Dad frantically searches for missing son on streets of Salem

Randy Wieber dreads making the call, but he has to.

Portland police have found an unidentified man dead on the MAX train tracks. Is it his 23-year-old son?

After tracking Dustin from Florida to Oregon, it's clear the young man is living homeless on the streets. He's not carrying identification, so Randy gives police a description: 5-foot-9, 120 pounds soaking wet, long brown hair, wearing a red jacket.

Then he gets put on hold. At one point, someone comes on and tells him he'll have to make a noise complaint elsewhere. Oops, wrong line, profuse apologies, and then this: We're trying to contact the lieutenant handling the death investigation.

Randy holds it together, silently praying. He's not religious, but right now he needs more than just hope.

Finally, he gets an answer:

"It's not him. You can be grateful for that."

Randy has traveled 2,000 miles to Salem to find his son. To do that, he must hit the streets and infiltrate the homeless world, talking to people who are cold and hungry, seeing the lengths they will go to for food and shelter, hearing reports of drugs and sex trafficking.

"Be careful," one young woman warns him.

Randy isn't brave, just a desperate dad worried about the safety and well-being of his son.

Dustin disappears, search begins

The story begins with a frantic email from Michelle Mijares, Randy's ex-wife and Dustin's mom. Her plea for help comes as the Statesman Journal cranks up its coverage on the local homeless problem, sending me on a heartrending journey to help find their son.

Somewhere between 1,000 and 2,000 people are homeless in Marion and Polk counties, depending on who you ask. The population is as difficult to count as it is to serve.

Dustin is now one of the statistics.

His path to the streets begins in late October in Pensacola, Florida, where he hops into the back of a U-Haul type trailer with a small black suitcase and $3,000 on a debit card.

He disappears without telling his uncle, who has been providing him a job and a place to live since late September. His uncle has an auto shop.

Dustin previously lived with his dad in Wisconsin, working as a gas station attendant and saving money for school. Before that, he lived with his mom in Shawnee, Oklahoma, where he graduated from high school.

His uncle immediately files a missing person report in Florida, but there are limits of what the police can do, especially when the person involved is an adult. The report is closed the next day after family sees activity on Dustin's debit card.

They track Dustin's food and lodging charges to Alabama and then Tennessee, where he stays for about a week. Then he heads to Texas, where he spends a couple of nights before catching a bus to Oregon.

All this time they don't hear from him and are worried — he's shown some signs of depression — but they give Dustin space.

"Kids make bad choices," his mom says. "You want them to learn from it, but you don't want them to die from it."

Dustin winds up at the Capitol Inn & Suites in Northeast Salem around Nov. 12. That’s where his cross-country adventure takes a detour down a dangerous road.

Fire puts Dustin on the streets

Motel employee Marisol Garcia is on break when she hears the fire alarm. It's after 10 p.m. on Nov. 16. She and the manager rush to the third floor of the Capitol Inn where smoke is coming from Room 304.

The manager uses the master key to open the door. There's so much smoke they can't see if anyone is inside. Marisol thinks she spots something on the floor near the doorway. She reaches in, feels a hand and drags the unconscious man to safety.

It's Dustin.

He's transported to Salem Hospital and treated for smoke inhalation.

Salem Fire Department determines the cause of the fire to be careless smoking. A cigarette or ash discarded on a chair ignited the blaze. Damage was limited to the room and its contents.

When released from the hospital the next morning, Dustin returns to the Capitol Inn. But eventually, he's asked to leave if he can’t pay for the damages.

Michelle hears from Dustin for the first time the day after Thanksgiving. He calls from a borrowed cell phone and asks if she can wire him $100. He confesses he's lost his ID, but doesn't explain the circumstances.

He lost everything in the fire, including his eyeglasses.

Mom and dad don't hear about the fire until after they've tried to wire him money and pay for rooms at two different motels. He can't claim a wire transfer without ID.

By then, Dustin has been living on the streets and twice has been transported to Salem Hospital for hypothermia.

