by Belinda Neil
On returning to work I was asked to be relieving superintendent at my Local Area Command. Having completed emergency management training, I was also assigned the role of being local emergency operations controller (LEOCON) for the St George and Hurstville Local Area Commands. This meant co-ordinating a multi-agency response in the case of a local disaster such as a chemical spill or an explosion.
I enjoyed the job and was asked by the commander to seriously consider signing up for the leadership development program, which would lead to further relieving opportunities as a superintendent. I declined as I wished to spend more time as a duty officer, not least to make any eventual promotion more credible. Besides I was still feeling physically and mentally fragile, and had decided to work part-time until Melanie turned two.
This was a very difficult decision for me as I loved my job and found it immensely rewarding. However, I felt a decreased workload would help me overcome my tiredness and lack of concentration and perhaps allow Rob and me to sort things out. We were having major problems by this point. Not once did I think about my recurrent nightmares concerning the children and what impact they might have been having.
I was pleased when my application for part-time duties was approved. Now I had a sixty-six per cent working shift load whilst still maintaining full responsibility for my portfolios. At that time there was only one other substantive inspector working at St George LAC, with sergeants relieving in the three additional inspector positions when required. These relieving sergeants were not given the same responsibilities as substantive inspectors, as the portfolios needed consistency. Now I was required to continue my full workload but only working two-thirds of the shifts. However my personal issues were getting worse.
In 2001 the Court of Criminal Appeal overturned the 1999 conviction of Graeme Mailes for the murder of Kim Meredith, based on the question of Mailes’s mental fitness during the trial. His sentence was quashed and a new trial was ordered. At a second hearing Graham Mailes was found unfit to stand trial. In February 2003 we had a third fitness hearing with Justice James Wood presiding. This time Graeme Mailes was found fit to stand trial and so he was tried at the Supreme Court in Sydney. I gave evidence at the third fitness hearing and the trial, but had difficulty remembering details of the case without referring to my police statement, duty books and other documentation. I thought this was because I had been involved in so many investigations and cases since then. It was now seven years since Kim’s murder.
At his second trial Graeme Mailes was found guilty. After the verdict I was invited to join Kim’s parents June and Bob Meredith at their hotel in Sydney for a drink, with the officer in charge Detective Sergeant Mark Smith. I felt so sad for June and Bob, having had to sit through the case of their daughter’s murder so many times.
While we were enjoying a quiet drink June brought out a photo album that held pictures of Kim’s life from babyhood through to newspaper clippings of the murder investigation and court cases. As June showed me this album and talked about her daughter, her never-ending pain and suffering were obvious. She told me she wished she could have held Kim’s hand and sat with her on that cold dark evening whilst the crime-scene examination was being carried out. Her words transported me instantly back to that night and I felt torn in two. As a mother myself I understood her need to comfort her child but as a police officer I had been trained to put the preservation of the crime scene first.
By this time I was also experiencing horrific mental images of both of my children being murdered. (Even writing about Kim’s murder in this book, I became upset and found it difficult to breathe.) The time I had spent with June during and after the trial had humanised Kim to the point where I could no longer emotionally distance myself from the images of her brutalised body. At work, my mind was busy enough to ignore the flashbacks and keep the images at bay, but whenever I had a quiet moment they would invade my thoughts.
To keep myself occupied, taking my mind off my own issues, I concentrated on the difficulties Rob was having. He was showing signs of aggressiveness at work. If we were on a night shift together (Rob was at the Sutherland Local Area Command which bordered my command at St George) I would meet him during the early hours of the morning, when it was quiet, and have a cup of tea with him to make sure he was all right.
On one of these occasions I left Sutherland police station at about four in the morning and decided to do a general patrol around my command’s area before going back to the station. It was freezing and nothing major had happened all evening. Just as I was about to go through a green light a car drove straight through the red light in front of me. I was in a fully marked police car, for heaven’s sake.
A quick registration check of the vehicle via the police radio told me that the car was not stolen but that there were warnings for firearms and drug supply offences. Also our command had recently had some drive-by shootings late at night. Fully alert, I started calling my location and my team called in to assist with stopping this car. At the same time, I was worried about Rob; he was on the same radio channel and his stress levels were already through the roof. He didn’t need to listen in to my involvement in a high-risk vehicle stop.
The car pulled over to the side of the road even before I activated my revolving police lights and I let the other cars know where I was – in an isolated industrial area at the back of Brighton Le Sands where, at that time in the morning, there was virtually no traffic. The police radio was giving me information about the car, together with the warnings from one of our major task forces. I knew the other cars were not far away so I got out of my car and approached the driver’s side, standing well clear of his car. My hand was on my Glock 27 .40 calibre semi automatic pistol, button unclipped and ready to pull it out if needed. My senses were so highly attuned I could feel myself trembling.
The driver, a middle-aged man, started to swear at me. Because of the warnings associated with the car, I urgently needed to see his hands to ensure he was not holding a weapon.
