Wednesday, 10 July 2013

Do You Know Anything About the Death of my Father, CIA-ASIO Espionage and Surveillance Whistleblower? Did you know William Francis Roy?

Growing up with a communist, activist father wasn't easy. My family was followed by ASIO wherever we went. There were always these men in suits turning up at the front door to question my father. This continued even after he joined the Australian Labor Party as a tactical move to enable him to gain promotion in his job. I'm sure other parents didn't want their kids coming to our house.

One of scores of pages from Dad's ASIO file that I obtained, mentioning that he visited Robin Allenby Gollan, later Professor of Australian History at the ANU. Professor Gollan was one of many fellow communists he kept in touch with in Canberra. 

There are 36 pages of notes from Dad's ASIO file on the National Archives. Just go here and enter William Francis Roy.
 It comes up second in the search. These files also mention Special Branch, but when I tried to get his Special Branch file, they denied that one existed. 

I heard so much about equality, racism, the environment, atheism, American imperialism and the Vietnam war, class conflict and revolutionary struggle that I just switched off. My father's views didn't impress me at all. I had no desire to bother the government or get followed by ASIO all my life.

I really didn't get on with him and he didn't understand my interest in training horses or racing cars. I had nothing to talk to him about, nothing really in common. Politics wasn't my thing at all.

I did appreciate the fact that he treated me like a son, and from an early age had me passing him spanners under the bonnet of the Skoda, telling me the names of the parts of the engine and electrical system. I became a very good mechanic and auto electrician as a result and could find any fault on the side of the road and fix it. When I became a racing driver I did virtually all my own mechanical and auto-electrical work.

I was quite proud when he became Chief Technical Officer at Telecom Tower (later Telstra Tower), Black Mountain, Canberra. I was able to rock up to the Tower any time and get let in, given a temporary security pass. It became like a second home. When my kids came along I'd take them there in the stroller for a visit with Grandad.

A couple of years before his death, Dad started to tell me things that were bothering him about what went on in the Tower. He said the United States was using it as a base for spying and surveillance of people and embassies who had done nothing wrong. I was kind of bothered by this information. I didn't think it was right that some foreign nation had access to our telecommunications system in that manner.

Towards the end of his employment at the Tower he said he intended to take these matters up with someone, to complain. He said he knew things that would shock Australians, that they were being watched and listened to constantly. I believe he was instrumental in the notorious bugging of the Chinese Embassy in Canberra. Certainly he installed all the surveillance equipment in Telecom Tower. He was Australia's foremost electronics expert with brilliant fault-finding skills. I've outlined his history of being an activist, involved in assisting to print and distribute anti-government material, to show just how easily he would become disgusted with this kind of thing.  It went against everything he believed in.

It was exciting that he knew all the astronauts and spoke to them in space regarding communications. He co-ordinated and directed communications and was in daily contact with NASA. He was also maintenance and operations manager of Tidbinbilla Tracking Station.

Picture: Bill Roy in checked coat with astronauts John Young and Robert Crippen on either side, at Telecom Tower

Soon after he began complaining about mass surveillance by the U.S. and ASIO via the equipment in Telecom Tower, his employer told him a new Russian and German translator was needed. He had the last say on employment of staff and so it was he who interviewed Ruth Maria Martha Zsebehazy, nee Ruth Ludigkeit, who had already been approved by ASIO to work in Telecom Tower as she had worked in the area of surveillance and translating before. However he wasn't happy with her English test and decided to employ someone else. On being told she'd failed the English test, Ruth began to cry, claiming to be a poor widow who needed a job. She offered to work as a cleaner. Feeling sorry for her, he gave her the job. 

After my father died I had his mail redirected. By some stroke of luck Ruth's mail was also redirected to me so I was able to ascertain that far from being a poor widow she owned property all over the place and was independently wealthy. By this time I was prepared to do anything illegal or unethical to find out what happened to my father. 

