Sturgess said he was taken aback at Whitrod’s request. Sturgess had meant by his remark what constituted a good and bad policeman, and Whitrod had misunderstood.
Before Sturgess fully appreciated the misunderstanding, Tony Murphy’s name fell to mind, and when he mentioned it Whitrod’s face wrinkled with distaste. Whitrod said he’d already been warned against Murphy and Terry Lewis.
So Whitrod, prior to even packing up and leaving for Queensland, had been informed of the reputation of some members of the so-called Rat Pack.
In January, Whitrod flew to Brisbane for an interview with Premier Bjelke-Petersen’s Cabinet. On arrival at the airport, he held a press conference that would ultimately colour his entire future commissionership. It was page-one news the next day.
whitrod view. merit key to police rank, the Courier-Mail announced. ‘Queensland’s prospective new police commissioner, Mr. R.W. Whitrod, believes promotion in the police force should be by merit, not seniority.’
Whitrod said: ‘Seniority is of value only when the man who is most senior is the most valuable and useful. If he is not, there is something wrong with him. I do not believe in time-serving.’
Here, he took a leaf directly out of McKinna’s textbook on modern policing. Whitrod added that his personal philosophy was ‘continuous training all one’s life’, and that training should apply to all ranks of police. Whitrod said men with higher education qualifications would also be welcomed into the force. He promised, if given the position, he would engage administratively rather than ‘being a man who worked the beat and tried to do the job himself’.
Whitrod’s remarks went off like a grenade within police ranks. Here was an outsider – not even a Queenslander – saying he was prepared to ditch one of the time-worn pillars of the force: a steady climb to higher ranks with incrementally increased pay, then retirement and a pension. A system whereby all police, on being inducted, knew their future career and, in turn, their life road map.
Promotion by merit? Higher education qualifications? Training? Since 1843, when Police Magistrate John Clements Wickham first commanded Chief Constable William Fitzpatrick and four other regular constables in Brisbane, these concepts were unheard of.
It was a tactical mistake from Whitrod. And his apparent imperiousness in that single interview instantly ignited prejudices that belonged, in part, to the Queensland psyche – a suspicion of outsiders, particularly an educated one, a loathing of airs and graces, and a fear of change.
The Police Union executive immediately fired off an urgent telegram to state Cabinet: ‘The union feels that any suggested departure from the present promotion system is a veritable condemnation of the ability of the present leaders of the force.’
His enemies gathered before Whitrod was even formally approved the commissionership.
He returned to New Guinea, and waited.
Meanwhile, the new Queensland Police College was officially opened on Thursday 12 February 1970. The head of the college was Inspector Val Barlow. Sub-inspector Norman (Norm) Gulbransen was also on staff. Lewis attended the ceremony in Laurel Avenue, Chelmer.
The existence of the college, and its opening just two months before Whitrod’s expected arrival, was no coincidence. The future police commissioner would be rigid when it came to a properly educated force, and here was this fresh palette of an institution, just seven kilometres west of the Brisbane CBD, opening its doors, as if just for him and his ambitions.
The college might not have eventuated if it hadn’t been for Police Minister Max Hodges who, fortuitously, was also minister for works. There’s little question that Hodges got it up and running in time for his new reforming police commissioner.
Whitrod would discover to his horror in the first few months in his new job that more than sixty per cent of police in the Queensland force had left school at primary level, and that only three in the three-thousand-strong force had actually matriculated from high school.
Meanwhile, Lewis was doing a little exploratory work on his future boss. His police diary entry for Thursday 19 February: ‘Read address given by Mr Whitrod in Canberra in August 1967 on “The Prevention of Crime – A Community Problem”.’
Additionally, it appears that Lewis was trying to work out the shape of the Hodges–Whitrod nexus via the grapevine. On 16 March, he fielded a call from a Mr Semple of the Queensland Teachers’ Union ‘re a recent interview he had with Mr Hodges, Minister for Works and Police’.
Clearly, Lewis was fishing about for any scrap of information he could gather.
