It was a nice morning. I was wearing runners. I'd just finished seeing a patient and was escorting her back to the front desk. She went through the waiting room; I went, as usual, through the front office.
He was standing on the other side of the counter. He wasn't one of my patients but I recognised him, so I said good morning and asked what I could do for him.
He said, 'I'm very depressed'.
He raised his hand - which was holding a gun; a pistol.
I thought, he's not going to kill himself because he's not pointing the gun at his head.
There was no time to react to what was really happening. The next thing I was on the floor. I didn't feel anything but knew I'd been shot, because of the noise and the fact that I was on the floor. I sat up. There was blood. I'd been shot in the hip. The bullet had gone straight through.
Then he shot me again in the same leg. I tried to drag myself behind a filing cabinet but he kept firing - at the wall, at the cabinet, everywhere; he just kept firing...
If this were crime fiction, in the first person, the narrative would most likely continue with a clichéd balancing act between life and death. As narrator, I'd be trying to hook you with an action-packed or tension-filled flight or fight scenario.
I may well be going down in a hail of bullets, but I'd be telling you all about it as I went.
Actually, if this were crime fiction, I think I'd start again and give the piece more colour by adding all the noise: the screams, the shouting, the Bang! Bang! Bang! of the gunshots and the variety of sounds as each bullet hit something different - a metal filing cabinet, a solid wall, a human body. My human body.
And of course, there'd be the pain - lots of colour there. I mean, I've just been hit by... How many did we get to? Was it two bullets? And let's make them .45 calibre, full metal jackets - for extra oomph and drama.
Okay... so I've just been hit by two bad-arse bullets; the pain alone would have to be enough to kill me. Wouldn't it?
Yeah right; the reader's not silly. Obviously I survive. I have to, in order to tell my tale. I am, after all, the first person. I know, I know; there are fictional exceptions. A mystery buff would say: 'Never rule out the dead narrator. All we need here, for a riveting story, is a well-told flashback - to the who, what and why - then the hero can bite the dust, if that's what the author wants. It's been done before. After all, the story is all in the telling; that's what makes it new'.
Flashbacks like those, however, only work if the narrator knows, or can figure out during the re-telling, how they came to be in that predicament. The narrator needs to be able to explain the circumstances that led up to this incident, or there is no story. If the narrator does die in the end, everything else has to turn out right first. And if I die, well... the chances are, in fiction, that I probably deserved it.
On the other hand, if the narrator doesn't have a clue why some nutcase with a gun is on the rampage, then obviously, in fiction, the 'I' of the story has to survive in order to carry out an investigation; to go back to the real beginning, wherever that was, and find out why.
That is the pact that crime fiction writers make with their readers. It's not so much the 'who' but the 'why' that's important. It's not the mystery, but the solution that matters.
And a crime fiction buff cannot be taken for a ride. The motives, of the good and the bad, must be examined, or at least revealed; the outcome must be believable, if only in context; and justice, of some kind, must be seen to be done.
If this were crime fiction it would therefore be my job as the author to provide you with those answers. I would do this because I know that fans of crime fiction don't actually read mysteries or crime novels because they like being confused, baffled or scared; or because they derive a vicarious thrill from the violence. They read it because everything turns out right in the end. Order is brought to the chaos and there is always closure. Compared to that, real life is a bitch.
So if this were crime fiction I, as the author, would now go back to the end of my introduction and after, 'he just kept firing...' I would freeze the action there - again - and then delve into a flashback of how I, the narrator, came to find myself in this bizarre and bloody situation.
And if this were crime fiction my editor would, no doubt, suggest I lose the odd reference to the runners.
But this is not fiction so I will, instead, go back to the start and tell you the truth: that this is a true story, and in real life things rarely end the way they should. This is not my true story; but it does speak for itself; and I don't need to add colour.
On Saturday April 12, 1997 Andrew Taylor, for no other reason than he was a doctor, was - as the press would later say - 'gunned down' by a man who wanted to show someone how he felt. Specifically, he wanted to show a doctor how he felt. Andrew Taylor was the doctor he found. The first and second shots hit Andrew in the right hip.
The Man, armed with a .45 calibre semi-automatic Norinco pistol and two magazines of bullets (a mixture of full metal jackets and jacketed hollow points) fired about nine shots around the small Hastings medical clinic. All were aimed at his one single target; five were direct hits.
The Man ignored the screaming receptionist, over whose head he was firing. He even shouted: 'Shut up, I am not going to kill you'.
He fired and fired and fired. The third shot to hit his target struck Andrew in the left leg, below the knee. The Man emptied one magazine and reloaded. He walked through the crowded waiting room, ignoring all the terrified patients, to follow the doctor into the hall where he had dragged himself. He then shot Andrew Taylor in the back.
This Man just wanted a doctor, any doctor, to recognise, and thereby acknowledge, the pain he was in.
But where does a true story like this really begin? Does it start with the story of the victim or the assailant? And whose story should come first?
On April 12, 1997 Andrew Taylor was 39-years-old. He was the father of two children, whom he adored, but was separated from his wife. He loved horses, didn't mind a drink or two, was a good doctor who liked being a doctor. He'd been practising at the Hastings Clinic on the Mornington Peninsula for eight years, but had started his working life in Darwin and had done a stint as a doctor in the US Army. On that Saturday, however, he was seriously in the wrong place at the wrong time.
What should you know about the gunman at this stage? Would you like to know that he was a 45-year-old, unemployed, married, father of a 15-year-old son? Or is it enough to know that he had his reasons?
He was single-minded. He didn't shoot anyone else. But the fact is this Man, this gunman, did not know Andrew Taylor personally (although they had met); and he had no specific grievance against him.
