Underbelly 6 Read online

  Isolated, alone and frightened they rang one of Gangitano’s closest associates, Jason Moran, who arranged to meet them in Melbourne the next day. It was exactly two months after the murder.

  According to police, Moran advised one of the women that if she gave evidence she and her family would be killed. He then took the sisters to his solicitor, Andrew Fraser, and to another lawyer’s office where the witnesses made an audio tape recanting their original police statements.

  Gangitano paid for them to fly out of Australia on May 20 to England. The murder case collapsed. Eventually, Gangitano’s lawyer billed police for $69,975.35 over the failed prosecution.

  Police couldn’t get him on the big pinch, so they decided to embark on a campaign of death by a thousand cuts. His Eaglemont house was raided. Police said he resisted arrest and that is why he suffered nasty head injuries.

  Over a period of months, he was charged with assault, refusing a breath test and possession of firearms. He spent time in jail and was bailed on a night curfew. The myth that he was untouchable began to fade.

  When reporting for bail, Gangitano saw an unflattering police Polaroid picture on his file. He paid for a professional shot and took it to the police station to replace the Polaroid.

  In September, 1997, a crime report on radio 3AW stated Gangitano had fallen out with old friends and would be murdered. He scoffed at the suggestion. Police found a transcript of the report in his home the day after he was killed.

  A television reporter contacted ‘Chopper’ Read in late 1997 when the standover man was about to be released from jail. She wanted to organise an interview with Gangitano and Read.

  ‘Not possible, darling,’ Read said. ‘He’ll be dead before I’m out, I’m afraid.’

  IN many ways Graham Allan Kinniburgh and Gangitano were the odd couple of the underworld.

  Kinniburgh was wealthy but tried to hide it – Gangitano was struggling but deliberately cultivated an image of affluence.

  Kinniburgh kept a low profile, preferring to conduct his business in private. Gangitano loved the headlines, although his profile meant he was always the target of police investigations.

  Kinniburgh’s criminal record understates his influence on the Melbourne underworld. It lists crimes of dishonesty, bribery, possession of firearms, escape, resisting arrest and assaulting police.

  But criminal records list only an offender’s arrest history – his failures. Successful criminals learn from their mistakes and don’t get caught.

  Police became convinced that Kinniburgh – known as ‘The Munster’ – was close to the infamous magnetic drill gang, responsible for many of Australia’s biggest safe break-ins.

  Kinniburgh now lives in a tasteful double-storey house in one of the better streets in the affluent Melbourne suburb of Kew.

  His occupation seems to a mystery. When interviewed by police just over two weeks after Gangitano’s murder, he struggled to remember how he paid the bills.

  When asked by the astute Detective Sergeant Gavan Ryan of the homicide squad, what he did for a job, he responded: “Occupation at the moment? It would be – I’m a – well, I’m still – I’m still – I’m still a rigger, I’m still a rigger, yeah.”

  Rigging had been kind to The Munster. When police searched him outside the scene of Gangitano’s murder he was carrying some change, keys, cigarettes and just over $3000 in $100 notes.

  While Kinniburgh could afford imported suits, he preferred the casual clothes of an off-duty dock worker, but in middle age he had acquired expensive tastes and was a regular at the world-renowned, budget-blowing Flower Drum restaurant in Chinatown.

  In 1994, his son married a girl from a well-to-do Melbourne family.

  After the wedding, it was just a short walk from St Peter’s Anglican Church to the reception at Melbourne’s best-known establishment hotel, The Windsor.

  During the stroll, some guests noticed photographers taking pictures, not of the wedding party, but of other guests. The ‘photographers’ were intelligence police looking to upgrade their files.

  As is the case at many weddings the groom’s friends and family had little in common with the bride’s group.

  One friend of the bride was mildly startled when introduced to Kinniburgh, not so much by the man himself but by the four who were standing around him.

  ‘They were all wearing Ray-Bans and it was 10 at night,’ she said later.

