We were meant to be spending the day together but there was a callout for a forensic search. Forensic search is what I call ‘corpse patrol’. Except in this case, they already have the body. They have two of them, from a murder suicide, and now they want the State Emergency Service volunteers to comb the area looking for anything that might be used as forensic evidence.
Honestly, until I married him, I did not know that the SES were used for collecting evidence. The media always refers to it as ‘police search’ but I hadn’t given it much thought; if I had, logically I would have seen that the police department literally doesn’t have enough manpower to do this sort of thing. Instead, they use the SES (who are often so well trained that they advise police on some aspects of search), under the direction of a few forensic detectives so that evidence will stand up in court. The SES are never mentioned as having discovered anything vital but it is pretty much always them who does.
Two nights ago I was roped into being a victim for training night. This involved acting out a scenario in a park and utilised SES skills in live time. The other victims and myself had incredibly skillful makeup applied and then we were each given a sheet that detailed how we were to act and told that we weren’t allowed to deviate from our roles at all.
I was somebody who had walked across the road to complain about the neighbour’s loud party, which was held at what turned out to be the local methlab. Which, with incredibly bad luck and timing on my part, proceded to blow up just as I got there. I was blown back across the road and into some bushes and ended up looking like this:
I was bleeding from both ears and couldn’t hear. I was disorientated and kept wandering off if left unattended. I keened in a low tone for hours (ok, that was my embellishment). In short, a difficult patient.
It was an interesting exercise and I’m glad I did it, although it took my hours to wash the fake blood out of my hair afterwards.
One of the other victim’s arm looked like this:
Good makeup, isn’t it? I’ve seen one that looked like her intestines were hanging out of her stomach.
I took a picture of me and posted it on facebook with the caption, “When good husbands go bad…” .
My daughter was horrified but my husband laughed a lot. He doesn’t get a lot of my humour (pretty much nobody does) but that side of personality has to come out somewhere. It can’t come out too much on twitter because I tread a thin line there with subduing the personal character into the professional persona. It slipped through the other day and the office caught me calling a duck an arsehole…oops, I did get in trouble for that one.
It often comes out here and I am very up and down at the moment so I’ll probably be writing more in the future. I want to be back on my even keel but life is not letting me right now.