So, do you care that the Man thought he had his reasons? Should we care?
If this were crime fiction I could give you the facts, explain the reasons and delve into the motives. I may well be giving you fictional psychology but you would get the best explanation I could invent for an act of random violence.
Crime fiction is the perfect vehicle for exploring legal, political, financial, environmental, social or health issues. In a fictional setting these can all be analysed, investigated, dissected, ridiculed, praised, explained or vilified.
Crime fiction usually has, at its driving force, a moral or honourable heart which ensures that scales get balanced and underdogs have their day. It explores the motives of 'a possible reality', and gives us 'reasons' so we can make sense of the mayhem - both fictional and real.
Crime fiction also gives us strong reliable heroes, the kind we'd want on our side in a tight situation. They walk the mean streets for us and deal with the other side, those bad characters we wouldn't ever want to meet in a dark alley - or, as it turns out, in a well-lit doctor's waiting room.
A crime novel can be a deadly serious excursion into the darkest corners of the human psyche or imagination; it can be a frothy little brain-teasing puzzle designed to amuse; or it can be all manner of things in between. It can haunt or entertain, sometimes it can do both - but it must end the right way or the author will have a very short career.
Crime fiction, finally, is also the home of that whole 'moral of the story' concept. In fact that philosophy is its raison d'être. And we read it because we'd really, really like to believe in that most clichéd of old morals, the one that goes: 'crime does not pay'. We expect it in our crime fiction because it's the only place where it can be relied on to happen. The search for truth or justice in the real world often seems like a pointless exercise; but in crime fiction you are guaranteed at least an answer, or a just or appropriate ending.
I read and write crime fiction for all these reasons. I don't read much true crime, except for the daily newspaper short-form. To be honest I have no idea why people do read true crime. There's more than enough bad stuff going on in the world without delving back into it as a reading hobby. It's hyped up on TV and elaborated on, a little, in the papers under in-your-face headlines, but way too much of it remains unresolved. And how often do we find out what really happened, let alone what happened in the end?
Even when the culprit is safely behind bars we seldom get the full story. We may get all the details of the crime and a blow by blow account of the court case, if there was one, but unless the writer, for part of the story at least, is the culprit then we rarely get to know the why of it all. Do we, for instance, know anything about Martin Bryant or Ivan Milat that isn't someone else's opinion? Do we want to? Will the presence of apparent evil in our real lives be more, or less, bearable if we get inside their minds? Or is it enough that a true crime account tells us that it happened, and now it's over? Or, more to the point, that it happened to someone else, and now it's over.
But look at any investigation into an actual crime that gets written as the truest account, and published as the book of that true crime. More often than not it will have no proper ending. Why? Because the thing that makes that real life case interesting is the mystery surrounding the fact that it, probably, has still not been solved.
Where is the satisfaction in reading a mystery that, in a way, is missing its last page? And if you know that before you start, why would you bother? If there's no resolution, no answers, no solution, no closure in what you read - and what you're reading is loaded with bad or evil people, and scary notions or gruesome details - surely that has to leave you dissatisfied, on edge, even fearful.
As the woman across the road from the clinic where Andrew Taylor was shot said, 'I'll be watching very closely at the door for a while. These events seem to touch off copy-cats'. She was a distant witness to an awful incident that ended badly. She now expects more of the same.
Strangely enough, in fact or fiction, there are things we 'accept' either because, sadly, we do understand them; or because we have no choice, as there will be no further explanation. In the case of murder, or attempted murder, understanding an explanation doesn't mean that we like or condone it, just that we understand the reason. We are not being understanding.
If one criminal kills another criminal, we understand the motive. If a criminal maims a punter who owes him big-time, or kills an otherwise-innocent witness to one of his crimes we, strangely, understand that there is a reason.
But, we don't get the serial killer, at all. He is perversely fascinating, but we don't really want to be able to understand him because that might just say something about us. It's the same when a nutter with a gun goes on a killing spree for no apparent reason and with no justifiable - in any sense of the word - target in mind. We frown, we shake our heads, we really don't understand; so we assume he must be mad.
And this is where we sometimes just have to accept the unexplainable; because we have no choice. The 'just plain mad' or 'evil' explanation is quite often acceptable to us - as long as there is closure. Some of us might like to know what made him like that, but mostly we're happy if the mad, evil man gets his just deserts. We want to know that he is dead or locked up. Oh, and we usually also want to know what he looks like; perhaps so we can recognise the face of evil if we pass another like it on the street. This knowledge does not protect us from the bogeyman but it possibly acts as a mojo - of sorts.
So, let's return to Andrew Taylor and the Man who 'had his reasons'. At this stage, whether this is true crime or crime fiction, you'd not only want the doctor to survive but you'd want some sense to be made of this. You've been teased, so you would want to know why the Man felt he had to do what he did, wouldn't you?
What kind of pain must he have been in, you ask, to choose any doctor, supposedly at random, to make a point. Fact or fiction, you'd want to know the why; you'd feel cheated if you didn't get an explanation for this act of violence. But let me warn you now, you won't like the answer; it won't make enough sense.
Andrew Taylor's partner can't, or won't, bring herself to recall the gunman's name. She refers to him as that guy, that bloke, the Man. He is the bogeyman in her life; he doesn't need a name.
Andrew, however, knew exactly who the gunman was; and he remembered most of what happened for the statement that he gave the police at the scene, including the fact that the ambulance guys had wanted to give the wounded gunman priority.
Andrew remembered crawling into the hallway to escape the bullets. He knew the Man had emptied one magazine and reloaded. He knew the Man had come after him, into the hall, that he was 'doing' this to show someone how he felt.
