The Devil's Garden (10 page)

Jane and Ciara's disposal sites follow a pattern. Eighty-six kilometres apart, but both around 30 minutes drive from Perth's centre and both not far from a major arterial road. This killer is cocky, arrogant. He knows the bodies are going to be found, probably sooner rather than later.

Eglinton. Bordered on the Indian Ocean and named after the barque
Eglinton
that violently smashed on nearby rocks, Aboriginal legend claims the Pipidinny swamp was created from the meat and blood of crocodile tail. Covered in banksia woodland, scrubland and heath, it is so lonely that the area registers a nil population. There is a beach at the end of the road, and the track that passes where Ciara is dumped is a popular route to a fishing spot. Who uses this area? Who would know it? Swimmers, anglers, divers, surfers, bush-walkers, 4WD enthusiasts. It doesn't narrow the field. But the fact that access is only available via Pipidinny Road – meaning the killer could not have got out any other way – may help.

The incessant rain over the Easter long weekend has eroded tyre tracks and footprints and a strong sea breeze has deposited fine layers of salt and sand around the scene. Like Jane Rimmer's disposal site, the area is afforded the same critical care as an archaeological dig, a radius of five kilometres sealed as police spread out in sections searching for minute detail.

After the family has been briefed, Paul Ferguson does a live cross to the media from police headquarters. Without forensic proof, police cannot yet publicly acknowledge the identity of the body, but the media have guessed and are told, unofficially. It gives them time to prepare tomorrow's headlines.

Perth wakes to the headline splashed on the front page of
The West Australian
on 4 April 1997. It is personal, poignant. 'Ciara's body found in bush. A state mourns.' There is no need for surnames, now. The entire city is on a first-name basis with these women. Sarah. Jane. Ciara. The entire city is in mourning.

The hours and the stress are taking their toll. Driving home, Paul Ferguson's thoughts are consumed by Ciara's murder.
The bastard's got another one. Right under our nose. The media will crucify us. And another family is left to pick up the pieces.
Normally a careful driver, he doesn't notice the speedo accelerating to well over 100 kilometres an hour as the car barrels over a causeway and runs straight through a red light. An oncoming car screams on the brakes a second before they collide.

In his quieter moments, away from the hurdy-gurdy of the station, Paul Ferguson thinks about the families. It is his way to go to homicide scenes or disposal sites, to sit reflectively and try to reconstruct the moments, to make some sense of what was done to the victim and to put himself in the mind of the killer. He admits he can't cope at traffic accident scenes, the sudden deaths of people trapped in vehicles or spewed onto the road, but years of working the 'whodunits' have taught him to always expect the unexpected, to keep an open mind.

The families are all so different. The Spiers: country people with organised lives, open, naïve and trusting. The Rimmers: easygoing, suburban, accustomed to the city, more broad-minded in their approach. And the Glennons: private, wealthy, empowered, accustomed to a life of privilege. Three families, joined by a tragedy outside their control. Three families, suddenly rendered powerless.

The disappearances and murders are taking their toll on all the investigators. With robberies or non-violent offences, police can afford to sit back and wait until the offender makes a mistake. They can't do that with this maniac on the loose.

By the following day, police have pulled out their big guns, Commissioner Falconer giving a lengthy, convoluted message to the public. Paul Ferguson's message is simpler. 'As terrible as this discovery is,' he says, 'it is a major breakthrough for investigators. Offenders of this nature have been found to be compulsive drivers who spend a lot of time with their cars and are concerned with the appearance of their car.' Did anyone, he continues, arrive home agitated between the hours of 3 am and dawn? And did they clean and polish their vehicle? The questions hang over police like a dark shadow. If they can answer them, they have some hope of getting close to this killer. If they can't, they are back to praying he – or they – make a mistake. Even the smallest slip-up can bring them undone.

From which exit did Ciara leave the Continental Hotel? Where was she, and with whom during a 25-minute gap in her whereabouts at the hotel? Did she reach the Stirling Highway? Was she aware the other girls were missing? How did she plan to get home? Was she headed somewhere else when she left? Did she plan to meet someone? What are the similarities with Jane Rimmer's abduction? They know that Jane, like Sarah Spiers, was educated at Iona Presentation College at Mosman Park – near Claremont. Is there a link?

With limited information forthcoming from police, Perth residents resort to rumour-mongering, engaging in a game of Chinese whispers that is further embellished as time goes on. Fear and ignorance drive the gossip, and rumours that gross mutilation was visited on Ciara's body lead police to an early frontal attack, carried on the front page of
The West Australian
on 15 April. 'The fact that we keep under our hat what caused the death enables us to ID where a person is telling fact or fiction,' Caporn said. But the swipe at the public did not work. The rumours keep circulating, driven by the simple reality that facts can't be checked with police.

