THE PRICE WE PAY

By Bob Marmion

THE SHININESS HAD LONG GIVEN WAY TO A DEEP TARNISH...

"I joined the Victoria Police Force in early 1976 as a young, bright but very naïve and immature eighteen-year-old - like a shiny new penny, if you will," Bob Marmion explains. "By the time I was discharged as medically unfit fifteen years later, I was a very battered and scarred penny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawline Publishing Group
• Release date: Sep 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922594495

Bob Marmion

Bob was a member of the Victoria Police for fifteen years. As a detective he was involved in the investigation of many serious crimes including murders, manslaughter, armed robbery, fraud, arson and sexual offences. On leaving the Police he completed a PhD in Victorian History. He was appointed he Fort Queenscliff Historian. It was there that he first learnt about the two murders.

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Title

The Price We Pay Text © 2021 by Bob Marmion

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This is a work of nonfiction. The events and conversations in this book have been set down to the best of the author’s ability, although some names and details may have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

Printed in Australia

First Printing: Sept 2021 Australia

Shawline Publishing Group Pty Ltd

www.shawlinepublishing.com.au

Paperback ISBN- 9781922594501

Ebook ISBN- 9781922594495

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 - The first of eight lives

Chapter 2 - Joining up

Chapter 3 - The Academy

Chapter 4 - Russell Street

Chapter 5 - City West and North Melbourne

Chapter 6 - Broadmeadows – the hell of the north

Chapter 7 - Looking down the barrel of a gun

Chapter 8 - Death and serious injury seemed to follow me wherever I went

Chapter 9 - Broadmeadows – the lighter side

Chapter 10 - The Dogs – working undercover with the criminal heavyweights

Chapter 11 - My aim was to become a detective

Chapter 12 - Joining the Criminal Investigation Branch

Chapter 13 - Reservoir – my initiation as a real detective

Chapter 14 - Copping it from every direction

Chapter 15 - The case of the Macedonian Firebomber

Chapter 16 - A most dangerous pizza

Chapter 17 - Under fire again

Chapter 18 - A day in the life of a detective

Chapter 19 - Time to move on

Chapter 20 - 1990 The end of the road - PTSD

Chapter 21 - The meaning of life

Introduction

The image kept repeating itself over and over. In my mind, I was standing in a paddock at night listening for the noises. I was surrounded by loud, vicious dogs. I had to run. I had to do something. Turning away, I willed my legs to move. They wouldn’t. I felt like I was going to collapse. Suddenly the dogs had parted and there was a man crouching in the long grass. The dogs had been herding me towards him and I thought I was going to be OK after all. I looked at the man and froze in terror. He was pointing a shotgun at me. Without saying anything, he fired both barrels and everything suddenly went blank. I snapped awake, shaking and sweating. Was I dead or alive? It was the same nightmare that kept coming back night after night.

I often wondered how did it come to this? I joined the Victoria Police Force in early 1976 as a young, bright but very naïve and immature eighteen-year-old. Fifteen years later, I was discharged as medically unfit. I was a very battered and scarred penny. The initial shininess of the early years had long given way to a deep tarnish.

In that time, I cheated death so many times. If I was a cat, I would have only one life left.

This book is about the real-life experiences faced by a typical member of the Victoria Police Force. Some are funny, others are scary, all are brutally honest. The accounts give an insight into the daily life of a young constable in uniform and later, a detective in the Criminal Investigation Branch. I loved my job; it meant everything to me. I just didn’t realise it was also going to kill me, given the chance.

This book goes further than just being a blow-by-blow account of fighting crime. It traces my journey from a young constable to a physical and mental wreck with complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD, as a result of the incredibly dangerous workload of being a detective in Melbourne’s crime riddled northern suburbs. I faced the worst humanity had to offer – brutal, uncaring and vicious behaviour that was repeated year after year. I saw and experienced things that no one should have to.

Whilst the book gives a unique insight into real life policing, it also documents the cost – in effect, the price we pay for law and order. Whilst set some decades ago, it still has a great deal of relevance today. In some aspects, not much has changed. Police are still ravaged by PTSD as a result of going about their daily duties. Many are left traumatised and unable to work. Too many take their own lives. There is a much greater awareness of the effects of trauma on mental health, especially repeated trauma over a long period such as I was exposed to. Unlike previous decades, there are now mental health supports in place, but more needs to be done to combat PTSD and support those suffering from it. The price we pay is still too high.