Andrew was in no pain. He could move and there was a lot of his blood everywhere but nothing hurt - not even his legs, which he knew had been hit. He remembered the noise, the blood, the fear; and he recalled rolling onto his back, to face the Man.
He stated afterwards, in an emotional tone that suggested he hated admitting to a moment of weakness, that it was only then, lying on his back in the hall that he started to plead - for his life, for the Man to stop shooting, for the Man not to kill him, for the chance to speak to his children before...
'That's when I started begging,' he'd said, and he'd sounded embarrassed. Andrew Taylor had nowhere to go. Why would anyone with no way out, be self-conscious about asking for mercy?
A gunman was standing right in front of him. Andrew had done nothing, ever, in his whole life, to deserve this. Why the hell shouldn't he beg? Because he was a grown man and men didn't do that? Are men supposed to be brave at all costs and in all situations, even when they've been shot four times and the crazy man with the gun is still coming at him?
He admitted to begging for his life, as if it was a cowardly thing to do.
But then perhaps that was the listener's interpretation. Andrew had certainly seemed more emotional describing that moment than he had with any other part of his account.
But in reality, until then, Andrew Taylor had had a chance. Adrenaline had been pumping furiously through his system to focus his fear on one single thing: to channel all his remaining strength and conscious thought into getting away from the danger. Now, suddenly, he could not get away; and most of that precious hormone that keeps the body fighting to survive, against all odds, was probably leaking along with his blood out onto the floor.
The emotion in his voice, when he later explained how he'd rolled over and asked for mercy, was more likely the recognition, after the fact, of the absolute terror of that moment. He knew he'd been scared the whole time, but the fear in that moment was different. That was when his mind was forced to acknowledge the likelihood of untimely, unprepared for, guaranteed mortality.
A huge terrifying mass of fear was suddenly distilled into one pure and perfect bead of time when there was no place to hide from the end; no place to run from sure and certain death at the hand of the Man standing over him with a gun.
If Andrew Taylor saw his life pass before his eyes, he didn't say. If he gave any thought to where he actually was, slipping in his own blood on the corridor floor, the carpeted floor with the red lines that marked the way to the different consulting rooms where he and his colleagues... he didn't say.
So many shots had been fired but, because Andrew felt no pain at all, he didn't realise that the fourth bullet to hit him, the one in the back, had passed through both lungs and exited through his right arm. He wasn't, in fact, even aware that he'd been shot in the back.
He just kept thinking that if he could talk the Man out of firing again, or if he didn't get hit in the head or the heart, that he might still have a chance. As a doctor he knew the score: he was still conscious and he could move his legs; yes he was losing blood - a lot of blood - and he was having trouble breathing, but he thought he was okay - until that moment.
So he begged.
Did the Man hear? Did he intend for his last assault to be final - or just the final insult? Was it the worst thing he could think of to do to another man?
He started out, this Man, wanting to show someone how he felt. So what the hell was he doing? How did he feel? What exactly was he on about?
Born and raised in Yugoslavia, of Albanian ancestry, 22-year-old Zuber Vukovic migrated to Australia in 1974. He worked a variety of manual labouring jobs before going back to Yugoslavia in 1979 to get married; returning to Australia 18 months later.
Since his return Zuber Vukovic had, allegedly, worked a grand total of seven days. From 1982 this unemployed (or unemployable) married father of one, lived on sickness benefits then an invalid pension following a workplace accident. He was awarded a $30,000 lump sum payment, by way of settlement, for that workplace accident; transferred to unemployment benefits; and then made a Transport Accident Commission claim.
Mr Vukovic did have a serious car accident in 1989; he was badly injured and no doubt he did deserve the TAC money he received - but, in his mind, he didn't get enough. Vukovic apparently thought he would receive one million dollars for the injuries he had sustained. He'd been back on a disability pension since the accident; and his case had taken about seven years, during which time he had, allegedly, borrowed money on which to live - on the strength of the one million he expected to get.
When his claim finally went through, in August 1996, Vukovic received only $270,000. It's believed that, after he cleared his debts, he had only a little over $130,000 left. So the Man, who also suffered from anxiety and depression, was now very annoyed.
Or, as a judge later said, his 'already pronounced sense of hostility towards the legal system and the medical profession' was fuelled by his resentment that his claim hadn't been immediately accepted by the TAC, who'd placed him under the surveillance of private investigators, and that settlement had taken so long. The judge added that the delay, however, 'was no doubt contributed to by the fact that you [Vukovic] became paranoid and suspicious about your own lawyers, accusing them of acting against your interests, and changed lawyers many times during the course of the litigation'.
Just over quarter of a million dollars was not enough to live on for the rest of Vukovic's non-working working life; so after fuming over the matter for quite some time he, allegedly, went to see his (latest) solicitor to find out why he hadn't got the million.
Zuber Vukovic may, or may not, have been carrying the Norinco pistol and two magazines of bullets when he demanded to be told why he hadn't got what he wanted but, luckily, his solicitor had a good reason.
Vukovic was informed that the amount awarded in a TAC claim such as his came down to what the doctor's report said. Whatever the doctor said about the condition of the claimant was the thing that decided the amount to be paid.
Vukovic left his solicitor's office. He was really pissed off now but he waited, and he stewed.
Eight months after his TAC claim was settled, on the morning of April 12, 1997, Vukovic told his wife that he had 'just made' a doctor's appointment. He then drove, not to the medical centre, but to his doctor's home.
The front door of this private residence was opened by the doctor's seven-year-old niece who, in answer to Vukovic's question, said her 'father' was not there. The doctor was at home, he was in the shower, but he was spared by a lucky choice of words.