Everyone knows someone who knows someone who knows who the killer is. Urban myths spring up like mush-rooms: a teacher knows a woman who got into a taxi that turned out to be suspect; Sarah Spiers's wallet has been found in a car in Port Hedland; the killer dresses as a woman in order to seduce the victims into his car; police officers know the killer is a cop and protect him. Everyone is an armchair detective, the case endless fodder for dinner party conversations. The killer has removed the door locks from inside the car so the girls can't get out. They are trapped, ready for his next move. A gun or knife is held to their head and they are silenced with fear. They are injected with a sedative and wake later, tied and captive. They are knocked on the head with a blunt object and instantly disabled. Always conjecture, no facts. And the saddest, most damaging rumours of all: that the girls' bodies were dismembered and mutilated after death, their killer a doctor, a cop on the Macro taskforce, or a debauched couple seeking thrills through murder.

'Channel 9 television had camera footage of where Jane Rimmer was found, and of her body,' Luke Morfesse says. 'There was a lot of speculation about dismemberment. Obviously they didn't air footage of her body, but my under-standing is that there was no gross mutilation.'

But Macro insiders believe the girls could well have been kept alive after the abduction, used as a plaything for the killer to satisfy his macabre lusts before he decided he had had enough of the game and moved up a gear. Perhaps he held them at his house, where he feels safe, or at a house he knows, if there is no one else home; in a caravan or deserted building, where no one can hear their cries. And perhaps he held them, too, after death, revelling in his power, relishing the chance to humiliate them, moving their limbs into different positions, keeping them close, like debauched mannequins, before tiring of this and tossing them away in the scrub.

In the first instance, Morfesse recalls that all the Perth media understood that the cops had a job to do. But it wasn't always plain sailing. 'Early in the piece, Bob Ibbotson had a go at me, calling me irresponsible after we called the murders the work of a "serial" killer. The concern seemed to be about the fallout from the public, the drama it would cause in stirring up fear, more so than the fact that there was a serial killer out there. But they did some great things, went to painstaking lengths, like after Ciara disappeared when they plotted a street map of the Claremont area and spoke to every person who was in the area the night she vanished.'

Mick Buckley becomes involved in checking other theories forwarded to him regarding suspects. 'I received a call from a woman who nominated her former husband, a taxi driver, as the serial killer,' he says. 'He was originally from Victoria, and she claimed he was responsible for the so-called "Lover's Lane" murders in the early '80s and that of another two females – a woman and a child. He then left Victoria and spent quite a lot of time in Queensland, driving into New South Wales. In one particular area there, there were a few unsolved murders, which she also believed was his handiwork. He then moved to Western Australia, living very close to where the prostitutes at Northbridge were murdered.' Buckley forwards the man's name to the Macro taskforce. 'They investigated him, but what they came up with I don't know. But they definitely tipped him over for a look.'

Buckley tells of another informant who nominated three men and a woman as responsible for the killings and who passed the information to a university professor. 'One of the men was a taxi driver and the woman used to travel in the car with him. She had been a patient at a drug rehabilitation centre two kilometres from Wellard, where Jane Rimmer's body was dumped. The cabbie had been driving the night Jane went missing and couldn't explain his movements between critical hours late that night. The professor passed the information to police, but to my knowledge nothing was done about that. They ignored it.'

Buckley also has dealings with psychics regarding the case. 'One woman actually paid us $3000 to go with her to a place she nominated. It was an old deserted flour factory, three-storeys high near Karrakatta Cemetery. We spent three days with her, looking through the place. We found nothing.'

Another psychic told Buckley after Sarah Spiers disappeared that police should be looking for a serial killer. 'A journalist from the now defunct newspaper
Vincent Times
did a story on the murders I had covered and also interviewed the psychic. He gave the tape of that conversation to Major Crime,' he says. 'They didn't want to know about it and they certainly made no contact with me to see if I could throw any further light on anything. A week after they were given the tape, Jane Rimmer went missing.'

Buckley is adamant that there should be an inquest into the disappearance of Sarah Spiers. 'Why hasn't that been done? I am very concerned about that. Western Australia police have stuffed up so many murder cases that victims' families often come to us, asking for our help. Do I think they have stuffed Claremont as well? I certainly do.'

In his line of work, Buckley has encountered a lot of deviant people. 'You know, the worst thing about this whole story is not just that these crimes are unsolved. It's the amount of people in Western Australia who could be responsible for the crimes. So many people with form who could have done it. Educated, uneducated, it makes no difference. Taxi drivers. Police. Criminals. Sexual psychopaths. Doctors. Lawyers. When you start to investigate these sorts of horrific crimes, the sickos who crawl out of the woodwork are truly frightening.'