  Dressed in a dinner suit, Kinniburgh delivered a welcoming speech to his 100 guests. One, who didn’t know The Munster’s colourful background, later said: ‘He reminded me of Marlon Brando.’

  Weddings are emotional times and this one was no different. A guest of the bride, a millionaire property developer, was dancing with a woman invited from the groom’s side.

  A friend of the groom, released from prison days early after completing his sentence for biting off a man’s ear, told the friend of the bride that he would be shot if he didn’t immediately retire from the dance floor.

  The property developer immediately lost interest in the music and retired to the bar.

  It was that sort of night.

  ALPHONSE John Gangitano didn’t look like a worried man as he stood on the steps of the Melbourne Magistrates’ Court after round one of his committal hearing.

  Despite facing serious assault charges over a brawl in a King Street bar, he told friends he was confident he would eventually be acquitted. He bragged that he was not concerned about the police case and his legal team would ‘blow them away’.

  He had every reason to be confident – having beaten so many charges before.

  But one of two co-accused, Jason Matthew Patrick Moran, was not so confident. After the assault on December 19, 1995, which left 13 people injured, Moran was recorded on a police listening device saying he had to ‘shower to wash the blood off’ and ‘to cut a long story short, I started it’.

  Moran and Gangitano were long-time criminal associates whose relationship was starting to fray. Moran was secretly taped saying of Big Al: ‘He’s a fucking lulu … if you smash five pool cues and an iron bar over someone’s head, you’re fucking lulu.’

  But on the morning of January 16, 1998, as they left court together, they seemed as staunch as ever. They were seen to shake hands before moving off with a group, including four defence lawyers, to the Four Courts Cafe in William Street, for coffee.

  Later, Gangitano and his solicitor, Dean Cole, walked two blocks to George’s Cafe in Lonsdale Street for a light lunch before going to a small TAB for two hours of punting. Gangitano placed bets on seven races before he was picked up and taken back to his Templestowe home by his regular driver, Santo.

  Shortly after arriving home in Glen Orchard Close, Templestowe, Gangitano rang Cole to say he was tired and would have a nap. It was 4.45pm. He promised to ring back later but didn’t.

  Gangitano was alone in his 30-square double-storey house, which was comfortable, but by no means luxurious. His wife and their two children were visiting a relative in St Kilda.

  Gangitano removed the expensive, imported grey suit he had worn in court and placed it on the banister before heading upstairs for a four-hour sleep.

  Gangitano had bought the house four months earlier for $264,000 but still had a mortgage of $200,000. The house was large, comfortable and suited his purposes.

  It was in a dead-end road. From the upstairs windows Gangitano could see any friends – or enemies, or both – as they entered the street.

  The sloping block meant the ground floor was not visible from the road, making police surveillance difficult. A four-camera security system was used when Gangitano was not at home. The crime boss was not so much concerned about other criminals; he wanted the video system to deter police – the secret ‘tech’ branch – from breaking in and hiding listening devices in his home.

  For a self-made crime headline, Gangitano valued his privacy. He tried to protect his family from his working life. Many of his closest crime contacts had never be
en to his home.

  Those who had been there, found themselves in the back garden. Gangitano’s fear of listening devices meant he didn’t like to talk business inside the house.

  He did not tell his wife about his work and she did not ask. Her job was to care for the children. His was to pay the bills. He had a full-time mistress who was more aware of his work but she was just as coy when asked questions at his murder inquest years later. She said she thought he might have been some sort of a property developer.

  Alphonse seemed attracted to women who weren’t curious.

  GANGITANO rose from his sleep just after 9pm on January 16, 1998. Years of working as a night-time gangster left him with a nocturnal body clock. As part of his bail conditions, Gangitano had to be home after 9pm, although he did not always stick to the letter of the law.

  While he liked to be seen after dark in Lygon Street, the bail restrictions meant his nationwide network of criminal associates knew where to find him.

  Gangitano’s unlisted number had found its way into the contact books of established and would-be criminals around Australia. In the hours before he died, Gangitano made – and received – many calls.

