From the Inside: Chopper 1 (19 page)

Chapter 23

W
ho’s who in the zoo

John Dixon-Jenkins

One of the most bizarre men ever to enter the criminal world would have to be the self-proclaimed anti-nuclear warrior, John Dixon-Jenkins. He is a campaigner for peace who uses terror tactics to make his point.

In 1991, Dixon-Jenkins was sentenced to 12 years jail over kidnapping seven people in Bendigo jail in 1987.

The quietly spoken, academic looking man has made it his life’s work to try and warn the world of the dangers of nuclear weapons. He was given permission to go on a world lecture tour after he was charged with the kidnapping counts, but jumped bail, forcing police to mount an expensive extradition campaign after he was found in the US.

The man who reputedly had served in the US Navy’s atomic submarine service, was sentenced to six years jail in 1984 over a series of bomb hoaxes he made to highlight the anti-nuclear cause.

In 1977, he was interviewed by the US secret service as a potential threat to the then US President, Gerald Ford.

*

I FORGET when I met John. I think it was in H Division in 1985. A governor asked me to do him some harm, but I said no. I met John again in Bendigo jail in 1986. I remember I used to tease him a bit and we got on well. He had heard that I could make up poems on request on any topic and I did a poem for him which got published.

I used to do a lot of love poems for prisoners who couldn’t do them. They would sign their own names and send them to their girlfriends, wives and mothers. I felt at times like the ‘Cyrano De Bergerac’ of the prison system.

John Dixon-Jenkins had been in the American navy during the early and middle 1960s and had been sent in along with the American naval SEALS into Vietnam to blow up, kill and create havoc. John called it killing ‘friendlies’. It would then be blamed on the North Vietnamese Army. This didn’t sit well with John. He felt it was wrong.

He doesn’t mention Vietnam much, as he doesn’t want to be seen as just another whacked-out headcase left over from the Vietnam war. I can see his point, but by not letting people know, I think he does himself a disservice, as knowing that tidbit can give people a better insight to a complex and, in many ways, brilliant man.

He is, at heart, I believe, a very good man with a gentle nature and a deep concern for the future of the planet and mankind. But I know him personally. I have also seen him snap, which is when you realise he is a man not to be trifled with.

It happened one time at Bendigo Prison. I had to physically hold him back from killing another prisoner because this prisoner had eaten John’s ration of icecream. I had to bash the prisoner concerned before John agreed not to commit murder. What people forget is that before he became a peacenik he had killed in Vietnam.

As much as I personally like John, I certainly wouldn’t upset him if he was carrying a loaded gun. He is a skilled professional and if you or a thousand others stood between John and his target he would walk over your graves. No, I wouldn’t like to see John with a gun in his hand . . . nor would I tamper with his icecream ration.

John will no doubt see this as criticism. All I am saying is that he is not a pretender. He is 100 per cent full on.

It is not wise to torment or tease a serious man, and John is a very serious man, indeed.

It is a good thing he did not decide to take up a life as a professional criminal — a good thing for everyone.

I first thought of him as a harmless whacked out Vietnam vet, a peace hippy for the 60s with a difference, ‘make peace or I’ll shoot you’ mentality. But he’s quite a strange and unique fellow.

SANITY IN CELL 37

In a world feeding on war and fear,
A world starving of love,
I watched a man drowning in blood and the tears,
Of a sick and dying dove,
A total enigma, a puzzle misunderstood,
Seen as evil in his attempts to do good,
They paid him in torment and emotional pain,
For trying to save us from nuclear rain,
And why, I asked, does he even care,
For a world that cares nothing for him,
Apathy, he answered, that’s our greatest sin,
He spoke of a nuclear nightmare that will come upon us all,
It’s just a question of time before our Rome will fall,
I read a bit about him and what he was meant to be,
Some said he was CIA, some said he was KGB,
The answer’s there, the answer’s clear,
But still they fail to see,
He screams words of sanity to the deaf, dumb and blind,
So they locked him away with the criminally ill,
But he’s not one of our kind, nor is he a dill,
I see a rage within him others fail to see,
In his utter frustration and the knowledge he can’t prevent what he knows will be,
The anti-nuclear warrior, or the monster from Death Heaven,
The nightmare prophet in cell 37.

