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Carter Roy (5:24)

Long before Veronica Guerin's name was spoken with reverence and sorrow across Ireland, she was simply Ronnie, a girl from the Dublin suburbs who could outrun, outplay, and outshine just about anyone. Born on July 5, 1958, Veronica was one of five children. Her father, Christopher, was an accountant, while her mother, Bernadette, was a homemaker. The large Irish family lived in Artain, about four miles from Dublin's city center. Young Ronnie attended Catholic school, where the nuns quickly discovered they had an athletic force of nature on their hands. Ronnie was exceptional at every sport she tried to basketball, soccer, even camogie, an Irish sport that's like a mix between field hockey, lacrosse and baseball. But the sport itself didn't matter if it involved a team and competition. Veronica excelled. She would eventually go on to represent Ireland internationally in both women's soccer and basketball. When she wasn't on the field herself, she she was cheering for Manchester United, her beloved football club, with the same fierce passion she brought to everything in her life. Eventually, Ronnie grew up and shed the nickname. As an adult, she was known as Veronica she followed in her father's footsteps and went to Trinity College in Dublin to study accounting. After graduating in the mid-70s, she spent a year working for the Irish League of Credit Unions before joining her father's accounting firm. But then her father died suddenly in 1981. Veronica was only 23 and the loss was devastating. It seemed like after that she lost interest in accounting. It wasn't the same without her dad to share it with. Thankfully, she had another outlet to distract her. And by the 1980s, Veronica had found her way into politics. When she was 20, she joined the youth organization of Fianna Foyle, Ireland's Republican Party. And they were fiscally and socially conservative and they believed in a strong nationalist state, especially when it came to Northern Ireland. Northern Ireland had been in a decades long conflict since the 1960s known as the Troubles. It all centered around one should the country become independent or remain a part of the UK Nationalist groups like the Irish Republican army or the IRA wanted independence, while many other groups were fiercely opposed. But this wasn't a fight waged in the halls of Parliament. It was more like a civil war in the streets with constant bombings, shootings and killings. Despite the chaos, Veronica poured herself into politics. And within a year of joining the party, Veronica became the chair of the Dublin North Central Branch. In 1983, at 25 years old, she began working as a researcher and public relations advisor for the party. The following year, she served as secretary to the group during the New Ireland Forum, an attempt at peace talks amongst parties during some of the worst of the troubles. The Forum met more than 40 times. Unfortunately, when its report came out in May of 1984, it didn't do much to unite the many factions in Ireland and Northern Ireland. And after the Forum, Veronica's role as secretary came to an end. So she had a choice to make. Did she double down on politics and commit to finding another role in the party? Or should she try her hand at something else? Veronica chose the latter option. She realized she had no interest in running for office herself. So in her mind, there was no point in trying to climb the ladder. Instead, she struck out on her own. Taking what she'd learned. As a public relations advisor, 26 year old Veronica founded Guerin Public Relations Limited. Unfortunately, the company never quite took off. Veronica spent most of her time throwing parties instead of handling scandals. Someone once described it as more of a catering firm than a real PR company, so it wasn't her calling. That was fine. But she did walk away with some very important connections. Ones that would come in Handy in the future. Plus, her personal life was going a lot better than her career. On September 21, 1985, 27 year old Veronica married her best friend and partner, Graham Turley. They'd met while both working for Fionna Foyle. After tying the knots, they settled down in Dublin while Veronica figured out what to do next. When the PR business fizzled out, Veronica pivoted slightly to consulting work in the travel sector. It was a practical move, but for someone with her energy and ambition, it must have felt like treading water. During that time, she also went back to school to study marketing management. She got her diploma in 1988, but never seemed to do much with was clear that Veronica was searching for something. She just didn't know what exactly that was. In 1990, she and Graham welcomed their first and only child, a boy named Cathol. For some, becoming a mom provides a sense of purpose that you can't find anywhere else. That wasn't the case for Veronica. She loved her son very, very much. But she also knew she would never feel fulfilled if she stayed home forever. At some point around the time of Cajole's birth, Veronica started submitting articles to a satirical gossip