Disaster Victim Identification

Robyn touched the charred remains of the yet-to-be identified female body with her fingers. She closed her eyes tight, concentrating. She felt nothing. In fact she never felt anything.

After she removed her plastic gloves, Robyn touched the charred remains of the yet-to-be identified female body with her fingers. She closed her eyes tight, concentrating. She felt nothing. In fact she never felt anything. When she started in Disaster Victim Identification - or DVI - over fifteen years ago, she began touching the victim’s remains hoping she would feel or see something. She was not sure what. Perhaps a flash of insight into who they were or how they had died. A sense of light or sadness or relief or love. Three hundred and thirty-four bodies later, Robyn had felt nothing.

Robyn opened her eyes and saw a younger Constable watching her with baffled look. She ignored him saying nothing as she replaced her plastic gloves. She had a reputation for hardness throughout Forensic Services. Middle aged, thickset with short greying hair she still cared for her two sons both finishing trade apprenticeships. Her ex-husband, had left over a decade ago, chasing some young thin constable with bottle blonde hair. After months of  lonely numbness, Robyn had given up on men, preferring the reliability of her own company.

She transferred to Forensics Services at the Australian Federal Police Headquarters. It was the perfect position for a single mum with a mortgage to pay. Regular hours, close to home with lots of overtime opportunities. Professional and meticulous, Robyn talked only to the point. Three forensic courses later, as well as hundreds of DVI ‘jobs’, Robyn was promoted to the rank of Inspector. By then, she talked even less.

“Bag her on a tray”, she ordered the Constable, standing up to stretch out her cramped back. Endless black earth surrounded them, scorched and covered in layers of ash in delicate misshapen piles of what were once trees, homes, pets and people. Smoke lingered, heavy and gritty. Robyn watched the Constable prepare the tray and body bag. The deceased had been transformed into ash by the intense heat. A mile long fierce fast wall of flames, fuelled by hard winds and endless acres of eucalyptus and pine plantations. The fire devoured oxygen spitting out red hot embers like rain, tailed by massive plumes of deadly smoke. The deceased would have been blissfully unconscious long before the heat had hit.

Robyn sighed softly to herself. From a forensics perspective, it would be a difficult identification process. So little evidence to work on. Just as the Constable was finishing she heard something hard fall against the tray. “Stop”, she ordered crouching back down by his side. She brushed the ash away, searching. She saw gold glinting around a single sea pearl that had almost completely melted into the precious metal. Given its location, it was a probably a bracelet. She bagged it, recording the location. In these terrible circumstances, jewellery was generally faster than forensics for identifying victims.

When the fires had first hit Victoria, no one had anticipated how many would die. Terrible and unpredictable deaths. From a forensic perspective, many of the victims were hard to find and even harder to identify. The Commissioner had called Robyn on Sunday afternoon and asked her to take a DVI team to help the overwhelmed Southerners. She was alone watching a DVD, sipping on cold chardonnay and eating popcorn for dinner. Her sons were away at the beach. “No problem Sir” she responded. The screw top went back onto the Chardonnay and she rang her very capable Senior Sergeant. Travel and work rosters were organised and the team flew out first thing Monday. By Wednesday they were in the fire zone in a small town called Pineways, with fifty other police all working non stop shifts.

Dinner, rest and relaxation were all found at a tent city built on a local football field about sixty kilometres from the fire zones. Rows of old green army tents musty with gun oil and smoke. Opposite were rows of smelly plastic port-a-loos and showers. Dinner was served in two shifts at the football club hall, hastily converted into a canteen with plastic tables and chairs. It was run by Warren, a displaced local and former military cook. He was a big man, mostly muscle who looked vaguely Polynesian although Robyn decided this was probably due to the fading red floral Hawaiian shirt he wore every day. Warren looked after the police from day one, cooking fast, hot and tasty dinners. He knew Robyn was the boss. After the last shift he would bring two bottles of water over and sit beside her to chat. At first Robyn was reluctant to talk. She knew Warren had lost his home in the fires. She kept a professional distance. But as victims went, it was hard to tell Warren was one. He smiled and retold funny jokes overheard from the endless queues of firemen. A few days of his efforts and Robyn relented. Their chats became an evening ritual, comfortable even happy. In the low haze of dusk they would sit and talk outside where you could see the tents and smell the port-a-loos.