He may be an adult — he turns 24 later this month — but he's still their baby, the youngest of four children. Michelle learns the details just as she's about to begin a new job with Niagara Bottling Company. She is a production supervisor for a new plant that hasn't yet opened in Oklahoma City.

She writes her emotional plea to the Statesman Journal, and we refer her to Stephen Goins, a transitional programs director with Northwest Human Services.

"I have horrible visual images of my baby laying on the side of the road," she says. "I feel like he needs help. We're just waiting for him to call. We don't have any way to contact him. We're just clinging to our phones."

Desperation sets in, dad hops a plane

Dustin's dad books a one-way ticket to Portland and drives a rental car to Salem.

"I was so frustrated the search was going nowhere," Randy says, "so I got on a plane."

He appreciates his boss giving him time off on such short notice.

It's unusual for family to be searching for a homeless person on the streets. Some don't want to be found. Others have mental health issues and may have burned those bridges.

The No. 1 reason why people are homeless, says program director Jimmy Jones of the Mid-Willamette Valley Community Action Agency, is not an addiction, mental health or lack of money. It's the breakdown of social networks.

In this case, the parents are desperately trying to help their son from halfway across the country. When that doesn't work, one hops on a plane.

Randy checks in at the Holiday Lodge late on Nov. 30, the same motel where his ex-wife tried to reserve a room online for their son. Without ID, though, Dustin was unable to check in.

Randy hits the ground running, asking questions at the motel and nearby restaurants. He and Michelle stay in constant contact. They divorced when Dustin was around 12, but have remained friends.

"I didn't talk to my ex-wife this much even when we were married," he says with a chuckle.

The next morning, Randy goes to the nearby McDonald's where Dustin made purchases before the fire. He talks to some of the homeless crowd there. A few men seem to recognize the description.

One remembers seeing Dustin at a dumpster near the Subway across the street. Another says he may be hanging with a group of guys who are bad news and use drugs. Yet another says he smoked cigarettes with his son under the tower behind the Super 8, which also is on Hawthorne Avenue NE.

They say it's also possible that Dustin left town.

Randy isn’t a detective or a journalist — he's a maintenance electrician for Saputo Cheese in Green Bay, Wisconsin — but every lead is promising no matter how small or discouraging.

Before connecting with the Statesman Journal and local homeless advocates, he makes a stop at OfficeMax. Using an enlargement of his son's Wisconsin driver's license and four candid snapshots of Dustin at various ages, he creates a full-page color flyer. His cell number is at the bottom in giant, bold type.

Dustin looks like a model in the black and white photo from his senior year in high school. One of the more recent photos is of him with his mom in front of a red car. His hair is much longer now, hanging well past his shoulders.

Randy prints 30 copies and heads back to the Holiday Lodge.

He pulls up beside a police SUV parked at the former gas station next door, facing Hawthorne with a view of the triangle of cheap motels where homeless people congregate.

The first person he gives a flyer to is Salem Police Officer Chad Galusha.

Galusha says he'll pass it on during the next shift's "briefing clip" and suggests Randy look for his son at the Union Gospel Mission and Marion Square Park downtown. I offer to take him to both locations.

Scouring the streets is scary, promising

I drive so Randy can look for Dustin, who was last seen wearing a red coat. It’s almost overwhelming how many people we see wearing red.

We make the rounds on Hawthorne, passing out flyers at the Super 8, Motel 6 and nearest Subway, before heading downtown.

Randy always follows "I'm looking for my son" with a description including the keywords skinny, long hair and red jacket.

We learn someone from Northwest Human Services visited each of the motels the previous day on the family's behalf. But now we have photos.

I use my phone to email a snapshot of the flyer to Goins, and we arrange to meet at the drop-in center for the Homeless Outreach and Advocacy Project (HOAP).

Randy gets his hopes up at Motel 6, where the front desk clerk says there's a group of young people in Room 156. She suggests we call the room from the front desk and ask for Dustin. The man who answers says Dustin just left.