magazine called Phoenix. It wasn't much, but she loved writing and she kept at it. By 1992, she'd transitioned into writing business stories. She was a freelancer, but she had a good relationship with the Sunday Business Post. She mainly covered corporate scandals, though she sometimes branched out into politics. On one occasion, she managed to intercept an incriminating phone conversation between two politicians. Then she published it. That landed her in Court. In July 1993, she was fined £400 for publishing the call. It was a slap on the wrist and Veronica felt it was worth it. She was willing to push boundaries to get a story, especially if it meant making the government more transparent. Veronica kept that ethos as she transitioned to the Sunday Tribune. And that was when people really started to take notice of her skills as a journalist. In November of 1993, she landed an exclusive interview with Bishop Eamon Casey, a disgraced former bishop from Galway, Ireland. He resigned and left the country after it came out that he'd had an affair, fathered a son and used church funds to pay for child support. Veronica managed to track him down in Ecuador. How did she get him to talk? The same way she got anyone to talk. She wore him down. Veronica believed that if she was persistent and asked enough times, eventually people would say yes. And they did. Veronica knew how to work a room, how to make people trust her and how to turn any conversation into an article. She kept multiple stories on the back burner at once, redrafting as new information came in, always hunting for that last little detail. She described herself as an insatiable newshound. But it wasn't just her tenacity that made her successful. She also had a decade's worth of contacts from her years in politics and public relations, a Rolodex that other journalists simply didn't have. That all culminated in Veronica landing her dream job. In January 1994, the 35 year old joined the Sunday Independent, the best selling newspaper in Ireland at the time. That's where she would become a household name as an investigative journalist, but not for the business scandals she'd previously covered. Once she was at the Sunday Independent, Veronica would begin wading into Dublin's nefarious underworld. Her crime reporting would come to define her career and seal her fate.

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Carter Roy (16:02)

For years, Veronica Guerin bounced from one job to the next, searching for her calling. By the early 90s, she'd found it in journalism. And in January 1994, 35 year old Veronica officially joined Ireland's most popular newspaper, the Sunday Independent. Veronica quickly made a name for herself as one of the country's foremost investigative reporters. She carried two cell phones with her at all times and fielded between 50 and 60 calls a day. She wrote a slew of high profile investigative pieces that covered everything from business dealings to IRA activity to clergy scandals. When a Catholic bishop mishandled a sexual abuse case, she went after him without hesitation. Critics called her anti church and blasted her for writing the story. She assured the public she had nothing against the church. She was just a reporter calling out hypocrisy where she saw it. The Sunday Independent had a Group of celebrity journalists, and Veronica quickly joined their ranks. But not everyone was thrilled about it. More established journalists looked down on her. They had spent years climbing the ladder. And then here she came, bulldozing her way in after only a few years on the job. Some called her reckless. Others said she was a self promoting sensationalist. Those with a bit more empathy suggested Veronica may have felt like she had something to prove. She'd come to journalism late, outside the traditional newsroom structures. Part of her might have felt like she needed to show she truly belonged amongst her peers. Whatever was driving her, it worked. Her editor said he'd never met a reporter so unrelenting. Veronica would fly to South Africa, London or Nigeria at a moment's notice if it meant tracking down a witness or getting to the bottom of a story. She cultivated sources everywhere she went. In Ireland's national police force, the Gardi, with foreign authorities, and perhaps most dangerously, in Dublin's criminal underworld itself. Veronica was becoming more and more interested in the drug gangs that were plaguing the city. But she didn't just write about criminals from a safe distance. She met them face to face and talked to them. Everyone from organized crime families to major heroin dealers. She approached them directly, looked them dead in the eye, and asked for comment on the not so flattering story she was reporting. It was a strategy that set her apart from her colleagues and put a target on her back. To understand what Veronica Garrion was walking into, you need to have a sense of Dublin's criminal underworld in the early 1990s. And to understand that world, you need to know Martin Cahill. Veronica and the media knew him as the General, a nickname his own men gave him. Martin was born in 1949 in Dublin's north