  One was from his wife Virginia, telling him she was at her sister’s house and would be home before midnight. An inmate from Fulham Prison rang, wanting a chat and some racing tips.

  A friend in Brunswick called and colourful West Australian personality John Kizon also rang.

  Kizon was to Perth what Gangitano was to Melbourne. Big, charismatic and seemingly bullet-proof, both men protested that they were not crime bosses, yet seemed to enjoy their public notoriety.

  They even shared the same lawyer, Croxton Park Hotel bouncer-turned-courtroom fighter George Defteros.

  Kizon was a convicted heroin trafficker, nightclub owner and entertainment promoter. Like Gangitano, he claimed to be misunderstood.

  His range of associates included Rose Hancock (he once dated her daughter, Joanna, before she was mysteriously bashed and fled to England), jailed businessman the late Laurie Connell, and Andrew Petrelis, a man who went into witness protection before being found dead in bizarre circumstances in Queensland.

  Police believed Kizon had been involved in trafficking large amounts of cannabis from WA to the eastern states.

  It was just before 11pm Melbourne time when Kizon rang Gangitano from a Chinese restaurant in Perth. They talked about how the court proceedings had gone that day. Gangitano chatted easily and sounded confident. He had a visitor who took the phone for a brief conversation. It was his long-time friend Graeme ‘The Munster’ Kinniburgh.

  The phone call lasted less than 10 minutes. Kizon said he would ring back. He didn’t get the chance.

  Kinniburgh had a drink with Carlton identity Lou Cozzo at the Laurel Hotel in Ascot Vale. Around 10.30pm, he slipped into his red Ford and drove across town to visit Gangitano.

  The Munster was one of the few men in Melbourne who could drop in on Gangitano without an invitation. According to Kinniburgh, the big man was on the phone when he arrived and told him to clear off for about 30 minutes as he was waiting for another visitor to arrive for a meeting. But those who know them both doubt that the younger man would be so dismissive of The Munster.

  So what really happened?

  Gangitano was sitting downstairs at a round kitchen table. From this spot he could see down the hallway to the wooden front door, which was open to let in the cool night breeze. Through the mesh of the second security door he could see out but no one could see in.

  It was 18 degrees at 11pm and Gangitano hadn’t bothered to change from his pyjama top and blue underpants. Judging from the time of Kizon’s phone call, Kinniburgh was already in the house.

  When Gangitano opened the door for a second visitor he didn’t bother to put on clothes.

  Detectives believe he would have grabbed a robe or dressed if he was about to have a business meeting. They say the man at the door was either a close friend or a subordinate – someone he had no need to impress.

  Forensic evidence suggests the killer was standing in the kitchen to his victim’s left and Gangitano ran towards the laundry to his right as shots were fired from close range. He was shot in the back, nose and head, before collapsing.

  Kinniburgh said he had slipped away to a Quix convenience store in Blackburn Road to buy a packet of Benson & Hedges cigarettes. He was recorded on the store’s security camera at 11.45pm and left a minute later.

  Coincidently, Gangitano’s wife stopped at the same shop eight minutes earlier to buy the children ice-creams and drinks on the way home. Kinniburgh said he was gone for 30 minutes. He has not yet explained what he did for the other 25 before he returned to his friend’s home.

  When he pulled up at the house, Virginia was already inside. She had found the body and dialled 000. The emergency tape recorded her call as she desperately tried to keep her children from seeing their dead father. Kinniburgh attempted to help, rolling the body over and trying to administer first aid, but Gangitano had already bled to death.

  Police believe the second visitor and Gangitano had argued. The man pulled a gun and shot him three times. They think Kinniburgh was shocked, ran to the closed front security door and tried to burst through, cutting his hand on the strong mesh.

  They say he calmed down – then slipped upstairs to check the security video system – and found it was turned off. Blood matching Kinniburgh’s was found on the upstairs banister.

  So who pulled the trigger?

  RUSSELL Warren Smith was a dangerous man until the drugs beat him. In 1988, when he was more than half way through a 10-year term for killing a man, he noticed a 20-year-old who turned up in Geelong jail.