The fact that she hardly showed up for work is not surprising. She didn't need a job. She would claim she had asthma all the time. She was no cleaning lady. I wonder what she was getting paid to be Dad's minder. Obviously she had instructions to get into that tower and get access to Dad by whatever means she could. 

It is clear now that Ruth had been placed in the Tower by ASIO to lure my father away from his family. She wasted no time. Soon she obtained photos with which to blackmail him and phoned the family home in the middle of the night, threatening him that if he didn't go and live at her place the photos would be sent to his family. She sent the first in the series to his parents who strangely enough weren't offended by it and kept it in a shoebox. Maybe someone still has it. It appeared that a secret camera had been installed in her loungeroom, just above the lounge.

And so immediately following that phone call he left home, at 2 a.m., and someone collected him in a car from the road outside the house. As Ruth didn't drive it wasn't her, but it may have been her son Richard Zsebehazy. Richard worked as a lab assistant at the National University. I often wonder where he was the night my father was attacked at the university. 

I was angry that Dad ruined my mother's life like that. It never occurred to me at the time that it was some kind of complex plot. 

Ruth began to isolate Dad from his family. She forbade him to contact me and even, initially, his parents. She would not allow him to see his grandchildren. His mother was devastated. Ruth held all the cards because of the blackmailing photos. Ruth had immediately given up her job as cleaner at the Tower to concentrate on her new job of overseeing the activities of Dad and reporting back. Just as she had inflicted violence on her husband Joe, who died in 1982 aged 57 in circumstances her neighbours in Hannan Crescent, Ainslie at the time described as suspicious, she began to assault Dad when he would disagree with her. She detested his communism. She was a great admirer of Adolf Hitler.

Poor Joe Zsebehazy. I interviewed his best mate in Hannan Crescent following Dad's death. I became adept at tracking down possible witnesses and persuading them to talk to me.

Note from Tony that he sent me after I requested an audience with him, four months after Dad's death

 Tony said he and Joe were really close. He knew everything about him, including that he was Catholic and didn't believe in cremation. Joe had found a girlfriend in South America. He went to visit her in 1982. When he came back, Ruth was furious. Many times she assaulted him and Tony discussed with other neighbours whether they should call the police. Tony said Joe wasn't violent at all. One night there was such a huge one-sided fight that someone did call the police, believing Joe would be killed. The next day, something unusual happened. Joe, who'd been working on a building site, came home for lunch. For some reason, Ruth also returned home at lunch time from her job, something Tony said never happened. She made lunch for Joe and he ate it. He went back to work and collapsed. He was taken to Royal Canberra Hospital (same place Dad died) where he was pronounced dead. He had no history of health problems, according to Tony, though his death certificate says differently. Tony says he was there at the hospital and Ruth was crying and sobbing, begging the doctors not to hold an autopsy and cut up her 'beloved husband'. Eventually a doctor relented and wrote a death certificate stating Joe had had a myocardial infarction. Ruth then had Joe hastily cremated against his wishes, thus destroying any evidence. 

Joe's death certificate states that Ruth worked as a clerk. She certainly did work for the government, but as a translator with Australian Security Intelligence. Tony said he knew she was a spy. He said she was one of the nastiest people he ever met. After Joe's death, due to suspicions in the street and general dislike of her, she had to leave. She moved a short distance away, to Hackett.

Dad continued to ring me every Tuesday at 4 p.m. from Telecom Tower as he always had. I must say I wasn't impressed with what he had done and wasn't too keen to talk to him, but I never hung up. He told me to bring the children to the Tower to see him when I was in Canberra because Ruth was no longer allowed to visit there, since her security pass had expired, and anyhow, she didn't drive. And so every few weeks I would take the babies there and we'd sit in the lunch room visiting Grandad. I felt at home in the Tower, knew all the staff and knew where all the locked doors were, where very few people were allowed to venture. Following one phone conversation where I berated Dad for allowing Ruth to isolate and bully him, he said at present he couldn't do anything about it, and I concluded with, "Enjoy your imprisonment then." I hoped it would make him think.

