Snowtown

by Jeremy Pudney

  This book is dedicated to the police who bring killers to justice.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  Map

  PART ONE THE BEGINNING

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  PART TWO THE MURDERS

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  PART THREE JUSTICE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  Photographic Insert

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About The Publisher

  Map

  PART ONE

  THE BEGINNING

  ONE

  There is something alluring about the city of Adelaide. Few other cities in the world possess such a unique and charming mix of handsome historic buildings, wide streets, cosmopolitan cafés, and an abundance of beautiful parks and gardens. The air is clean, the lifestyle enjoyable and the people friendly. It’s even safe to walk the streets at night. At least for the most part.

  Adelaide’s central business district has no serious skyscrapers to speak of, and covers what’s lovingly called ‘the square mile’. Beyond it the city’s suburbs sprawl out in every direction, hemmed in by the picturesque Adelaide Hills to the east and a spectacular, pristine coastline to the west.

  National Highway One cuts a swathe through Adelaide’s northern suburbs and, beyond the urban sprawl, continues further north through barren, lonely country. As its journey continues towards South Australia’s wheat belt, known as the Mid North, there is little more than salt-encrusted lands to one side of the highway and sun-scorched paddocks to the other.

  Along the highway, 150 kilometres from Adelaide, is the small hamlet of Snowtown. It is a town nestled in the heart of a farming district noted for its quality stock breeding, fat lambs, wool and wheat crops. Settlers had come to the region in the 1840s seeking pastures for their flocks, and settled the town in 1867.

  In the past few decades Snowtown has become, like many settlements in the Australian bush, a town in decay. Economically times are tough and, while the population is just over 500, it tends to fluctuate as local young people leave to look for work or, simply, a better life. Others trickle in from Adelaide, lured by cheap housing and the rural lifestyle. Snowtown’s appearance is evidence of a boom time past: its wide main street is virtually deserted during the day and the town is dissected by a rail line on which trains that used to stop now barely slow as they pass.

  Thursday, 20 May 1999, was an unseasonably warm day and Detectives Greg Stone and Steve McCoy hardly noticed the ‘Welcome to Snowtown’ sign as their unmarked police car cruised into town. Their minds were on a job that for the past six months had led the pair on the trail of a group they now suspected were serial killers. Five people had vanished in four years; all were presumed murdered and cash had been siphoned from some of their bank accounts. There were at least three suspects, but no bodies had been found. Detectives at the South Australia Police Major Crime Branch had been on the case for almost two years.

  Investigations were well advanced and the evidence was mounting. A crucial piece in the puzzle, however, had not been found. Six months ago, just after a woman named Elizabeth Haydon had vanished, a witness reported seeing an old Toyota four-wheel drive parked outside one of the suspects’ houses in Adelaide’s northern suburbs. Late one afternoon, the witness noticed a man loading plastic garbage bags into the vehicle. She described the back of the vehicle as being stacked from the ‘floor to the roof’, saying, ‘The man needed to push and force the bags into the rear of the Land Cruiser.’

  By the time police learned of this suspicious cargo, the four-wheel drive had vanished.

  Detectives Stone and McCoy arrived at the Snowtown police station at 11.30 a.m. and within minutes a team of officers had gathered inside. With them were Major Crime detectives Jane Dickinson and Mark Wilson, local investigator Rick Day, Senior Constable Ian Young, and three crime scene examiners: Gordon Drage, Andrew Bosley and Bronwyn Marsh. Their assignment, they were told, was to search a house at 25 Railway Terrace, Snowtown. They were to look carefully for anything that might be linked to the five missing persons; in particular, property and bank documents.

  Most importantly, they were to examine and seize a vehicle in the driveway of the house. It was the Toyota Land Cruiser police had been hunting, which had been spotted there four days earlier.

  The first thing Simon Jones* noticed was the line of cars pulling up outside his house. They included the local policeman’s wagon, followed by a tilt-tray truck. Next came the knock at the door; the detective who spoke first flipped open his wallet to display his police badge.

  ‘I’m Detective Senior Constable Steve McCoy.’ He introduced the other officers. ‘We’ve been investigating the disappearance of a woman named Elizabeth Haydon and we believe that a four-wheel drive may have been or was involved in that disappearance. We need to speak to you about the four-wheel drive in your driveway.’

  McCoy showed Jones a search warrant and explained that his home would be searched and the vehicle seized. The detective then led Jones to a police car out the front, where he would be interviewed.

  As some of the officers began scouring the inside of Jones’s home, filming their search with a video camera, Detective Stone made his way to the four-wheel drive. His eyes pored over the vehicle, which was mostly empty. He noticed that the registration plates had been removed and three windows had been left down.

  Sitting in the police car, McCoy began questioning Jones about the four-wheel drive. Confused and a little frightened, Jones explained that the vehicle was not his but had been towed to his house by two friends. The friends’ names were recognised instantly by McCoy—they were two of the suspects.

  Inside the broken-down four-wheel drive, Jones’s friends had apparently stored several large black plastic barrels. They had emitted such a foul odour that his neighbours had complained.

  ‘Where are the barrels now?’