  The new kid was Jason Moran, born into a crime family and brought up with gangsters. When gunman Brian Kane was shot in the bar of a Brunswick hotel in 1982, the teenage Jason placed a respectful death notice in the paper to his ‘Uncle Brian’ from ‘Your Little Mate.’

  In prison, there are few loners. You team up with a gang, known as a crew or you can be picked off.

  ‘When Jason came into the jail he joined up with the crew I was running with,’ Smith would later tell police.

  ‘I found him to be a good bloke but he was wild. He was always big-noting himself and I remember his big line, “Do you know who the fuck I am?”

  ‘Jason was only a young kid and nobody in jail had heard of him (but he) could look after himself. Jail is a very violent place and Jason had to fight to protect himself.

  ‘Jason would always be threatening people, it was his nature.’

  They lost contact when they left jail but six years later they met again, through mutual friend Lou Cozzo, son of Melbourne furniture identity Frank.

  In 1995, the three had been drinking in the Depot Hotel in Richmond. Cozzo and Smith were on day leave from the Odyssey House drug clinic and were not worried that a bellyful of beer would be a problem on their return – ‘we always found it easy to get through the tests they would give’.

  It was just after 11pm on a Saturday when Moran generously offered to drive them back to the clinic to beat the midnight curfew.

  Like his long-time associate Gangitano, Moran was a hothead who would act first and think later. Consequences were for others to worry about.

  Another driver cut in front of Moran without using his indicator. The lights turned red and so did Moran. At one of Melbourne’s busiest and best-lit intersections, the corner of Bridge and Punt Road, Moran grabbed a wheel brace, smashed the other motorist’s windscreen, dragged him from the car and beat him severely. No one stopped to help.

  ‘Jason got back in the car and was laughing,’ Smith said later.

  ‘Lou and Jason were part of the Lygon Street crew and that is where I met Alphonse Gangitano. Alphonse would have been the leader of this crowd, some people called him the Lygon Street Godfather. All that crowd wanted to be known as gangsters. They all cultivated tough reputations. I don’t know why they did this. It was j
ust in their nature.’ Smith said that Gangitano ‘always seemed to keep his family separate from the Lygon Street crowd.’

  On January 16, 1998, Smith was drinking at a hotel in Campbellfield watching the lunchtime strip show when he saw Moran. The two talked and smoked some marijuana.

  They went back to Smith’s Preston flat to smoke some more. Moran promised to return that night to pay $500 for a marijuana debt.

  He returned at 9.45pm. They smoked, talked and then Moran suggested a drive. Moran threw him the keys of his late-model green Commodore sedan.

  Moran was no longer the new kid on the block and Smith was no longer the more experienced man. The pecking order had changed. When Moran suggested something, it was done.

  The car had a no-smoking sticker on the glove box. Smith believed it was a hire car.

  ‘I didn’t know where we were going and I didn’t ask.’

  It was about 10pm when they left Preston and Moran told Smith where to drive – ‘Jason was talking and seemed calm.’

  They pulled up in Templestowe. One of the first things Smith the career criminal noticed was that ‘most of the houses had alarms or sensor lights on them’.

  Moran opened the passenger door and said, ‘You can’t come in. Just wait here and I’ll be back in five or 10 minutes.’

  But Moran didn’t walk in to the double-storey house next to where they had parked but behind the car and down the street. Smith knew too much curiosity could be fatal, so he ‘lost interest’.

  After about 15 minutes Moran jumped back into the car and told Smith to drive. They went to a 24-hour McDonald’s drive-through in South Melbourne.

  Moran told him to drive to Williamstown. As they crossed the Westgate Bridge in the left-hand lane Moran casually picked up the McDonald’s bag and threw it out the passenger window. Smith saw it clear the railing and fall towards the water far below.

  It was only later he wondered how a paper bag didn’t fly behind a car travelling at more than 80kmh and instead went almost straight over the railing.

  It was only later that he thought that Moran may have slipped his gun into the bag and thrown it into the river. Or so he was to say.