Does This Mean You'll See Me Naked?

by Robert D. Webster

  BODY SNATCHING AND GRAVE ROBBING

  Part of the reason reporters relish such scary stories is our industry’s checkered past—coupled with the fact that we deal with people at their most helpless. In the classic movie House of Wax, the proprietor of a wax museum (Vincent Price) is horribly disfigured in an accident, so his hands are not as capable as they once were. Since he is no longer able to craft his wax figures, he resorts to stealing bodies from cemeteries. But the bodies, he discovers, are more decomposed than he would like, so he turns to murder and later retrieves his victims from the local morgue. The fresh kills are then covered in wax, making for very realistic museum fixtures. Perfect horror fare—to the average person, it’s believable.

  Body snatching and grave robbing were once the only ways for medical schools to obtain specimens for study and dissection. In Cincinnati in the 1800s, one man was notorious for supplying prolific corpses. He would take out his wagon nearly every night to frequent not only small cemeteries but also Spring Grove, the second largest in the United States at the time and the burial spot of many famous Cincinnatians. At $25 per body, he developed quite a business.

  Although the authorities were aware of his actions, they did little to stop him until he removed a seven-year-old child from her grave and her corpse was spotted lying in the grave robber’s wagon. This act was hideous enough to prompt the state to enact legislation to allow hospitals to solicit family members’ permission to acquire their loved ones’ dead bodies.

  A California medical school was in the news recently for allegedly conducting a scheme to sell human body parts. They removed hearts, lungs, kidneys, and even eyes from donated bodies and retained them in formalin-filled jars for future study. It was discovered, however, that many parts were being shipped elsewhere, still in their preservative states. Other medical schools and even some peculiar individuals were buying human organs.

  Someone close to the case reportedly said that private purchasers were displaying the parts on bookshelves as macabre conversation pieces. Someone from New Jersey even requested a complete pristine human brain. It was to be sealed and shipped in a preservative-filled container. But it was packed improperly, and the odor was detected in the shipping service’s warehouse. With the return address marked clearly on the label and a small amount of detective work, the jig was up.

  Since vital organs for transplantation must be removed before death and under sterile conditions, the organ snatchers were clearly profiting by operating a human chop shop—sort of like stripping stolen cars and selling off the parts. Some local coroners’ offices have been admonished for removing the corneas of decedents without the relatives’ permission. And in Cincinnati, a photographer was charged with abuse when he visited a morgue to shoot pictures of corpses holding such objects as keys and musical sheets and then calling it “art.” Family members were repulsed—and very angry.

  In the early 1980s, I was a member of a committee that coordinated the disposition of mass casualties after natural and human-error disasters. In the three years I served, no such disaster occurred, so I never used my training. But we were shown videos from two separate airline crashes that shocked me—not because of the utter destruction but because of the actions of the first responders.

  Some were firefighters and police officers; others were merely gawkers who happened on the scene and were put to work. They were spotted, plain as day, plucking watches and rings from severed arms and emptying cash from wallets. After they jammed the money into their pockets, they tossed the wallets back on the ground to be discovered later for identification purposes.

  A more detailed response is no doubt in force today, as such a disaster would be deemed a crime scene and therefore more vigorously secured. Still, I have witnessed many thefts at accident sites over the years, ranging from a police officer snatching a pack of cigarettes from a victim’s shirt pocket to actually removing money. The police pull a wallet from someone’s pants pocket to establish identity through a driver’s license, so I suppose that makes it incredibly easy to make a “withdrawal.” Bereaved families have complained to me that they know money was stolen, but they lack any way to prove it. That’s why I always make sure that a minister or family member is in the chapel with me at a funeral’s conclusion, so that when the casket is closed, anything that is to stay with the deceased stays there—keepsakes, photographs, or money. If any item is to be handed back to a family member, it is done so immediately and in the presence of a witness.

  When making funeral arrangements, the topic of jewelry is always discussed in detail beforehand to ensure that all desires are carried out. When meeting with the elderly, I have noticed that they emphatically insist that all jewelry worn by the deceased be returned. Many of them assume that the funeral director is planning to abscond with any valuables. Such atrocities must have occurred frequently years ago, because that concern seems to be paramount in their minds.

  Only a generation ago funeral directors were notorious for stealing. One director friend told me that a coworker back in the 1950s earned a substantial living on the side by removing gold fillings and inlaid crowns (the real McCoy back then, not the plated material used today) from the teeth of decedents awaiting burial. He even claimed that the families gave him permission to do so!

  I once delivered a deceased person to a funeral home in northern Ohio, and upon my arrival, the elderly owner offered to give me a tour of his facility. As we casually trod through the grand old mansion, he pointed out the impressive curved staircase, the stained-glass windows, and the thick carpet that had been delivered by a London manufacturer in 1949. The tour’s end found us in a dark, dingy basement that housed the preparation room and a cubicle that contained shelf after shelf of unclaimed boxes of cremated remains. On the opposite wall were several plastic bins full of bloody clothing. On each bin was a typewritten sheet giving a full description of the contents and how they came to be soiled. Why someone would keep bins full of biohazardous material on their premises was beyond me, yet this gentleman seemed proud to show off his collection. He then pointed to a large box full of old hearing aids and another full of chrome-plated heart pacemakers. He told me he planned to sell the medical devices back to the manufacturers someday and net a tidy profit. I left shortly thereafter, thinking that the guy definitely needed to seek qualified psychiatric help.