On one occasion I was in the lunch room when a security guard came in. He said "Ruth's been after you again. I told her you were in a meeting." Apparently she'd found out I was in the Tower and had gone there in a taxi and tried to get in. 

ASIO didn't want Dad to be in contact with his family because they might become suspicious about the situation and try to rescue him. It was Ruth's job to keep us away and for the most part she succeeded. I can see now that they really didn't want to kill him because it would look very sus. They just wanted to know who he was contacting so they could ensure their D-notices were adhered to and nothing made its way into the media. I don't think he was giving information to China or Russia. He never said that he was. But then, he was a communist, so maybe he did. Eventually though, his information found its way into Time magazine. I'd love to read that article but I haven't been able to find it.

Dad was always telling me what he was doing. He said he'd given an interview to someone at the ABC. When I tried to obtain a copy of the video later they told me it was Jana Wendt and that I couldn't have a copy due to a D-Notice. Part of an interview with Dad was shown on the 7.30 Report on ABC TV when they reported on the Chinese Embassy Spy Scandal in about 1996. You can watch it here

He was always saying it was wrong of the CIA to be using Telecom Tower as a base for gathering information about people who had committed no crime, and it was wrong for ASIO and the CIA to be spying on friendly embassies. He was angry about the government keeping dossiers on people as he knew they had a huge one on him. Most of it can now be read on the National Archives website.  He was the one in charge of all the equipment used for doing this and he was not supposed to be saying such things. He said he was going to get the truth out there and that the whole world would be shocked at what the United States and Australia were doing. 

After he left work he told me the Minister for Telecommunications had phoned him and warned him he would be dealt with if he continued contacting the media about these operations.

After a time he became absolutely convinced he would be killed and he told me this, even telling me the contents of his will. He said he would not be alive much longer. He also rang my mother and told her the same thing, suggesting that he might return home. He mentioned a property he'd purchased with Ruth as tenants-in-common, and that in his will he'd left his half to my brother and I. Unfortunately someone had tricked him because he had in fact purchased the valuable two storey home unit as joint tenants, which meant that when he died it automatically went to Ruth and did not form part of his estate. Ruth also got his superannuation pension when he died. She did very well out of it and I am furious that Richard Zsebehazy, who laughed on seeing my father's dead body at the hospital, benefited from his death as well. 

I can't have been the only person Dad was telling these things to though. He must have been talking to others, probably friends he knew from his days as an active communist. No doubt he talked to Robin Gollan. I wish I'd spoken to him before he died in 2007. 

On one occasion after I sent photos of the children to Dad at Ruth's address, she phoned me and threatened to kill me. She said she would stab me to death while I was asleep if I kept contacting Dad. I've never been a person to be easily intimidated. I just told her that in that case, I'd have to burn down her house while she was asleep. There was quite a shouting match and I told her to get f*****. She wouldn't have been expecting that kind of reaction from me. She was accustomed to being able to intimidate people. She couldn't intimidate me and was furious. Instead, I made a pretty creditable attempt at intimidating her. I hope she didn't sleep well after that. 

After this incident, Dad wrote me a note on four small pieces of paper, apologizing that Ruth had phoned me that day. It would be the last letter he'd ever send me. 

"I tried to persuade her not to ring. She believed you were trying to make trouble between Ruth and me over the nasty phone calls your mother has received." These phone calls by Ruth to my mother late at night had been ongoing for over a year and were lewd and disgusting. What a psychopath.

"Your mother should complain to Telecom about these calls. I will contact you by phone later on." 

I tried to tell family members that Dad was going to be murdered. What do you do when your father tells you that his own government plans to bump him off? What do you do when you're told that ASIO and the CIA are holding tens of thousands of dossiers on Australian citizens who have done nothing wrong, but who maybe hold political views that these governments don't like? I didn't want to know about this. I just wanted to continue with my life, ignoring the goings-on in government. Like most people I went to work, came home, made dinner, paid the mortgage and nothing else mattered to me. But now this other crap was starting to affect me personally. 

