The Axe Murderer

Bougainville Island, Papua New Guinea

In the early 1970s I was the only qualified (I use the term a little loosely) clinical psychologist east of Port Moresby. I think the next one was in Hawaii. I was working on the island of Bougainville, that anachronistic afterthought of colonial misadventure forced by European mapmakers into an unsuitable coalition with red skinned mainlanders from Papua and New Guinea.

Political issues of the island aside, I enjoyed life on Bougainville. Having said that, it had its odder moments! Axe murderers were one. 

One of my responsibilities as the company psychologist was to assess ‘illiterate natives’ for suitability as truck drivers or motor mechanics or cooks or whatever. I could draw on a number of psychological tests which were almost relevant, as long as those you tested were educated to start with, which was not always the case.

Fresh from another trip to a faraway atoll to administer psychological tests under strictly controlled conditions—which usually meant making sure the village dogs did not eat the stop watch whilst their owners diligently filled in test papers whilst perched on logs under coconut trees and held their papers tightly so that the wind did not blow their scores off the scale—I heard a knock on the door.

A policeman entered.

‘We would like you to help us,’ he said.

I looked puzzled.

‘Last night a man killed three people up in Camp 10’.

‘How?’ I asked.

‘With an axe’.

I had heard of the killings. Being visited by the police was nothing new. I had helped them before when they needed psychological assistance.

‘We have the suspect locked up,’ added the policeman, ‘but he is acting strangely’.

For an axe murderer, that seemed possible.

‘He won’t talk to anyone’.

I nodded. I had never talked to an axe murderer before, so I figured that as long as he no longer had his axe, meeting him could be interesting.

‘We have him in solitary confinement at the hospital’.

‘Why is he not locked up in the police station?’ I asked innocently.

‘We don’t have a padded cell,’ replied Constable Plod, quite logically. ‘They do’.

‘OK!’ I said. ‘I’ll come down tomorrow morning’.

Josep, the accused axe assassin, squatted on the floor of the padded cell. He looked up as I entered. I think he smiled. He did not get up. He couldn’t. He was in a straight jacket and his mouth was strapped. No wonder he could not talk!

Being quick on the uptake, it did not take me long to realize that if I wanted to talk to him I would need to remove his mouth strap. I asked for help and two burly and ungentle guards ripped it off.

‘Leave me,’ I ordered imperiously.

They left. I sat on the floor and leaned against the wall opposite Josep.

So this was a padded cell? The walls were padded. The ceiling? No. Ah well, I suppose few could belt their heads against the ceiling. Josep certainly couldn’t even if he was free of his straight jacket. He was barely 160 centimeters tall.

We chatted. I asked him where he was from. I asked about his family. He was reasonably loquacious.

We moved on to more recent events such as his opinion on things like axe murders.

‘They stole my money,’ he said.

‘So you killed them?’

‘Yes’.

‘Three of them?’ I asked.

‘No, only two,’ he said.

I nodded. Surely that was not so bad then was it: only two!

‘But there were three bodies’.

He paused.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Sorry!’ and he giggled. ‘Three’.

I nodded understandingly. I suppose that in the heat of the moment you can forget such minor details. We chatted some more. His face had a massive welt running across his forehead and down his right cheek, making him look as if his head had been split and badly stitched back together. He would have been a cinch for a bit part in a Frankenstein movie.

I asked him about his injury.

‘Axe!’ he said.

‘Oh!’ I replied.

‘When?’

‘When I was young,’ he said. ‘My uncle got angry with me and tried to kill me but missed, so now I have this massive cut right down my face’.

I could see that. ‘How is your uncle?’ I asked.

‘Dead!’ he said.

I did not ask why or who did it or whether his uncle’s death was from natural causes. I began to wonder who had hired Josep as a cleaner. As luck would have it, assessing who would make a good cleaner was not one of my responsibilities.

‘How did you get your job here?’ I asked.

‘I took a coastal ship from Lae and got off in Kieta. My wantok got me a job’.

‘So where did you get your axe?’ I asked thinking it a natural question.

‘I always carry one,’ he replied.

I did not ask what for.

‘Who has it now?’ I asked.

‘The police. I want it back when I get out of here,’ he said.

I gulped. ‘Maybe that can be arranged,’ I replied noncommittally.

We chatted on. He was more than willing to talk. He fascinated me, even though he had an unusual way of dealing with those who crossed him.

The door burst open.

‘Time is up’.

I promised to visit him again.

The second visit was more of the same. In fact, I think it was almost word for word what had happened the first time. Three days after, I heard that Josep’s trial had taken place. This struck me as remarkably quick.

I enquired. The circuit court that did the rounds of the islands of Papua New Guinea dealing with serious crime just happened to be on Bougainville at that time. I was a bit miffed. Why had I not been asked to testify in his defense? Maybe they did not intend to hear the defense.

 ‘Your axe murdering mate is to be transported to Bomana Prison outside Port Moresby,’ said Bob over a few beers the following afternoon.

‘He won’t last long there,’ I said.

’So they found him guilty? What a surprise!’

We all raised our glasses to justice.

We were raising our glasses again a week later when I felt someone tap my shoulder. I turned around and nearly dropped my glass. Grinning at me from ear to widely spaced ear was Josep.

Momentarily lost for words, I took in the fact that he was carrying a small bag—about the size of bag you would need to carry your axe.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, my voice quavering only ever so slightly. ‘I thought they were going to send you to Moresby?’

He grinned. ‘Air Niugini refused to let me on the plane!’ he said triumphantly.

I suppose they had rules governing the transportation of axe murderers.

‘So?’

‘I can’t go till the next ship arrives in five weeks’.

So?’ I asked, impressing myself with the incisiveness and originality of my questioning.

‘So I am to hang round till then,’ he said and grinned again.

‘But why are you not locked away?’

‘No room,’ he said.

How logical.

‘And what will you do now?’ I asked, wondering how I could get Bob or one of the others to call the police and take this maniac away.

‘You are my friend,’ he said. ‘I want to look after you till then’.

And he did, albeit briefly.