Vukovic then drove into Hastings and went first - for some strange reason - to the medical clinic across the road from the one he actually attended as a patient; the surgery opposite where his own doctor worked in partnership with Andrew Taylor. Vukovic was told by the receptionist there that 'the doctor' was not in at that moment.
Vukovic then crossed the road, entered the Hastings Medical Clinic and asked to see a doctor. As he had no appointment, the receptionist told him there'd be a short wait. He'd been standing by the counter for only a few moments when Andrew Taylor - not his doctor but the next best thing - entered the office, through the door opposite.
Zuber Vukovic raised his gun and shot Andrew Taylor twice in the right hip and once in the left leg below the knee - to show a doctor how he felt. In his car accident he'd been injured in the right hip and the left leg. He didn't actually say the words but the implied message to the entire medical profession was: 'now you know that my pain is worth a million dollars'.
Why he kept shooting, and still only at the doctor, is a mystery. You'd have to ask the Man himself.
From Agatha Christie and Raymond Chandler to Sara Paretsky the bad guys in crime fiction always get caught or get what's coming to them; and the good guys always win or find justice - of some kind. That's why we read crime fiction - because there is a suitable end, a just finish, sometimes even a perfect resolution. What goes around, comes around; and there is the closure that we seldom get in real life. That's why it's called fiction.
So, why are you reading this? Do you really want to keep going? You won't like it at all if it doesn't end properly. But, I suppose if you've bought this book, and come this far then you're a fan (that sounds wrong) you're a 'reader' of true crime - not crime fiction - so you are accustomed to things not working out. How are your nerves?
If this story were crime fiction - the purpose of which is to restore order, provide a solution, and make sense of, or at least attempt to explain, the dark side of life - then Andrew would have talked the gunman out of bullet number five. Andrew would have had his day in court; he'd have received justice; he, or someone on his behalf, would have secured the proper ending.
Instead the following, in Dr Taylor's own words, is what actually happened.
It was a nice Saturday morning. I was wearing runners. I'd just come back from the States. I'd taken the kids to Disneyland. It was the second weekend back.
I knew this guy, he wasn't a patient of mine, but I knew him. And I'd just seen a patient, an old lady, and I was walking her out to the waiting room and he was at the front desk.
I said, 'Good morning Mr Vukovic, what can I do for you today? I'll see you soon'; or words to that effect.
And he said, 'I'm very depressed,' and then produced a gun.
Seriously, I thought this is really bad. For some reason I knew he wasn't going to hold it to his head. Just the way he brought it out; because he brought it out towards me, he didn't bring it out towards his own head.
Suddenly, you know, all you see is this gun... and, unbelievably, it went off.
It was that quick. I didn't have time to move anywhere. I just saw it and I think I froze. And it, ah, hit me in the leg and threw me across the room. Other people were screaming.
There was no pain. I only knew I'd been shot because I was on the ground, because I'd seen the gun, and because of the noise. I felt something in the leg, but you couldn't call it pain. There was a sensation; I knew something was wrong with my leg but it wasn't pain; not like a punch in the arm or anything like that.
Then I sat myself straight up and he fired into my leg there again, in the same spot.
There was a filing cabinet near me so I crawled behind it; and as I crawled behind it, he shot me in the other leg below the knee.
There were four or five patients in the waiting room and Kerrie on the front desk. I was the only person he was shooting at but he was firing over Kerrie and she was screaming. She'd lost it, obviously, But he actually told Kerrie to stop screaming, to shut up, that he wouldn't shoot her.
I said, 'Call the police, call the police' - which she was obviously doing.
And he just kept firing and firing - I don't know how many bullets, half a dozen I suppose. They were going through the filing cabinet and into the wall.
And I just thought I can't stay here, this is crazy. I sort of threw myself and crawled through the doorway into the hall. It probably wasn't wise to leap out from behind the filing cabinet, where at least he couldn't shoot me in the head, but I just felt I couldn't stay there and let this go on. There was just no way I could stay still and let him keep shooting at my legs like that. I thought I just had to get further away. So I actually exposed myself completely as I leapt across. He could have so easily, even accidentally, shot me in the head at that stage.
I was frightened. You know, you go from 'this is unbelievable, this isn't happening to me, to this is real' - like that. Yes, I was very, very scared.
But for some reason I still knew if he didn't shoot me in the head, that I'd be alright - because I'd already survived. Like, I could see both my legs were bleeding, and there was blood everywhere, and there was all the noise and the gun going off, but I'd made it out into the hall.
Then he - I thought he jumped the counter - but he actually came around through the waiting room. I was trying to crawl, sort of on my side, down the hallway. Next thing he's appeared behind me - and I should have just kept crawling.
There was still no pain. My adrenaline levels were redline, my heart, everything was redline. I'm sure the pain signals were being sent to my brain, but my brain was just saying, 'We don't have time to deal with that. We've got to survive; disconnect those pain terminals for now. We've got more important things to focus on. We've have to think clearly; talk; talk to this guy, move those arms'.
He said to me, 'No you're not dying. I want you to feel the pain I feel,' and then he fired again.
At that stage I just rolled over on to my back and that's when... I started, that's when I... I was pleading 'please stop, please don't kill me'.
He put the gun up my arse and fired it again.
Then he lay down next to me, put his arm sort of around me, said something about God, and shot himself... through the heart.
I thought he was dead.
Then it was like, right, I knew I'd been badly hurt but I had no idea how bad it actually was.
I was thinking, 'I'm conscious now. Yes, I'm bleeding but that's manageable'. I thought, 'I wonder if I can move my leg, the hip that I'd been shot in'. I was able to actually move that, and I moved the other one. But I couldn't breathe very well. I didn't know why. I didn't know, then, that I'd been shot in the back.
