It is 5am, I have just finished a night shift, I wanted to share this with you before I go to sleep:

Fri 2/11/07

Tonight, in the lazy part of twilight, when a strange but blissful quiet had settled over the town, a gangly older fellow came into the Station bearing a countenance which spoke thus: all of my nightmares are happening at this moment. Approching the counter he spoke in a soft, barely controlled voice of his only child, his son B_____.

B_____ was three hours late for an appointment with his Dad at the rail station. He was supposed to have caught a train into the city to meet Dad. When he did not show up the man began scouring the streets looking for him before despair brought him to our door. B____ is the man's 20 year old son, and he is physically and mentally disabled. He has the capacity of a 6 year old. The weekly train trip is a cherished piece of independence, something an adult would cautiously allow a teenager to undertake in that process of moving from child to adulthood, a step B_______ is destined never to undertake.

This was not good from the outset, this is every parent's worse fear. The station officer took over from me, as is protocol. In a level, reassuring tones, he began to elicit the required information from the man. Remaining detached from the emotional side of the situation, the officer gave comfort and began to outline a plan of action.

Several standard procedures were set in motion, including an all cars broadcast. Calls were made to the Comms Room. The boy has a mobile (cell) phone, could he have called Emergency ? Have any calls been received from a B_____ who may have sounded disoriented, afraid, childish even.

The Comms supervisor called back minutes later, after sifting through hundreds of emergency calls. He knows how important this is, he sounded tense as he related that no calls have been received.

By now the man had left to search further afield for his son. Calls were exchanged to various agencies. The bus company is contacted as are train stations. Cars cruising the streets are keeping a lookout for the boy. As the late afternoon rolls into night the father checks in - "Any news?" - the mother, sitting at home and worried sick has called a couple of times. They are polite, strained, intuitively not making incessant, prolonged calls, knowing the police need time and space to achieve a result. These are good people who have been dealt a bum hand.

The station officer calmly goes about his business. Professional, calm, he wants to find this kid and is good enough at his job to know that emotional involvement may cloud his judgement. He tries every trick and procedure he knows.

Some further information is received, the picture of this boy's last know activities is building, a bus driver remembers him. He got off a bus near the Mall, he was asking the driver for directions to catch a train to Maitland, a town 30 or so km North of here.

The station officer rings the mother who is waiting at the family home in Dungog, two hours drive North of here. He passes on the latest information, just in case it gives her some small comfort. Just before he picks up the receiver to make this call, he asks me to ring Maitland Police Station on the off chance B_____ has come to their attention.

I speak to the GSO at Maitland Police Station, "Hello Fran, Mick from Newcastle here. We have a young bloke gone missing in town, he is physically and mentally disabled and I'm wondering if you fellows know of him?"

"Oh" she replies matter of factly, "you mean B_____". God I almost blubber out loud, my heart is in my mouth. "Yes, have you seen him?"

"Well" she continues "he turned up at Maitland railway station and ended up here. We got his address from him and the Maitland Shift Supervisor is driving him half way to Dungog. Dungog Police are meeting him and driving him all the way home".

Barely able to contain myself I relate the conversation to the station officer.

With a grin almost as wide as his shaved bald head, this mountain of a man picks up the receiver and dials the mother's phone number. A moment later (and you can guess how quickly, eagerly, perhaps how desperately the phone has been picked up at the other end) he is connected. With barely surpressed elation in his voice, he begins to speak. His voice is calm, there is a light in his eyes which bespeaks warmth and happiness. He is a father, he understands. His words come quietly, the story tumbles out of him as he tells this mother her son has lived to tell his tale and that he is receiving a full police escort safely to his home.

An hour later we receive another phone call. Mum has called. She is grateful, and so happy, we kid around a bit but the emotion and the relief are palpable in her voice. B_____ is at home, safe and well. He beat Dad home and got to have a ride in a police car!!

I sit back and I am trembling. I begin to think. I think of all the people who contact us just to tell us how useless we are, how they pay our wages and how we are not attending to their pissant problems. I think of people who'se lives have been touched by authority usually because of their own criminal activities, who detest us. I think of the whingers, who have nothing good to say about police. I think about the mistrust and animosity directed towards police who are simply doing their jobs and I think about what life would be like without them.

I think that if I could take this one small story and weave it into a gleaming, unsullied, proud banner I would take that banner and wave it at every gain-sayer and do-gooder, whinger and criminal and say unto them: This is police work, this is what we do, among other things - so pull your bloody heads in!!

Peace, love and mung beans

Mick Out