inner city, the second of 12 surviving children. His parents struggled to feed the huge family. So once Martin was old enough, he and one of his brothers started stealing food. Martin was 8 when he first got involved in petty crime, 12 when he got his first conviction, and 16 when he spent his first time in juvie for burglary. And by the time he was in his 20s, Martin was a full time burglar, in and out of prison for various offenses. From there, it was on to bigger crimes. Stealing cars, armed robbery, arson, planting bombs. The list went on. In July 1983, Martin was leading a gang that robbed a jewelry factory. The haul was worth millions. After losing so much product, the factory was forced to close and let go of its employees. Meanwhile, Martin and his gang sold the jewelry for a fraction of its value. Without a care in the world. Martin was eventually charged with the robbery, but got acquitted on a technicality. And then came the heist that would make him a legend. Three years later, in May 1986, 37 year old Martin planned to break into a mansion in County Wicklow, about 45 minutes outside of Dublin. He wanted to steal some paintings from a private art collection. This included works by Vermeer, Goya, Rubens and Gainsborough, some of the most valuable art in Ireland. Martin's crew quietly broke in at 2am, cutting out a pane of glass from one of the mansion's French doors. When the alarm sounded, they fled and hid behind thick bushes outside. Once security had cleared out, an hour later, they entered again. This time they were in and out in just six minutes. No alarm. They took 18 paintings worth an estimated £30 million. But famous paintings are nearly impossible to sell. They're too recognizable, which makes it easy for authorities to track them once they resurface. So Martin had trouble offloading them. Seven of the paintings were found almost immediately in a ditch, and others passed between various criminals used as bargaining chips since they couldn't actually be sold on the market. Authorities carried out a slew of police stings in Belgium, Turkey and England to track down the paintings. Eventually, most were recovered, but to this day, two by Francesco Guardi remain missing. Martin was a careful, measured criminal. Whenever he had a court appearance, he would cover his face with his hands to hide from the cameras. It only added to his mystique. Most people in Dublin agreed that Martin was the crime kingpin. In reality, he was just one of many rival gang leaders. All of them were vying for their place at the top of the food chain. And by the mid-1990s, Veronica Guerin had set her sights on all of them. Veronica zeroed in on Dublin's drug gangs at exactly the right moment. Or maybe the worst moment, depending on how you look at it. Heroin and cannabis were flooding the inner city neighborhoods, tearing communities apart. Veronica wanted to figure out how these criminals were turning their drug money into legitimate looking businesses. So she followed the cash. Her accounting background turned out to be her secret weapon. She could trace the paper trail in ways most journalists couldn't. And what she discovered made her furious. The sheer scale of the drug trade and the fact that these gang leaders seemed completely untouchable ate at her. Not only were these drug lords bringing dangerous substances into Ireland, but they were also responsible for much of the violence plaguing the nation. Veronica thought too many people dismissed the shootings with a shrug. She worried that cavalier attitude was going to backfire spectacularly. But for the moment, all she could do was shed light on the issue. One way she did that was by going after Ireland's libel laws, which were so strict that journalists couldn't even name criminals without risking lawsuits. The system protected the very people it should have been stopping. But Veronica couldn't afford to get sued either. So she did what other reporters did. She gave all the criminals nicknames. The General, the Monk, the Coach. And then she wrote about them in such vivid, specific detail that anyone paying attention could figure out exactly who she was talking about. It was a smart move. But on August 18, 1994, Dublin's criminal underworld changed dramatically. That day, 45 year old Martin Cawhall, aka the General, was shot and killed. The Provisional Irish Republican army took responsibility for his murder, but no one was ever arrested or formally charged. In the aftermath, some people wondered if things might get better in Dublin. Cahal was dead, and maybe his empire would die with him. It didn't. And Veronica was going to make sure everyone understood why. Like a dog with a bone, Veronica refused to back down or let go. She went to great lengths to get inside scoops for her stories, but the strength of her approach, that hunger for firsthand detail, that willingness to walk right up to dangerous men and ask them questions, was also her greatest vulnerability. She showed little regard for her own safety. She believed, perhaps naively, that the closer she got to criminals, the more difficult it would be for them to attack her. She was wrong.