Edwin Eastwood

No book on Australian crime would be complete without mentioning Edwin John Eastwood, who was jailed for 15 years for kidnapping teacher Miss Mary Gibbs and six school children from the Faraday Primary School near Bendigo in 1972.

Eastwood escaped from Geelong jail and kidnapped nine children and seven adults from Wooreen Primary School, in South Gippsland, in 1977. He demanded a $7 million ransom before he was recaptured after a high speed chase with police. He was sentenced to 21 years for the second kidnapping.

In 1981, he was charged with killing standover man Glen Joseph Davies in Jika Jika. He was acquitted.

He was released on parole in 1990 but was convicted of factory burglary.

He was sentenced to 12 months jail and his parole was revoked.

In 1979, he completed a religious course run by the Seventh Day Adventist Church and in 1982 he did a bible study course. In 1985, he was baptised in the jail.

*

EDWIN John Eastwood was the most annoying bastard I’d ever met. When he left Unit Two Jika Jika to go to another unit, and I stabbed Tsakmakis, for some reason, they brought Eastwood back. The trouble was some complete mental case had encouraged Ted towards music.

He came back smiling broadly with his new guitar. So it was that I had to suffer the untold torment of having to listen to hours of him strumming away. Ted always believed he had talent in the music area. What we had was a tone deaf kidnapper, with visions of taking to the stage one day. The first stage out of town, I was hoping.

After some months of this never-ending nonsense, I was at the point of cold blooded murder. But Ted was a nice guy, despite his lack of musical talent, so I explained to him that if he and his guitar were not out of the unit by the following day I would kill him or kill myself.

Ted was deeply hurt that I felt that he had no musical ability so he and his bloody banjo left the unit.

Later Ted killed Glen Davies in Jika Jika, I was surprised to learn that Davies was strangled to death. I thought when I first heard of his death that he may have committed suicide as a result of Ted’s efforts on the guitar.

But as it turned out in court, it was a clear cut case of self-defence.

Ted came back to Unit Two with me. I looked for the dreaded guitar as he came in but, thankfully, he had sent it out.

Ted and I ended up the greatest of friends in spite of my sarcastic attacks on his musical ability. He is a true gentleman and a loyal friend, a strong man and a rare individual within the prison system and criminal world.

He gave his heart to God and I suspect we will not hear of him again after his release. He has become a Seventh Day Adventist and I can only wish him all the best in the future . . . as long as he keeps away from musical instruments.

Vincent Villeroy

VINCENT Villeroy died in 1990 in the place of his birth — Londonderry, Northern Ireland. I first met him when he popped in to speak to Ambrose Palmer, the boxing trainer, when I trained at Ambrose’s gym when I was 15 or 16. I used to go down to training fairly regularly at the time. I met Villeroy again in the company of an old fighter called Frankie Flannery in 1972, and we had a few drinks with Horatio Morris at the Caulfield Cup in 1972.

Villeroy was a big Irishman with snow white hair, cauliflower ears and a badly broken nose. He was ex-British Army, boxed as a heavyweight in America, then went back to Northern Ireland and joined the Ulster Defence Regiment. Then he joined the Merchant Navy.

He had fought in the 1939-45 war, had been a prisoner of the Germans, could tell 1000 stories, and was a jolly, fun-loving, whisky-drinking giant. He reminded me of John Wayne with white hair. He was as rough as guts, but a bloody gentleman. He jumped ship in Western Australia, worked in the gold mines at Kalgoorlie, cut cane in Queensland, then settled in Melbourne. I bumped into him again in 1977 after I got out of jail.

He was a great old fellow, as powerful as a draught horse. He would work now and again as a debt collector for some SP bookmakers, and would give me good inside tips about which SP bookies to visit, how much they were holding and where they had it hidden. There would always be a nice drink in it for Vincent.

I met him again in 1987. He was in his early 60s, but still a giant of a man. I had a two-shot .22 calibre Derringer — a tiny little chromed gun that looked like a toy. Vincent was sitting in the front seat of my car and was looking for a light. He looked in the glove box and found my Derringer. He thought it was a nice little lighter. Next thing I knew he had shot himself through the jaw trying to light his cigar.

