The Removalist

by Matthew Franklin Sias

  In contrast to the industrial feel of a crematory, an embalming room, where the preparation for burial takes place, has the feeling of a surgical suite. The air is cool and smells of a mixture of formalin-based fluid and the massage cream used to soften and hydrate the skin of those bound for viewing.

  A typical funeral and burial can cost upward of $15,000 and is a relative rarity in Washington State, where I live and work. Cremation hovers at about 70%. A few choose to donate their bodies to science, and a few are shipped off to other states for burial. It seems that Catholics and Mormons keep the traditional funeral alive, so to speak, as they are they are the only ones that consistently bury their dead. The Catholic Church has relaxed its stance on burial in recent years, but the priest almost always prefers the body to be present in the church during the service, whether the casket is open or remains closed throughout.

  From the perspective of the funeral director, the preparation for a funeral is extensive. The body must be embalmed, dressed, and cosmetized. If the deceased is a woman, a hairdresser may need to be called in. If the deceased is a victim of trauma that affects the face, “restorative art” may need to be performed, involving wax, possibly injections of “tissue builder” under the skin, and even plaster to rebuild a shattered skull.

  Newspapers must be contacted for obituaries. The cemetery must be contacted as well as the vault company for opening and closing of the grave. Prayer cards and service leaflets must be ordered from the printer. A casket must be ordered. The hearse and any service car used must be washed. The death certificate must be completed and then filed.

  At the funeral itself, the director acts as a master of ceremonies, wrangling pallbearers, ushering mourners into the church and leading them out, opening and closing the casket, and coordinating with clergy, notorious for having their own ideas as to how to run a funeral. The organist and clergy must be paid, flowers must be ferried to the church and then to the graveside, and everything must be done with utmost of decorum and efficiency.

  When the casket is placed in the grave, the dirt is shoveled over the casket, and the turf replaced, the dead may rest forever, often in much the same condition as when they were buried. With good embalming, proper soil conditions, and a quality casket, bodies may be fully recognizable, even viewable after being underground for twenty years.

  A friend and co-worker of mine, long dead of a heart attack, rests six feet underground in a cemetery in Portland, Oregon. Sometimes I imagine him, still dressed in his dark suit, with his hair still perfectly coiffed, lying perfectly still in his casket, frozen in time, through season after season, year after year.

  Investigations

  After several years of working part-time for two different funeral homes, I got the opportunity to combine my medical knowledge with my mortuary experience and become a deputy coroner in 2009. As with most events in my life, I arrived at this job serendipitously, if a bit tragically.

  One of my fellow paramedics, who also served as a deputy coroner, had the misfortune to suffer a massive heart attack and die one evening, leaving a vacancy for his part-time position at the coroner’s office. I decided that it might be poor form to approach the coroner at this fellow’s funeral, so I waited a couple of months before coming in for the most informal interview I ever remember.

  “Just get me a copy of your resume,” the coroner had said. “In case HR wants it at some point.”

  This I did, and then we sat down, briefly discussed my experience or lack thereof, and the coroner handed me the keys to the van and plugged me into the schedule. Well, it wasn’t quite that simple, but it seemed that way at the time. At present, the selection process involves a multi-page application, resume, criminal background check, rating process, and a formal interview, with possibly feats of strength to be added at some time in the future.

  I rode along with the coroner on fewer than five calls, attempted to learn the ins and outs of the computers, fax machine, morgue protocol, toxicology, and the intricacies of the digital camera. The camera caused me the most consternation, as I would frequently take it out on a call, find it was in some weird mode I didn’t recognize, fumble around while the police officers watched me, plead for help, and then snap a few blurry photos to the vexation of my supervisor.

  But eventually I had enough knowledge to be almost dangerous, though the learning curve remained steep for several months thereafter. I’ve made a few missteps along the way, but I’ve also discovered a passion for finding the truth, whether it comes from a good field investigation, or from a full autopsy.