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Hi listeners, it's Carter Roy. I wanted to take a moment to tell you about another show from Crime House that I know you'll love. America's Most Infamous Crimes. Hosted by Katie Ring. Each week Katie takes on a notorious crime, whether unfolding now or etched into American history, revealing not just what happened, but how it forever changed, changed our society. Serial killers who terrorize cities. Unsolved mysteries that keep detectives up at night, and investigations that change the way we think about justice. Each case unfolds across multiple episodes released every Tuesday through Thursday, from the first sign that something was wrong to the moment the truth came out or didn't. These are the stories behind the headlines. Listen to and follow America's Most Infamous Crimes Tuesday through Thursday on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music or wherever you listen to podcasts. By the fall of 1994, 36 year old Veronica Guerin had made a name for herself at the Sunday Independent newspaper. But that increased visibility also came with some serious risks. Veronica was constantly threatened by the criminals. She profiled phone calls in the middle of the night, anonymous warnings. Then on October 7, 1994, at 9:40pm Veronica was home with her four year old son when gunshots exploded through the windows of her cottage north of Dublin. Veronica. Miraculously, no one was hurt, but the message was clear. Veronica needed to stop reporting or else she heard the message and ignored it. Three months later, on January 24, 1995, two jeeps smashed through the fence of the Brinks Allied Cash holding depot in northern Dublin. Five masked men walked out with $4.2 million. Five days later, Veronica published an article about the monk, aka Gerry Hutch, another Irish crime boss. She suspected he was the mastermind behind the whole thing. The next evening, January 30, her doorbell rang. At 6:45pm she opened the door to find a hooded gunman standing on her doorstep. He raised the gun and aimed it at her head. Then at the last second, he lowered it and shot her in the thigh instead. Veronica collapsed, barely conscious as the gunman disappeared on a motorcycle. When the Guardi eventually recovered the weapon, they confirmed it was the same gun used in the October attack on her home. Someone was clearly targeting Veronica and the threats were escalating. From her hospital bed, Veronica did what she always did. She wrote. She filed a report for the Sunday Independent. She also put out a public statement. She said, quote, I vow that the eyes of justice, the eyes of this journalist will not be shut again. No hand can deter me from my battle for the truth. Her boss installed a high end security system in her home. The Guardi also assigned her a 24 hour protective detail. Although Veronica got rid of it almost immediately. She couldn't interview criminals with cops shadowing her every move. And she made it clear that was exactly what she planned on doing once she got out of the hospital. Still on crutches, she made her husband Graham drive her to every known criminal hangout in Dublin. She was there to prove a point. They hadn't scared her off. They'd have to kill her before that ever happened. That October, Veronica received a National Media Award for her courage and tenacity. The society praised her for covering the dangerous stories of criminal violence in Dublin. And the New York Committee to Protect Journalists also gave her the International Press Freedom Award. By then, Veronica wasn't just a reporter. She was a symbol. She'd proven that these so called untouchable drug dealers and gang bosses could be named, challenged and exposed. She'd shown that someone was willing to stand up to them. That made her one of the most dangerous people in Ireland. But she wasn't working alone. Every journalist has sources, whether they're in law enforcement or the criminal world itself. For Veronica, one of her most important sources was John Traynor. Born in 1948, Traynor climbed the ranks of Dublin's organized crime scene by being smarter than most of the muscle around him. He'd worked with Martin Cahol's gang as an advisor of sorts. He was the brains behind some of the General's biggest scores in the 1980s, including that massive jewelry factory robbery in 1983. And when Cajal was killed in 1994, Traynor didn't miss a beat. He shifted his loyalty to John Gilligan, another former Cajal associate. Traynor got involved in a whole host of activities for Gilligan. Armed robberies, drug smuggling, embezzlement, prostitution, you name it. And somewhere along the way, he became a source for Veronica. She called him the Coach in her articles. They first met at a coffee shop after she cold called him. After that, they'd get together at various bars and clubs around town. But here's the thing you need to understand about John Traynor. He was never on anyone's side. But his own information was currency. And Traynor was a traitor. He'd feed Veronica real intelligence about Dublin's criminal networks, help her connect the dots and give her leads. But he'd also slip in misinformation when it suited him. He was playing her. Manipulating what she knew and when she knew it. Veronica must have been aware that she needed to take what he said with a grain of salt. But it's not clear