An important part of the book is the recovery process. As a result of being exposed to multiple traumas and the effect it had on my physical and mental health, I reached the absolute bottom of the pit. I was so affected by drug and alcohol addiction that I was contemplating suicide. Slowly but surely, over a thirty-year period, I have dragged myself out of the pit and rebuilt my life. I have a loving and supportive wife and family, a rewarding new career, friends and reasonably good health. Though still burdened with PTSD and the nightmares of my service, life is now good.

This book outlines my journey and experiences, good and bad, and the long road back to having a ’normal’ life. If my book can shed light on the difficulties that police veterans face, then I believe it will be a positive outcome. If it can assist police veterans who are facing severe challenges, even better.

The experiences described are only a few of the traumas faced. They give an idea of the breadth and length of the journey of my policing career.

While the stories in this book are true, the names of some of the characters have been changed to protect their privacy

Squad_1_76

Squad 1/76 Graduation Day. Bob is second back row, fifth from the left.

Squad_1_76_-_snip

Squad 1/76 Graduation Day. Bob is second back row, fifth from the left.

Bob_Graduation

Constable Bob Marmion, Graduation Day, 28th May 1976

Chapter 1

The first of eight lives

Being rostered for the morning shift at Broadmeadows Police Station was both a blessing and a pain. The day started like any other in that cold, wet winter. I was desperate for sleep after having completed a week of night shift, followed by a double-quick change over. Normally night shift ran from 11pm until 7am but in reality, there were often hours of overtime needed to catch up on events that occurred during the night. Despite being on night shift, I was also a witness in a murder trial at the Supreme Court in Melbourne during the day. This meant a couple of quick hours of kip on a bench at the back of the station, a full day in court, home to clean up and a couple of hours of sleep and then back to work. That had been my lot the previous week and I was stuffed. The double changeover was the worst. Finish at 7am on the Sunday and back for the 3pm shift. Finish at 11pm and back for the 7am shift the next morning. By then you were deemed to be over the night shift blues and back on day shifts.

The old crew from the previous week were also back on duty. Spending a week on night duty built up a certain camaraderie with your work mates – we all had the same experiences, disrupted sleep, long hours and the boredom of trying to stay awake at 5am when absolutely nothing is happening. We sign on and automatically mark the meal column as MAP – meal at post. There was no lunch break in the eight-hour shift. You took a break in between jobs or offenders. There was a quick handover from the new night shift and a chat to the morning shift sergeant. Jobs were allocated – divvy van, watch house keeper, correspondence, court orderly and general dog’s body. Dean Patterson and I were on the van. Even though I was still a constable, I was the senior man and therefore; I got the choice of driving or acting as the observer. I decided to drive – no particular reason, it just seemed like a good idea at the time. Little did I know what I was in for.

It was shaping up to be a mongrel day. Whilst it was cold, the rain had at least held off. We were in the divvy van – a panel van converted into a mobile cell. There was no air-conditioning in the van – just the standard 260 aircon – two windows down and 60 kilometres per hour. Often the heater did not work; we had just spent a freezing cold night shift wrapped up in overcoats and beanies whilst we drove around. We had cold noses, cold cheeks and cold bums. The steel box on the back acted like an oven in summer and as a freezer in winter. In summer, the front seats were vinyl and sticky, even with the terry towelling cover I usually placed over them. In the well between the front seats was the usual assortment of gear, Melways street directory maps, TIN and PIN books, batons and handcuffs, torches and portable radio. The Parking Infringement Notice book was never used but the Traffic Infringement Notice book was a necessity in case we saw a red-light offender or speedster. Each of us had a spring back folder stuffed full of official forms such as Notification of Death, MOs or Modus Operandi reports of a crime, even the dreaded yellow canary to be stuck on the windscreen of unroadworthy cars. In this case, Deano also had the blue running sheets which recorded everything we did such as locations on the hour, suspects spoken to, cars pulled over and jobs allocated by the radio despatcher D24.

Where the glove box was normally situated was the spare or observer’s speedometer calibrated to match the main speedo in front of the driver. Very handy when checking a car’s speed. On the dashboard was the usual array of buttons and lights for the driver, but also the blue light and siren switches. The siren was shaped like a bomb and mounted on the centre of the bonnet. It sounded like one of the old air raid sirens from the war – it took a while to wind up and then it was a deafening repeat. Everything was checked; everything was in order.

