Kill the MORANS

An insiders account, stripped of the TV glamour: utterly compelling. Julian Burnside AO QC

the ReAl StORy Of the MORAN CRiMe CRew

As told by the shot but surviving gang member Bert Wrout With media outlaw Brett Quine

IntRoDUCtIon
Kill the Morans, and all their crew! Those words, allegedly screeched by a callow, hateful shrew called Roberta Williams, sum up the whole Melbourne gangland war as the famous blood frenzy immortalised on TV screens across the nation. The words haunt me still, and the hardest thing Ive had to explain out of this saga, not only to myself but to everybody else, is why did I stay with Lewis Moran knowing he was a dead man walking? Its a question Ive been asked countless times, by friend and foe alike. In the end there were two overriding reasons. One, he owed me a shitload of money I would otherwise have had little chance of collecting. And the other was a twisted sense of loyalty. At the end of the day, Lewis was a rat. He gave me up without any compunction at all when things got tough. He was a weak, cowardly dog who thought only of himself. Sure, we had many great times, as do any friends when there are no obstacles. But this worm would have masqueraded as a woman on the Titanic to save himself. He died as he lived. He was a craven coward, right to the end. I suppose the only reasons I can give for such loyalty are pride and integrity. In the world that I lived in, I was proud that I was staunch, owing nobody anything. I had my principles and I found a niche in which to practise them. To my way of thinking,
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I suppose, I was on show to the world and the public record was something that would remain after I was long gone. Id made no lasting impression in life and I suppose staying beside Lewis was my way of saying to everybody that I was better than him. Even if I was remotely remembered as someone who stuck, I would leave my mark. And thats all that anybody can hope for. There are many, many wrongs I feel a need to have corrected and there are many underworld secrets to be told. Just some of the mysteries I intend to unravel include the killer of infamous hitman Christopher Dale Flannery Mr Rentakill where Chris was killed, and why. Im sure more than a few people would like to know why property developer Floyd Podgornick committed suicide, which seemed to keep Melbournes daily tabloid salivating like Pavlovs dog for months. To my mind Floyd was murdered. And I will tell you why. How many other murders were carried out, and why, are other exposs I will write about. I will tell you who was behind Carl Williams, who the media have wrongly thought the main player for his faction. Ill also drop the ball on who executed Alphonse Gangitano and why, and the many killings brutally carried out over many, many years. I will also detail how Lewiss wife, Judy, tried to kill me in front of a dozen people, and much more of the Moran crime clans dirty linen. It all stinks to high heaven and needs to be aired. Bert Wrout