whether she was aware just how much he was playing her. At the same time, there had to be a part of Veronica that was playing Traynor. She was using him just like he was using her. Only she was trying to get to his boss, John Gilligan. If Martin the General Cajole was a ghost who hid from cameras, John Gilligan was the opposite. Loud, flashy, impossible to miss. He'd built a massive cannabis smuggling operation with suppliers in mainland Europe. His people in the Netherlands would pack cannabis resin into boxes labeled spare parts and ship them to Ireland. From there, Gilligan's cronies would distribute the product across Dublin. The going rate was 2,000 pounds per kilogram. Today that'd be about $5,700 later. Irish authorities said Gilligan had imported over 20,000 kilograms of cannabis resin into Ireland between July 1994 and October 1996. It's estimated street value would be almost $600 million today. But Gilligan couldn't run an operation that big without some help. Brian the Tosser Meehan was Gilligan's enforcer and right hand man. He was suspected of carrying out multiple assassination attempts. Paul Hippo Ward handled distribution and collections. Charles the army man. Bowden was a karate black belt and former Irish army corporal who'd been dishonorably discharged for beating up a recruit. He managed wholesale distribution and the gang's weapons stockpile. Patrick Dutchy Holland was a master forger and suspected contract killer. He also moved drugs for the crew. There were more men involved in the operation but those four, plus Gilligan, were at the center of Veronica's investigation. Veronica dove into Gilligan's world and his tax returns. She wanted to know how Gilligan, who'd recently gotten out of prison, had so much money. She'd been trying to get him to talk for months, but he wouldn't budge. So on September 14, 1995, she drove out to his estate, walked up to his front door and rang the doorbell. When he answered, Veronica didn't beat around the bush. She asked him straight up where the money had come from. In response, Gilligan assaulted her viciously beating her and leaving her with a black eye. The next day he called her. Veronica's lawyer, Felix McElroy was sitting beside her when the call came through. He heard Gilligan's voice clearly through the line, threatening Veronica. Gilligan said that if she wrote a word about him, he would kidnap her son and sexually assault him. Then kill her. The call shook Veronica to her core. She was terrified for her son more than herself. But she knew she couldn't back down now. So she filed an assault complaint and Gilligan was officially charged. And that's when the clock started ticking. The assault case threatened Gilligan's entire organization. He was the only one with direct connections to their European suppliers. If he went to prison, the whole operation could collapse. Once again, the Guardi gave Veronica round the clock protection. And once again, she ditched it almost immediately. She gave the same reason as before. She couldn't interview criminals with cops trailing her everywhere. And despite all the threats and attacks, she refused to quit. Then something absolutely mundane happened that would set the stage for Veronica's untimely end. On December 13, 1995, Veronica was speeding in her car when she got pulled over. She handed over her license and insurance, and the officer wrote her up. She was issued a summons to appear in court in a few months. It was a totally minor traffic violation, the kind of thing that could happen to anyone. Except someone in Gilligan's gang was now tracking Veronica's every move. And a court date meant something very specific. A time and a place where she'd definitely be. They just had to wait for that day. Then they could strike and Veronica Guerin would no longer be a problem they had to deal with. Thanks so much for listening. I'm Carter Roy and this is Murder Murder True Crime Stories. Come back next time for part two on the murder of Veronica Guerin and all the people it affected. True Crime Stories is a Crime House original, powered by Pave Studios. Here at Crime House, we want to thank each and every one of you for your support. If you like what you heard today, reach out on social media, rimehouse on TikTok and Instagram. Don't forget to rate, review and follow True Crime Stories wherever you get your podcasts. Your feedback truly makes a difference. And to enhance your Murder True Crime Stories listening experience, subscribe to Crime House plus on Apple Podcasts. You'll get every episode ad free. We'll be back on Thursday. True Crime Stories is hosted by me, Carter Roy, and is a Crime House original. Powered by Pave Studios. This episode was brought to life by the Murder True Crime Stories team. Max Cutler, Ron Shapiro, Alex Benidon, Natalie Pertovsky, Sarah Camp, Alex Burns, Haniya Said, and Russell Nash. Thank you for listening.

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Carter Roy (42:16)

Thanks for listening to today's episode of Murder True Crime Stories. Not sure what to listen to next? Check out America's Most Infamous Crimes, hosted by Katie Ring. From serial killers to unsolved mysteries and game changing investigations, each week Katie takes on a notorious criminal case in American history. Listen to and follow America's Most Infamous Crimes now. Wherever you listen to podcasts.