  As a death investigator for Skagit County, on the damp side of Washington, two hours north of Seattle, I spend much of my on-duty time at home, my camera case and jacket by the door, waiting for my phone to ring with 911 dispatch reporting a death. Since we aren’t a very busy office, I have the opportunity to respond to most field deaths that a larger office wouldn’t have the time or resources to respond to—apparent natural deaths, folks with significant medical history. Even if there wasn’t a suspicion of foul play, it was still rewarding for me to be able to answer questions from a family about how their loved one died. I was writing the final chapter of their lives, which was an honor.

  While most death scenes were fairly mundane and predictable, the double-edged sword of the job is that one minute I might be snoozing on the couch or walking the dog, the next I may be driving an hour into the wilderness to investigate an accident, a drowning, or even a homicide far off the beaten path.

  Frozen

  My pager breaks the silence of a cold January day with its plaintive chirping. Through bleary eyes, I stare at the blue screen. “0800 hours: from: Detective Jones—Call me about a homicide.”

  I dial the number for Detective Jones and the first words out of her mouth are, “Got your snowshoes?”

  This doesn’t sound good.

  “So,” she continues, “we’ve got a woman shot to death. We’re investigating it as a homicide. The scene is about a two-hour hike in after you get into Marblemount. It’s below freezing and snowing, so dress warm.”

  “Hmmm,” I say, unable to come up with a more intelligent remark at this hour.

  “You can go up there with us, or you could just stay at the trailhead and we’ll bring the body down to you.”

  As my neurons begin to make tentative connections with each other in my non-caffeinated state, I briefly consider the relative merits of each scenario: wait in my heated van for the homicide victim to be delivered to me like a UPS package or join in the great adventure of cross-country cold weather body retrieval. For reasons still baffling to me, I choose the latter.

  I rise from bed, leaving my wife peacefully unaware of my departure. Forlornly, I stare at my still warm sheets and my sleeping wife and feel jealous, wondering when I am next going to see either the sheets or the wife. Then, shivering, I slip on the blue cargo pants and beige polo shirt of the Coroner’s Office. I grab my clipboard, pager, and phone, and head out to my frost-covered van. Naturally, I forget completely about the whole “dress warmly” thing.

  The van’s windows are iced over so I give it a few minutes to warm up while I take my tiny dog out to do his tiny business. The day is clear but frigid, with a brisk breeze swaying the trees around the travel trailer I call home.

  I make a pit-stop at a coffee stand and bathe my brain cells in caffeine. I’m addicted to the stuff, and if I go past noon or so without at least one cup, my head will feel as if it may explode.

  As I head east on the rural highway, the sun is just beginning to rise above the high hills. I pass acres of pasture and Holsteins grazing, steam rising from their nostrils, carloads of weekenders getting an early start, kayaks mounted atop their SUVs, Starbucks in their hands, all oblivious to the mission of the unmarked forest-green county van driven by the groggy, bed-headed man clutching a coffee cup.

  I’m going “Upriver,” following the path of the Skagit River as it snakes through the small communities and vast verdant flanks of f
ir trees to the next county and the end of my jurisdiction. Folks go “Upriver” to disappear. From all over the nation, in obscure ways, the wanderers, the disenfranchised, and the pioneers find the socked-in hills and valleys of Concrete, Rockport, Birdsview, and Marblemount. It seems on nearly every case I respond to Upriver, I have trouble finding next of kin. Either there really aren’t any, or the decedent has pissed off everybody close to them, making it nearly impossible to find anything that would lead me to family. I find myself scouring cabinets, dusty tables, and wallets for tiny scraps of paper with anything—phone numbers long disconnected, addresses, old Christmas cards—that might lead me to someone who might be willing to step up and take responsibility for final disposition.

  Tarheels seemed attracted to the Upriver area, and at some point there seemed to have been a mass migration of North Carolinians to the area. Many Upriver folks might be described as hillbillies, self-sufficient, often unsophisticated, and, I have come to find, not huge fans of the medical establishment. A personal physician was usually called upon to sign a death certificate, though frequently there wasn’t one, since, in the words of more than one Upriver denizen, “Damn doctors’ll just make ya sicker.”