I crawled to the oxygen and tried to turn the oxygen on, so I could breathe. That's when Kerrie came to help me. I couldn't turn it, because my hands were slippery with blood. Blood's very slippery. So I was fumbling but Kerrie turned it on, and suddenly I could breathe. Then it was a matter of waiting.
The cops arrived, other doctors from our surgery arrived, the ambulance took ages...
Constables Ian Douglas and Dave Jenkins were the first police officers on the scene. A call had been made to the Hastings Police Station [from the clinic's receptionist] that shots had been fired at the nearby doctor's surgery.
The two officers drove the short distance to the clinic, put on their vests, and made a call to D24 to find out if there was updated information on the whereabouts of the person with the gun. They then approached the front door, with their guns holstered but ready. They could see the receptionist was distraught, but was still on the phone.
'My partner jumped the counter and I went through the waiting room. The people there were frozen in fear,' Constable Douglas said.
'I stepped into the hall where I could see a handgun on the floor and two people lying next to each other. At first, of course, we had no idea who'd done the shooting, but we quickly established that Dr Taylor was the victim and that he was badly wounded. The other guy, the offender, had a hole in his chest.
'I used my vest to cover the weapon, to secure that part of the crime scene. I checked on the condition of the offender, who was still alive, but I took one look at his chest, his eyes which were rolling all over and, particularly, the exit wound in his back and said, 'You're stuffed mate'.
'The CIB arrived shortly after us and took charge of the scene; and then the ambos arrived.'
Dr Andrew Taylor was shot for no good reason by someone who was after only him, but did not know him personally. Then, to add insult to injury, when the ambulance finally arrived Andrew was relegated in their emergency procedures because the other man's single wound was seemingly more serious. Yes, you read that right; the gunman's self-inflicted chest wound gave him priority.
Let's go back to Andrew's account...
The ambulance took ages but the police came right away, and they were great. And Kerrie and our other doctor who'd turned up were being great.
I was saying, 'I think I'm dying', but in a small part of my brain I knew I'd be all right - if they could get me to a trauma unit in time.
But it was over, the police were there, the immediate danger was gone. I think I just wanted a bit of sympathy and I wanted someone to sit with me. I was saying things like, 'I'm not sure if I'm dying or not, but I've been really badly hurt. I really need to get to hospital quickly'.
Obviously my knowledge as a doctor was still helping my chances of survival. I knew I was conscious, that I hadn't been shot through the heart, and that I was able to talk; so I stood a real chance. Also the fact that I was able to move my legs told me I didn't have spinal damage either.
The only discomfort I was feeling was a quite severe pain in my back. I couldn't get comfortable. I knew that there were bullets all over the floor, so I said, 'I think I'm lying on something. Is there a bullet under me?'
No one wanted to move me, but I said, 'It's okay. I've actually done a bit of moving just to get here. Don't worry about it'.
I wasn't lying on anything. It was actually the entrance wound from the bullet that had gone in my back and come out my shoulder. I didn't realise that I'd been shot there.
Then there were issues with the ambulance teams and with the helicopter. They, the ambos, were going to take him first because he was the most wounded. One bullet, yeah; but he'd shot himself in the heart. The helicopter could really only take one person and the ambos, after they finally arrived, had already loaded this guy on 'because he was sick'.
Peter, our other doctor, kept saying things like, ' That guy shot this guy; this guy is dying too, of multiple gunshot wounds. That guy might be severely injured but let's not forget what happened here'. But the ambulance guys were saying, 'no, the priority goes to whoever is the most injured'.
I have never forgiven them for that.
I was pretty badly injured; as it turned out I was much more seriously injured than him. But as they said, when they arrived I was conscious. Right; there was a damn good reason for that. Two doctors and a nurse had put a big drip in me, and had run every bottle of fluid we had in the surgery, and the oxygen. So I was being kept alive by intravenous fluid but I was very fast running out of blood - and it was truly time critical.
The ambulance people didn't seem to appreciate that. Fortunately the helicopter guy saw the whole picture. He couldn't believe they wanted him to take the guy who'd done the shooting first, and then come back for the doctor with the multiple gunshot wounds. The pilot said he'd make room for a second person.
That took extra time to configure the helicopter to fit me in as well, and then suddenly we were away. And that's really the last of my clear memories, except for recalling the helicopter landing at the Alfred Hospital and the absolute relief that I was at the trauma centre.
Andrew woke up in the Alfred Hospital four days later.
Of the five bullets to hit him, four had passed right through his body. Two went through the right hip, and one through the left leg. The fourth bullet entered through the left side of his back, passed through both lungs, and exited his right shoulder. On its way out, that bullet travelled though the arch of his aorta; it just missed Andrew's heart, by passing through a gap only marginally bigger than the bullet.
The fifth bullet, the one that Zuber Vukovic fired into Andrew by pushing the end of the barrel into his rectum, grazed the gonadal vessel (but did not penetrate it), surfed around the inside of his pelvis and bounced off into the bowel. Then it took a right turn, towards the pelvis again, and was found lying on the renal artery. If it had taken out that artery, that would have been it.
Dr Andrew Taylor, in one sense, is probably the luckiest man to ever be in the wrong place at the wrong time. So this is good, right? This true crime story has a good ending.
When Andrew woke up in the Alfred Hospital the Wednesday after he'd been shot he knew two things: he was going to be okay, and he'd slept through the worst of it. Once he regained consciousness, however, he couldn't sleep. He recalls watching the second hand of the clock on the wall tick by every second for 24 hours. While still in intensive care he'd close his eyes, then wake violently, as if someone had hit him across the face with a cricket bat. He'd come to with such a jolt that it would hurt, then he'd realise that he'd only been asleep for 15 seconds.
