I said: ‘Is that rust?’
‘No,’ said the crier, a young fellow with delicate sideburns, ‘that would be blood.’
And then he brought out a gun. This other exhibit was the murder weapon. In court, senior constable and dog-handler David Templeton had remarked, ‘It’s a strange-looking gun.’ Short-barrelled, with a 10-round magazine and a Beamshot scope and laser, assembled with parts from about four different guns, it looked as light as a handbag. Dixon’s sleek little accessory weighed in at just 2.04 kilograms.
After he shot Te Aute, Dixon led police cars on a chase through Manukau. It was cat and mouse; the distinct possibility is that he was really enjoying himself. He would accelerate, then put on the brakes at speed. He would drive on the wrong side of the road. He would turn off his lights and hide in darkness, then suddenly come up behind the cops, then beside them, and then open fire. One round hit the side of a police car. Another just missed an officer who couldn’t move — he was wearing body armour so heavy and bulky that it trapped him in the passenger seat.
The chase ended when Dixon pulled into a cul de sac in East Tamaki, and broke into a house. He held the homeowner hostage. The siege lasted overnight. Dixon came outside and surrendered just after dawn.
Detective Constable Craig White was called as a witness. He said he sat next to Dixon in a police car after reading him his rights.
Crown co-prosecutor Richard Marchant asked, ‘Did he say anything to you?’
‘A variety of things,’ replied White. He consulted his notes, and read out this variety.
What the fuck are you cunts looking at? I’ll cut you up as well.
What’s it like being in a car with a murderer?
If I had a better fucking gun, you cunts would be dead.
I cut those sluts up real good.
Detective Constable Michael Hayward was also called to the witness stand. He had spoken with Dixon for about an hour on the day of his arrest. Again, Dixon addressed a variety of subjects.
Do you want me to bite your fucking nose off?
Fucking sword broke. I want a refund.
You fucking cocksuckers. You and your fucking meth programmes.
I’m going to the big house. I’ll fuck those cunts up as well.
Another voice was heard in Courtroom 6 while Hayward read from the thoughts of Dixon. It was Dixon himself. He set up a low muttering from the dock. It was strange to hear him actually speak; here was the man whose script was being read out by police officers to the court, but now Dixon himself was talking. In a high, quiet voice, he said: ‘Conspiracy. It’s a fucking conspiracy.’
And then he was quiet again.
Detective Sergeant Peter Jones was the seventieth and final witness in the prosecution’s case. Jones said he had sat with Dixon and Hayward at the police station. ‘I asked the accused, “Where is the sword now?” He said he didn’t know, but then he asked if it was still in her head.’
3
One day a row of tanned young people with strange accents waited outside Courtroom 6. They turned out to be advanced students of English from a language school. Andre, their tutor, said he immigrated to New Zealand from Cape Town. ‘A courtroom is a good place to hear English being spoken,’ he said.
He had chosen a good day to expose these new New Zealanders to the formal and informal use of English. Simonne Butler was called to give evidence. She spoke very fast. She was exact, fluent. She used interesting words, such as ‘infiltrate’, ‘appease’, ‘calibre’, and ‘flailing’; and slang, too, like ‘sleazed’ and ‘chopped up’.
She was an attractive woman, almost vivacious, despite the setting and the circumstances. She sat in court with the cuffs of her jacket rolled up. They exposed her scarred and mutilated hands. She was the star witness — for the defence. It seemed bizarre that Dixon’s victim had been called by defence lawyer Barry Hart, and not Crown prosecutor Simon Moore. Well, she was hardly going to say it was all a misunderstanding. Hart’s intent was that she would strengthen his argument that Dixon was insane.
She said she met Dixon in late 1997. She was a telesales rep. He told her he was a mechanic. Hart asked her, ‘Was there anything about him that was a little bit different?’
She said, ‘Yeah, there was. He would just talk and talk and talk, and you couldn’t shut him up. He’d go on about all manner of things. Probably the most hyperactive person I’ve ever met. Yeah. What was the question?’
‘Did you notice anything a little different about him?’
‘Very full-on. Very excitable, and a show-off.’
‘And then the two of you became emotionally connected?’
‘Yeah. He was just charming, and funny, and kind, and . . . yeah. I sort of fell in love.’
One day in early 1998, she noticed there was an extra razor and toothbrush in her bathroom. He’d moved in. He remained charming, and funny, and kind, but also insane.
‘He had quite large mood swings, from being so happy and ridiculous to being agitated, and pacing, and wailing. He constantly thought he was being followed by police. He’d go on and on about Jehovah’s Witnesses, and how he was one of the 144,000 Chosen Ones. Oh, first of all he told me he was the Devil, but that was back when I thought he was an idiot.’
She said he misquoted the Bible, and his version of Jehovah’s Witness teachings were confused. ‘The things he used to say were really wrong. I know a little about it. My nana is a Jehovah’s Witness, and I did Bible Studies to appease her from 10 to about 12.’
Yes, she told Hart, she had problems in childhood. ‘But not in the same calibre as him.’ Dixon ‘was always unbalanced, I guess you’d call it’. Hart