Chapter 1

CheAP BeeR Got Us KILLeD

Lewis suddenly had that fuck me, shit look in his eyes, just moments before it all happened. Id seen worry on his face before, but not like this. Nothing so near to the real thing, a real threat, and after almost an eternity with Lewis, I could tell. If need be, we could talk without a word. First came a brief call to Lewiss mobile then that fuck me, shit look. He didnt have to say a thing. It was obvious the call was a warning. In fact, I said, Lets go. We were both known targets for underworld assassins, and we had to move in a hurry. As I turned to pick up my change from the bar I heard heavy boots come up fast from behind. All shit broke loose. There were wild screams everywhere, and someone shouted Gun! Run! as the boots came closer. People were in absolute panic fear and horror. They absolutely shit themselves. Forget fucken Bin Laden, as far as Im concerned, the terror at the Brunswick Club that night wont be matched by anything Im ever likely to see again. Were off here, was all I could hear Lewis say, almost calmly, as the gunman ploughed into us. Id turned back around to see the bastard shove a shottie straight into Lewiss groin. He had
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Lewis pinned to the bar rail like a kid sticks a compass to a fly: hard, merciless and applied with great vigour. Sadistically savoured for a few seconds. The thing that has really stuck in my head ever since was the look on Lewiss face at that point. He had a shottie stuck firmly into his balls and didnt say shit. Total resignation. No fight left in the bastard whatsoever. At that point, I thought, Lewis, you weak fucken cunt. Heres some prick doing a death dance and Lewis decides to give up the game for both of us. No struggle. Not even a word of reason, anger or protest. We were fucked at that moment. As if he had read my mind, the gunman turned to me and I swear he smiled under his balaclava his chin went up and cheeks widened before he again faced Lewis and in a split second tossed him back into a passage to our right like a lifeless oversized fluffy toy. The screams got even louder, mostly from the bar manager Sandra Sugars, Lewis Morans long-time associate, as everything slid into slow motion around me. I was stunned, in shock as much from Lewis giving up as the gunman himself, because we always knew someone would try to settle our funeral plans. But even though I was in a surreal nightmare, I still remember thinking I would not go calmly like Lewis just did. I followed the gunmans path up the passageway where he had taken Lewis, though they were not in sight. Thinking that they may have been in the toilets just off the passage, I ran in and smashed through a cubicle door. Christ knows what I would have done had the gunman been there I wasnt thinking too clearly. Probably nothing. This haze of rage and fear clouded my head as I ran to the gaming room, but I still couldnt see Lewis or the gunman. I figured Lewis was probably
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dead by then, as I started to run down the sloped walkway to the front door. Then another gunman appeared right in front of me. He had a pistol pointed to my head. I pretended I had a gun under my coat and attempted to retrieve it. Worth a try, I thought. It takes balls to try on a gunman with your pretend gun. But this bugger was not easily deterred. He was less than a metre from my face when he spoke, saying, clear as day, Got you now, old man! Still moving, I said, Go and get fucked! I spun around to try to hit him with a karate kick, but that was about as good as the coat pocket. Shit, I knew I had no idea about karate, although I had seen plenty of Bruce Lee movies. Again, worth a try. And much as I can laugh now, the encounter was about to get very ugly. The bullet felt like a freight train smashing into the entire right side of my body. Like a steel spiked explosion that rushed through to my core. I was physically shattered but mentally somewhere else. Something had hit me. Something was wrong. But it was mind numbing. There was no pain. And it was too big, too hard and way too fast for me to control or comprehend. Just like I said, a fucken freight train. That was when all motion slowed to a crawl. Even sound was suspended. It was as if all my senses had stepped into another dimension. Somehow, I stayed on my feet. My mind was so fogged and fucked up I couldnt understand why my right arm, covered in blood, was swinging about in all directions, going this way and that, without my control. I staggered a few steps and realised I was about to go down. As I fell, my body slumped to the left and I hit the floor hard. Much later I learnt the bullet had struck my upper right arm, where it broke in two on impact with the bone and left my arm hanging by shredded skin alone. It had
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taken out a clear two centimetres of bone, disintegrated beyond recovery such that doctors for a while considered amputation. Both halves of the bullet penetrated my chest wall and did massive internal damage. The bullet was a 9mm cop killer, a cartridge so lethal it is actually banned in the United States. And the dog who shot me, Noel Faure and I have this on good authority later boasted to his mates at his pub in Geelong that he had carved a cross into it. The mind plays abnormal tricks at a time like this, and mine was about as clear as pea soup when I thought I heard the gunman loudly barking at me. Again much later, I also learnt those barks were actually another four gunshots, any one of which could easily have been added to whatever had hit me so far. But I do remember dragging my left arm out from under my body to cover my face. I couldnt move and didnt want to see this mongrel dog as he finished me with one to the head. As I waited for the end I remember cursing Lewis again, over and over: You cunt. Youve got us killed for a cheap beer. Those not in the know would try to tell you Lewis was long past caring about his safety, so continued with a routine drink at the Brunswick. Bullshit. More like the cheap beer. We could get a stubby for $2.20 when the going rate at most pubs was $4. On this day, Lewis had given up, but the real lure to the Brunswick Club was the price. And I often think back to that warning call to Lewis, one that the Purana Task Force has quizzed me about for four years. Purana knew where the call came from of course, they were our constant shadows and satellite mobile trackers but they tell me they do not know who had actually made the call. They had recordings of every other call to Lewis that night, so why not a voice log on that one? I shall reveal who I think that caller
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was in a later chapter. Im also often asked why the hell I stayed by Lewiss side for so long, and thats something else Ill go into a little later. I dont know how long I lay on the floor, but I was conscious most of the time. Someone later said 20 minutes, but I dont know. I was still very dazed. I seem to recall the ambulance arrival and the white uniforms coming around the corner. One of them shouted, Shit! Heres another one! When they put me on a stretcher, I asked, Is my mate dead? Yes, one of them said, before he even hit the ground! I saw Lewiss lifeless corpse, covered in blood, as the ambo officers carted me past him. Jesus, it kicked in then. I was now more aware of what had really happened, and I was determined not to let those scumbags kill me. My senses started to return. In the ambulance, someone asked, Is it hurting? Christ, yes, I said. From that point on I was in noddy land and unconscious for the next three weeks. But technically, I died during my first 24 hours in hospital. My heart had stopped beating and I was dead. The bastard at the Brunswick Club had murdered me. For a while. I was just lucky the surgeons were able to bring me back. Thanks to them, Ive been able to hit the grog again. And a special thanks to my mate young Craig, who put in the first 24 hours at my bedside post-op. He was the one who heard me fight deaths messengers in what I remember from my dreams that night, with a loud Nooooo! All I can recall of the next three weeks from then, before I awoke, were the weird dreams. First there was a faceless but somehow I thought Chinese tattooist, who was forever sticking
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needles into my face, around my eyes. Then there was this gender-confused interrogator who kept changing voices, but always asked: Do you know where you are? These people were really a series of nurses and doctors, of course. My family told me about them soon after I came around. They also let me know how the main bone in my upper right arm had been blown away by the gun blast, how the lower arm had just been hanging there by the skin. The bullet then fragmented into two and tore into my spleen, spine, diaphragm and liver. No wonder itd felt like a freight train. Ive also been told how I got to spend my first three nights and days at the Royal Melbourne Hospital dissected like a frog on science students table. After my death the first night, my revival, 38 units of blood, the last rites and the whole bit, it seemed I had an outside chance of making it through. Lewis and I were both murdered that night. But I survived. And I have survived to tell the real insiders sorry story of idiocy, greed and gore that started the bloody script of Melbournes infamous gangland killings. This story is nothing like the court and police file composite reports and guesswork youve seen to date. This is fucken real. Its true that the shooting has left me a physical and emotional wreck. Post-traumatic stress sometimes causes me to cry, and pain continues to rack my body. It took me four years from the time of the shooting, in March 2004, to slowly gather the courage and fortitude to decide I would finally have to put the story straight. I have had amnesia, as the courts heard when prosecutors tried to put me on the stand at the murder trial of Evangelos Goussis, in early 2007. Of course, Goussis has since gone down for the murder of Lewis, but I seriously did not think he was
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the shooter from the start. Ive also argued this with Purana detectives for some time. As you can tell from my recall of the shootings, my memory is returning. A few years ago I started to get more frequent flashbacks. And in more in recent months I have pushed my memory time and again to write this book. As I said earlier, the mind does odd things in times of chaos. But it can also recover beyond belief if you give it a good nudge.