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[OZ] 'I've chosen the road I went down'
Fri Dec 16, 2005 11:01am
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'I've chosen the road I went down'
Email Print Normal font Large font Murdoch arrested in 2003.
Photo: Bryan Charlton
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AdvertisementDecember 17, 2005
Broome mechanic Bradley Murdoch was sentenced to life imprisonment this week for
murdering the British backpacker Peter Falconio, a crime that sparked one of
Australia's biggest-ever manhunts. Crime writer Robin Bowles has spent two years
winning the trust of Murdoch and his girlfriend, Jan Pittman, through a series
of prison visits. The following are edited extracts from her book Dead Centre.
I HAD decided to mount my own investigation into Peter Falconio's disappearance,
so I contacted Bradley Murdoch's solicitor, Mark Twiggs, and asked him to sound
Murdoch out to see if he would allow me to visit him.
Much to my surprise, Murdoch agreed. The message did not come through his
solicitors but through a phone call from his Broome friend, Jan, who said he'd
sussed me out and was willing to let me visit. Carrying a long list of questions
and feeling a bit nervous about venturing into Yatala, I flew to Adelaide in
March 2003.
I was soon told the rules. My visits would be short (40 minutes each, early on
Saturday and Sunday mornings) and no writing implements were permitted. That was
a bit of a blow. My memory would really be tested. Years of jotting down notes
after meetings have helped me to develop a retentive recall, but I wanted to
know so much, and the details were important.
I hoped I was up to it.
A heavy door swung tightly shut, and we were trapped in the confined space until
a warder in a glass box above us released a second door ahead, which spilled us
into the cavernous visiting area. I found Table 22, bolted to the floor, and sat
in nervous anticipation, trying to assemble all the questions I wanted to ask.
The Murdoch was making his way straight towards me. I was amazed at how huge he
looked.
He was over 190 centimetres (6 feet 4 inches) tall, with a thick-set body in the
regulation sky-blue sweatshirt and long, thin legs in jeans. His hair was
clipped and stubbly; he was clean-shaven, and when he enveloped my smallish hand
in his roughened paw, his smile revealed a large gap created by four missing top
front teeth.
I offered him an iced coffee, and when he said yes bought two from the
cafeteria, so I wouldn't have to interrupt the visit by getting up again.
I was surprised at how open he was. He freely admitted to running marijuana,
even though he had not been charged with this offence. He told me: "I used to
buy for $2500 a kilo and sell for $4500 a kilo, mainly to the blacks around
Broome. The cops know it goes on but they turn a blind eye.
"They'd rather see the blacks stoned than drunk."
What about the bikies? I asked.
"Yeah, they do a few deals," he said. "I belonged to the Gypsy Jokers for a
while, but I left when the young guys started mainlining and dealing speed. I've
never dealt speed and never used the needle. Its a mug's game. I don't agree
with it. I did use speed to keep alert on long-distance trips but never shot up.
"Tell me about when you were arrested," I asked.
"They treat you like an animal," he told me in a low mutter. "When I was in
prison in G Division I didn't see the sun for weeks. Then they put me in this
exercise yard, six metres by six metres, with mesh roof and walls six metres
high. They left me there for about two hours and I got rained on three times and
caught a cold.
"I was already trying to see a doctor about my back, from when the cops who
arrested me kneed me, but the first week I handed in the form on the wrong day,
because the doctor only came once a week.
"Then he called in sick. It was agony with a bad back, and I couldn't read
because the bastards broke my glasses…"
The next day, Bowles broached the subject of the Falconio case.
I drew a deep breath. "Bradley, did you kill Peter Falconio?"
"No, I did not kill Peter Falconio," he said. "And how do you even know he's
dead?"
He looked me in the eye. I wasn't prepared for the straight denial or the
tacked-on question so I did not reply.
He continued: "Police did the rounds of all my friends three times after my
arrest, trying to get dirt on me. They missed one guy, Ted [a pseudonym], who
actually knows the guy who owned the property where it happened, Neutral
Junction. What a coincidence!
"But they did send over one of the Northern Territory drug squad detectives to
ask questions. Why, if they were investigating a murder?
"I saw an article in the paper saying Falconio might have faked his death. Have
they investigated that properly?"
"What about Joanne Lees?" I asked. "Have you ever met her, or bumped into her?"
"Never set eyes on her in my life."
"How about the DNA they say is yours on her T-shirt, though? That's going to
need some explaining."
"If it exists, it was planted," he replied earnestly. "Hepi [Murdoch's business
partner, James Hepi] must have given them some of my clothes with blood on them,
where I'd cut myself. A lot of my clothes had my blood on them. I was always
injuring myself in my work, and my cat was very playful as a kitten and often
scratched me."