‘Put your hands on the top of the steering wheel now!’ I ordered.
The driver continued to mouth off. This was the last thing I needed. I was having major marriage dramas, I was not sleeping properly, and I was suffering flashbacks from previous jobs. I was wired.
‘Get your fucking hands on the steering wheel now!’
By now my pistol was out of the holster at 45 degrees to the ground. I was so close to shooting this man. What are you doing? Concentrate, I told myself.
Both his hands appeared on the steering wheel and there was no more mouthing off.
‘Leave your right hand on the steering wheel. Use your left hand to open the door,’ I said.
He did as I asked.
‘Get out of the car.’
Out of my peripheral vision I saw more blue and red revolving lights so knew my team had arrived. I re-holstered but kept my hand on my pistol, watching intently as he got out of the car and onto the footpath. His courage came back and he started to mouth off again. Unfortunately for him, he picked me on the wrong morning. Considering his attitude and the warnings, I believed he had something to hide. As soon as the male crew in the police truck turned up I asked them to conduct a full strip search. When the driver was brought back he had stopped mouthing off.
The car was also searched but nothing illegal was found. The driver was fortunate to be sent away with just a red light ticket, although further inquiries would be made with the task force.
When I got back in my car, my mind kept going over the vehicle stop. I had come very close to shooting the man, and that was not good. I was so wired; it was as if my irritability meter had been turned up to maximum power.
I rang Rob as I knew he would be worrying. He said he’d relaxed when he heard me call back on from the vehicle stop, but just before that he had already been in his police car heading in my direction. This was getting ridiculous: we were both jumpy, both on edge. Unfortunately we still didn’t recognise the signs of anything worse than tha
t.
Finally, in May 2003 after many traumatic incidents Rob took leave and was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. I felt relieved for a number of reasons. He needed the time away from work to calm down and I thought it would be good for the children to have lots of time with their father at home. With Rob at home full time, we wouldn’t have the extra stress of organising childcare, and I could fully refocus on my career (I would be returning to full-time work in August). I had even spoken to a work colleague about starting a Masters in Business Administration (MBA), together with the leadership development program, as suggested by my commander, to pursue my goal of further promotion.
However, I had hugely underestimated the severity of PTSD. Home became hell. Rob was angry and irritable, even more so than usual. He was also suffering from severe depression so even though he was at home every day with the children, the running of the household was left to me. His mood fluctuations made our family environment unpredictable: I was never sure what I would come home to. I was trying to manage the house, look after the children and be a working police inspector. I simply had no time to worry about my own condition and certainly none to relax.
This did not really worry me; when I relaxed my mind would fill with vivid images of my children being stabbed in their beds. These thoughts weren’t helped by having to look at the events on the police computer every day. I found myself ensuring I read everything concerning the death of children or criminal offences against them, just to be sure I could cover all possible situations involving my own children and make certain these things would never happen to them. I often became very upset reading these reports and needed to compose myself before I walked out of my office. To try and take my mind off images of my children covered in blood and stab wounds, I concentrated on what I would do if I found their killer. These homicidal thoughts were entirely inappropriate, but they distracted me from seeing the mutilated bodies of my beautiful children. There was no way I could discuss this with anyone, including Rob.
I continued my life on automatic pilot. On one occasion, driving home after an afternoon shift, I went straight through a red traffic light, only becoming aware of it when another car sounded its horn to warn me. I realised that I barely remembered driving to and from work each day, or driving around on my days off, even to do the shopping.
I was also becoming increasingly forgetful. I forgot to debrief staff after they had been to a situation involving a dead body, and I forgot to confirm the status of serious jobs that needed to be delegated to the detectives. I was irritable all the time, often over the smallest things, and I realised that each day I walked into work with the mindset: ‘Bring it on’. I wanted something serious or dangerous to happen during my shift, something I could sink my teeth into, rather than sitting around doing nothing. I wanted to be kept busy. I had gone beyond the limits of self-preservation and was no longer able to judge the effect these cumulative traumas were having. I had become simply an instrument for carrying out the tasks associated with my job.
In July the commander and I discussed my continuing part-time work temporarily because of the problems I was having at home. I hated having to ask as I loved what I was doing at work and really felt that I was making positive changes. I thought I could solve my problems by working less; the reality was that continuing part-time work would never resolve my issues. However, my request was turned down and I was advised to use my eleven days of accumulated family leave if I needed to. It seemed that the commander had misinterpreted my request and had thought I wanted to work part-time permanently. As a career police officer there was no way I wanted to stay part-time, but I was too exhausted to take the issue any further.
On Saturday 2 August during the night shift I checked my internal police email and saw that Graham Mailes had been sentenced for the murder of Kim Meredith the previous day. I felt sick and empty. How could I have forgotten about the sentencing? My memory was so bad these days, I was forgetting everything. I was most upset over missing it, particularly for the sake of June and Bob Meredith. I didn’t want them to think I did not care enough to attend. I now remembered seeing a missed call a few days earlier from the OIC Mark Smith; I’d forgotten to ring him back. I called him straight away and he told me that Mailes had been given a twenty-five-year maximum gaol term. I rang Bob and June.
