It is the longest drive of Ilma’s life back to Ipswich.
The interview starts just before 10am, in the oppressive heat of 27 February 1984. It will run all through the day, recorded on reel-to-reel tape and typewriter, and not finish until 7.30 that night. A 24-page record of interview with 214 questions and answers.
Detective Morris reads Carroll his rights. ‘I must first warn you that you are not obliged to say anything and anything you do say will be taken down on a typewriter by Detective-Sergeant White and may be later given in evidence. Do you understand that?’
Carroll is steady in his answer. ‘Yes.’
Does he agree that he is being spoken to with regard to the murder of Deidre Kennedy? ‘Yep.’ Carroll lights another cigarette, slowly exhales the smoke. ‘But why are you speaking to me about it?’
They ignore his question.
Asked if his teeth can be examined for repairs, as the RAAF records are inconsistent with the work that had been done in 1976, Carroll explains his badly discoloured teeth had affected his appearance and his job chances. ‘First impressions, like … So I went to a dental lab and had the work done.’ He asks Reynolds whether because the dental work on his two front teeth is different to what the records showed, does that put him further in, or out of suspicion?
They ignore this question, too.
Kon Romaniuk is waiting at Ipswich CIB to do the dental examination. He looks inside Carroll’s mouth, sees the old outline of his teeth, clearly visible. He notes what he had identified before: that Carroll’s upper jaw advances further than his lower and that his front teeth cannot meet when his back teeth are closed. Taking plaster casts of Carroll’s upper and lower teeth and then duplicating them, he makes an identical working model. With the RAAF records from 19 February 1973 next to him and notes on the later work done to Carroll’s teeth, Romaniuk removes the fillings from the duplicates. It doesn’t take him long to confirm his original opinion. ‘It’s him, John,’ he tells Reynolds. ‘It’s definitely him.’
The interview resumes, questions and answers bouncing between Reynolds, Carroll and Morris, a tense game of verbal ping-pong. What does he say, Reynolds asks, about Carroll’s former instructor telling them that he had left the course early on compassionate leave? Carroll returns the question with a question. ‘What was the reason for the leave?’ he asks Reynolds. Carroll points out that the last entry on his dental assessments from Edinburgh was dated 18 April 1973 – the day before the passing-out parade. That, he retorts, would indicate to him that he was there on that date. It is normal practice for RAAF members to carry their own personal documents each time they move to another posting.
But the police don’t agree with his assessment. If personnel had to take urgent compassionate leave, documents would be posted.
‘Good point,’ Carroll counters. ‘That is, assuming I went on compassionate leave.’
Reynolds nails him about the reasons he had given them for not marching on graduation day. The first time they had interviewed him, in October the year before, he had said that if there were odd numbers of men to march, it created a ‘blank file’. But Reynolds has done his homework, knows this is not right. Instructors at the RAAF base have told him it is irrelevant how many members march on a parade ground. Whether there’s three, or three hundred, they all march. He presses his point. Even with odd numbers, every member marches.
Carroll appears unfazed. ‘All I know is I was at the graduation march but I didn’t participate in the march.’ He can’t recall suffering any injuries that would have stopped him marching. Now he is shown a graduation photograph that he peers at, studies hard. He stabs his finger over a face when asked to identify himself. ‘Possibly third member from left middle rank.’
Reynolds looks at the photograph, now 10 years old. ‘Are you saying that you are the third person from the right in the centre row of this photograph?’
Carroll hedges his bets, which does not go unnoticed. ‘I am saying it is possibly me.’ He is counting the number of people in the photograph, mouthing the numbers out loud. ‘Twenty-seven,’ he announces when he is finished. He agrees there appears to be one member missing, but he is adamant. He was at Edinburgh on 19 April 1973 at the time of the Deidre Kennedy murder, even though it does not appear he is in the graduation picture.
When he left the graduation, Reynolds asks, who else travelled with him to Wagga? Can he remember?
