Read Online Killers - The Most Barbaric Murderers of Our Time by Nigel Cawthorne - Free Book Online
Authors: Nigel Cawthorne
Tags: True Crime
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Mr Vitkovic’s brown Valiant station wagon and the family’s two other small vehicles.
In these affluent surroundings, their son Frank grew into a good-looking, big framed youth who was over six feet tall. At high school he was placed in the top five per cent of students. Vitkovic also had a passion for playing tennis, becoming something of a legend on the twin clay courts of St Raphael’s tennis club. A strong backhand drive floored many opponents and scared others. Margaret O’Leary, a former club secretary, recalled that Vitkovic sometimes aimed his returns at an opponent’s body. It was enough to help him win the club championship in 1983.
The young sons of immigrant families in the club quickly identified with Vitkovic. They became known in the clubhouse as ‘the ethnics’. Mrs O’Leary recalled that some of the young men idolised Vitkovic and his confidence blossomed.
‘The topic of conversation was always Frank Vitkovic,’ she said. ‘He found it very hard to lose.’
Everyone agreed that Vitkovic was destined for bigger things. Nobody was surprised when, in 1984, he won a place at Melbourne University’s Law School. To start with everything went fine. Vitkovic told tennis-club friends he was ‘breezing through’. But in early 1986 things began to go wrong. Midway through his last year, Vitkovic abandoned his studies and helped his father paint houses.
Those who knew him still detected no hint that Vitkovic was having problems. His family were good people. Nobody ever expected anything bad to happen to Frank.
Vitkovic returned to Law School at the beginning of 1987, but it was a brief and unhappy experience. He left his studies again soon after because of ‘unsatisfactory progress’. He also sought help from Melbourne University’s Counselling Service during this period. He did not work after leaving university.
Vitkovic kept a file of Melbourne newspaper clippings of Julian Knight’s massacre on Hoddle Street, underlining sections of the clippings in red. He also kept Rambo videos in his bedroom.
In mid-September he had obtained a gun permit from the Central Firearms Registry in Melbourne after failing just one of the 14 questions. It was: ‘Should firearms be unloaded before you enter a house or building?’ He had answered: ‘No.’
Around the same time, a salesman from Precision Guns and Ammo in Victoria Street, West Melbourne, sold Vitkovic an M-1 semi-automatic rifle for £275. Vitkovic sawed the stock and barrel off the 75-centimetre weapon to make it easy to conceal.
The night before he went into the Australia Post building, he wrote in his diary: ‘The anger in my head has got too much for me. I’ve got to get rid of my violent impulses. The time has come to die. There is no other way out.’
Judy Morris returned to her office from her 1 p.m. lunch-break on top of the world. Not only had she had the spectacular picture of the sunset developed, but she had bought a new outfit – white slacks with braces and a matching pink blouse. She showed them to her closest friend, a young supervisor who also worked behind the Credit Union counter.
Judy also passed the pictures of the sunset around her friends in the Credit Union. Twenty-two-year-old Con Margellis, one of the regular staff, may have seen them.
Margellis is the only apparent link between Vitkovic and the 1,000 people working that day in the Queen Street offices. He lived just a few streets from the Vitkovics in West Preston. He and Vitkovic had been at school together and had been friends for a number of years.
At 4.10 p.m. that Tuesday Vitkovic emerged from the lift and greeted Mr Margellis inside the fifth-floor Credit Union office with the word ‘G’day.’
He then brought out the carbine from under his green top and began firing shots in the direction of his friend. Police ruled out any homosexual relationship between them. Nor was there any dispute over a woman. Nevertheless Vitkovic was now shooting with murderous intent at his
In these affluent surroundings, their son Frank grew into a good-looking, big framed youth who was over six feet tall. At high school he was placed in the top five per cent of students. Vitkovic also had a passion for playing tennis, becoming something of a legend on the twin clay courts of St Raphael’s tennis club. A strong backhand drive floored many opponents and scared others. Margaret O’Leary, a former club secretary, recalled that Vitkovic sometimes aimed his returns at an opponent’s body. It was enough to help him win the club championship in 1983.
The young sons of immigrant families in the club quickly identified with Vitkovic. They became known in the clubhouse as ‘the ethnics’. Mrs O’Leary recalled that some of the young men idolised Vitkovic and his confidence blossomed.
‘The topic of conversation was always Frank Vitkovic,’ she said. ‘He found it very hard to lose.’
Everyone agreed that Vitkovic was destined for bigger things. Nobody was surprised when, in 1984, he won a place at Melbourne University’s Law School. To start with everything went fine. Vitkovic told tennis-club friends he was ‘breezing through’. But in early 1986 things began to go wrong. Midway through his last year, Vitkovic abandoned his studies and helped his father paint houses.
Those who knew him still detected no hint that Vitkovic was having problems. His family were good people. Nobody ever expected anything bad to happen to Frank.
Vitkovic returned to Law School at the beginning of 1987, but it was a brief and unhappy experience. He left his studies again soon after because of ‘unsatisfactory progress’. He also sought help from Melbourne University’s Counselling Service during this period. He did not work after leaving university.
Vitkovic kept a file of Melbourne newspaper clippings of Julian Knight’s massacre on Hoddle Street, underlining sections of the clippings in red. He also kept Rambo videos in his bedroom.
In mid-September he had obtained a gun permit from the Central Firearms Registry in Melbourne after failing just one of the 14 questions. It was: ‘Should firearms be unloaded before you enter a house or building?’ He had answered: ‘No.’
Around the same time, a salesman from Precision Guns and Ammo in Victoria Street, West Melbourne, sold Vitkovic an M-1 semi-automatic rifle for £275. Vitkovic sawed the stock and barrel off the 75-centimetre weapon to make it easy to conceal.
The night before he went into the Australia Post building, he wrote in his diary: ‘The anger in my head has got too much for me. I’ve got to get rid of my violent impulses. The time has come to die. There is no other way out.’
Judy Morris returned to her office from her 1 p.m. lunch-break on top of the world. Not only had she had the spectacular picture of the sunset developed, but she had bought a new outfit – white slacks with braces and a matching pink blouse. She showed them to her closest friend, a young supervisor who also worked behind the Credit Union counter.
Judy also passed the pictures of the sunset around her friends in the Credit Union. Twenty-two-year-old Con Margellis, one of the regular staff, may have seen them.
Margellis is the only apparent link between Vitkovic and the 1,000 people working that day in the Queen Street offices. He lived just a few streets from the Vitkovics in West Preston. He and Vitkovic had been at school together and had been friends for a number of years.
At 4.10 p.m. that Tuesday Vitkovic emerged from the lift and greeted Mr Margellis inside the fifth-floor Credit Union office with the word ‘G’day.’
He then brought out the carbine from under his green top and began firing shots in the direction of his friend. Police ruled out any homosexual relationship between them. Nor was there any dispute over a woman. Nevertheless Vitkovic was now shooting with murderous intent at his
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