The clerk recommends we wait across the street and watch for him to return because she doesn't want us to scare him away. But Randy is determined. He decides to knock on the door despite the risks. I’m not comfortable with the situation, so I watch from a distance.

Randy shows a flyer to a skittish young man who answers the door. Turns out there's a Justin staying there, not Dustin.

Our next stop is the HOAP drop-in center, where homeless people are waiting in line for a shower and sack lunches. A bowl of apples is on one table and open bags of Cheetos and Doritos. We talk to some of the clients about Dustin and they offer suggestions on where else to look.

One encourages us to post a flyer at a laundromat near Market Street and Lancaster Drive NE. Another tells us to check out the motels on Portland Road.

Goins arrives with another batch of flyers and talks to Randy, giving him his cell number. Then we're off to the UGM. It's approaching lunchtime and there's a crowd lingering on the busy downtown corner near the Center Street Bridge.

Almost everyone we talk to tells us "he looks familiar" when we show Dustin's photos.

"We'll keep an eye out," one man says. "He's a young kid. I hope you find him."

For every hopeful response, though, there is a scary one. Randy tries to keep his composure after hearing a tale of drugs and sex trafficking from the young girl who warns us to be careful. Going out of the way to make sure no one sees her talking to us, she insinuates Dustin may be involved with both.

"He trusts everybody," Randy says. "That can be a downfall for him."

We wind through Marion Square Park, normally a haven for the homeless, but it's nearly vacant. Only a man and a woman are sitting at a picnic table. Neither of them has seen Dustin. The woman asks Randy for a cigarette. He gives her two.

We head back to Hawthorne and I offer to buy him lunch. With all the worry the past few weeks, he hasn't been eating or sleeping much. With a glimpse of how Dustin may be living, he’s lost his appetite even more.

"I can't believe how many homeless people I've seen," says Randy, who lives on 80 acres outside Abrams, Wisconsin, a town of about 1,700 — fewer people than our area's homeless population.

"This is eye-opening to me. I didn't know people live like this. Dustin didn't either."

Father's emotional roller coaster takes toll

In between bites of his cold cut sandwich, Randy talks about Dustin's childhood.

He grew up the youngest and a bit small for sports. An elementary school teacher once told them he was too polite. He's described today as artistic and intelligent, an A student until his senior year when attendance became an issue.

Randy shows me texts from his son, including one from mid-October around the time he moved to Florida.

"Sorry I bailed on you patching the roof. I'm doing better. I think the universe just got to me."

Several texts between father and son end with "love you" and "love you too."

"It's not like he hates me," Randy says.

Around this time, Michelle sends a text to both Randy and I, with a link to a news report about a death on the MAX tracks, asking us to check it out. Randy is relieved to hear the words "It's not him," quickly passing on the good news to Michelle.

Just in case he did leave town, Randy checks with Portland Police to see if Dustin is jailed in that area. They have no record for him, which is disappointing. He'd rather his son be arrested and have a roof over his head than be alone on the streets.

The two times Dustin was taken to the Salem emergency room for hypothermia, he was trying to make his way to Portland on foot.

Hospital officials tell his mom the second time, two days after Thanksgiving, he was found lying on the side of the road near Gervais, barefoot, and still wearing hospital scrub pants from his previous visit.

We head to Portland Road and drop off flyers at three motels, then take one more cruise down Hawthorne. It’s not like we’re running out of things to say, but the ride gets quiet.

"I should be looking for a Christmas tree," he says, "not my son."

After searching nearly five hours, and the sack of flyers empty, we agree to take a break so I can go pick up my son from school and he can check back around the Holiday Lodge.

He asks about my son and says "then you can relate."

Any parent can.

We promise to connect later in the afternoon or evening.

Back at the hotel, Randy tries to get some rest, but can't stop looking out the window for Dustin.

Then his cell phone rings.

"I've found your son."

It's Stephen Goins with Northwest Human Services.

'A win like this, it feels good'

After hearing about the case, Goins had reached out to Dustin's mom for more information so he could mobilize the agency's outreach staff and get word to other community partners.