The day started off normally. We had our early shift cup of coffee as we collected our gear and took part in the morning briefing at the station. The day was cold and clear. We called up D24 and let them know we were on the road and clear of the station. Vans in other sub-districts in north west Melbourne were also checking in. We topped up the tank with fuel and then started on the first of a dozen jobs that had been handed to us by the watch house keeper. Most were left over from the previous afternoon and were run-of-the-mill tasks such as checking a car parked suspiciously on the side of the road. Others were reports of wilful damage, a missing cat (of all things) and a welfare check on an elderly couple. During the course of the morning, we regularly checked in with D24 whether it was about a car registration or to receive new jobs as they came to hand. Everything was cruisy – just ticking over nicely and then suddenly, all hell broke loose.

The radio came to life. The call was directed to everyone in the Broadmeadows area. We snapped to attention as something really important was about to come over the radio.

All units, Signal 73 and 24, convenience store, Widford Street, Broadmeadows,

It was an armed robbery in progress just around the corner from the station. The offender or offenders were still on the premises. We were at the northern end of Widford Street, about a kilometre from the shopping strip and heading in the opposite direction. Calls came in from all the surrounding units, even from the base radio at the station. Everyone responded. I could image the pandemonium inside the station as officers desperately grabbed weapons from the watch house gun safe and bolted out the door towards the shops.

By this time, it was obvious we were the closest vehicle and the nearest responder. I immediately did a screeching three-point U turn in the divvy van, cursing cars as they got in my way. I kicked the column gear shift back to second and hit the accelerator. I gunned the engine. The big six cylinder in the van responded immediately as the power kicked in. Deano slammed the blue lights and siren on and we were off; he was holding on for dear life.

The radio was going full blare as D24 tried to organise the urgent response to the armed robbery call. Suddenly another call came over the radio:

All units, offenders decamping in a white Falcon sedan, south along Widford Street. Not known how many offenders at this stage.

Just at that moment we saw a white Falcon sedan fishtailing down Widford Street about three hundred metres in front of us. It was all over the road, swerving from side to side as the driver tried to get it under control. It was our man and we were hot on his tail. Deano called it in that we were in pursuit.

We flew down Widford Street, past the shops, just in time to see our colleagues from the station arrive at the shops on foot. They turned in amazement and frustration as we flew past.

The armed robber was really flying, but we seemed to be closing the gap. Finally, I thought, we might be able to get him. The chase was nerve-wracking as the driver weaved between cars on the wrong side of the road and even mounted the footpath at one stage. Sticking to him like glue, we were not far behind. The blue lights of the divvy van bounced off shop windows and houses in the wintry morning sun. The loud wailing of the old-fashioned siren on the bonnet always set the adrenalin going; it was amazing how it got the heart racing. Stupid drivers just stopped in the middle of the road when they heard the wail instead of getting out of the bloody way. Or worse, they just kept going, as if they were ignoring the siren and flashing blue lights behind them.

People just seemed to materialise from nowhere, standing on the footpaths gawking as the two vehicles sped by. It’s not as if it was out of the ordinary, as high-speed chases like this around the ‘commish’ (housing commission) areas of Broadmeadows were almost an everyday occurrence. Still, it gave them a bit of excitement in their otherwise dreary and boring lives. While there were a lot of no-hopers in Broady, once in a while you came across some really nice people and it surprised the heck out of you, but on the whole Broady was a wild west town in the 60s and 70s. It had the highest crime rate in the state by far. It was us and them – the thin blue line against the baddies and all that bullshit. More like a survival of the fittest. I was under no misconception as to who they were barracking for. Many of the locals were hoping the divvy van would come to grief on one of the sharp corners.

At high speed around the back streets, we followed the Falcon, bouncing over potholes in the road, and even going over the top of a roundabout rather than around it. Bang, crash, there goes a hubcap. Gripping the wheel like my life depended on it, I knew the Holden divvy van was never really designed for chases like this. The tail end was too light and you had to be careful to not over correct, otherwise it was easy to roll them at high speed. Just like poor old Smithy did last year.

Focus, focus……. Update D24 – let them know what is happening, get backup, a million things to think of………..

The armed robber’s battered old white Falcon screeched to a halt outside a house in Glenroy. During the chase from the convenience store, we had gotten close enough to the Falcon to read its number plate, before the driver again planted the foot and pulled away. We had been able to check the car rego with D24. There were no surprises when it came up as stolen. As the police divvy van came around the corner and skidded to a stop diagonally across the road, I could see a male figure bolt from the driver’s door of the Falcon and run into the driveway of a nearby house. He was carrying what looked like a rifle.