Psychological profilers wade in. The finding of the body, they say, will have a significant impact on the killer's demeanour. That person may suddenly start missing work or leave early; lack concentration; change their plans; develop headaches, mood swings or display reclusive behaviour. Employers are asked to be vigilant, particularly of employees who can't account for their movements. Do they live alone? Have they had a recent emotional trauma such as a marriage break-up? Does their work ensure them flexibility and mobility? And, they warn, the killer may also revel in the notoriety, hoarding souvenirs or press clippings about the murders.

It becomes something of a public debate. Criminologist Professor Paul Wilson, from Queensland's Bond University, disagrees with the profiler's assessment. Signs of anxious behaviour, he says, and people who have clean cars could create a false idea about what constitutes a serial killer's characteristics.

Tony Potts stands by the assessment. 'We are confident that the information we have released will bear fruit and is relevant,' he says. 'The point is, these serial killers trawl around a lot, looking for victims. And while they're doing that, their car gets dirty so they need to clean it. The thing that many people overlook is that the car, really, is secondary: the issue is that they are on the move, actively trawling for victims.' Dave Caporn shows more than a flash of impatience at the misinterpretation of the message about the clean car. It is just commonsense, he says, that the killer would make sure his vehicle was clean. Just commonsense.

While the parents grieve, the debate continues.

***

Una wants to die with her daughter. The sharp, searing pain she felt when she heard Ciara was dead is now replaced by a anaesthetised, listless disinterest in even the smallest things. Panic attacks overwhelm her, and even leaving the house is a trial. Her former staunch faith in God shattered, Una begs for answers. Why did He not help Ciara? Where is she, now, in the universe? Is she safe? She prays for a sign – any sign – that her daughter is at peace.

Ciara's family make the lonely trek to pay their respects at her disposal site, leaving broken and distraught. Her friends and colleagues also come to the site, laying sprays of carnations and roses at the base of the cross wrapped with police crime-scene tape. They sense that her killer has spent time here, preparing the ground, snapping limbs from trees now weeping sap and using them later to cover her body. One leaves a card at the scene. 'Ciara – truth and justice will prevail.'

Ciara Glennon's memorial service at the cathedral is packed inside and out with two thousand people and those who can't fit inside watch its relay on video screens. Ciara Glennon's murder has touched a raw nerve in this mellow city. The premier, dignitaries, the Anglican archbishop, Roman Catholics, rabbis and the man in the street: everyone wants to pay their respects. Many shops close their doors while the service is underway. Flanked by family and each clutching a single red rose, Denis and Una enter the cathedral. Ciara, the priest tells the congregation, has been a victim of naked and brutal evil. Neil Fearis and Denise read the lesson, and Una leads the Prayers of the Faithful. The congregation listens as Denis Glennon, in his lilting West Coast Irish brogue, delivers the heartbreaking eulogy to his daughter. He recalls her sense of justice, the loyalty she showed to her friends and her love of ballet.

'To this day we can only link your love of dance to your Irish heritage and some mysterious intrusion of rhythm from your African nanny and others during the first five years of your life. Your best dancing friend, Denise, is endowed with the same gifts. One day you two friends will dance again.' When his heart and soul can endure no more anguish, he says he remembers Ciara standing radiant in the bridesmaid's dress that Una had made for her. Ciara's dignity and courage, he continues, has helped the family cope with their most 'horrific ordeal'. 'God has come into our garden and picked the most beautiful rose.' His chin wavers, but he does not stop. This moment belongs to Ciara.

'Many women are now petrified and angry. Many men feel a fury and a feebleness that is impossible to convey. We all want to stop this killing of our children ...You were our daughter, our pride, our joy. You were a bright and healthy young person with the prospect of a successful career with lots of friends and a sunny outlook on the world.' He wipes his eyes, pauses for a fraction and concludes the eulogy in his native Gaelic. 'Goodbye for now, my friend, and God bless you.' There is silence, then tears, before the mourners break into applause. This moment belongs to Ciara.

Pallbearers carry the coffin from the cathedral, preparing it for its final journey to Karrakatta cemetery. Ciara Glennon is sent to her God in a private service. Buried behind the children's cemetery, her coffin is adorned with her graduation photograph and favourite fluffy toys from childhood. Distraught and inconsolable, Denis cannot place the traditional piece of soil on his daughter's coffin.

For many years, Denis Glennon will visit his daughter's gravesite every day. Without fail.