In February 1991 following a number of calls from my father during which he repeated his claims that he was going to be killed and very soon, and during which I argued with him about leaving Canberra and Australia, and he argued back that he didn't intend to let them think he was frightened and would never back down, I tried telling his sister. My attempts to get him to leave Canberra or preferably leave the country were futile. He stubbornly refused to budge. So I rang her and said, "Dad is going to die soon. We have to do something." She misunderstood and said that no, he was recovering from his kidney failure (he'd been poisoned the previous November, presumably by Ruth, and had nearly died). I was suspicious my calls were being monitored so I didn't want to say exactly what I meant. I said, "Someone is going to kill him." She dismissed what I said and I just didn't know what to do. Unfortunately, four weeks later when he was dead, she didn't recall the conversation at all. I said to her, "I told you they were going to kill him" and she said she didn't remember that. 

Following that conversation I realized no-one was going to believe me, apart from Mum.  I couldn't go to the media or someone might decide to kill me too. Why was he only telling me these things? Did he think I was like him, and would ensure he got some kind of justice after death? I didn't want to be my father. 

I wrote Dad a final letter pleading with him to leave the country. He was trying to leave Ruth. He'd taken everything he owned to his niece's house in Wickerslack Lane, Queanbeyan. He'd bought a small one bedroom unit in Canberra to move into. He'd arranged to go and live temporarily with his parents from 21st March 1991 - the day after the bicycle incident at Sullivans Creek. His parents were expecting him to arrive that day and instead they were told he was on life support in Royal Canberra Hospital. I knew I couldn't send the letter by post so I left it with a relative in Queanbeyan that he often visited. I told them to try and get him to read that letter no matter what it took. In the letter I said he'd been poisoned (which I'm not sure he realized) and that he had to go somewhere safe. I told him I believed Ruth was involved and that she was working for the enemy, but by then, he must have realized since he was attempting to leave. On two occasions that he left her and went to relatives' homes, all it took was one threatening phone call from her for him to go straight back. I'm sure it was the photos he was afraid of. I'll never forget him telling me how Ruth would make his favourite cake and insist that he eat several slices. Dad hated cake. Poisoned cake.

He did visit this relative but he refused to take the letter with him or even open it. He said it would make Ruth too angry. That was the last opportunity I would ever have to try to save his life. The relative held onto the letter until after the Coronial Inquiry, then gave it back to me. Dad's relatives, unlike me, were afraid of authority and didn't want to draw attention to themselves or cause themselves any trouble. I did want trouble. I was furious. How dare they kill my father like that? We didn't get on that well but this was outrageous. 

This time, around late 1990-early '91, marked the start of years of threatening phone calls. Some of them came from Ruth. "Stay away. I will kill you." Oh yeah, you and whose army! Others were from anonymous men. "Keep your nose out of this or you will die." And when I contacted 60 Minutes in 1995, "You've gone too far now. You're finished." I always had something to say back. Come and get me. I'm not scared of you. You'll never silence me. F*** off. I didn't believe anyone who was really going to kill you would ring you and let you know first. But just to be sure I was well armed and well trained to shoot and kept a loaded firearm under my bed where I could reach it, at all times. I also took it in the car with me wherever I went. Those were the days when you could get away with such things. When I lived out in the bush, on a few occasions people in cars would begin a chase on an unsealed road. Or I would begin the chase by trying to get further away from them. They had no more chance of catching me than they would of catching Colin Bond and I always lost them, probably much to their great annoyance. I had years of race and rally experience and they did not. I suffered a huge amount of harassment and surveillance but it never made me paranoid and it never stopped me trying to find out the truth.

Three weeks or so before Dad's death I decided to put together a bag of essential items ready to take to Canberra when the inevitable happened. There was nothing I could do to stop him being killed. But there was plenty I could do to upset them after the event. I packed an overnight bag with clothes, cameras, film, notebooks, pens and pencils, a torch, matches, tape measure, change for public phones, snacks, radio, police scanner, Canberra maps. 

