The dogs barking in boarding kennels. He waited in his small, dark, hot fibrolite box. ‘I stayed inside and more or less expected the arrival of the police.’
Constable Norm Sowter was dispatched to pick up Detective Sergeant Bill Brien from his home in St Heliers. I phoned Sowter in Ahipara. He said, ‘It was a magnificently sunny day. Not a cloud. I shot out to get Bill, but it was such a lovely day, and you know what it’s like on a Sunday in Mission Bay. Crowded, packed. I was permanently on the horn, driving on the footpath, doing anything to get there as quickly as I could.’ Police had temporarily banned the use of sirens.
Another car was sent to get Detective Ross Dallow. I visited Ross at his home in Te Atatu; he is the father of newsreader Simon Dallow, and there were family photographs of his famous son throughout the house. Ross said, ‘I was doing some gardening around the back of the house, and suddenly heard a commotion at the front. I saw a police car taking off. Plain-coloured car. Unmarked car. I was part of a rapid-response team, so I got on the phone to central. I had a very quick shower, and the next car came in about five minutes. I was told there had been an incident, that it was very serious.’
The first policeman Wasmuth shot was Neville Power. He approached Wasmuth’s bach with Constable John Langham, and fired a tear-gas canister through a window. Wasmuth stepped out onto his porch, and shot Power through the corner of the bach. Wall particles and bullet fragments were found in his heart at the autopsy.
Wasmuth, in his statement: ‘He exposed most of his body from behind the corner of the bach, and he too made a perfect target. At this stage I didn’t care who I shot, and whether they were policemen or not.’
Power lay dying. He called out to Langham, ‘Help me, John.’
Langham called back, ‘Stay where you are, Neville. Don’t move.’
Wasmuth went outside and stood over Power’s body. Langham heard him say, ‘Is it cold down there, sonny?’
And then the killer went for Langham, who was hiding in long grass. He would have executed him. But Wally Chalmers arrived, and shouted at Wasmuth to get his attention. He saved Langham’s life and sacrificed his own. He retreated, tripped in a ditch, and fell backwards. Wasmuth advanced with his Enfield rifle. Chalmers died within minutes.
Wasmuth, in his statement: ‘I saw a big man with red or fairish hair. He was about middle-aged and dressed in a light-coloured shirt. He stumbled and fell. I shot him as he lay on the ground.’
Langham managed to get to Neville Power. He told the coroners court, ‘I lifted his head and turned him around. He shuddered a couple of times and died in my arms.’
Paul Church — the seven-year-old mucking around by the garage — saw the police arrive. In all, 16 officers were at the crime scene. He said, ‘They came straight through the front gates, they were in the bush — they were just everywhere. More and more. Something was escalating quite quickly. They wanted a word with Father Cronin. They asked him to minister the dead. He said, “Yes, of course.” He got his purple stole and said, “Stay here.” I remember him walking up the road.’
The priest in his purple stole — ‘all priest’, ‘the most amazing man’ — walking up the valley of death that Sunday in the Waitakere Ranges to give the last rites to Berry, Chalmers and Power. He was in full view of Wasmuth. ‘But he didn’t shoot,’ Paul said. ‘Maybe there was still some decency left in him. He could easily have killed the Father.’
The dogs barking in boarding kennels. Dallow was still racing to the scene. He heard that his fellow officers had been killed over the car radio. They travelled the rest of the way in complete silence. He remembered that very clearly. He said, ‘Even now, I . . .’ He put his head in his hands.
Detective Constable Graham Johanson arrived. I called him at his home. He said, ‘After Wasmuth shot Wally, he walked up the road to where I was. Our NCO said, “Take cover!” Officers ran for the ferns on the side of the road.’
Johanson, a former air-force marksman, was armed with a .32 Browning semi-automatic. He was 40 feet away. He fired at Wasmuth’s legs, then his torso, and the third bullet hit Wasmuth’s elbow. He said, ‘I was shooting to kill.’
I said, ‘Did you regret you didn’t kill him?’
He said, ‘Very much so. He killed my mates. Neville was a good friend. We visited him and Val at their home. He was a gentleman.’
Later reports claimed Wasmuth came at Johanson swinging his rifle like a club, and fought like a tiger when he was arrested. ‘Rubbish,’ said Johanson. ‘Total rubbish. But he was quite wild. His looks were scary. He said, “Look out. I’m a dangerous man. I’ll spit in your eye.”
‘That day was the worst thing in my 25 years in the police. It hit me hard for months and months. I did it cold turkey — they didn’t have counselling then. I couldn’t attend the funeral. Just couldn’t. Even today, I . . .’ Like Dallow, he gasped for breath. Two weeping ex-cops, 50 years after that slaughter in the bush.
Norm Sowter went with Wasmuth to hospital. He said, ‘I remember him well. Tall guy, strapping build; well put together. He was very serious in everything he said. A very, very dour sort of guy. He just didn’t give a stuff. He was complaining about his arm and all that sort of shit. The nurse grabbed his arm, gave it a bit of a twist, and said, “Is that where it hurts?” I’d have liked to have given her a medal. That was quite pleasing.’
Ross Dallow remembered arriving at the killing fields
