The Irwin sisters murders

great resonance. We remember them for decades, mainly because not only they are terrible crimes, but they go unsolved for a long time. They become famous cold cases, and it's the mystery element that makes people wonder about them and wonder who done it, who's out there, who got away with it. Others are equally terrible crimes, but they don't capture the same attention because sometimes they are solved reasonably quickly.

Today we're going to talk about one of those, and it's a case that, on the bare facts, is every bit as terrible, every bit as haunting as the notorious Easy Street case in Collingwood in nineteen seventy seven. This is a double murder of two young women from the country like Easy Street that happened almost thirty years later in the year two thousand and six. It involves two sisters from Talamba, which is a little tiny town just

south of Sheperdon. A hellish hour after the killer forced his way into the sisters home, one of the girls managed to dial triple zero. The call was cut off after five seconds, and so oh it wasn't answered. What happened after that is the stuff of nightmares. Laura Urban was twenty one, working in her dream job in television production at Channel ten. Her sister, Colleen was twenty three, a promising photographer who had just been promoted at her

job in a camera store. They were their parents' only children, country kids who'd come to Melbourne to make their way in the world. It's twenty years ago this month since Laura and Colleen were raped and murdered by a paroled prisoner, a violent sex offender who it turned out, had spied on them from next door after cutting down a palm tree so he could see their bathroom window. It was clearly premeditated. It happened in the early hours of a

Saturday morning, January twenty eighth, t and six. Colleen, the older sister had come home from a housewoman party around twelve forty five am to the unit that she shared with Laura in Miller's Road, Eltona North. He was a big man. He was waiting for her. He attacked after she got out of her car. Colleen, barely more than half his weight, had no chance. He forced her to the door and used her keys to get inside where Laura was asleep. After spending a quiet evening at home.

That was at twelve forty five of thereabouts. That call to triple zero was at one forty four am an hour later, and of course that call was cut off by someone in the murder house after five seconds, and so it didn't last long enough to be a transferred to an operator who could raise the alarm. This is one of the things that must haunt the Irwin girl's parents. The girls always called home every day, sometimes several times. Their parents, Shirley and Alan Erwin, lived at Talamba, where

they brought the girls up most of their lives. Talamba is on the southern edge of Shepardon. It's one of those little country towns that the locals call a small town with a big heart. The girls had gone to school in shep they'd played sport locally, and they'd worked in the fruit caneries to save money to get where they wanted to go. Shirley Erwin knew something was wrong when her daughters didn't call on that Saturday, and when her calls to them went unanswered. She was worried. So

was her husband. So was the girl's best friend, Candace Osborne, who it lived in Melbourne and had a key to their unit. Eventually, Candace went around to the sister's unit in Miller's Road and she opened the door. It was late on that Saturday, was in the evening. Downstairs, everything looked normal. Candace walked through the kitchen. She called out, No one answered. She almost left, she said later it felt weird snooping through their house, so she nearly left.

But then she heard a faint electronic beep. She recognized it. It was Colleen's phone. It was set to beep to flag any unanswered calls and text messages. Candace was alarmed. She climbed the stairs. The beep came from Laura's bedroom. She pushed the door open and saw a scene she'd never forget, no matter how much she tried. Colleen was lying on her back, naked from the waist down. Laura was beside her. Both of them had been stabbed to death. It didn't take the police long to deduce who they

were looking for. They did not make his name public for legal reasons, but the obvious suspect was the sister's neighbor, William John Watkins, whose form as a violent sex offender was chilling. Not that they knew that. They knew nothing about him. Watkins, who was thirty eight, had been committing crime since nineteen eighty five, which was almost as long

as Laura had been alive. He'd been jailed in May two thousand, six years earlier, for rape and aggravated burglary, and he had prior convictions for serious assault, been sentenced to more than four years, but was released after a minimum of two. When police identified Watkins and his prior convictions, he was officially quote a person of interest, but significantly he had vanished. His employers notified the police on Monday afternoon, January thirtieth that he had not turned up for work.

It wasn't until then the police got a warrant and searched watkins home unit next door to the murder scene. Watkins had left just after dawn on that Saturday morning, January twenty eight. He'd withdrawn what little money he had from a nearby atm at six forty four a m exactly six hours after ambushing Colin Rman. It was late on Monday before police were confident that Watkins was probably the killer, but they did not flag his name and prior convictions to interstate police, nor make it public in

media reports. That decision, or that oversight, nearly cost a brave Western Australian policeman his life. Watkins had fled in his white Toyota Lexton station Wagon, a vehicle identical to a Holden Commodore in everything but badging. He had a two day start. No one knew which direction he'd taken.