I did understand from what Dad said that it was a conspiracy, probably a joint CIA-ASIO one, yet I still had this small hope that some government departments, some members of Parliament, the ICAC, police or even the Ombudsman would help me. After his death I would contact all manner of people to no avail. The Coroners Office threatened me with contempt of court proceedings and defamation action. I still have the letter from Mr Thompson, the assistant coroner, telling me I would be up for defamation if I kept accusing Ruth Zsebehazy of involvement. Various police also threatened me and told me to shut up. Criminologist Dr Paul Wilson was very encouraging, though. He sent this letter and I also spoke to him on the phone.

It was also helpful joining Whistleblowers Australia, which held meetings in Balmain, because at least I knew I wasn't alone in facing cover-ups and a noxious, foul, dishonest, shady, criminal, murdering government. 

And so I waited for the inevitable. Waiting for your father to be murdered and knowing for sure it is going to happen within weeks, possibly days, is the weirdest feeling. I didn't cry. I was angry, very angry and ready to take action. 

Suddenly I'd taken an interest in books I'd previously considered to be full of silly conspiracy nonsense. I went to the library and read up on political malfeasance, unethical government, suppression of dissent, D-notices and freedom of the press, the nefarious activities of the CIA in various countries, of ASIO and ASIS, of plots by our own government to destabilize others. I could see that it might be necessary to break the law in order to uncover what was happening and to do things and go places that I would never have considered before. I soon realized that communism always results in the worst kinds of suppression of political dissidents in every country where it has taken over. But in every other way, I became my father after his death. 

On 21st March the call finally came from my aunt, telling me that Dad was on life support in Royal Canberra Hospital and not expected to live. She said there had been a bicycle accident at Sullivans Creek at the university. I said, "It was no accident," but she didn't reply. She must have made inquiries when my grandparents became worried when he didn't arrive at their house at 10 a.m. He was leaving Ruth that very day and was going to stay with them for a few weeks. They had the bed made up but he didn't come. He was never unreliable.

I quickly formed a plan to go straight to Canberra and visit police and others who were first on the scene, before anyone got a chance to try to silence them. I reckoned that these police might be on the same shift they were on the day before, so I went to Canberra Police Station around 7 p.m. Sure enough, the first policeman on the scene at Sullivans Creek was there. I can't recall now if it was Usback or Dickerson, but I explained who I was and that I wanted to know what happened to my father, without saying I thought he had been murdered. I mentioned a bicycle accident. The constable disagreed. "That can't have been a bicycle accident," he said. "I'm a triathlete. I know about bikes. I picked up the bike and looked at it. I couldn't see any damage to the bike at all. I thought he'd fallen off due to a heart attack or something." I explained that my father had been cycling seriously for decades and that he ran marathon distances regularly. The constable drew a rough map of where the incident had happened so that I'd be able to find the bridge at Sullivans Creek at the university. He asked me not to show the map to anyone because he wasn't supposed to do this. I still have the map that he drew in my notebook. Here is part of a statement by one of the police regarding the incident. 

"The bicycle had sustained very minor damage"

How did the accident squad later come up with the idea later that there was huge damage including the front wheel being allegedly pushed into the frame and the whole frame being bent? Why did the coroner walk out of the courtroom, furious, after photos of an undamaged Shogun bicycle were passed around to be viewed by those present, and I jumped up and said, "But the bike isn't damaged! There's no damage to the front wheel or the spokes consistent with it hitting a concrete bollard!"Why didn't the Coroner just answer my bloody question? Because the mechanic who wrote up the report about the badly damaged bicycle wasn't even there for me to question. 

The pedestrian bridge at Sullivan's Creek, in the grounds of the Australian National University, facing the direction in which Dad was riding at around 8 p.m. on 20th March 1991. It wasn't quite dark. Three days later I sat and observed the behaviour of cyclists on this path for an hour. Everyone slowed right down as they approached the bridge as there were often pedestrians. Dad had ridden this path hundreds of times. He knew the bollard was there and he didn't run into it. How on earth could you hit a concrete bollard at high speed and end up with your bike's frame sitting around the bollard and you right next to it? Both you and the bike would have been thrown well clear of the bollard. None of it made sense. There is now a plaque on the handrail of the bridge in his memory.

