman, certainly by reputation and on the few occasions I met her. Both she and Graham would do anything they could for their children.

Once she had seen Graham gunned down, killed in their driveway right in front of her eyes, Sybil was said by friends to have lost her customary cheer and found it was time to say goodbye to Melbourne. She has moved to a state with a somewhat more placid reputation.

Personally, I had gone a little cold on the Munster, as I found it highly suspicious that he was never even charged by the drug squad police who conducted Operation Ferry, which saw myself, Lewis and six others arrested on 25 October 2002. The others charged were Paul Sequenzia, of Moonee Ponds, Christopher John Anderson, of Airport West, Angelo Visalli, of Kensington, Terrence James Richards, of Melton, Anthony Samuel Barbera, and his son Cosmos James Barbera, both from Keilor Downs. Yet with all these people hauled in and the Munster mentioned with some prominence as a person believed trafficking drugs with Lewis in both my charge sheet (see end of chapter 4), and the summary of evidence, he was not charged.

There were even audio and video tapes courtesy of the State Surveillance Unit, with Graham, Lewis and another criminal turned informer, code named SCS 4/199, meeting in the Munster’s burgundy Ford sedan at a small park in Ascot Vale, on 30 July 2001, where ‘in the presence of Kinniburgh’, Lewis handed the informer a sock that had 989 ecstasy tablets inside. Lewis had told the informer he could have the eggies on credit for $18,000, the summary of evidence said. And soon after they parted ways the informer handed the same sock, coloured burgundy and grey and embroidered with the words ‘Betty Boo’, pink love hearts and a female face, to Task Force Kayak investigators. In my opinion, the weight of evidence against Graham was much greater than that against me, yet I spent several months in the boob while he walked free.

My immediate suspicion was that the Munster had rolled. He had turned to the betrayal of his best mates, the hardest of the hard men was taken down. Perhaps police had earlier come across evidence even more damning than the Munster’s DNA at the Alphonse execution scene and offered to let it rest if he cooperated. Who knows? What I can tell you here is that a cruel touch of irony also pervades this whole episode of betrayal, as the person I believe responsible for Graham’s murder was also described in the same Operation Ferry summary of evidence. This person was unidentified but noted for assisting police with the informer’s placement, just as it seemed Graham had, while not noted, also assisted. But I know who this person was and I believe he was the one who organised and assisted the Munster’s hit. For the moment it’s enough to say that while I suspected Graham had turned informer or assisted police in that operation, I remained staunch. Again, perhaps it was my twisted sense of loyalty or the belief that the money I was owed would one day resurface, but I was still a fierce defender of the Munster up to his death. And the Munster had been forewarned his time had come, telling friends a week before he was a marked man and even exchanging an automatic pistol for a revolver earlier on the day he was killed. Graham’s death took away any fight that remained in Lewis. But you never know, I’ve heard justice may soon be done.

At the time I had fallen out with Lewis over his abandonment of me and the realisation that his betrayal was far worse than I had first thought. And by then Lewis was using, at a rate that was no good for anyone near him. That was another confidence the Munster took to the grave. But still, I listened to Lewis and sympathised as he shed tears when he came over to my home after the Munster was shot. Whether his tears were for himself or the Munster I’ll never know, but both would be my guess.

At any rate, Lewis shed tears that were genuine and not the crocodile tears he shed for Alphonse Gangitano. They were as false as the promises that tyrants like Stalin and Hitler gave to their helpless victims. Lewis ate humble pie and begged me to again be his mate. I knew he would, but didn’t gain any satisfaction knowing this. He said, ‘I’ve got nobody.’ I replied, ‘I’ll stick with you.’

He still hadn’t changed his miserable selfish ways but I couldn’t go back on my word. In the aftermath of that mistake, I continue to experience nightmares so intense it’s difficult to distinguish reality from imagination. My mind darts about between gunfire, sirens and a sobbing Lewis, with flashes of his stunned face at the Brunswick Club that night. A recurring theme has me in the thick of a shootout, always on the run into or from the attack dogs, and just when I need to pull the trigger – my gun turns into a hammer, trowel or some other bloody builders’ tool. The final scene is a mash of darkness and fear, a flesh-tearing sensation and a surge of pain.

I wake from those night horrors on most occasions bathed in sweat. The script may be almost comical to some. But it remains more than real to me, almost every night. And in a way I felt this, I sensed a deep dread I’d never experienced before, when with Lewis in the remaining months that we blundered along. By that stage we were the last of our crew standing. Others had dropped off like flies. Dead or in jail. And I was the last he could count on to keep him company at the bar, either drunk or ripped off his head on coke.

I caught up with the fallout of Lewis and I being shot some months later of course, once I had recovered enough to make sense of the media and other reports. Even the normally upbeat Victoria Police Minister Andre Haermeyer had had enough as he spoke to the media the day after we were shot. Shit, he even told ABC television it was only a matter of time before a member of the public was caught in the crossfire.

Quite a serious call for any politician, especially one already in the midst of his own serious turf war between Australian Labor Party factions. But of course, giving police greater powers to coerce DNA samples from suspects has to be given a serious introduction of sorts, and I guess the call of public endangerment was the government’s key card. And after being shot myself, I had to agree things were getting a little out of control.

‘You’re dealing with people here who would rather be killed, who are prepared to be killed, rather than cooperate with police,’ Haermeyer told the ABC’s Lateline program, the day after the shootings. That has stuck in my mind ever since I saw a video recording several weeks later, taped by a relative as I recovered. As I heard his words it seemed he was dead right. It was also oddly disturbing because I could see the minister himself had no idea just how serious and deep-rooted the criminal element was in his own force.

The simple reason Lewis and others of similar knowledge refused protection was because the whole idea was a farce; a death sentence far more certain than being at a public bar.