Adrienne Schutte, a communications specialist for Northwest Human Services, helped print the flyers.

Then the almost unbelievable happens.

On her way home, Schutte sees a young man who looks like Dustin walking along River Road N in Keizer, between Ringo’s Tavern and Thai Cuisine. She pulls into a parking lot to keep an eye on him and calls Goins, who immediately heads that way in his truck.

A seasoned mental health counselor, he prepares to meet a young man who could be confused and disorganized. As he approaches Dustin, he hands him the flyer and tells him he spoke to his dad earlier in the day and that his dad is in town looking for him.

He calls Randy and puts him on speakerphone, providing verification for Dustin.

Randy is sobbing. He can barely speak, let alone take down an address, so Goins asks for permission from Dustin and his dad to give the son a ride to the Holiday Lodge.

Dustin is quiet and subdued, but they have a conversation on the way.

"He was just wandering," Goins says. "He didn't have a plan."

Meanwhile, I'm at home trying to get information from Salem Health when I see I have a voicemail from Randy.

It gives me chills as I listen: "They found him. Give me a call back."

Minutes later, Dustin and his dad are reunited outside the Holiday Lodge and I get another voicemail.

This one makes me tear up: "I've got my son in the room. I would appreciate it if you would come over and meet him. Call me back. I'm a happy man now."

Goins is proud of the community response in this case. Six months ago, the collaboration might not have been as effective. Today, he sees widespread awareness and more involvement.

"A win like this, it feels good. It's awesome,” he says. “There's one less person on the streets."

While the search for Dustin is unusual, Northwest Human Services does this type of work every week. They get calls when someone doesn't show up at the medical clinic, for example, and always do their best to track them down.

Before leaving town, Randy calls Officer Galusha who received the first flyer.

"He was happy I found him," Randy says. "He mentioned it was a rarity and how I was lucky."

Gift of red coat makes all the difference

I return to the Holiday Lodge just before 5 p.m. to meet Dustin. He's just out of the shower — his first in about a week — and sitting cross-legged in front of a mirror trying to comb through his long hair with his fingers. He doesn’t have a brush.

His dad is on the phone trying to figure out how he can get his son on an airplane without ID. They plan to leave the next day.

Luckily, he brought copies of Dustin's birth certificate and Social Security card. The person on the phone assures him it's possible, it just might take more time to check in and get through security.

Dustin is shy, although he warms up the longer I stay, both literally and figuratively.

He tells me he’s relieved and looking forward to a hot meal and a warm bed. Since the fire, he figures he spent 10 days on the street, several of them sleeping on cold concrete.

The last time he was in the ER, someone gave him a cozy red and gray Columbia jacket.

"It was his jacket, I think," Dustin says. "It saved my ass."

It could have been the coat off a nurse's back or from the clothing closet the emergency department staff has created for patients in need. Employees stock the closet by bringing in seasonal items that are clean and in good condition.

"We go to this room often, and it is possible we gave this man a coat," says Nancy Bee, RN, emergency department interim nurse manager. "Our employees do this because they care about people who are hurting. A while back, one of our nurses even gave the shoes he was wearing to a homeless man as he was discharging him to the streets."

Others were generous when Dustin was hungry, although he admits to his dad that he also stole some food.

"I don't blame you for that, Dustin," Randy says.

Without getting too specific, I ask about his parents' efforts to find him.

"I figured they were worried," he says. "I was, too."

"Wanting to go across the country is perfectly normal. Losing all your stuff in a fire isn't,” he says. “I'm sure I probably could have done some things better."

With a little luck and some timely handouts, he survived.

"I think there's a lot of nice people out there, and homeless people get a bad rap," he says. "You don't even have to speak. People can sense you need help."

“Forward This” appears Wednesdays and Sundays and highlights the people, placesand organizations of the Mid-Willamette Valley. Contact Capi Lynn at clynn@StatesmanJournal.com or 503-399-6710, or follow her the rest of the week on Twitter @CapiLynn and Facebook @CapiLynnSJ.