Latest / Someone Knows: True Crime, Unsolved Cases & the Search for Truth / The Somerton Man: A Cold Case Mystery in Adelaide | Someone Knows
Transcript
- He lay on the sand with his legs crossed and a cigarette still warm against his collar, perfectly at peace in a world that had suddenly gone silent. We remember them, but who was he really? It is December first, 1948. The air off the coast of Adelaide is crisp, carrying the salt spray of the Gulf St Vincent. Somerton Park beach is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels heavy before a storm. A couple is walking their dog near Glenelg, just eleven kilometers southwest of the city. They are looking for footprints, or perhaps just the morning light to break through the grey dawn. And then they see him. A man lies in the sand across from the Crippled Children's Home. He is not tangled in seaweed or caught in debris. He is lying back, his head resting gently against the concrete seawall. His legs are extended, straight out, and his feet are crossed at the ankles. It is an unusual position for someone sleeping on a public beach, yet there is no sign of struggle. No bruises. No blood. Just a man, seemingly asleep, until the sun has been up for a few hours. On the right collar of his coat, half-smoked, rests a cigarette. It has stopped burning, but it hasn’t crumbled. It looks as if he might take another drag any moment now. Let’s look at what’s missing. That is where the story begins, in the gaps. Police arrive and begin to search his pockets. They find nothing that gives his name. No wallet. No ID card. But they find artifacts of a specific life, meticulously preserved. There is an unused second-class rail ticket from Adelaide to Henley Beach. A bus ticket that may never have been used. In his pocket, a narrow aluminum comb, manufactured in the United States. A half-empty packet of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. An Army Club cigarette pack containing seven cigarettes of a different brand, Kensitas. And a quarter-full box of Bryant & May matches. When the pathologist examines him, he describes a man of 'Britisher' appearance, aged about forty to forty-five. He is tall, five-foot-eleven, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His hands and nails show no signs of manual labor. He is in top physical condition. But there are details that stand out, peculiarities that suggest a life of specific habits. His big toe and little toe meet in a wedge shape, like those of a dancer. His calf muscles are pronounced, consistent with someone who regularly wears boots with high heels or performs ballet. He is dressed in a white shirt, a red, white, and blue tie, brown trousers, and a fashionable grey and brown double-breasted jacket of reportedly American tailoring. He looks like a man who cares deeply about how he presents himself to the world. The police turn to witnesses. People who were awake when most of the city was sleeping. On the evening of November thirtieth, several couples report seeing an individual resembling this dead man lying on his back in the exact spot where the body was found. One couple, around seven in the evening, sees him extend his right arm to its fullest extent and then drop it limply. Another couple watches from seven-thirty to eight. The streetlights come on. During that half-hour, they do not see him move. They comment to each other that it is odd he is not reacting to the mosquitoes, but they assume he is drunk or simply asleep. They do not investigate further. One witness later tells police she saw a man looking down at the sleeping figure from the top of the steps leading to the beach. It is a chilling image. Someone watching him sleep. Someone ensuring he stayed there. Then, nearly a decade later, in 1959, another witness comes forward. He reports that he and three others saw a well-dressed man carrying another man on his shoulders along Somerton Park beach the night before the body was discovered. Detective Don O’Doherty takes a report. But the timeline remains fractured. Did the man walk to the beach? Was he carried? Or did he lie there, waiting for something that never came? Months after the body is found, detectives discover a scrap of paper tucked into the fob pocket of the man’s trousers. It is torn from a book. On it, printed in bold type, is a Persian phrase: Tamám shud. It means 'It is over' or 'It is finished.' This single phrase sends investigators into a spiral. Where did the book come from? How did the page get here? Following a public appeal, police locate a copy of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, a collection of poetry translated by Edward FitzGerald, at a nearby railway station. The final page is missing. The indentations left by previous handwriting are visible on the inside back cover. Detectives can read a local telephone number, another unidentified number, and text that resembles a coded message. Twenty groups of numbers. Symbols. It has never been deciphered in a way that satisfies authorities. It sits there, a silent cipher, mocking anyone who tries to unlock it. The truth doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it whispers in code. As the investigation widens, suspicion falls on a Danish chemist named Carl Webb. He is seen in Adelaide around the time of the death. He dies by suicide in 1957, after being questioned by police. His death closes one door, but it opens many more. Was he involved? Was he innocent? The connection remains speculative, built on circumstantial evidence and the desperate need for a narrative in a case that refuses to provide one. The death occurred during a time of heightened international tension, right at the beginning of the Cold War. The apparent involvement of a secret code suggests espionage. The possible use of an undetectable poison suggests assassination. The inability of authorities to identify the dead man suggests he wanted to be forgotten. Or perhaps he didn’t want to be found at all. The case becomes one of Australia’s most profound mysteries. Not because of gore or violence, but because of the sheer emptiness at its center. A man with no name, no history, and no clear cause of death. Decades pass. The cold case files gather dust, but the public interest does not fade. Why? Because the dignity of the unnamed matters. We want to know who he was. We want to give him back his identity. In July 2022, a new chapter seems to open. Professor Derek Abbott of the University of Adelaide, working with genealogist Colleen M. Fitzpatrick, claims the man is Carl Charles Webb, an electrical engineer and instrument maker born in 1905. They base this claim on genetic genealogy from DNA extracted from the man’s hair. It is a compelling theory. It fits the timeline. It fits the physical description. South Australia Police and Forensic Science South Australia do not verify the result immediately. They remain hopeful they can, but the verification process is slow, meticulous, and fraught with the limitations of old evidence. Until that verification is complete, the Somerton Man remains unidentified. The code remains unsolved. The question of who looked down at him from the steps remains unanswered. We often think of mysteries as puzzles to be solved, equations to be balanced. But sometimes, they are just reminders of how much we don’t know. Of how fragile our sense of order really is. The Somerton Man is still on that beach, in our minds. Waiting. Listening. This story is drawn from public records and widely reported accounts. Our thoughts are with everyone affected. Thank you for listening. I’m Kristen Cameron. Stay curious. Stay kind.