The crook ran up the stairs, pausing momentarily on the landing before disappearing through the front door. He was still carrying the rifle he had used to hold up the store. Damn, this was going to be tricky. Surely, this is not the robber’s home? He wouldn’t have led us on that wild car chase through the streets of Glenroy, only to go straight home. Or would he?

That question was answered less than a minute later as I ran up the driveway, quickly followed by my offsider, Dean Patterson. An old lady came out of the house, yelling hysterically,

He’s got a gun; he’s got a gun!

Which way did he go? I shouted.

Towards the back of the house, she sobbed. I told her to go next door and pointing down the driveway, told Deano to get around the back of the house in case he came out through the back door. There was no point in waiting for a backup – the other van was off the road dealing with offenders and the nearest car was ages away. The thought flashed through my mind that Broady needed a SWAT team, like in the movies. But that was a joke. I couldn’t see it happening here. Anyway, the new state wide Special Operations Group was set up to stop terrorists like the Baader Meinhoff or the Red Brigade – as if they would be operating in Broady. No, we need something to deal with the heavies – the crooks who would shoot and then ask questions. And God knows there were plenty of them in Broady. The gangs and their petty street crime were a never-ending battle, but the heavies were into serious crimes like murder, woundings, hold-ups, rapes and arson.

This was one time I wished we had bullet-proof vests like they wore in American cop shows. Victoria’s finest had nothing like that – just our wits and a crappy handgun that may or may not work. Oh well, if it didn’t fire, you could always throw it at the crook. Somebody had to search the house. Anyway, the gunman could be about to take hostages inside, or worse.

Gun drawn; I slowly entered the house through the front door. It was dark as the curtains at the front had been drawn and very little light had filtered through. The room smelt musty, as if animals slept in there. A TV was on in the corner, with the volume turned down low. The flickering scenes gave the room a surreal feeling. As I looked around, I heard noises coming from inside the house. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what the noise was.

Searching the front rooms just to make sure the gunman hadn’t doubled back, I moved carefully down the hallway. Suddenly I heard a noise like a door closing – someone was moving around at the back of the house.

It was dark and the musty smell persisted. With nerves on edge, I peered around a corner; there was no-one there. I could see what looked like a bedroom at the back of the house. It was at one end of a sunroom, while the toilet and laundry were off the other side. Both of these doors were nearly closed. Should I check them first and turn my back on the bedroom or go to the bedroom first? With my gun held in the ready position in front of me, I stopped and listened. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a figure outside the sunroom window. It was a copper – Deano, thank goodness. If the crook had heard or seen Deano coming around the back, it probably explains why the backdoor was suddenly closed. That means he has to be inside, but which way did he go? Still, no sound could be heard. Then, just the faintest of noise, as if a floor board had creaked. It sounded like it was coming from the bedroom!

We know you’re in there, I shouted. Come out without the rifle and you won’t be hurt.

There was no response.

Slowly, I edged towards the door, ready to jump at the slightest movement. Inch by inch, I entered the room, at any moment expecting to be hit or worse, shot. Entering the doorway, I could see nothing but cardboard boxes along with piles of clothes and blankets on the single bed. Looking around, I was surprised that the room appeared to be empty. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a movement in an alcove. It was the crook, and he was pointing the rifle directly at my chest.

Hold it copper. Just there.

Damn, he’s got the drop on me, I thought. I felt a knot of intense fear form in my stomach. I was in serious trouble.

There was no way out. Slowly, without facing the robber, I lowered my revolver.

Put the gun down.

Slowly, I did as I was told, placing the weapon on the floor. No way was I going to let the robber get his hands on it. Strangely, the crook didn’t ask for it to be kicked over to him like they did in the movies. He seemed to be more worried about Deano outside and making sure I kept my distance, even though there was little more than a couple of metres separating us. I stood in front of the revolver, hoping that my long police overcoat might disguise it. Out of sight, out of mind.

What happened next seemed surreal – as if time had slowed. My senses were on high alert and I had to fight to keep the adrenalin under control.

Stay calm, I thought, Good one, there’s a bloody crazy man pointing a rifle at me and I’m telling myself to stay calm.

Using a slow, measured voice, I forced myself to talk calmly. If I could get the robber to see how pointless his situation was, he might just give up without anyone getting hurt.