Murder and Rape by Deception
A True Story by Lawrence Lyons
“Two men can keep a secret if one is dead” Hells Angels.
Notorious Australian murderer Vince Odempsey embraced the dark truth of this proverb. As I share this post, I want to briefly explain the beginning of my journey as an advocate against victim disarmament. It all started in 1979 when I invited a trainee nurse to the end of cadetship Oxley Police Academy dance. Her father made it unmistakably clear that I was to ensure his daughter returned home safely before midnight. It was just after 11 pm and she said, “We should get going soon it’s a long way home.”
Let’s rewind five hours before I met her father. I hopped into my old car, turned the key, and—nothing. Frantic about being late, I asked my friend if I could borrow his even older Ford station wagon. He agreed but warned me, “Sure, but it has a slow leak; you’ll need to change the tyre.” So I did. In my rush, I tossed everything into the back without packing, and fortunately, I did.
A few miles from the police academy, I noticed a car tailing us. Minutes later, as we passed through a stretch of isolated bushland, they pulled up alongside us. The passenger in the front seat displayed a black card and, through our open windows, commanded in a stern voice, “Pull over, driver.” It was a diamond-white sedan that resembled a police car but lacked the blue lights and siren. At first, I entertained the thought that they might be police, but as I scrutinized the vehicle and its occupants, I noticed a dent in the back door and four men inside. That didn’t seem typical. “I don’t like this; I’m not stopping,” I told her. She responded, “We’re not far from my house—just keep going.” I recalled my father’s advice from his years in the police force: “When you’re in a heavier car, slow down and maneuver; don’t let them get past you.” Twice they managed to get ahead of us, and twice I veered off the road, crashing through small trees to get back in front.
We pulled into her father’s bush driveway, navigating the right hand turn that led to the house. Unfortunately, the slow leak wasn’t the only issue with the car; it also had a horn that sounded like a sick duck—quiet and completely ineffective. We stopped to see them stopping at the turn-off about 30 yards away. As I opened the back door to grab the wheel brace or the long-shaft jack, it struck me that in the dim light, it resembled a rifle.
I placed it against my shoulder and looked down the path to see the four men walking in a line towards us. I racked the mechanism, the sound resonating with a solid, mechanical double click in the dim light. One of the men yelled, “Fuck he’s got a gun.” They halted in their tracks before retreating to their car. As they drove onto the road, we could hear their shouts of abuse echoing up at us from below, amplified by our elevated position. I swung the jack overhead, making it look as if I was aiming, and one of them shouted, “Fuck, he’s going to shoot!” In an instant, they jumped back into their car and sped away.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, several cars belonging to women who had been leaving work late at night had mysteriously been abandoned by the side of the road, with their drivers never seen again. It was the Vince Odempsey gang.
If you were to ask me whether such a bluff would work today, I would say, “Probably not; there’s been too much victim disarmament for any criminal to believe that I would be armed.” Thank you for reading this verifiable truth.