God, what a bloody mess. But Vincent didn’t bat an eye. He said ‘Oh, Chop Chop’, which is what he called me, ‘I think I’ve done myself a mischief.’ He was bleeding like a stuck pig from the .22 slug in his jaw. I started to drive him to hospital, but he said: ‘Oh, no. Don’t bodder wid dat, Chop Chop. We’ll clean it up with a dash o’whiskey and you can dig it out for me.’

He was a tough old goat. I got him his Irish whiskey — and some peroxide and penicillin powder. I also got a sharp knife and ‘Dr Chopper’ did the operation. God it was a mess. But old Vincent didn’t mutter a word of complaint or even flinch.

I got the slug out with chips of bone, washed the wound and cleaned it, then dusted it with penicillin powder. Then I rang a doctor in Collingwood and said my uncle had smashed himself in the face while working on a car — no bullet, no police. There were powder burns, of course, but we would just have to ignore them. And this doctor wasn’t too fussy. Anyway, all was well. No fuss, no bother, and no police.

I let Vincent keep the two-shot Derringer as a keepsake. He returned to Ireland in 1988. I heard from him via a postcard wishing me well after I beat the murder blue in 1989, then his brother wrote to me last year telling me he had passed away.

Vincent was a grand old hard man. Top of da morning to him. He’s with the angels now.

Dr. Bertram Wainer

Dr Bertram Wainer will always be remembered as the man who exposed corruption in the Victoria Police Force in the 1970s. He was born in Scotland, migrated to Australia in 1949, joined the army and then resigned his commission as a Colonel in 1965.

He was the doctor who gathered information that a cell of Victorian detectives were being paid off by abortionists. This resulted in a 1970 Board of Inquiry and Chief Inspector Jack Ford, Superintendent Jack Mathews and Constable Marty Jacobson being jailed over corruption charges.

In 1974, further allegations made by Doctor Wainer resulted in the Beach Inquiry into police.

Wainer died in 1987. Respected journalist and author Evan Whitton described him as a ‘man of profound intellect, courage and resource.’

*

I knew Dr Bertram Wainer throughout the 1970s. He was always good to pull out a bullet or patch up a wound, with no report ever being made to the police.

He was a real anti-police sort of chap and over the years he pulled a few bullets out of friends of mine, patched up shiv wounds, and perhaps wrote out the odd death certificate. Ha ha.

Wainer was bent like a dog’s hind leg and charged like a wounded bull. He would only do his medical favours for a certain few. I only got on his list via Horatio. Wainer was a two-faced old goat. Though there was no way he would ever call the police, he was too close to some of Longley’s enemies for my liking. If I ever rang him and asked him to bring his little black bag I would always watch for a set up. I didn’t quite trust him. He was a doctor who would pervert himself and his profession for money and a sort of criminal groupie. How could you trust such a man? But he was useful during the 1970s.

Dr Wainer was not a big part of my life, but if mates needed help or I needed it, he was the bloke I’d get out of bed. To be honest, he didn’t like me, but he wasn’t suicidal either.

Horatio Morris

Horatio Raymond Morris was a big name in the old style underworld when guts and a gun were more important than drugs and money. He first was convicted on a criminal charge in 1932 and went on to be a professional criminal. In 1952, he was sentenced to ten years after a man was killed in Carlton.

His record included assaults, robberies and thefts.

In 1971, he was shot outside his home in Orr Street, Carlton. The gunman leaned over the bonnet of a parked car and said, ‘Where do you want it, Morris?’ before blasting him with a shotgun in the leg.

Morris drove himself to St Vincent’s Hospital for treatment.

In 1973, on his 39th wedding anniversary, he went to the local pub for a drink and told his wife, ‘If I’m not back in an hour you will find me in the morgue’.

Later that night he was arrested for being drunk and died within hours in the South Melbourne lock-up. He was 58.

Over the years Morris had drunk himself to death. The then Assistant Commissioner for Crime, Bill Crowley said: ‘All senior police knew Horatio. He was one of the toughest criminals I have known.’

In his later years, Morris befriended a young man and guided him into the criminal world. He helped turn Chopper Read from just another violent street fighter into one of the most dangerous criminals in the country.

Read saw him as an underworld father figure and was eager to learn from his experience. In return Horatio was able to rely on the physical strength of Read to protect him as his own power withered.