  As McCoy asked the question, Jones turned and gestured.

  ‘They’re over in the bank.’

  McCoy stopped the interview, got out of the car and approached his colleagues.

  ‘I think we’ve found the bodies.’

  It was precisely 1.12 p.m. when Detectives McCoy and Stone, along with officers Drage, Marsh and Day, arrived at the old bank. It was a plain red-brick building, nothing much to look at except for the imposing steel front doors, which had been closed by bank staff for the last time some four years earlier.

  The police passed through a gate and approached the bank’s side door. Simon Jones had given them a key—Jones’s friends had leased the bank and left the key with him. In fact, he said, they’d even allowed him to store equipment from his electronics business inside the building.

  Detective Day opened the side door and the officers moved in; Drage was first through the door and was using a video camera to record their every move. Just inside was a kitchen area, and a door to the right leading to the bank proper. The bank counter and much of the customer area were stacked with cardboard boxes, each packed with computer parts, other electronics and an assortment of junk. Televisions and computer monitors in various states of repair were scattered around the floor.

  Drage not
iced a plastic shopping bag hanging from a door near the counter, filled with rubbish including a shopping docket. The docket detailed the purchase of air fresheners, rubber gloves and garbage bags. An air freshener was operating from a power point in the room, and a brief search of cupboards at the back of the counter uncovered several unused garbage bags.

  The officers then turned their attention to the large, cream-coloured vault door. It was locked. Close examination of the door revealed the presence of a fingerprint in the top left-hand corner and Drage dusted the print with black powder, highlighting its swirling outline. The fingerprint needed to be photographed, so Drage headed back to Simon Jones’s house to collect his other camera. While there, the officer mentioned to one of his colleagues that the vault door was locked. No problem, Simon Jones told him. He knew how to open it.

  As he led Drage to a large coil of galvanised fencing wire, Jones explained that the tumbler lock on the vault door didn’t work and the door could be opened with a piece of wire. Jones cut off a length of wire and used a pair of pliers to make a small bend at one end and a larger turn at the other.

  Drage returned to the bank and apprehensively pushed the wire into the lock. Crouched at the door, it took him only a few seconds of manipulation before he could feel that a tumbler inside the lock was moving. A little pressure and the vault door’s chrome handle shifted to the unlocked position.

  At 2.24 p.m. Drage pressed the record button on the police video camera, its lens pointed towards the vault door. Detective Stone, wearing surgical gloves so as not to contaminate vital forensic evidence, reached for the handle and the heavy door swung open.

  Black plastic sheeting covered the entrance, with clear adhesive tape securing it to the inside of the doorframe. A long vertical slit had been cut down the centre of the sheeting, obviously to allow access to the vault, and this too had been sealed with tape.

  In the recess between the vault door and the plastic the officers noticed a wallet, a roll of packing tape, two keys and a book of lined writing paper.

  As Stone peeled back the single strip of tape from the top—breaking the seal—he recoiled at the pungent smell emanating from the vault. There was no mistaking the stench of rotting remains.

  Stone prised the plastic apart and, clasping his police-issue torch, quickly scanned the inside of the vault. He forced the plastic further apart and took a step inside, followed by Drage, his camera still rolling.

  The two officers had stepped into a place that had been the scene of unspeakable acts. It was dark, the stench overpowering, and they had yet to fully comprehend the gravity of their discovery. To their right were six large plastic barrels, each black and sealed with a screw-top lid. They may not have been able to see inside, but neither Stone nor Drage doubted that each of these barrels contained human remains.

  The barrels stood on two large pieces of black plastic positioned as drop sheets. On top of one barrel was a sinister sign: a pair of silver handcuffs and, next to them, a black-handled knife. On top of another barrel were two more black-handled knives and a pair of green rubber gloves.

  To the officers’ left, against the vault’s northern wall, was a pale green lounge chair on which sat a white plastic tray containing seven more knives. Alongside were two boxes of disposable gloves, a wooden-handled saw and what looked like a belt. In the back left corner of the small room was another lounge chair with three white plastic bottles, each bearing a label which read ‘Hydrochloric Acid’. Scanning the inside of the vault, the officers could make out an array of other items—a can of air freshener, a pair of sandshoes and a scattering of garbage bags, some of them full.

  Outside the bank Steve McCoy made a telephone call to the Major Crime office in Adelaide. He reported that human bodies had been found, but exactly how many—and who they were—was unclear. McCoy then returned to the bank and gave the order to clear the building. By 2.30 p.m. the side door was closed and a guard stationed outside.

  The cavalry was coming.

  TWO

  John Bunting liked to watch them die, to see how quickly the chemical would devour them. He delighted in every convulsion. Sometimes their bodies disintegrated altogether. Trapping his prey was easy; any insect would do, although his favourite catch was one of the redback spiders living under his house. Bunting would drop them into different chemicals—brake fluid, hydrochloric acid, nitric acid or even chlorine—taking careful note as to which was the most efficient at killing. Then he would use it again. This was the darker side of a boy who otherwise seemed typical for his age. It was also a sign of the evil to come.