It was frustrating for a man who’d always had – certainly for the past thirteen years – the ear of the police commissioner, and in turn his minister. He had been favoured by Bischof. Yet Lewis struggled to communicate with Hodges prior to Whitrod’s arrival. And Whitrod would fly in as a largely unknown quantity.
Worse still, the new police commissioner had seemingly formed an opinion about Terry Lewis before he landed in Brisbane.
‘[Allegations of corruption] had to have been said to Whitrod by Hodges,’ says Lewis. ‘Hodges was an opportunistic grub.’
If Lewis intuited that his career and his life were about to change, he was absolutely right.
A Quiet Word in the Squad Car
At police headquarters, young officer and devout Christian Kenneth (Ken) Hoggett worked in Legal Services. He was a sharp, no-nonsense young man with a quick wit. He had joined the force in 1960, along with his good mate Greg Early. A master of shorthand, Early was also in Legal Services.
Both men had made a verbal pact at the outset of their careers – they would always remain friends, they would never become corrupt, and they would never relinquish their integrity.
On Sunday 12 April 1970 – the day of Whitrod’s arrival – Hoggett got a call from his inspector, Cedric Germain (Bischof’s travelling companion to the Interpol conference in Madrid in 1962).
‘Ken, Whitrod needs to be picked up from the airport,’ Germain said. ‘Why don’t you go?’
Hoggett took an unmarked Ford Falcon squad car and headed out to Eagle Farm.
By chance, he had been in touch with his future police commissioner before. Like Whitrod (a Baptist), Hoggett was a member of the Police Christian Fellowship, and some years earlier the young man had written Whitrod a letter about church services. Hoggett was also aware of Whitrod’s reputation – honest, intelligent and trustworthy.
In a masterstroke of career manoeuvring, Hoggett and another young officer, John Dautel, aware of Whitrod’s intention to educate the force, had already drafted, prior to his arrival, a police arts and sciences course syllabus. ‘He thought it was great,’ Hoggett recalls. ‘Even more so that we’d been thinking about it.’
At the airport, Hoggett finally met the pudgy but genial Whitrod, and his wife, Mavis.
‘Welcome to Queensland,’ Hoggett said. ‘We’re very pleased you’re here.’
That Sunday afternoon Hoggett drove the Whitrods to Clayfield, a short trip west from the airport, where they had temporary accommodation in a unit. Whitrod was expected to report for duty at police headquarters the following morning as commissioner-elect, and take over as acting commissioner on 27 April, by which time Police Commissioner Bauer would have embarked on his global study tour. Bauer would retire in October.
En route from the airport, Whitrod turned to Hoggett and asked which department he was from.
He then said: ‘Do you believe there is corruption in the police force?’
‘Yeah, I do,’ Hoggett replied forthrightly.
Hoggett says he doesn’t recall if he specifically named the alleged members of the Rat Pack during that brief but – in a small way – historic car ride. ‘I don’t remember that I did name Murphy, Lewis, and Hallahan, but I did subsequently.’
On the day Whitrod started his new job, Lewis was out at the police col
lege attending a course. As Whitrod met other officers and organised his work space, Lewis was sitting through lecturettes on safe driving techniques and reducing the road toll. There was also a talk on ‘loyalty to the department’.
That week, Whitrod turned fifty-five.
The Courier-Mail reported on Thursday 16 April: ‘Mr Ray Whitrod will spring out of bed this morning, accept happy birthday greetings from his wife, and then begin planning his next ten years. He will have exactly a decade to make his mark as Queensland’s police commissioner . . . Yesterday he was not quite sure what his mark might be. “I don’t even know Brisbane yet, let alone Queensland, and it will take me quite some time to settle in,” he said.’
Whitrod told the reporter that he’d like to get out into rural Queensland to find out what the citizens want of their police force. He added it was unlikely as a ‘new broom’ that he would take to ‘sweeping vigorously’ through the various police departments. He said any initiatives he might make would take at least five years to ‘bear fruit’.
What makes a good policeman, he was asked.
‘Honesty, honesty, honesty,’ Whitrod said. ‘I have no time for a bloke if he is a liar. How can you hope to have honest law enforcement if you have dishonest lawmen?’