  DOING GOOD BY THE DECEASED

  I’d like to think that my services are on the other end of the spectrum of those horror stories, and the response from my clients bears this out. An elderly gentleman passed away many years ago, and his son, a busy Disney executive and overseer of Disneyland in Anaheim, called me from Los Angeles to meet in Ohio the next day to arrange the funeral. He openly admitted to a blatant disregard for my entire industry, considering all of us ghouls and lowlifes intent on taking advantage of other people’s misery. I attempted to allay his concerns, making it clear that any decisions we made that day were not carved in stone and that he was welcome to go back to his hotel and meet with me after he’d had time to think things over. He did just that, and the next morning we arranged for his father’s immediate cremation, with the ashes shipped to California for scattering into the Pacific Ocean near Santa Monica.

  When I informed the son that his total charges were less than $1,500, he was flabbergasted. His uncle had recently died, and the same services in California had cost him more than $5,000. I responded that obviously the standard of living was much different out there. The man later sent me a nice thank-you note with an additional check for $1,000 and a permanent gate pass for my entire family to Disneyland.

  It is gratifying to receive positive feedback from a client’s family during and after the performance or our duties in caring for their deceased loved one. Rarely is there a complaint; most always my family and I are showered with compliments and heartfelt thanks from the families we deal with. However, I am extremely amazed at how often one or more bereaved family members actually take the time to put pen to paper a
nd send a card or long letter of thanks addressed to me or one of my sons. I have framed and displayed more than a hundred such messages in the lobby and lounge of the funeral home for all to see. Others can observe the confirmation of appreciation of our clientele.

  There are many feel-good stories in our industry, both local and national, that do not receive any attention. I once worked for a kindhearted man who desired no publicity. Few were aware that every May he would ask the local high school’s dean which students could not afford caps, gowns, or class rings. Many participated in graduation ceremonies without ever knowing who their generous benefactor was.

  After a tragic accident left seven children without their mother and father, the same man instructed the children’s aunt to take all seven to a store and purchase new outfits to wear to their parents’ funerals, with the bill sent to him. Of course there was no charge for either of the two funerals. I learned a lot from my employer. Doing good deeds is now my hallmark. I might not be making as much money as some of my colleagues, but I bet I sleep far better.

  In October 2004, I noticed a small newspaper article concerning the death of a recently identified thirty-five-year-old woman. A minister was making a plea for assistance with burial expenses. The woman was a known prostitute, and her death was the result of a brutal beating and rape, and she had been shoved out of a moving car and left on the side of the road with no identification.

  On a scrap in her pants pocket was a telephone number. The police dialed it and reached a childhood friend with whom she had once lived as a teenager. It turned out that her childhood friend had long ago lost all contact with her. The minister called several area funeral homes to ask whether anyone could donate a casket or a bouquet of flowers. Amazingly, he received nothing.

  I listened to his incredible tale; then my daughter and I removed the young lady’s body from the coroner’s office, performed the embalming, and set out to see what contributions we could gather. I was finally able to obtain a discounted casket and vault, along with a grave space. Township trustees who operated the cemetery agreed to open and close the grave without charge.

  The minister reported the good deeds to local television stations, and I was soon deluged with live interview requests. The news reporters seemed shocked that I would perform such a service at my own expense. I was happy for the free promotion and surprised to think that many other directors had the opportunity to offer assistance but did not.

  As I’ve said, I make it a point never to turn a family away because of a dire financial situation. Prices of certain services can be reduced, and less costly merchandise can be substituted to make the death-care experience affordable. I’m sure there are many other funeral directors out there—I hope so, anyway—who assess no charges for infants and offer free services for police officers, firefighters, and military personnel killed in the line of duty. That’s typical of most independent family-owned and operated funeral homes, where the hometown director can become a true friend of all community members. Conglomerates are far less likely to reduce prices and outright donations are rare. They also do not wait for insurance payoffs. The corporate brain trust wants to be paid immediately; they think families should be the ones to keep checking their mailboxes.

  One time, a truck driver hauling two huge steel coils pulled off the interstate onto the shoulder, perhaps to stop and adjust his cables. One of the coils rolled off the trailer and crushed him. When I arrived on the scene, a wrecker was in the process of raising the coil, precariously suspended by what I thought to be a very fragile cable. I hurriedly assisted in pulling out the unfortunate driver, wanting to spend as little time in harm’s way as possible.