Carroll stares hard at his interrogator. If he could remember, he says, he wouldn’t be here now.
What of his previous statement to police that when he left Edinburgh, he travelled by service air to his new posting at Richmond with the other graduates? Reynolds has since found out that recruits do not use service air to get to their next unit. ‘What do you say about that?’ he asks.
Carroll again answers with a question. ‘Did the recruits say what method of transport they used?’
On and on. Never an admission, always an answer. He wasn’t given leave for any purpose. There was no sickness in the family to warrant compassionate leave. The passing-out parade was not the highlight of his career; it was simply one more task a person had to complete to stay in the air force.
Carroll asks for the outcome of the tests done on his fingerprints, hair samples and dental impressions. Reynolds winces. He would prefer not to discuss this yet. Reynolds knows he is obliged to answer him, though he is deliberately vague. His fingerprints, he tells him, could not be identified as being any of the prints found in connection with this matter. However, he adds, the other prints they have need not necessarily be those of the offender, either.
Reynolds invites Carroll to make a comment and he takes the opportunity to make a statement and ask a question. ‘In my mind, I am innocent and, in relation to fingerprints, you said that the prints on the body are not necessarily those of the offender. How do you come to that conclusion?’
‘At no time have I stated or inferred that those fingerprints to which I have referred were from the body of Deidre Maree Kennedy,’ Reynolds shoots back. Carroll has made a major slip-up and Reynolds has noticed. ‘The fingerprints to which I have referred were found at the scene where the baby’s body was disposed of … a public toilet situation in Limestone Park, and the fingerprints which were found there could belong to any person who has public access to that park.’
And has there, Carroll wants to know, been any other such comparisons in the course of this investigation? Stuff like hair samples, fingerprints, dental impressions?
Reynolds is tiring of answering Carroll’s queries. They seem to be verbally chasing each other around the interview room. Yes, he admits. In excess of 3000 fingerprints and a number of dental comparisons have been made, and there are no similarities with either. ‘Are you prepared to continue with this interview in connection with the murder of Deidre Maree Kennedy?’
Carroll shrugs, gives a cryptic reply. ‘To continue with it is only going to prove me innocent or guilty or guilty and innocent, whichever.’
He asks whether his mother has been interviewed, and Reynolds shakes his head in response. ‘Efforts have been made but she is unavailable at this stage.’
Reynolds starts the questioning about Carroll’s former wife Joy’s allegations that he had abused their daughter, Kerry-Ann. ‘Suddenly, his demeanour changed,’ Reynolds recalls. ‘He had a tear in his eye. I thought, “here we go, he’s gonna break.” Instead, he coughed and said, “can I have a cigarette?”’ He demands to know why Reynolds is questioning him about his first marriage and daughter. The cause of their split was incompatibility, Carroll says. He had married Joy because he had to, and it simply hadn’t worked out.
‘Do you want to make any comment re the allegations of abuse against your daughter?’
‘Nothing you can put on that sheet.’
‘Did you argue about calling the child Deidre?
‘Don’t know, possibly, possibly not … If we did, she must have won her argument because she’s not called Deidre, is she?
The child is called Kerry-Ann.’
Reynolds wants to know whether Carroll wishes to comment on allegations that the reason for the separation in the marriage was because of the treatment of their daughter. Carroll certainly does. He glares at Reynolds. ‘I am not a child molester nor a child basher, and I can stand neither of the two.’
Reynolds asks whether he can give any reason why his ex-wife would say those things if they were not true? Carroll lights another smoke. When is this going to end? ‘I smacked Kerry-Ann, but nothing more than what I have disciplined my own children now and my present wife has no complaints how I discipline the children. Can I ask a question?’
‘Yes.’ Reynolds leans back in his chair. ‘Yes, you may.’
‘Am I going to be charged with anything? This is getting beyond a joke.’
Reynolds face muscles tighten. He would admit, later, that if he had met Carroll in other circumstances, he still wouldn’t have liked him. He tries to contain his contempt. ‘We’re still trying to make inquiries into a very serious matter, and at no time have we ever treated it as a joke and nor do we intend to.’