Around nine thirty Tuesday morning, January the thirty first, a white Commodore station wagon as it appeared to be, pulled into the Fortes Q roadhouse at Mardi, one hundred and ten kilometers from Caratha in the Pilbra region of Western Australia, bordering a vast area of the north where Victorian fugities sometimes fled to hide to get lost. The driver filled the car with eighty dollars worth of petrol and then

drove off northwards without paying. It was a drive off the roadhouse attendant called Karatha police to report the theft. Sergeant Shane Gray caught what seemed a routine job. The other on duty officer didn't have his police belt, pistol and handcuffs with him. Rather than wait for his mate to grab his gear, Sergeant Gray headed out alone, driving south in a marked patrol car to watch for the

white station megan. He was playing the car radio and as luck had it, his favorite song came on American Pie by Don McLean. Just as he saw a car approaching in the distance, the song hit the last line, this will be the day, that are day. It almost was the approaching car, the wanted white station wagon. The policeman flashed his headlights, did a U turn and hit

the siren and lights. The wagon kept on at a steady one hundred and ten kilometers an hour for a short distance, then pulled over on a straight stretch about fifteen k's from Caratha. Sergeant Gray parked well behind it and called in the car's details, only to be told there was nothing known about it or its driver, meaning that in the eighteen hours that Victoria police had known that a double murder suspect was on the run in

his readily identifiable car. Their interstate counterparts had not been warned. No other police outside Victoria knew anything about Watkins or his car. Assured that it was nothing but a petty petrol drive off. Sergeant Gray walked up to the car. Small job, but when he saw the driver he felt a pang of caution. The man was at least a hundred kilograms and muscular and hard looking with it. The policeman later described him as looking like a rugby player.

The big man showed his driver's license quite willingly. He admitted he had stolen the petrol because he had no money. In fact, he said he'd done it earlier, in the same trip which he had. Sergeant Gray went back to the police car and called in the details the name and dated Bertha the driver William John Watkins born twenty

fourth of April nineteen sixty seven. The Karathur officers checked the name inquiry system on the police computer and told the sergeant that Watkins wasn't on the West Australian data base. No problems. Sergeant Gray replied that he was going to try and arrest the bloke, but he said, he's a big guy, so can you send out a secure vehicle to take him back in? He meant paddy wagon or Divvy van whatever. He didn't feel like putting him in

a sedan with himself. A police fan was sent, but no one had any clue they could be dealing with a double murderer on the run, probably the most desperate man in Australia that month. The sergeant told Watkins he'd have to come to the police station in Karatha. The big man stayed dead calm and was strikingly co operative. He locked his car and he walked towards the police car. Sergeant Gray did the right thing and he stayed towards the middle of the road to keep a little bit

of distance between him and the offender. But it wasn't enough. Suddenly, Sergeant Gray saw a white flash, as he described it later, and a vicious blow hit him on the left side of the head. It was the worst punch he'd ever copped in a long career. The policeman went to the ground on all fours while Watkins rain punches on him and kneading twice Wakins told him, you're a dead kid,

with chilling calm. It was a promise, not bluster. The policeman was scared for his life, and he knew that his life was in danger, that any second now he'd be dead. But the muscle memory from his training kicked in. He said later that he'd shot thousands of practice rounds with clock service pistols over the years, and now it showed. He dropped the clip board he was holding, pulled his pistol and fired twice from the hip as Watkins closed in for the kill. The first shot hit the big

man in the torso. In fact, it went up through his lungs, and it was a fatal shot. He grunted and spoiled sideways. The second shot went wide. William Watkins, rapist and murderer, had picked the wrong man. A proficient shot under pressure wasn't Shane Gray's day to die, but he had come terrifyingly close. Watkins had hit him so hard that his nose had virtually disappeared and was pushed up under one of his cheek b His teeth were cracked and his ribs battered. It was as if he'd

been run over. Sergeant Gray would later tell a hushed coroner's court he was going to kill me, simple as that he had the ability and the means and everything to take me out. I was gone. I was going back to the ground. As soon as I was on that ground, I was gone. He could have punched me one more time to the head and I would have no doubt he would have taken my firearm, finished me off, and then driven into the sunset. Instead, Watkins had a

forty caliber bullet in his vital organs. He collapsed a few steps away. He was dead by the time the police van arrived minutes later. By then, Shane Gray was also spoiled on the road, injured and totally shattered by his brush with death. The quiet policeman was in hospital before he found out the truth about the monster who

tried to kill him. By then, four and a half thousand kilometers away in Talamba, Shirley and Alan Irwine were facing the first terrible week of the rest of their lives when a detective called late to say they got him. It meant a lot. William Watkins's death could never bring their girls home, but it built a bond between two families living a continent apart, Shane Gray, the injured policeman and his wife, and the grieving parents became firm friends,

glued together by terrible events and fear and grief. Shirley Erwin struggled later to describe how close she felt to the brave and humble man who'd shot the beast who killed her girls. Shane doesn't want to be called a hero, she said, but he did Colin and Laura justice, and he did the world of favor. Thanks for listening. Life and Crimes is a Sunday Herald's Sun production for True

Crime Australia. Our producer is Johnty Burton. For my columns, features and more, go to herold's son dot com dot Au forward slash Andrew rule.