The sleeplessness, he acknowledges was partly his body fighting the pain, as it worked overtime in survival mode, and partly the whole thing of 'don't go to sleep, you might not wake up'. But his hyper-alert state did give him an 'advantage', because by being awake all the time he could survey his surroundings and make sure he was safe from further harm.
You might think an overwhelming fear of being attacked again is an understandable reaction to being shot five times but there was an even better reason for Andrew's heightened, and unrelenting, alertness. He needed to be on guard from the moment he discovered that the gunman, Zuber Vukovic, had not only survived but was in the same hospital.
Andrew now calls it an 'overwhelming paranoia' but given the circumstances it's easy to see why he'd think that Vukovic would want to finish what he started. Andrew asked for a security guard. He told them he was absolutely terrified that Vukovic was going to come and get him.
Andrew was told that the offender was under police guard, that he'd injured himself. Andrew pointed out how vulnerable he was; that he couldn't move, he was tied to all the equipment. They told him he'd be safe.
Andrew remembers how wonderful he felt waking up following his first proper sleep. It was three weeks after the shooting, he'd been transferred to another hospital, been given enough 'something' to knock out a water buffalo, and had slept for four consecutive hours.
When I first spoke to Andrew, three years after the shooting, he was still fearful that the Man was going to come after him. And he lives with an awful notion in his mind; one he never thought he'd be capable of - but he can't help it. When he thinks back to when he was lying bleeding in the corridor of his clinic, after the Man had shot himself...
I honestly believe if I'd known he was alive - and with what I know now - I believe I could have picked up the gun. I saw him change magazines and although he'd been firing all over the place I knew there was a shitload of bullets left...
But I thought he was dead. He looked terrible. He looked dead. I'd seen him shoot himself in the heart, and I actually remember thinking, 'yeah, that's the right place.' A lot of people, you know, would go for the left side of the chest and would miss because the heart's more in the middle. But unfortunately what he did was he tilted the gun and it actually grazed his heart. But he immediately went unconscious; he went the colour of the fridge. And I thought, yep he's dead.
But, if he'd breathed or moaned... I could, yes, I could easily have lived with myself knowing that I'd grabbed that gun. And I wouldn't have missed.
That has been the worst thing about this, that this guy is still alive.
Dr Andrew Taylor was then done over again, by the legal system - eventually.
Technically, the Man - who did not have a gun licence - could have got two years just for possessing an illegal handgun. If the police had picked him up for some reason and had found the gun on him before he got to the clinic, Mr Vukovic would have been in deep trouble for that offence alone. (Not to mention for the two 12-guage shotguns, the imitation automatic pistol and the set of throwing knives that the police found during a search of his home after the shooting.)
Instead, on Saturday April 12, 1997... wait; let's put this in a wider context.
On Saturday April 12, 1997 - just under one year after the Port Arthur shootings and all the broohaha over changes to our gun laws - Zuber Vukovic armed himself with an illegal weapon and two magazines of bullets and went around town looking for a doctor to shoot.
He walked into the Hastings medical clinic and chose one person to vent his financial disappointments on. During the course of this 'incident' Mr Vukovic emptied one clip and reloaded to continue firing. This Man, carrying and using an unregistered semi-automatic firearm, placed several people in mortal danger and hit his prime, but randomly chosen, target five times.
Then he shot himself in the heart, and missed.
Two days later on April 14, 1997 Zuber Vukovic was processed and charged with attempted murder and remanded in custody (in hospital).
Ian Douglas (now Senior Detective), one of the first officers on the scene, later said, 'We really thought the offender was as good as dead. Didn't think he had a hope of surviving. But a few months later there he was in the box at the committal hearing. I couldn't believe that he was standing there as healthy as anything'.
At that committal hearing Zuber Vukovic was remanded to stand trial. The Man allegedly refused to plead guilty to a charge of attempted murder, so he then spent a year on remand, while the situation was deliberated on or sorted out by his defence, or the Director of Public Prosecutions, or the court, or a group of astrologers. Sorry. Obviously a trial date had to be set, because the accused would not plead guilty and accept a sentence.
Then, at the end of that first year, Andrew Taylor was informed that if 'Mr Vukovic' was charged with 'intentionally causing serious injury' instead, the matter could be dealt with more quickly. The difference in the sentences was something like 12 to 15 years for attempted murder; and a maximum of 12 years for the serious injury charge.
As a victim of crime Andrew Taylor could get no compensation at all until Zuber Vukovic was convicted of something. Twelve months had already passed. Andrew was still on the mend and he'd been unable to work for the first three months. He was a partner in a business that cost money to run; and which, if he couldn't work full time, wasn't making him anything either. And he had his own medical costs - the ones incurred through having been shot five times - which included things like ambulance bills, helicopter bills, hospital and rehab bills.
Andrew said, 'Fine; intentional serious injury is good enough'. He thought his case would have to be regarded at the severe end of the sentencing scale; and, as there was little difference in the penalty between that and the minimum for attempted murder, Andrew figured it would do.
Then somebody, somewhere along the line, would not agree to, give, or accept a guilty plea on the charge of intentionally causing serious injury. So, strangely, another 12 months passed in which nothing happened, at least as far as Andrew was concerned. What Vukovic's legal team and/or the DPP were doing was anybody's guess. The Man spent all that time in the Melbourne Remand Centre, still unconvicted.
Two years after the shooting Andrew Taylor finally got his day in Court - until he got there.
On the day, having travelled up to Melbourne for what he thought was going to be a trial, before a jury, Andrew was informed that Mr Vukovic was suddenly going to plead guilty to 'intentionally causing serious injury'.