‘I’m prime suspect number one, eh?’
There is a shift of mood in the room. Reynolds checks his watch, and shuffles back into his seat. It’s getting to be a long day.
Round and round, over and over, back and forth.
Grinding on. Did he travel to Ipswich the weekend of the murder? And if he was in Ipswich at the time of the murder of Deidre Kennedy, could he have been affected by liquor as to not remember what he had done?
No. He doesn’t suffer from any illness. No, he’s never blacked out before. Yes, he’s been drunk, and sometimes not remembered going home from parties, but he has never been in blackout.
‘How often have you been drunk?’ Reynolds inquires.
‘About once every twelve months or so.’ Carroll can’t be specific. He doesn’t keep records, he adds. He is fighting hard now to keep the sarcasm from his tone. ‘At the time of the murder in question, I was only 17 and had not really started to consume alcohol in such high quantities. I did not really start drinking until the year I was in Darwin and my wife and I had separated and I was single, living at the RAAF in Darwin …’
The interview has gone on for most of the day. Interrupted by a uniformed officer, Reynolds suspends the interview at 5.07pm. Carroll’s wife, Jennifer, is at the front counter, shouting at Reynolds to tell her what the hell is going on with her husband. She’s a fiery piece, likes a blue.
‘Settle down,’ he says. ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this. I’m shortly going to charge your husband with the murder of Deidre Maree Kennedy.’
She glares at him. ‘Is that right? And I suppose you’ll want to know about our sex life and everything else!’
Her response startles him. No obvious sadness, shock or tears, as he would have expected. And, as a matter of fact, he would like to talk to her about their sex life. Given the sexual deviancy of the murder, that is exactly what he would like to find out. Reynolds knows from hard experience that if you want to know something about a man, ask his sexual partner. He wants to know whether her husband has an underwear fetish; whether he had a high or a low sex drive with her; whether he liked to bite. The information is personal, but relevant: whoever killed Deidre was a paedophile, and he would most probably not display the same fetishes with an adult partner. Still, it’s worth asking. What is he like with their children? How does he discipline them? But he does not get the opportunity to ask.
‘Go and get fucked!’ Jennifer screams. ‘I want to see him.’
Knowing he was about to be charged, Carroll and his wife do not waste time on preliminaries, instead launching into a discussion about who will pay the rent if he is locked up.
16
Reynolds re-starts the interview 30 minutes later, and Carroll wants to make his position clear. ‘I don’t,’ he says, glaring at Reynolds, ‘make a habit of going around pinching female clothing off the line.’ And he has another question. When police interviewed him, did his brother, Peter, state that he was at home on the night of the murder?
‘I have not interviewed your brother and at no time have I stated that I did,’ Reynolds replies. ‘What is the reason for your questions?’
Carroll doesn’t hesitate. He wants to prove his innocence, and he also believes his mother has previously stated he was not at home on the night of the murder. Is that correct?
‘I am not aware as to what your mother has stated, as there is no record as to any member of your family being spoken to at the time of the murder or up until this present day.’
There is no record as to any member of your family being spoken to at the time of the murder or up until this present day. It is an admission Reynolds did not want to make.
Carroll has had enough. ‘Can I make a phone call?’ he asks.
‘Who do you wish to ring?’
‘My mother.’
An alibi, Reynolds thinks. Does he want an alibi?
All through the day, through the criss-crossing of questions, the hostilities, the cat-and-mouse game played between police and suspect, the shrugs, denials and sighs, Carroll has maintained his composure. He has never once wavered. Never once made any incriminating admissions. But that isn’t about to stop John Reynolds.
Just after 7pm, Reynolds ends the interview. ‘I am now going to arrest you with the murder of Deidre Kennedy,’ he tells Carroll.