Later that evening my sister called to say that my maternal grandfather had died. He had been sick for some time in a Coffs Harbour nursing home, so this was not unexpected, but I was still very sad. I had been quite close to Pop, spending many years running behind him on his farm in northern NSW. I think, however, my emotions were too switched off at this point to feel much more. My sister was driving our mother to Coffs Harbour the following day and had asked if I would mind her children for a few hours until their father could pick them up. Of course I would, and Rob indicated he could help me, as I didn’t finish night shift until 7am.
This night shift must have been uneventful, as I cannot remember a thing about it. I arrived home in the morning and remained awake, waiting for my sister to drop off her boys. Then Rob and I had an almighty argument about minding my sister’s kids, he turned on his heel, walked back to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and went back to bed. It was nine in the morning and I was exhausted after working all night.
Rob’s attitude was just part of the problems we were having, but this time things were different. I had had enough. I couldn’t take any more. I stayed awake long enough to drop off my sister’s boys then I went home, for the second time told Rob I was leaving, collected the kids and some clothes and went to my mother’s home. I called in sick for work that night.
The next morning, Monday 4 August, I woke up and found myself shaking all over. I was having difficulty breathing and could barely function. My forgetfulness and lack of concentration were worse than ever. I couldn’t remember if I had showered, put on deodorant or even if I had eaten. My head ached continuously for the next two weeks – even Panadeine tablets had no effect. Lack of sleep was making me even more irritable, especially with my children. Without my live-in tactically trained husband I was going to bed with a torch as a weapon, in case I needed it during the night. On the Wednesday I flew to Coffs Harbour for my Pop’s funeral. At the airport in Sydney, waiting to depart, all I wanted to do was scream for no apparent reason. My chest remained so tight I couldn’t breathe properly.
Now I knew I had a major problem. I couldn’t explain what was happening to me and it was time to seek professional advice. I started seeing Vera Auerbach, a clinical psychologist, who had provided Rob and me with marriage guidance counselling two years earlier. After analysing my symptoms and giving me a number of psychometric tests, Vera diagnosed that I was suffering from chronic post-traumatic stress disorder. My symptoms were so severe I began seeing her once or twice a week.
A dear friend who had never seen me in this state before was so worried that she drove me to a psychiatrist we both knew from work. He gave me the name of a psychiatrist at Kogarah who, on my first visit, said I must have time off and provided me with a certificate for three months of sick leave.
On Friday 15 August my commander and another duty officer visited me at my mother’s home to check on my welfare. I handed over the certificate for three months’ sick leave. My commander’s words were, ‘They [psychiatrists] always go overboard.’
I started to explain some of my symptoms, including my forgetfulness, my irritability with the children, and snapping for no reason. My commander said that he too yelled and became irritable with his children. The duty officer told me he was also very forgetful. I reminded them of our age differences. They were both over fifty and I was thirty-five. At one stage the duty officer said, ‘You don’t have to put this act on in front of us.’ Unfortunately, this reaction was indicative not only of the police culture but the lack of understanding of PTSD.
Later I received a call from the NSW police rehabilitation officer, whom I had previously contacted several t
imes to organise counselling and debriefing for police involved in critical incidents. I requested that work personnel no longer contact me. I was finding it difficult enough to come to terms with my lack of functioning and I didn’t want to have to explain this to someone who wasn’t really listening. I just wanted to try and relax.
I was fortunate enough to have two close work colleagues who were genuine in their concern and I trusted them both implicitly. They called me and it made such a difference knowing that there were people who truly cared about my welfare.
Over the next few weeks the intermittent headaches continued. I couldn’t relax, couldn’t seem to turn off my mind. I still couldn’t breathe properly and at times when I lay in bed it felt like someone was sitting on my chest. The nightmares were still there, and I was not sleeping well. I thought perhaps a trip away with the children might help me to relax. In September 2003 I decided to take five-year-old Jake and Melanie, aged two, away for a holiday.
Mum came along to help me cope as well as have a holiday herself. We decided to go to Daydream Island in the Whitsundays.
It looked just like the brochure; a beautiful location, gorgeous landscaping, swimming pools for the kids, and a day spa for Mum and me. Unfortunately I still couldn’t relax. I was extremely hypervigilant. There was a play area for children in the restaurant and when we went for dinner I couldn’t keep my eyes off Jake and Melanie for fear they would be kidnapped or disappear. I couldn’t stop myself developing emergency plans, even to the point of working out where I would send staff to look for my children, which particular areas to survey, how I would organise briefings, the length of time it would take police to arrive on the island. On one windy morning I was taking a walk around the island and saw a helicopter land on the helipad near the walkway. I went straight into emergency planning mode in case the helicopter blew off the helipad due to the wind, working out how I could protect my children.