From 27 April, Whitrod was essentially running the Queensland police force.
He also moved into Bauer’s office.
One of his first acts was to phone Inspector Germain.
‘Send Hoggett down to see me,’ Whitrod said.
Hoggett went straight over.
The police commissioner had always had an open-door policy. That had been the tradition, forever. Also, the deputy commissioner had his own separate office – this had certainly been the case with Bischof and his deputy, Donovan.
Hoggett, in nearby Legal Services, had for years seen the comings and goings in Bischof’s office. Throughout the 1960s until Bischof’s retirement, he says Lewis, Murphy, and Hallahan, as a group, visited Bischof at least twice a week, sometimes more.
‘They were in there at least a couple of times a week, which was pretty strange to see three detective sergeants going in and out seeing the commissioner when nobody else did,’ says Hoggett. As for the deputy police commissioner, Jim Donovan, passed over for the top job in favour of Bischof in the late 1950s: ‘He was never given any work. Never produced any work.’
Whitrod immediately changed office protocol.
Whitrod said to Hoggett: ‘I want you to be my personal assistant and move into the deputy commissioner’s office.’ He said the door to the commissioner’s office would be locked: ‘No one will come through that door. Only the people you think I should see, I will see. If there’s a matter out there you can solve, then solve it.’
With the commissioner’s office door locked, Hoggett was installed in the deputy’s office, which had access to Whitrod’s via a side entrance. Whitrod would soon install a couch and coffee table for visitors. At least, for those visitors that Hoggett allowed to pass through the gate.
Word of the new arrangement flashed through police headquarters.
Whitrod had erected, in Hoggett, a stubborn barrier between himself and the rest of the force. Those wishing to see Whitrod had to express their reason for doing so to Hoggett. And Hoggett began issuing instructions in person and on the phone ‘on behalf of the commissioner’.
New in town, Whitrod did make time to cultivate some friends in the local press.
Reporters Ron Richards and Ken Blanch, now both in senior positions at the Sunday Truth, invited the police commissioner for lunch on his second day in town.
They dined at the Commercial Travellers’ Club on Wickham Street, Spring Hill.
Both Richards and Blanch had been professionally close to Bischof; he leaked stories to them, as did Hallahan and Murphy. They drank with Bischof, drove him around in his car when he was too intoxicated to take the wheel, and were afforded a privileged inside view of the workings of the upper ranks of police.
Now it was time to weigh up Whitrod.
During the course of the lunch, Whitrod explained to the two newspapermen his ideas on policing and how he saw the future of the force in Queensland.
‘Ray,’ Blanch said, ‘do you understand the politics of the Queensland police force?’
Whitrod stopped, nearly dropping his knife and fork. ‘What do you mean, the politics? Police forces don’t have politics.’
‘I feel sorry for you, mate,’ Blanch replied.
Blanch and Richards went on to explain the sectarian divide in the force. Whitrod was genuinely astounded.
Blanch remembers: ‘Nobody told him what he was getting himself into.’ Very early in Whitrod’s tenure, an anti-Whitrod faction started meeting every Friday night for drinks at the Belfast Hotel. Blanch often turned up and he says the tone of conversation was ‘hatred for Whitrod and everything he was doing’. The Police Union soon began a rolling campaign against Whitrod and Police Minister Hodges.
In late May three policemen in Roma were served with summonses on charges of assault occasioning bodily harm. Here, Whitrod was showing that he was not afraid to punish his own men. Ron Edington, now president of the Police Union, called for Max Hodges to resign. Hodges fired back, telling the press: ‘I am the boss of the Queensland Police Force and no one is going to tell me how to run it.’
Back at police headquarters, Lewis would soon hit the new Hoggett hurdle head on. While he was still giving talks to groups like the Geebung Methodist Ladies’ Guild, and staying in touch with old friends like former Victorian police officer and then Port Moresby–based barrister Eric Pratt, it wasn’t until June that the new Hoggett–Whitrod arrangement was literally brought to Lewis’s door.