  It takes about an hour and a half just to get to the end of the county road where I am to meet with first responders. By now I am at least at a therapeutic level of caffeine.

  Marblemount Fire Department’s aging aid car idles in the cold morning air, sending exhaust clouds skyward. A weary volunteer mans the wheel, ready to take me to the trailhead to meet with deputies. I grab my camera, response bag, and jacket, and jump into the back.

  Sheriff vehicles and a Skagit Mountain Rescue Unit await me when I arrive at the trailhead. In a brilliant stroke of absent-mindedness, I have forgotten my boots. Now the only footwear that I have is my simple slip-on duty boots.

  A man dressed from head to toe in wool directs his gaze at my ill-advised footwear, and then up to the armful of equipment I’m carrying. “Is that how you’re going up there?” he asks.

  “Forgot my boots,” I say.

  “You do realize how far it is up there, don’t you?” he says, his weathered face impassive. He drops his pack off his shoulder and onto the snow. “Here. Stow your camera in here and don’t bother carrying that box. Do you have wool socks?”

  “Uh, no,” I say. I had simply left the trailer wearing my normal coroner response attire, ill-suited to the conditions. This is how people die, I remind myself, attempting to tackle the elements without the proper equipment or clothing.

  Sheriff’s Detectives Jones and Gunderson wear wool caps, heavy boots, and multiple layers. They are clearly prepared for the elements. Skagit Mountain Rescue appears to be ready for an avalanche, with their heavy packs and ski poles. I feel vastly under-prepared. Despite the obvious dangers of hypothermia or frostbite, foolish pride takes over and I take my place in the middle of the pack. Ahead of me, Skagit County Detectives and Mountain Rescue, behind me, two more members of Mountain Rescue, one with a heavy Stokes basket strapped to his back.

  Fresh snow crunches beneath my boots as a light snow falls. The trail is only moderately steep, though snow-laden branches brush us constantly as we make our way up the narrow trail.

  Just as it seems that our journey will be fairly easy, the Mountain Rescue Team member at the front shouts back to the rest of us, “We’ve got at least two streams to cross. We’ll need to use our poles.”

  Within a half an hour, we come across the first stream. Icy glacier water rushes over glistening stones and an insubstantial-appearing narrow fallen log spans the distance. Apparently, this is what we will be using to cross. Mountain Rescue makes it to the other side first, followed by the rest of us, teetering across on the slippery log. One misstep could spell serious injury or death.

  By some miracle, we all arrive on the other side unscathed. I am thankful my flimsy boots don’t fill up with water. We tromp on.

  After a time, it seems easy to forget the ghoulish mission we are all on, investigating and recovering the body of a homicide victim. We are simply acquaintances, out for a cross-country snowshoeing adventure, reveling in the bitter cold and light snowfall, looking forward to a blazing campfire and libations at journey’s end.

  As minutes turn into an hour and more, I am becoming aware that both feet have turned into blocks of ice, but I try to tell myself that it is of no consequence. I have been colder than this before, and I pay my numb digits no further mind.

  An hour and a half into our journey, we get our first sign that we our nearing our destination—several other members of Mountain Rescue who have made it up the mountain before us, and are awaiting our arrival. They have been there since the early hours of the morning, are completely enveloped in cold-weather gear, and have been waiting so long that they have used to a camp stove to boil water and warm their feet. Icicles cling to their beards and “snot stalactites” encrust their mustaches.

  We are led a few hundred yards more to the scene. In the midst of a shallow, snow-covered depression in the landscape sits a small tent, covered by a tarp secured at the corners by bungee cords and stakes. This is the death scene.

  Detective Jones says, “Give us a few minutes to process the scene, and then you can come in and examine the body.” It is protocol for law enforcement to conduct an investigation of the total scene, including taking measurements and finding bullet casings, before medical examiners are allowed to view the body. However, statutes prohibit anybody but the coroner or his representative from moving a body, except as needed for life-saving efforts or identification.

