You arrive outside the house, your colleague pressers the 'reset' button, the blue lights turn off, people are congregating outside, as you step out of the car curtains twitch as people want to see what's going on.
You make your way over to the scene, and your collegue makes his way to the house across the street, where apparently the offender lives. The young woman who has just been burgled, in broad daylight, while she was in the house, is forcing back tears, so you make a joke to try your best to lighten the situation:
'I am a real copper ma'am, i'm not a stripper, you're safe now.'
You usher her into the house, so she can sit down, you wait for your collegue to arrive. As you sit there on the sofa, taking down information about what has happened, she starts to cry, weaping openly, with her neighbours standing next to her. She sobs, through the tears she tells you about the invaluable posessions that have been stolen, not the expensive television, that can be replaced, but her mother's jewelley, her wedding ring, presents from her family and mementos of trips she went on as a child.
She looks at you, as if you know what to do, as if you know how to sort it out, how to help her. You look up to your collegue, who continues to take details, and you know the only thing you can do is ask one of her neighbours:
'Can you get a drink of water for her please, thank you.'
Sometimes when you go to bed at night you see the face of this woman, crying, sobbing, weaping infront of you, but for some reason, you can't think of her name, you just can't.
You lay there, trying to remember her name, one day it will come back to you, you will remember, but for now you don't, and for that you are deeply ashamed, deeply.
'You ask me who was murdered on this day six months ago? I wouldn't know. Not their names, anyway. I tend not to forget the faces.'
ADA David McNorris, Boomtown.