And why wasn't I allowed to have the bike to get it examined myself? I had tracked down a former Scotland Yard detective, retired and living near me, who was prepared to check the bike, having done that kind of work all his life. 

I was told I could have the bike several months after the coronial inquiry and set off in my car immediately to make the three hour trip and collect it, only to be told when I got there that it was 'gone'. 

From another report, "I was unable to locate any mechanical defect or failure which in my opinion may have contributed to the cause of this collision."

I had also managed to grab the bag containing all the clothes and shoes my father had been wearing that night from the hospital when no-one was looking. None of his clothes were torn or damaged but his shirt was covered in blood.

On the two occasions I was able to see my father in hospital, when Ruth, acting like a guard dog, finally went away in the early hours of the morning, I also read his chart. I could see that his heart, blood pressure and all other signs were normal and speaking to nursing staff I understood that he was doing well, and when the brain swelling went down, he was expected to wake up and recover.

But not according to Zsebehazy who was ranting about life support being switched off immediately and  at the same time acting the devastated potential widow by crying unconvincingly, her fake howling being heard all over the ward. It was very poor acting and so overdone. 

Four months earlier when my father was rushed to hospital with organ failure, I immediately suspected poisoning by Ruth, because he had been telling me how violent and abusive she was. I didn't yet suspect that someone was instructing Ruth to do these things. I found a book  in the Wollongong University Library, where I'd been studying languages, called "Forensic Medicine for Lawyers" by J. Mason. On Page 16 it says,

"Extra glomerular disease of the nephrons is a common complication of unnatural disease and is of special medico-legal interest." I copied the page and sent it to Dad, but of course Ruth opened the letter and there was yet another abusive phone call from her. These phone calls from her didn't bother me because they gave me yet another chance to tell her what I thought. I did manage to tell Dad he'd been poisoned in December 1990 but he just said, "I'm sure Ruth wouldn't do that." Probably she was in the room listening.

After Dad died (a result of euthanasia at Zsebehazy's request, it seems), Ruth decided to look in the newspaper for a cheap funeral director. Not in the phone book for a registered company, but the classifieds section of the Canberra Times. There she found an advertisement for Workers' Funerals. They took away my father's body and stored it in a garage. A year later the proprietor was charged with various offences. 

Before a family member managed to persuade Ruth to switch funeral directors, I rang Mr Murphy and spoke to him. I asked him if he had any suspicions about Ruth. He said he certainly did - he found her attitude very strange. A merry widow, she didn't seem at all upset, only concerned that the funeral be as cheap as possible. Mr Murphy assumed that we were all short of a quid, but I soon put him right. 

And so the date for the funeral was fixed. Former colleagues came from all over Australia. Meanwhile I was protesting to anyone who would listen  that Dad didn't want to be cremated. He said cremation caused pollution and he wanted to be buried, preferably in a cardboard coffin. But I had no experience with the law relating to cremation and I had no idea I actually had a say in it. By the time I found out I could stop the cremation and rang Canberra Crematorium, it was an hour too late. This distressed me for a long time.

I arrived at the crematorium on the set day with my mother and Dad's family. We sat well away from Ruth, Richard and Oswald, whoever he might be. Apparently this Oswald was somehow involved in the funeral arrangements. 

The only people there were the funeral directors and mourners. There was no MC, no civil celebrant. We all just sat there and nothing happened. Finally one of the funeral directors went over to Ruth and spoke to her. Where was the celebrant? There was none. She wasn't paying for a celebrant. What a waste of money. So the funeral director went to the microphone and said there had been a mix-up, and asked if anyone would be prepared to speak about Dad. Someone did, as I recall, but I don't know what they said. I felt sick. Then it was over and as the coffin disappeared they played a hideous German oom-pa piece, associated with beer halls. The only music Dad liked was jazz. At least Ruth took the trouble to pick some music suitable to her mood.

