DISCLAIMER: This story deals with suicide. If you, or someone you know, needs help, call Lifeline on 13 11 14 or Beyond Blue on 1300 224 636.
The road was narrow, twisting through the forest, the trees closing in above.
Todd Maguire gripped the steering wheel tightly, unsure where to direct the car next.
“Turn left here.” The voice beside him was gruff and foreboding.
Todd briefly hesitated before manoeuvring the car off the road and into the dense pines, his stomach dropping as he edged deeper into the shadows.
For one kilometre he drove, unsure of his destination; unsure of his future. All he did know was that he was headed straight into Queensland’s underbelly. Todd tried to push the thought down: ‘No one would find my body out here’.
If you’re a Queenslander, chances are, you have driven along the patch of Bruce Highway south of Bundaberg that borders this particular state forest. And, chances are, you didn’t think much of it as you did.
For Todd, the story is very different. Hidden in those shadows, he faced death directly in the face.
Back then, he wasn’t the laidback, jovial character he is today.
Rather, he was a young cop who had recently lost his girlfriend to suicide. And he was diving headfirst into risky business as a way of dealing with his traumas. If that meant taking on a whole new life, so be it.
When the opportunity arose to enter the Queensland Police Service’s two-year undercover program, Todd jumped at the chance. He stripped away his identity and adopted the mask of Donny Wilson – a drug-pushing maniac with a penchant for violence.
Sixteen months into the stint, and there he was: deep in the forest surrounded by three criminals who were searching for a bag of stashed weapons.
He stood still, holding his breath, as one of the men cradled a gun, staring him down:
“His feet dragged. His brain screamed. His gut was numb. They were walking towards a massive pine trunk, and he was sure Lance had been digging his grave behind it. A strange calm settled over his mind and body. Maybe this is it. Maybe someone’s finally gonna put me out of my misery.”
This is just one of the stories detailed in Todd’s newly released memoir, Donny – An Undercover Cop with a Deathwish.
It’s a book that is “rough, honest and unapologetically Australian – with humour thrown into the mix”. And while it doesn’t pretend to fix your life in five easy steps, it tells the truth about what happens when things fall apart, and more importantly, how you find a way to keep going.
At home on the Sunshine Coast with his supportive wife Peta, Todd laughs at the idea of being called an author.
“I’m slowly starting to change that mindset,” he tells salt. “I’ve worked out that I probably couldn’t write something that didn’t happen to me, fiction, but this stuff is different.”
These are the stories that have haunted him for years, long before the ideas took written form.
Raised in Brisbane’s northern suburbs in the 1970s and ’80s, Todd was a happy-go-lucky kind of lad who loved nothing more than family, friends and footy. At 23, he joined the force and for a few years, life was good. Todd worked the Gold Coast beat, travelled the world on the Australian police footy tour and built his life with his then-girlfriend, Karen, and her young son, Clarke.
And then on New Year’s Day, 2000, Todd’s life was upended when Karen died by suicide.
“The shock hit me like a freight train,’ Todd writes in his memoir. “I collapsed against the doorway, unable to breathe, to move, to speak. My mind reeled, slashed open by grief like a blade to the chest. Something shattered inside me at that moment. It was my soul, breaking into a million pieces. My Karen was gone. And I was utterly, irrevocably alone.
“I remember standing outside with Clarke in my arms, hearing the sirens in the distance, but it felt like they were miles away.
“She didn’t leave a note. Not a word. No hint that she was planning to go. One day, she was there, laughing and dancing. The next, she was gone. Years passed. I carried the silence like a stone in my chest, unspoken, unmoving. Then one day, when Clarke was about 10, he asked me about that fateful day.
“He didn’t remember much. But what he did remember chilled me to the bone. He said he recalled standing outside the downstairs room, pressed against the wall, pinned there by a big black dog. It wouldn’t let him move.”
That ‘black dog’ – a symbol of trauma and depression – attached itself to Todd and subsequently became a central theme in his book.
“It is an important message I want to share through the book. Karen’s ‘black dog’ got transferred to her loved ones that day,” Todd tells salt. “That’s how I look at it. People mistakenly think they will be less of a burden on their family, that it will be easier if they are not around. But the pain you have inside gets put onto your loved ones.
“These days, I am able to control my black dog, but it nips at my ankles every now and then. I liken it to the footy injuries I’ve had. Knee reconstructions, plates in my arm… that’s footy mate, I love it. But sure, my knees are never going to be the same. I will learn to manage it and I feel that the injury my brain received from those traumatic events are no different.”
For Todd, the undercover world became his escape, but it further damaged his wellbeing. Today, he lives with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).
“Yeah, it added to the trauma,” he admits. “But at the time, I thought it was the best thing for me. It helped me then, even though it wasn’t a textbook way of dealing with grief. As you get older, you realise it might not have been the smartest thing to do.”
Donny’s long hair, scruffy beard and earrings became a mask to hide from the pain, and as the months went on, Todd slipped further away.
There were drug buys in backyards, meetings in canefields, gun threats in Caboolture and long nights in Brisbane, and even a star-studded yacht party in Sydney. The stories detailed in his book are outrageous, frightening and sometimes funny.
“I spent all of my policing life targeting drugs,” he says. “I didn’t have fear. There was a heap of adrenaline. It was pretty exciting to be honest. I let this world swallow me up.”
Then things went from bad to worse and Todd started seeing Karen walking down the street when she wasn’t there. Sleep escaped him and alcohol became his therapy.
For decades, he didn’t speak about the trauma, the drinking, the complex PTSD. But here he is now, book in hand, sharing his truth – how he lost himself and fought like hell to come back.
When Todd chose to leave the police force after 27 years of service, it gave him time to dig a little deeper. He started going through old notebooks and recording more memories.
“I had started reading some undercover books. I was reading them and thinking, ‘This is so cool’. One day, I had a lightbulb moment… all of these books were stories from the ’70s and ’80s. I couldn’t find anything Queensland-based after that. I thought, ‘Maybe I’ve got a story in me’.”
For Todd, writing the book – alongside his community involvement as a coach for both Sunshine Coast Falcons and Caloundra Sharks – became his therapy.
“I didn’t even know how to start, so I did audio dictation,” he says. “I started talking, explaining what I did. Then I started typing and I continued to type. I did the majority of my writing at Christmas time in 2024 when I had a bit of time off work. I would sit at the table next to the pool with a couple of stubbies, music on and write. Some days I would start at 7am and still be there writing at 5pm.”
Todd was then introduced by a mutual contact to Sunshine Coast-based ghostwriter and author mentor Roxanne McCarty-O’Kane. He completed one of Roxanne’s intensive one-day workshops and, with her ongoing guidance, shaped his memoir into a publishable work.
“I didn’t share everything,” he laughs. “I’ve got another book in me, for sure. What I want readers of Donny to take away is that this is my story, but everyone goes through hardship in their lives. It’s what makes you stronger. Enjoy the storm because when you get through it, life is so much better.”