In 2016, Adam Shand covered the disappearance of Rigby Fielding in a single radio segment — and then moved on. Ten years later, Rigby's family is still waiting.

Rigby Fielding was 53 years old when he vanished on August 15, 2015, after calling his mother to say he was on his way home from Perth to Rockingham. He never arrived. Now his sister Stephenie joins Adam to walk through a decade of unanswered questions, police indifference, and a trail of leads that were never properly followed.

His bag was recovered in bushland near the Spectacles Wetlands — a known meeting place for gay men. A person of interest was quickly cleared without explanation. CCTV footage from Perth train station, the last confirmed sighting, went missing. Dating app chat logs were never investigated. And all the while, the family knocked on doors, called hospitals, and were told he was 53 — he was allowed to go missing.

Stephenie believes foul play was involved. Adam agrees — and draws a direct line to the Bondi hate crimes of the eighties and nineties, where a pattern of dismissal allowed killers to go free. With only six officers in Western Australia's entire missing persons unit across 2.5 million square kilometres, the system was failing Rigby before the search had even begun.

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Adam Shand had a front-row seat to exactly the kind of incident his latest guest spends every day managing. After stepping in when a drunk man harassed women on a Melbourne train — only to watch Victoria Police's Protective Services Officers handle it with quiet, professional authority — Adam sat down with Acting Superintendent Sean Halley from the Transit Safety Division to unpack what's really happening on the network.

From knife operations in Frankston to gang activity at high-risk stations, Sean pulls back the curtain on the work of PSOs — sworn officers with the same powers as police who are the frontline of safety across Melbourne's rail system. He also tackles the big question: should bystanders intervene, or hit the button and let the professionals do their job?

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When three armed intruders broke into "Michael"'s Melbourne home in the dead of night, they weren't expecting a fight. Armed with machetes and a gun, the men ransacked his home demanding money. What they got instead was a man who refused to back down.

Bloodied but unbeaten, "Michael" held his ground using nothing but a decades-old ornamental sword and the muscle memory of martial arts training he hadn't used in 20 years. No one has been arrested. And "Michael" suspects someone he trusted set him up.

Adam Shand sits down with "Michael" inside the home where it happened — carpets ripped up, locks still being changed — to hear a raw, first-hand account of survival, betrayal and a justice system that's yet to deliver answers.

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In 2008, Melbourne man Fred Boyle was convicted of murdering his wife Edwina in October 1983 — then keeping her body sealed inside a 44-gallon drum for 23 years, moving it with him from house to house as he raised their two daughters.

Tracey Franze knew Edwina through a shared love of horses in the late 1970s. She watched Fred's cruelty up close — towards animals, towards the truth and ultimately towards the woman who devoted her life to her family. When Edwina vanished, Tracey and her friend Lee went to Dandenong Police Station. They were dismissed.

Now, almost 40 years on, Tracey has come forward with something she's never spoken about publicly. It's raised questions that have never been answered, and a possible connection to one of Victoria's most chilling unsolved cases — the Tynong-Frankston murders of the early 1980s.

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In June 1980, Maria James was stabbed 68 times in her Thornbury bookstore. Her killer was never charged. For years, investigators and a high-profile podcast pointed the finger at local parish priest Father Anthony Bonjourno — but Phil Cleary has always believed the real killer was someone else entirely.

Phil Cleary is no stranger to violent crime. In 1987, his sister Vicki was murdered by her ex-partner Peter Raymond Keogh. And the deeper Phil dug into the Maria James cold case, the more he became convinced Keo was responsible for that killing too.

In this episode, Adam Shand sits down with Phil Cleary to lay out the case against Keogh — a man with a documented history of violence against women, a flimsy alibi that was later rescinded, a witness who picked him out of a photo board years after the murder, and a chilling statement made to Vicki weeks before her own death: I'll do to you what I did to the woman in the bookshop.

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Kay Docherty was 15 years old when she vanished on July 1979. She'd told her mum she was going to babysit at a friend's place. Her twin brother Kevin was supposed to pick her up at nine. He never got the chance.

Forty-six years later, her twin brother Kevin Docherty, is still searching for answers — and still fighting to be heard. Adam talks to Kevin Docherty about the night Kay disappeared, the letters that were never properly investigated, the toll of 46 years of unanswered questions, and why this inquiry may be the family's last real chance at the truth.

Unsolved Murders and Long-term Missing Persons Inquiry

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****Content Warning:****

This episode contains discussion of the abduction, sexual assault and murder of children. Listener discretion is strongly advised.

In August 1973, two girls vanished from Adelaide Oval at a Saturday afternoon football match. Joanne Ratcliffe, 11, and Kirsty Gordon, 4, walked to the toilet at 3:45pm and were never seen again.

For decades, the prime suspect was Errol Radan — a convicted paedophile held under an indefinite detention order in a Queensland prison until his death in 2022. He never spoke publicly about the girls. He never confessed. Or so we thought.

Adam Shand speaks with "Ted" — a former Queensland prison officer who ended up on the other side of the bars after a conviction of his own. Placed in the same high-security protection unit as Radan, "Ted" spent three months playing chess with a man the other inmates refused to go near. And one afternoon, leading up to Christmas, Radan broke his silence.

What he said to "Ted" has stayed buried for over fifteen years. Until now.

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Mark "Hammer" Dixon spent years on the road with Roger Rogerson and Mark "Chopper" Reed — working security, collecting debts and sharing hotel rooms in outback Queensland. And in that time, Rogerson said things he probably shouldn't have.

He told Dixon the two men convicted of the 1973 Whiskey Au Go Go firebombing — which killed 15 people — were innocent. That he'd written them up. He hinted that Donald McKay's body was never going to be found in Griffith, because investigators were looking in the wrong state. He let slip, in an unguarded moment over a glass of red, exactly who pulled the trigger on undercover cop Michael Drury in 1984.

Dixon isn't a criminal. He has no record. But for a stretch of years, he had a front-row seat to one of the most dangerous men Australia has ever produced — and he remembers everything.

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