After the funeral I set to work writing, visiting and phoning everyone who would listen. The coroner's office wouldn't let me have the toxicological report, claiming there was none. The government analytical laboratory said there was and I should be entitled to it, and furthermore it was very interesting. The Ombudsman finally got the report for me and indeed it was interesting, with several drugs and poisons including cannabis having been found. I gave Mr Thompson from the Coroner's Office a serve.

Dad's father was visiting Canberra for a canary show with his birds, so he decided to call in to 14 Verco Street Hackett to see Ruth. It was three weeks since Dad had died. I think he was checking the place out because he told me that there was nothing in that house to indicate that Dad had ever lived there - no photos of him, none of his books or other possessions. He even asked to see a photo of Dad but Ruth didn't have one. Ruth didn't seem at all upset that he was gone.

The post office continued to send me, accidentally, Ruth's mail, which I opened, just to see what was inside. The following letter arrived which was like something from a spy movie.

It said,

Dear Ruth,

As I not heard from you for some time, so what is going on. 
Please write to me and inform me of everything.
All the best from me.

Canberra 15/9/91

a good and trusting friend

And finally Dad's will turned up somewhere, accompanied by a very strange letter.

I knew he would have written a home-made will and sure enough he did. 

A tribute to Dad was written by Mr Grey, his colleague. Among Dad's achievements he listed: Installation of Radio flood warning and 4 channel systems in Northern N.S.W.; Maintenance at Cumnock 2CR Radio Transmitter; Maintenance at Crystal Brook, S.A., 5CK Transmitter; Installation of the National TV Transmitter at Mount Ulandra; Installation of the Broken Hill National TV Transmitter; Maintenance of the National Broadcast Transmitters in Canberra; Maintenance at the Black Mountain Tower. Bill was the first operations person to reside in the Tower and was responsible for combining Broadcasting, Mobile Radio, Television Operations Centre and Radiocommunications Network equipment into one operations area.

I contacted 60 Minutes and following a lengthy investigation they told me there was a D-notice on reporting of anything to do with my father's career or his death. I decided to stop trying to expose what had happened. I had exhausted every avenue. I had annoyed as many of the conspirators as I possibly could. I had let them know they didn't get away with it. I knew I was on the right track because they kept phoning me and warning me to lay off. 

There must be others out there that he spoke to. Maybe they are former members of the Communist Party of Australia, maybe they are members of the Labor Party branch at Weston Creek that my father joined in order to keep his job. He can't have only told me about these things. 

I know he told reporters. But I don't know exactly what he told them or who they are. I have tried to get Jana Wendt to ring me but she never has. She may recall what he said or she may even still have a copy of the interview she did with him.

If you know anything about what my father was doing in the leadup to his death, please leave me a comment below. 

I never intended to revisit all of this, but when Edward Snowden decided to expose details of mass surveillance programmes by the U.S. and Britain, I decided the time was right to tell the world that my father attempted to do the same thing and died because of it.

Snowden's leaks are said to rank among the most significant breaches in the history of the NSA, according to the media. In that case, my father's allegations were a very significant breach in the history of the NSA, ASIO and the CIA, so it is not surprising he was killed.

He would have really liked Edward Snowden and would have admired the stand he has taken. 

As for me, I hold the state to be not only undesirable, but sinister, murderous, loathsome, reprobate, corrupt, despotic, tyrannical and suppressive. And by this I mean every state and Federal government of Australia and every arm of those governments including the courts, police and any commissions they have set up to allow us to believe there is somewhere we can complain about the government when it misbehaves and murders people.

Footnote: On 9th July this year, three days following the publication of the article on my father's death 

I was returning by plane from interstate. As the plane was taxiing towards the runway cabin staff came up to me and demanded to know my full name and address, then wanted photo i.d. and my boarding pass.
I believed it was likely there was a warrant from ASIO waiting in New South Wales so that I could be questioned about the article. So far, nothing else has happened. However, it would not surprise me if they are planning a dawn raid to find out exactly what documents I have.

Bill Roy's favourite poem, often recited by him:

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.