With a guilty plea there was no need for a trial. So there was no real court case; no actual evidence was given. The full story of what really happened on that Saturday morning two years before did not get told to the judge, let alone a jury.
Andrew wanted to say, 'You bastards. Why didn't you do this a year ago? Why did you make me waste another day of my life - because of this Man? Why did you make us all wonder if we'd have to stand up in court and give evidence? What crappy bastards you all are'. He didn't say that, but he really wanted to.
If what happened to me was not attempted murder, then what the hell is? Okay, so in his car accident the guy suffered a fractured right hip and a broken left leg. He now has a metal hip, walks with a limp, didn't get enough compo and that's why he wanted to show a doctor how he felt.
That was the first three bullets; that's why he shot me in the legs. And if he'd stopped there, you could say, 'Well, yeah it was just intentional injury'. But he didn't stop there, so how can it be anything else but attempted murder. At the very least he deserves the maximum for intentional injury.
Bad as he was though, I think the courts were worse. He is a very bad man, but he's screwed in the head. The courts' behaviour, however... I mean these are rational, intelligent people with time and a system of justice that's been going forever but which, in reality, seems designed only to suit them, the lawyers - and no one else.
In court that day the defence people wanted me to sit down with them and talk. I said, 'I don't know what you've been told, but this is the situation: this guy had a gun, tried two other doctors, couldn't find them so he came and shot me. He had two magazines with bullets. This was clearly not a guy who was going out to commit suicide in a public place. This is a very bad man'.
None of the truth came out in court. None of how I got shot came out. I'd made a statement in hospital, you know when I had drips and morphine coming and going in me. It was like a one-page statement, to the effect: 'he came in, I said hello, he shot me in the legs, I tried to get away, he shot me a couple more times, then he shot himself.'
All they talked about in court was that statement. They never asked if there was anything else I wanted to say, only if I wanted to add to that statement. I was never asked to go over what actually happened.
In the brief time in court the defence people made me feel that it was my fault I got shot, that I deserved to be shot. They're very sneaky.
At one stage I made a comment like, 'The best thing that could happen to this guy would be that he disappear; that he'd go to jail and disappear'; to which one of his lawyers said something like, 'You still seem very bitter'.
I replied, 'This man shot me up the arse, excuse me if I take it personally'.
On 28 May, 1999, in the Supreme Court of Victoria, Justice Eames said: 'Zuber Vukovic, you have pleaded guilty to a charge of intentionally causing serious injury to Andrew Clifford Taylor, a medical practitioner who was shot five times by you at his medical clinic... on 12 April 1997. You have been in custody since that day and it is now my task to pass sentence on you for that offence.'
He went on to say, 'The explanation for this appalling crime is to be found not only in the deficiencies of your own personality, character and intellect, but also - as the facts themselves would inevitably suggest - in the fact that you were suffering mental illness at the time the offence was committed...'
[However] 'I reject the suggestion that you went to the clinic for the sole purpose of shooting yourself... You intended to shoot any medical practitioner who had the misfortune to be present at the clinic upon your arrival. In my opinion, the evidence is quite overwhelming that by arming yourself as you did, and by taking as much ammunition as you did, you intended to shoot a medical practitioner that day.
'What these facts demonstrate is that at the time of this offence you were a very dangerous man.'
Zuber Vukovic was sentenced to six years with a minimum of four; minus, of course, the two and a bit years (or 777 days) he'd already served in remand. In his summing-up the judge implied that in his opinion a longer jail term would not help the prisoner to reform; while adding - quite illogically it seemed to Andrew - that he anticipated that the Man, if placed under undue stress, would probably re-offend.
What the hell happened to the possible 12 years for 'intentionally causing serious injury'? And what on earth does that say about our court and prison systems? It seems that prison won't reform this bad guy; but that's okay because the court will put him back inside when - not if - when he does it again.
But a conviction was finally made. Andrew Taylor, as a Victim of Crimes was then 'awarded' $50,000. Andrew said the 'Victims of Crime guy' was the only decent legal person he met during the whole course of his so-called case.
'It was the only time I was treated with any respect,' Andrew said. 'The guy acknowledged my 'suffering', told me that $50,000 was the maximum I could get, and that I would get it; no question about it. And then he apologised that it had taken two years to come through.'
What is wrong with the end of this story? This was a well-respected doctor who'd been shot, and nearly killed, by a man who was simply pissed off because he hadn't got enough compensation for his car accident. As far as the Man was concerned, $270,000 - or more than five times the amount that Andrew received as a victim of his later crime - was not enough for the leg injuries he'd received in an accident. Zuber Vukovic had not been crippled by those injuries - he had walked around the clinic that day shooting at Andrew Taylor.
To add insult to the insult to the injury, a patient waiting - quite safely as it turned out - in one of the consulting rooms while all the shooting was going on, also claimed compensation.
Some of the people in the waiting room, through which the armed and angry man had walked, claimed victim status and were awarded a few thousand each. Andrew's receptionist, over whose head the gunman had fired, did not claim compensation.
But this patient, who escaped through the back door and (allegedly) didn't see a single flying bullet and probably no blood, claimed victim compensation for stress over the incident. And how much did he receive, this opportunist who had not been shot at, let alone hit by five bullets, and who had lost nothing? You guessed it: $50,000. He claimed he had helped save Andrew's life but no official bothered to check with Andrew or the people who did stay, whether this was so. It wasn't.