  John Justin Bunting was born on 4 September 1966 in the Australian east-coast city of Brisbane, the capital of Queensland. The inner-city suburb of Inala, where Bunting spent his childhood, was a stark contrast to Queensland’s golden, tropical image. It was a working-class district characterised by high crime and soaring unemployment rates, public housing and a large number of migrant families.

  Bunting’s parents, Jan and Tom, doted on their only child and gave him as much as their meagre income would allow. Their son seemed to be a normal, curious lad and his early years were spent drifting from one hobby to the next, as so many teenage boys did. There was astronomy, electronics and photography.

  With young friend Kurt Bertrand, Bunting would make trips to the museum or art gallery and take photographs. The pair would even photograph the moon through a telescope; all their pictures were developed with chemicals stored in the makeshift darkroom Bunting’s parents had let him create at home. Indeed, it was from these innocent beginnings that his more sinister interest in chemicals would stem. Bunting had wanted to study both chemistry and physics at Inala High School, but because he hadn’t studied advanced mathematics, he wasn’t allowed.

  There was also Bunting’s bizarre obsession with digging. During one school holiday he and Kurt carved out an elaborate tunnel under Bunting’s home. It was almost 4 metres underground, 5 metres long and, inside, about 1.5 metres high. The boys braced the walls with wood and bricks, Bunting hoping they would be able to tunnel under the back yard and create an underground room. The project came to an abrupt end when Tom Bunting discovered the tunnel and demanded it be filled in.

  Yet another source of fascination for Bunting was weaponry. As a young teen he would extract gunpowder from fireworks to make rocket mortars; sometimes he mixed his own gunpowder. The excitement of shooting at targets with a slug gun eventually led to Bunting acquiring a collection of more powerful rifles and shotguns. As well, his interest in weapons attracted him to books about World War II, which in turn introduced him to the philosophies of Nazism and white supremacy. As a young adult Bunting made contact with a neo-Nazi group in Sydney and obtained a copy of Adolf Hitler’s book Mein Kampf. He tried unsuccessfully to buy a Nazi flag and an SS uniform, even painting a Nazi swastika inside the boot of his first car. His mother discovered the disturbing mural and promptly painted over it.

  Bunting’s racist and homophobic views gained momentum with his interest in Nazism. What began as a strong dislike became a burning hatred, particularly for homosexuals and paedophiles. In his mind there was little difference between the two. During conversations with friends, Bunting would rant about knowing where ‘fairies’ or ‘poofters’ lived. Eventually he would speak of going out and bashing them, although no one ever saw anything to suggest his talk was more than just that. What Bunting’s friends didn’t know was that there was a far more deepseated, albeit irrational, explanation for his hate.

  Later in life Bunting would tell those close to him of a time when he and a young friend were beaten and sexually assaulted by the friend’s older brother. The prolonged attack ended only when the boy’s father came home. The teenager then took off on his motorbike and was killed in a crash. Bunting, who was only about eight years old at the time, claimed to have never told his parents.

  There was another secret, too, that Bunting would tell only to those close to him. At age fifteen he’d had a brief encou
nter with a girl who became pregnant and later gave birth to a baby named Tammy. Bunting rarely visited the child and eventually lost contact altogether. He would almost never speak of his daughter and, from that time on, became involved in few relationships. As a young man, John Bunting had many friends but was close to no one.

  After completing Year 11 at school, Bunting drifted from one menial job to the next. The first was with a signwriting business; the next was travelling Australia to erect and repair nets at indoor sports centres. After being retrenched, Bunting moved out of home and into a shared house with friends. Kurt was among them, as was another longtime friend named Mark Day.

  ‘The thing that really stood out about John Bunting is that he didn’t try and big-note himself, he was very down-to-earth and he didn’t lie to make himself look better than he was,’ Day would later tell police. ‘He was just a genuinely nice bloke and I liked that about him.’

  Bunting’s final job before leaving Queensland was at a crematorium.

  It was Mark Day’s idea to leave the unemployment and depression that had engulfed him in Inala. He and John had become friends, spending hours together working on cars, and Bunting was quick to agree that he would also make the journey to Western Australia. The road trip began in February 1986 with seven adults, three children, two cars and hundreds of kilometres of highway. It came to a premature end when one of the cars broke down in Adelaide, South Australia.

  With their adventure cut short, Bunting, Mark and his girlfriend, Esmay Kennedy, were quickly plunged back into reality. At first they lived in an Adelaide caravan park, then in a flat north of the city. When Esmay lost the baby she’d been expecting, she and Mark returned to Queensland, leaving Bunting to move into yet another caravan park.

  Despite never reaching Western Australia, life in Adelaide was starting to take shape for John Bunting. In 1988 he got a temporary job working at a motor museum where his task was to help paint a concrete floor in the museum’s main pavilion. Colleagues remember Bunting as an average-looking man, if a little short. He had shoulder-length, sandy-coloured hair and looked a touch younger than his twenty-one years. Their most vivid memory was of his voice. ‘He had an unusually squeaky, high-pitched voice. It was almost as though his voice was breaking during the time he was employed by the museum,’ one staff member would later recall.