Sometimes, life feels harder than usual, especially during astrology’s infamous “Mercury in Retrograde.” Yesterday marked the end of one such chaotic three-week stretch, and I couldn’t have been more relieved. It had been one of the most confusing times in recent memory.
Amid this cosmic chaos, my ongoing quest to uncover records about Melinda White’s 41-year-old murder case was hitting roadblocks and dead ends at every turn. I had planned meticulously for this day at the state archives, preparing two weeks in advance to ensure everything went smoothly.
Originally, Carrie was meant to join me, but an unexpected call to work on her day off meant she couldn’t make it. That left me, on my own, navigating the big smoke.
This was uncharted territory for me. Driving up to the State Archives complex, I followed a long driveway lined with flags that flapped in the stormy, rain-soaked wind. Words like welcome, community, connect, and reflect adorned the banners.
“I hope I really am welcome,” I thought to myself. “I want to connect, take my time, and reflect on these 41-year-old court transcripts.”
Armed with what I believed was an email invitation to view the court documents, I entered the building. But I quickly realised I was wrong.
A young woman appeared, wheeling a metal trolley with a single, enormous old book perched on top. It was destined for “Researcher ID: 16152.” That was me.
As someone completely new to researching criminal cases in the state archives, the sight of that massive, weathered book gave me a surge of hope. After two years of searching for answers in Mel’s case, I thought I was finally on the cusp of uncovering the truth. Perhaps this book would finally let me read the trial transcripts, revealing why the person charged with Mel’s murder in 1984 had been acquitted.
The book itself was like something straight out of a Harry Potter movie—a beige and grey tome that seemed almost magical. The staff carefully placed it in front of me on red and blue cushions, ensuring the fragile document remained undamaged.
Excited, I opened the index and began scanning the hand-scrawled entries for the accused’s name. But my hope quickly faded. The book contained civil case matters from 1984—nothing related to criminal cases.
I closed the book gently, glancing over at the archivist’s desk. The short, grey-haired woman was busy reprimanding an older gentleman, who was clutching a biro pen.
“Rules are rules, Michael,” she said firmly but kindly. “No ink pens are allowed in the reading room.” She handed him a pencil, but Michael, who looked to be closer to 80 than 70, protested.
“What do you think I’m going to do with this pen? Scribble on important documents?”
“Please return your pen to your locker, Michael. You can use the pencil or take photos with your device.”
As their conversation continued, the archivist glanced my way. “I’ll come over to you in a minute,” she said.
“All good,” I replied. I was prepared for a long day.
Soon, she called over a younger staff member, gesturing toward me. He came over to help, and I explained the issue: the book wasn’t the file I was after. They conducted a quick search and confirmed—twice—that the file I needed was restricted until 2049.
“Yes, I know the case is restricted,” I explained, “but it’s currently under review by the OIC. The family seek access to the criminal case court proceedings.”
The young man listened sympathetically, showing remarkable compassion as he tried to assist. In that moment, I felt like the new kid in the schoolyard, being shown around by someone who understood just how daunting it all felt.
“Whats your name” I asked the young man
“Oh I’m Tim, and I think I know how to help you get around this”
Tim sat with me for the next 15 minutes guiding me on the Reading Room computer, helping in applying for access to the elusive case file.
“Hazel, you will have to wait a month or more for a response from the Justice Department, but this will get the ball rolling for you” Tim said with a smile.
Tim was intrigued after he read a few of my file notes and news clippings from the case, he said “Wow, this is crazy that QPS have lost a file box”
“I know, but we are just gently pushing back with our genuine need for understanding and closure”
I left the archive complex with a sense of being heard. Now we wait.