A passion for righting wrongs
Serendipity is not a term many would associate with private investigation. But it played a large part in the life of Trevor Morley, Wellington police officer, detective, investigator, and collector of almost everything.
A case in point, a letter from an English couple seeking Morley’s help in tracing their son. He had left the UK with bad blood between them. Contact was lost but they thought he was in New Zealand. But Trevor was not to approach him if he located him. His parents just wanted to know he was alive and whether he had a family.
The morning after reading their letter, Trevor Walter Alexander Morley (always ‘‘Twam’’ to his friends) was driving to work listening to Morning Report, which was about to interview the head of a government department. The man’s name was the one from the letter. Such moments occurred reasonably regularly throughout Morley’s life.
Born, raised and educated in Hastings, he joined the New Zealand Police, aged 17, in January 1961. Graduating in August 1962, Constable B445 was to become a policeman like no other, gaining the trust, respect and friendship of colleagues, criminals and the well-connected, who frequently sought his counsel over many decades. His colleagues today talk of an enduring deep sense of justice that drove his lifelong passion for righting wrongs.
Former detective inspector Harry Quinn describes Morley as ‘‘a man of many colours’’. "There weren’t many detectives then who’d wear a beret with a guitar hanging over their back. Did he suit being a policeman? Not really, he appreciated diversity in people’s lifestyles. Nothing was black and white to Trevor, he could always see some good in everybody. But he was brilliant at covert policing.’’
Auckland barrister and former inspector Tony Bouchier shared the stressful and high-risk environment of undercover work with Morley in the early 1970s, and recalls his loyalty and compassion. ‘‘The [undercover] programme created enormous personal demons for many cops. Trevor was fantastic. He very proactively helped with the rehabilitation of many agents back into reality. I was one who benefited from his counselling skill.’’
It wasn’t just his colleagues who saw special qualities in this Wellington oddbod detective. The police commissioner did too.
In the early 1970s Morley was appointed to the two-man vice squad, alongside Paul Fitzharris, who eventually retired as an assistant commissioner.
It was the era of illegal brothels, Carmen and her ‘‘girls’’, bookmaking, abortionists, strip clubs and illegal gaming. While most detectives wore suits, Morley’s long hair, beard, earring and leather jacket set him well apart. It wasn’t an appearance that won credits with senior officers.
‘‘Trevor said if the police commissioner actually orders me to cut my hair and shave my beard, I’ll do it immediately,’’ Fitzharris recalls. ‘‘Commissioner Sir Angus Sharp was often in the police bar at Central, and while he occasionally chided Trevor over his ‘casual’ appearance, the order was never given.’’
Morley’s liberal views and compassion for the plight of sex workers and others were ahead of the police culture at the time. ‘‘But it certainly helped us,’’ says Fitzharris. ‘‘Trevor got great information. They trusted him.
‘‘If they offended, he nicked them. But if they needed his trust, it was unequivocal. If they suspected a ‘client’ might be involved in child sex, for instance, they knew they could confide in Trevor without fear.’’
In a 2012 interview recorded with PrideNZ, Morley talks of twice having no option but to arrest Carmen, the queen of Wellington’s trans community. With a degree of regret, he admits to probably being responsible for Carmen moving to Sydney.
‘‘The point arrived when we knew she was running an illegal brothel and wasn’t about to quit. It was well known around town. If we’d ignored her, it wouldn’t have taken long for someone to suggest corruption. That wasn’t going to happen, so she left.’’
Carmen returned to Wellington to celebrate her 70th birthday at the Star Boating Club in 2006. Her special guests were Trevor Morley and Paul Fitzharris.
The latter recalls it as a ‘‘grand evening’’. ‘‘Trevor presented Carmen with a police helmet painted purple and embossed with pink feathers as she was inducted as an honorary member of the Wellington vice squad.’’
The helmet had been decorated by Morley’s daughter Samantha, with the police crest fashioned from diamantes. It is now on display at Te Papa.
In 1977, Morley left the police, and later moved into the field of private investigation, where he could indulge his passion for righting what he saw as injustices. His campaigns included the successful lobbying for a plaque in Wellington to Nancy Wake, the Kiwi-born nurse and journalist who became a hero of the French Resistance in World War II.
Another campaign that consumed him for years was achieving recognition for all police officers who died in the course of duty. Until recently, only those killed as the result of a criminal act had their names added to the memorial wall at the Porirua police college. There was no place, for instance, for those killed in the Eagle helicopter crash, the sinking of the Lady Elizabeth in Wellington Harbour, or in motor accidents.
Finally, four years ago, three additional names joined those on the memorial wall.
For more than a decade, he lobbied the police and other government departments to introduce the internationally recognised Crimestoppers programme. It was finally launched in 2009.
In addition to his work in New Zealand, he had a less well-known connection with the United States – and coincidentally with the current Covid-19 pandemic. For about 20 years, he had been a friend of Mark Olshaker, a forensic and investigative psychologist who, with former FBI agent John Douglas, wrote the
Mindhunter series of books and, in 2018, another collaboration called Deadliest Enemy: Our war against Killer Germs.
The book, with a public health scientist, details ‘‘America’s woeful lack of preparedness for a pandemic’’.
Olshaker says: ‘‘I would often consult with Trevor when I wanted an outside expert opinion on something I was writing. Wanting to check my ideas on the John F Kennedy assassination with an outsider . . . I wanted to test my conclusion that there was no conspiracy and that the murder was the work of a lone gunman.
‘‘When I mentioned the notion so many conspiracy theorists had about the so-called magic bullet that passed through the president and then Governor Connolly without major deformation, Trevor replied, ‘In homicide investigation we say that every bullet is a magic bullet, because once it strikes something, it’s unpredictable what it is going to do.’ I have quoted him many, many times since then.’’
Morley showed initial symptoms of Parkinson’s five years ago and more recently Lewy body dementia. He died at Village at the Park, Berhampore, aged 76.
Aside from his extensive police family, he leaves daughter Samantha, son Marshall, ex-wife and friend Louise, stepchildren Peter, Tony and JoAnn, and brother Alan in Australia. A memorial service, expected to be attended by many, is to be held on April 9 next year.