He pauses, waiting for a reaction. There is none; Carroll’s face is closed, expressionless. Taken to the Ipswich watch-house where he is finally charged, Carroll – tall, reed thin and wearing overalls – is slightly hunched over as he leaves the station, a coat covering his head.
Faye Kennedy is watching the hands on the clock turn round. She frequently glances at Barry, who is trying to maintain a calm composure. How much longer until they hear from the police whether the suspect has been charged?
Someone had tipped off the media that there had been a breakthrough in the Deidre Kennedy case, and they are crawling all over the police station. Reynolds is thankful that he had the foresight to phone Faye and Barry a few minutes earlier, telling them that Raymond Carroll has been formally charged with their daughter’s murder. They took it with the same stoicism and relief he had come to understand from Deidre’s parents. He didn’t want them hearing news second-hand through the press, but, with a story this big, he knew there was little hope of containing it. The next day’s headlines spell it out. ‘Man, 29, to face charge. Police made a major breakthrough in one of Queensland’s most baffling murder cases last night.’ The newspapers are snatched up in a buying frenzy.
Held over the weekend at the Ipswich watch-house, on Monday 27 February, Carroll appears in the local Magistrate’s Court where he is formally remanded in custody until mid-March. Transferred by police van to Boggo Road Prison the same day and admitted at a time unknown, it is his first taste of prison life. The van climbs the rise to Boggo Road, the barred windows of its old fortress exterior winking a sly hello in the bright sunlight. Carroll’s mouth is dry, his stomach roiling. Perched on the edge of the van’s seat, all his senses are primed for danger. Boggo Road is known as one of the toughest jails in Australia, full of intractable hard-arsed bastards and recidivists who just can’t stay on the right side of the ledger. Carroll reeks of his own fear, sweat now pouring from his armpits. He hears the clangour of the prison gates opening and his name announced in guttural tones. Carroll! Raymond John! Handcuffed at the front, he dips his head as he climbs out of the van, squinting to adjust his eyes from the gloom to sudden glare, sees the guards turning to greet him, bleak as grim reapers and hostility buzzing around them like blowflies. Tastes the sour rush of acid that floods his mouth and touches the ground on which thousands of men before him have walked. And Raymond John Carroll suddenly knows, with a knowledge he is never tempted to forget, that this is what ‘shit-scared’ means.
Prisons don’t come much worse than this hellhole. Brutality,
violence and extreme discipline are an accepted part of the system.
Carroll stays in Boggo Road for no more than 24 hours before he is bailed – too long for even the hardest crims who shudder at the thought of having to return there. Perched at the top of a gently sloping hill in south Brisbane, No 1 Division was originally opened in 1883 to provide accommodation for short-sentenced prisoners. They had snickered bitterly at a newspaper description, which waxed that it was like a ‘country gentleman’s mansion within its own grounds’. In reality, it was a nightmare of uncontained savagery and violence exacerbated by close confinement. No 2 Division, which housed female prisoners, opened in 1903 and would later come to be used by long-term male prisoners.
The jail was built on slimy swampland at Bolgo Road. But for the prisoners it was, and would always be, known as Boggo Road. Surrounded by a 6. 6 metre-high brick wall the colour of henna faded by sunlight, it was iced in bird droppings. The only opening was the main gate and, by the 1970s, No 2 Division became the maximum-security prison where the tiny cells – little more than cages – housed the state’s most violent offenders. Rioting and escape attempts spelled the death knell for Boggo Road: following a commission of review in 1989 – ironically named the Kennedy Commission – the prison with its head in the clouds and its ankles deep in swamp, was finally closed down. But, before it did, Raymond Carroll would be back.
Immaculately dressed in fawn trousers and a dark brown shirt, Carroll is impassive at his committal hearing, which starts five months after his arrest, on 9 July 1984, and ends four days later. He enters no plea to both the abduction and murder charge of Deidre Kennedy and to stealing clothes from the veranda. Seventeen charges of breaking and entering, stealing and wilful destruction of WAAF property are also read.
Justice In Jeopardy Page 10