Just a few days before this week's verdict, Bowles visited Murdoch in jail, by
now in Darwin..
During the weekend I visited Brad Murdoch, probably for the last time. For those
two visits I was allowed to take in my notepad, so that I could faithfully
record his plans for the future, whichever way it went.
"I'm prepared for a guilty verdict," he told me. "When you're facing 20 years
you've got to prepare for it mentally. Why wouldn't I be found guilty? I've been
paraded round the country like a prize catch, on every media outlet you can be
on, for years.
"No other case has had a dedicated media officer like mine, even the really
wicked crimes, like those arseholes who bashed those women and tied them up and
threw them live to the crocodiles, didn't have this kind of media. Why not? My
case is all about everyone making money - selling papers, selling tourism in the
Northern Territory.
"The Territory Government has a vested interest in this case. The British high
commissioner is represented at court most days. What kind of other case has that
sort of pressure? It's something I've had to go through, but I would've liked to
have done it quietly. Its tough enough in here.
"When you walk out that gate, we still have to go that way, he said, inclining
his head towards the cell block. "Its been the hardest part, knowing all my
friends and family are worried and concerned about this case. That's worried me
more than looking after myself.
"Not that I don't appreciate it," he reassured Jan. "But doing it by yourself is
sometimes easier." Was that a message to Jan, I wondered. Would he tell her to
go home and forget him if he was found guilty?
"But you do wonder how they can convict on all this f---ing bullshit," he went
on. "No body, no motive. They say I was after Miss Lees. I had a wad full of
money. If I was that way inclined I could've called in to every whorehouse on
the way. If I was that way inclined," he repeated, with a glance at Jan. "If
they do convict me, I don't want to live out there. It's too sick a society."
Jan nodded. "How can they convict on what they've heard?" she asked. She has
such unwavering faith in Bradley that I'm worried about how she will take it if
he is found guilty.
"Will you go straight to B block [maximum security]?" I asked him.
"Yep, once I'm sentenced. I'll get a red T-shirt and they'll put me there for a
while. How long you stay depends on how you behave. B block is a sort of
evening-out process for all high-security prisoners. If you work hard and do the
right thing, you move on to a better part of the prison."
"Is there work?"
"Yeah, there's a few jobs. I can't tell you much about what it's like, because
it may be seen as a breach of prison security. When it all comes down to it,
you're still living if you're in jail. It's just a different kind of life. It's
an easy life, really - no rent, three squares a day, no tax, no parking fines.
"You work a couple of hours a day, then watch TV, read a bit. I won't have to
worry about being late for work," he laughed. We all did.
"Is life on the outside any easier?" he said. "At least I don't have to worry
about what I'm going to do each day."
I said I thought he had a pretty calm attitude about the possibility of doing 20
years without air-conditioning.
"Jail time is only what you make it. The people who do it hard are already soft
in the head. You keep your mind active, do a bit of reading, help the others
with their paperwork - half these poor buggers can't read or write, and
everything in prison is paperwork. Requests for this or that all have to be in
writing.
"If I do the time, I'll be a 63-year-old fitness freak and eligible for a
pension when I get out."
That made us laugh again. He was in good form, I thought. Mentally preparing for
the worst.
I decided to change the subject. "What if you get off?"
"Firstly, if they come back and say not guilty I'll probably say "Shit!". I'll
need to sit down, take a deep breath and wipe my forehead. Then I'll walk out of
that box and down those front steps a free man."
"Not really ever free," he corrected himself. "I'll be watched and looked at.
Thanks to your media mates, everyone knows what I look like. I'd like to know
how people think they can judge me when all they've been told is crooked
one-sided stories by the media. The truth doesn't sell papers.
"I probably won't even have a drink, in case I get charged with something. But I
don't care what other people think. My close friends and associates know the
truth and I'll be living my life with them.
"Firstly, I want to go home and do my family duty and look after my mum. She's
had a terrible time. She's a lovely old lady, clutching a jarrah box filled with
my father's ashes. And if any media come near us, they'd better watch out. I
want to be left alone to try to live a normal life. I believe in showing respect
to old people.
"Later on, Jan and I will go on the road, camp by the sea. I've camped in places
that city people would pay $800 a night to stay on - beautiful, unspoiled
coastline. I don't need many possessions.
"Or we might maybe rent a little farm, grow some vegies, live a simple life.
We've got all this land around us here, he swept his large arm outwards. "No
farming, no vegies, not even any proper gardens. What a waste! It's pathetic!
"Whichever way it goes, I'm ready. I've done three years and four months. It's
all the same. I'll just count em down: 16, 15, 14.
"When it all boils down, I've chosen the road I went down and I'm stuck with
it."
This is an edited extract from Dead Centre by Robin Bowles (Bantam Australia,
$24.95.