Warren had owned a lumber yard, purchased after a long stint as a navy cook. It was far from the sea and the smell of ships and men. It had burned to the ground. Fire was not a favourite topic, experiences were. Robyn talked about her sons and her work and her love for chardonnay. One evening she even shared the emptiness left by her ex-husband and how she touched the dead. Warren listened and turned to her with a sad smile and deep brown eyes that looked at her straight, warming her deep inside. They laughed and smiled kept gossiping. She even teased him about his red Hawaiian shirt and they both laughed even louder when he told her it was all he had left.

Every morning Robyn took her shift back to Pineways, their town of ashes. On the map, the town was divided into numbered grids, each separate search zone. In some zones, blackened walls had collapsed and what lay underneath needed to be searched. Tractors did the heavy lifting. It did not matter how many times it she watched, foreboding fell as the tractor pulled the walls away. One morning they found three victims, one clearly a child. The younger police left, distraught, disappearing behind blackened stumps. Robyn and three older officers completed the recovery. In the dark truck ride back to tent city, silence replaced the shifts’ usual banter. Robyn was worried and sought out Warren at the canteen. “We need a lift”, she asked him, “My young officers are in poor spirits.” By dinner, Warren had baked a huge chocolate mud cake covered with whipped cream, smarties and lots of flickering pink candles. “Happy birthday Robyn”, he announced much to the surprise of everyone. The shift smiled and sung happy birthday all loud and rowdy. Cold beers followed.

Later they had sat together in their usual spot sipping the last beers and laughing as Robyn protested about it not being her birthday. “Well how old are you and when is it?” Warren asked. “It’s April and I will be forty-nine”, Robyn answered with a smile, “I am not afraid of getting old. So Mr Cakeman, how old are you?” Warren responded, “Older than you, I turn fifty-seven next week. My birthday is the same as my mums.” Robyn noticed his smile fade. “Where is your mother?” she asked. Warren was silent. Robyn persevered, “Warren, what happened to your mother?” His eyes glistened, “Missing. She’s been missing for weeks. She was visiting when the fires came through. I know she is gone. I left her alone. I was at the bloody lumber yard.” Robyn was shocked. “Where was she?” she asked. Warren hesitated, “She was at Pineways, your town of ashes.” Robyn felt confused. She wanted to hold Warren’s hands and slow his tears. At the same time she wondered if her shift at Pineways was the only reason behind their regular evening chats. She stared at her ashen boots and stood up and walked silently away.

Her shift had searched almost all of Pineways. Seventeen victims had been recovered. Robyn sent two teams to search the final grids. They walked slowly in single lines, searching. Robyn was distracted, barking orders at her Senior Sergeant to ‘hold the lines’. He was compliant, even understanding. She had stopped going to the canteen, confused and unsure. She kept seeing Warren in her mind, wearing his sad silly red shirt and smiling with warm brown eyes.

The grids were all done and they left Pineways, opening the road behind them so the old residents could return.

The shift had gone to the canteen for dinner. Robyn sat on her camp bed, still confused. Shortly, her Senior Sergeant returned and told her Warren was missing. He had left the canteen after lunch, telling staff it was his mum’s birthday. Robyn jumped up. Grabbing the keys from her Senior Sergeant’s outstretched palm she ran to the truck. He waved a salute. It was against standard operating procedures but he would say nothing. She drove fast with precision and care. Robyn knew where Warren was.

She found him at Pineways sitting in the charred remains of his home. She sat down beside him. Warren whispered, “I want my mum. I wanted to sing her happy birthday and tell her…”, but he did not finish. They sat amidst the ashes. Robyn spoke, “I found a gold bracelet with a single pearl right here.” She reached into her pocket and handed him the plastic bag containing the molten bracelet. Ash stuck to the sides. Warren opened it, dropping the ashes and bracelet into his palm. Robyn told him where his mother was and what would happen. He listened, eyes unfocussed, his body still in shock. Robyn reached out and touched his hand, the one  holding his mum’s ashes and bracelet. Startled he fumbled, found her hand and squeezed hard. She closed her eyes tightly and felt s