But, I hear you say, with a conviction Andrew could take out civil action and sue the Man - the offender, the perpetrator - for damages. Of course he could! But, Zuber Vukovic had been right about one thing: the TAC compensation wasn't nearly enough to live on - not when you've got lawyers to pay. The $130,000 (or whatever was left after his other debts were paid) had disappeared down the gurgler in legal fees, eaten up by the 777 days he'd already spent in remand for shooting someone because a bit over a quarter of a million hadn't been enough. There was nothing left.
And that is just one more thing that Andrew doesn't understand. Why did he have to pursue a civil action at all, when the judge in his case could have awarded him damages? It hardly seems fair that Vukovic's legal team - the criminal's representatives - were paid but Andrew, the victim, got nothing at all from the Court.
Oh, there's one last truly curious thing about this whole bizarre so-called court case. At no time during any of the proceedings did anyone from the Office of Public Prosecutions ever contact, question or consult Andrew Taylor. The Office responsible for prosecuting Zuber Vukovic for shooting someone, never spoke to the person he shot.
Good grief! If this were crime fiction I'd fix this absurd situation by looking up the word justice in the dictionary and applying the concept of it to this mess. I could try my hand at fictional law reform, but then I'd have to market my novel as fantasy crime.
On the other hand, although I wouldn't be able to rectify the situation with better laws, in fiction I could work creatively with the existing ones by applying a simple one-two-three accounting system based on fair play.
If the sentence for possessing an illegal handgun is two years (Victorian Firearms Act 1996) then that penalty would be my base-line. And if that particular charge is applicable to an unlicensed someone caught with an unregistered handgun in their own home, then all the other real laws about carrying the aforementioned weapon around town in a huff would automatically increase the sentence. After all, there must be some kind of intent in that act alone. And, speaking of acts, let's just take a look at some of the other weapons charges we could apply - one on top of the other.
According to the Victorian Firearms Act 1996:
It is an offence (licensed gun owner or not) to possess, carry or use a firearm on private property - without consent. Penalty: one year.
It is an offence to carry or use a firearm in certain places. For example, a person must not carry a loaded firearm or use a firearm in a town or populous place or on any thoroughfare or place open to or used by the public for passage with vehicles. Penalty: one year.
It is an offence to damage property with a firearm. Penalty: two years.
A person who is carrying or using a handgun must ensure that the firearm is carried and used in a manner that is secure and is not dangerous. Penalty: two years.
A person who is carrying or using ammunition must ensure that the ammunition is carried and used in a manner that is secure and is not dangerous. Penalty: one year.
What have we racked up here so far? A gunman like the Man in Andrew Taylor's case would already be looking at an automatic nine years in jail.
In my fictional world the offender's 'intent' with that weapon would then be considered by a judge who would make a statement, not about gun control, but about gun use. The Man, in my book, would get: two months for each bullet fired; and six months for every bullet that hits a human being. Our Man is now looking at about 14 years.
Then legal, and moral, issues such as 'intentionally causing serious injury' versus attempted murder, (and others unrelated to this example, such as manslaughter versus murder) would be addressed - separately.
I would also devise a similar fictional accounting system to the compensation awarded to the victims in the case. If a man who was not personally threatened, and who escaped completely unhurt from any kind of danger, gets $50,000 compo, then that is the bottom line. The people in the waiting room would then get twice that; and the receptionist, in the actual line of fire, would get another $50,000. The actual victim, Andrew Taylor, would then start from an automatic base-line entitlement of $150,000 plus, let's see, $10,000 for every bullet that hit him, compensation for medical costs, etc...
You do the sums. Isn't fiction wonderful!
When Andrew first told me his story - only a year after the conviction, but three since the shooting - he was already waiting and dreading the day when the Man was released. Six years, with a minimum of four, meant that if he'd been 'good enough' in jail - or, as the judge advised, if he undertook psych treatment and maintained proper levels of medication - then that day was fast approaching.
Andrew was still worried the gunman would come looking for him. The terror engendered by the Man on that day in 1997 was as vivid as ever. Andrew's sense of not being safe was partly the residual fear of the actual attack, that lives loudly and colourfully in his memory, and partly the fact that the Man might indeed seek him out. It wasn't likely but it was possible. Andrew wondered, for instance, whether the Man would blame him all over again - but this time specifically.
Given the logic of the first attack, however, if the Man did again seek someone else to blame for his own circumstances then it was more likely that he'd visit his legal team. Sure, they managed to get him only four (to six) years but in the meantime they took all the rest of his money. And that was the trigger in the first place. It was money, or rather not enough money, which set this whole disaster in motion.
There are probably a few other things you should know about Dr Andrew Taylor. He obviously, though some would say luckily or even miraculously, recovered from his wounds. The Herald Sun paid him $300 for an interview; he gave that money to the Mt Eliza Hospital. The philanthropist Richard Pratt, on hearing about the case, gave him $10,000. That money was given to the Frankston Hospital - as a donation; it was not used to pay any bills.
Andrew has since found love and happiness with an old friend who rang him late one night to find out if he'd survived the shooting that she'd heard about; and they now have a son. And Andrew is still a good doctor and he has a fine sense of humour. He can even joke about some aspects of his ordeal that day.
Now, the ambulance took ages. The police came right away as did one of the other doctors. In fact everyone got there before the ambulance. You know, Boy Scouts came, the Jehovah's Witnesses were there; and then Amway arrived and said, 'I see you've got some time on your hands, and you're obviously going to need some soap powder...'
Andrew Taylor remembers every single thing about that day; he remembers the noise, the blood, the gun, the fear, the bullets, the screaming, the Man, the fact that there was no pain - everything; including the odd little fact that he was wearing runners. He is also, understandably, angry about the ending of his true crime story; because this is how it ends...
It doesn't.
Zuber Vukovic was released from prison in February 2003 after serving nearly six years.