  After shifting from foot to foot and milling about aimlessly in an effort to maintain body heat, detective Gunderson beckons me in.

  As with any scene, I photograph the surroundings before moving on to the body. If I were to focus first on the body, it would be easy for me to disregard the totality of the scene and its contribution to how the decedent came to be in the position she was in.

  An ax lies in the snow next to a nearly-empty bottle of Wild Turkey Whiskey. Apparently imbibing by fireside was on the menu for last night. Charred firewood is strewn nearby, along with a blood-smeared sleeping bag that appears haphazardly tossed aside. Various pieces of clothing are strewn about. The snow is heavily trodden. I am having more difficulty feeling my feet.

  I lean inside the two-man tent where a young woman lies enveloped in a down sleeping bag, still, pale, and rapidly assuming atmospheric temperature, a semi-automatic handgun a few inches from her head on the floor, barrel pointed towards the body. A dark article of clothing is wrapped around her forehead and it appears to be soaked with blood. I reach out with gloved hands in an attempt to remove it but it is immobile and crusty in my grasp—frozen to her head. Long lashes accentuate her eyes, closed in death, purple-lidded, swollen shut. The wound is in her forehead. Her facial bones are destroyed, but I cannot see the wound, for the makeshift bandage on her head. I will leave it in place for the pathologist.

  Later, we are to find out the rest of the story. Apparently, the young woman and her boyfriend had been drinking and target shooting. The victim had gone to bed and her boyfriend, three sheets to the wind, had settled in for the night later. He had retrieved his weapon from at the foot of his sleeping bag in order to store in under his pillow. Somehow, according to the boyfriend, he had managed to hit the trigger with his frozen, whiskey-addled hands, and shoot his girlfriend smack dab in the middle of the forehead. The odds of something like this happening were darn near impossible but…that was his story.

  I unzip her sleeping bag to reveal a woman ready for the elements—multiple layers of thermal clothing, right down to her socks. As I check for the telltale signs of lividity on her back, I detect the slightest hint of body warmth still retained in these frigid conditions. I snap photographs of her face, her hands, her chest, and back. I look for additional wounds, signs of a struggle, and find none.

  I back out of the tent and speak to Detective Jones. “Let’s ke
ep her in her sleeping bag and package her up like that.” I am still unsure as to how we’re going to get her down off the mountain over such rough terrain.

  The detectives remove the gun and place it into an evidence bag. I place an identification tag on the dead woman’s pale ankle, and ready her for transport. She is first wrapped in a homicide linen, a clean white sheet designed to retain biologic evidence that would otherwise be lost or degraded. I then zip her into a disaster pouch, the quintessential “body bag” depicted so often in films, black, formless, heavy, and morbid, with a zipper running down the side. Then Mountain Rescue disassembles the campsite, taking the tent and its contents into evidence. I place the dead woman as well as her backpack into a Stokes Litter, a wire mesh basket designed for rescue and recovery operations. Mountain Rescue then works on the task of securing her to the basket with heavy-duty ropes.

  By now, Mountain Rescue has decided to evacuate the body via helicopter. They have called for Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office to fly into the remote canyon and do a “short haul” to the nearest airport in the small, nearby town of Concrete. Detective Gunderson instructs emergency dispatch to send another coroner vehicle to the airport to rendezvous with the helicopter.

  An older member of Mountain Rescue eyes me suspiciously. “Can you feel your feet?” he asks.

  “Kind of.”

  “No. That’s not good.” He shakes his head vigorously. “Take off your boots.”

  Feeling as sheepish as a small boy who has had an accident in his pants, I remove my boots and socks. The older man kneels down and checks my toes for feeling and circulation: “Can you feel this?” He pinches my toe.

  “Yes, I can feel you’re pinching my toe.”

  “Here.” He reaches into his backpack and produces a pair of gray wool socks. “Put these on.”

  I do as I am told. Some rudimentary feeling begins to return to the ice blocks that had formerly been my feet. I’m glad that somebody is watching out for the totally unprepared Deputy Coroner.