  I retrieved my mortuary cot and slid it next to the body, which had been smashed from the steel’s weight. The poor man had been struck by the steel from his groin area up to his head. His internal organs had blasted out from a tear in his side and lay all around him. It was a surreal scene indeed. One life-squad attendant stared and pointed: “Look, Bob, there’s his heart.” It was actually a lung.

  I transported the body back to the funeral home. As I walked in the door, the telephone was ringing. The Ohio State Patrol asked me to check the driver’s pockets; he’d supposedly been carrying more than $40,000 of the trucking company’s money. A patrol officer had searched the truck, found nothing, and was resigned to the fact that the money would probably be discovered someday by some homeless guy searching the nearby field for used pop bottles.

  I readied a large plastic garbage bag next to the preparation room table to dispose of what was left of the driver’s tattered clothing. After peeling away some of his tissue-covered shirt, I happened upon a large wallet with an attached chain, the kind that motorcycle riders carry. I washed off the blood and gore, dried it, and to my surprise found it stuffed full of crisp $100 bills. Briefly, I thought, “How handy to have an extra $40,000!” But I knew the good Lord would not be pleased, so I called the state patrol to report my find.

  Shortly thereafter, the trucking company’s owner phoned and said he would be at the funeral home the following morning. Upon his arrival, he thanked me for being so honest and handed me a check for $1,000. My name and picture, labeled “Good Guy of the Month,” appeared at many Ohio truck stops for the rest of the year.

  Another time I was summoned to a stately old farmhouse to remove a farmer’s body, which had been discovered in the concrete workshop behind his home, where he’d apparently collapsed while repairing a vehicle. Two sheriffs’ cruisers were in the driveway when I arrived, but no one else was in sight. The coroner had told me that the old gentleman lived alone and had two grown sons who lived out of state.

  I poked my head through the workshop’s door and spotted two deputies counting out cash. One was alternately placing bills in one stack in front of himself and another in front of his partner. They both looked up, sheepish and red faced. An old safe sat below the workbench, its door wide open and it was crammed full of cash.

  One deputy remarked, “Well, I guess now we have to include you in the count.”

  “No, thanks,” I replied, and simply removed the old farmer’s body and left.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I realized years ago that the death-care industry needed to change. But unlike the electronics and automobile industries, where explosive updates tend to take place regularly, the funeral business moves with glacier-like slowness, if at all. Although more funeral homes are now modern one-floor facilities, most are still converted two- or three-story residences where business takes place downstairs and the owner and his family live upstairs. Baby boomers in particular have grown tired of those older homes with too many steps leading to the entrances, threadbare “movie theater” carpeting, tiny chapel areas, minimal parking, and staff not open to anything but solemn and predictable services. I have worked at places with no handicap accessibility and with lots so small that visitors were forced to return later when the crowd had diminished or risk parking in a dark alley. I know these things are important, because I actually receive calls in advance to inquire about such things.

  MCFUNERAL HOME

  A major change, however, in the death-care industry is the corporate buyout. The funeral industry was ripe for such takeovers. Undertakers once handed their businesses to their sons or daughters or transferred ownership through bank loans to trusted employees. Those days are gone. Owners and their families now realize the cash cows they are sitting on. Even grown children who don’t want to follow in their parents’ footsteps still want to see them get top dollar. A suitcase full of cash can be a powerful persuader.

  In the late 1960s, a Texas funeral home owner decided to buy out his city’s other two big-volume homes, become top dog, and stop worrying about competition. The plan in its original form was sound: pool the expensive vehicles, retain current employees for continuity’s sake, and keep the original names of the two newly acquired businesses so the public wouldn’t see any change. Sudden acquisitions usually work well in large citi
es, where people feel no loyalty and couldn’t care less who the owners are. Small towns and suburbs are different. People are far more concerned about who is caring for their deceased loved ones. They want to deal with someone they know from church or Rotary Club—perhaps even a former classmate. They want to see the funeral directors themselves, or at least their kids, when making arrangements. They also want the funeral director at the visitation, and they want him or her to drive Grandma to the cemetery.

  But this owner was not happy with just three funeral homes. He soon began acquiring the largest ones in several neighboring cities as well, often overpaying owners to entice them to sell. Enter the carpetbagger concept. Carpetbagger is the word we funeral directors use to describe opportunists who have infiltrated our territory. It has a historical relevance; during post–Civil War Reconstruction, Northerners intent on making personal gain headed South and carried their belongings in carpet-covered satchels.

  Have You Been Invaded?

  How can you tell when carpetbaggers have invaded your area? First, a marketing staff at the conglomerate’s faraway home office bombards the affected community with direct-mail pieces aimed at homeowners in the demographic of age forty-five and up. Letters begin something like this: “We need your help! Please take a few moments of your time to assist us in determining what is important to you, the consumer, by answering the following questions: Do you currently own cemetery property? If so, where? How much do your funerals cost? Do you prefer cremation? Do you currently have life insurance?” At the bottom of the form is a perforated card for the addressee to return postage free. The direct-mail piece is also emblazoned with the recently purchased funeral home’s address so that people assume it comes from a familiar business in town.