On Monday 28 June, Lewis wrote in his police diary: ‘S/Const Hoggett brought Const C.G. Young to our office and said that he was sworn in today and is attached to the Comm’s office; however, Mr Whitrod has instructed that he is to work here for almost six months.’
Lewis recorded that he saw Young, who was a patrol officer in Papua New Guinea for six years, and that Whitrod had plans to make him a liaison officer between the University of Queensland and the police. Lewis also noted that he spoke to Hoggett about the ‘difficulty’ in attaching temporary staff to the JAB.
Lewis had had sole operation of the JAB for eight years. Now the new police commissioner was assigning staff. Was it a deliberate slight on Lewis? And did Lewis suspect that a spy for the commissioner had been planted in his ranks?
In early August, he received a memo from Whitrod about the public appearances given by members of the JAB. The commissioner also wanted to cast an eye over the staff duty roster. Lewis had to speak with the commissioner face to face. But then, ‘Hoggett phoned to say that Mr Whitrod will not see me re memo and speeches’.
Late that same month, further whispers filtered back to Lewis: ‘Miss Crisp said that Mr Whitrod questioned her re functions of the JAB.’
All this scrutiny of the bureau started getting under Lewis’s skin. On Thursday 8 September, he recorded in his police diary: ‘Saw Snr Const Hoggett and requested to see Mr R. Whitrod.’ Two weeks later: ‘Saw . . . Hoggett re still desirous of seeing Commissioner’. A week after that: ‘Saw . . . Hoggett re: Mr Whitrod’.
It wasn’t until Wednesday 30 December that Lewis had any luck. ‘Saw Mr Whitrod re staff shortage and functions of the J.A. Bureau.’
It had taken Lewis more than eight months to secure a personal meeting with the new police commissioner, when once he had enjoyed Bischof’s company at least twice a week.
It was the early basis for a spectacular enmity between Whitrod and Lewis.
The Happy Gardener
To get to the Brisbane suburb of The Gap, eleven kilometres west of the CBD, you literally have to pass through ‘the gap’ between the slopes of Mount Coot-tha and the
Taylor Range. Beyond the S-bend road that negotiates that cleft, the suburb sits quietly in the folds of both granite formations, with its established bushland, golf course, 1960s brick and timber houses, and the meandering Enoggera Creek.
Into this splendour the Big Fella, Frank Bischof, retired. He and wife Dorothy and their cocker spaniels lived in an immaculately kept home in Barkala Street, not far from a small piece of scrub that was home to an enormous, creaking stand of wild bamboo, in which neighbourhood children played and secretly puffed on cigarettes.
Bischof, with thirty-three successful murder convictions under his belt, was not built for retirement. How many times could he tend to his cactuses and trim the lawn? And how many lunches with friends, recalling old times, could he sustain at the National Hotel?
He was, in the early 1970s, a familiar figure in Barkala Street and, indeed, the surrounding streets in the shadow of the city’s television towers on Mount Coot-tha. He would religiously walk his dogs at all hours.
But there were signs, even at this stage, that Bischof’s hypertension from his latter years as Queensland police commissioner had quickly translated into some form of mental illness.
One neighbour says he once saw Bischof, holding his dogs on their leads, urinate quite openly in the street.
Another tells a sad but funny story about Bischof that circulated the neighbourhood at the time: ‘The Ashgrove golf course is just down the hill and across Waterworks Road from where Bischof lived . . . He was sighted on several occasions taking his wheelbarrow and a shovel down to the golf course and stealing sand from the bunkers in the middle of the night . . . I have no idea what use he made of the sand, unless it was for his garden.’
Bischof would soon get a consolation job – as chief of ticket sellers for the popular Mater Prize Home raffles – a charity established in the early 1950s to assist the Mater hospital on Brisbane’s southside.
Bischof told a newspaper reporter that he accepted the position because he was a ‘living ball of energetic charity’ and ‘as fit as a Mexican jumping bean’. He added there was ‘not another weed’ he could expunge from his garden, not ‘a blade of grass out of place’.
Three Crooked Kings Page 22
