Pictured here is Arthur Shawcross...
It's been awhile since I've talked about Undertakings of an Undertaker here.
The memoir book continues to do well both here and abroad. The story below is chapter four
from the book....I still remember that visit to the coroner's office in Rochester, N.Y.
like it was just yesterday.....and yet the calendar tells me differently.
If you have the book, thank you. If you haven't read the story about
my 'encounter' with one of his victims...it is listed below.
***Remains of the Genesee River Killer
From 1988 to 1990, the city of Rochester, in
Monroe County, N.Y., suffered at the hands of a serial killer. Those in that
beautiful part of New York would never have imagined such a rash of brutal
crimes taking place there. The victims, mostly prostitutes and women of the
street, were snatched, taken to secluded areas, beaten and/or strangled, and
their bodies dumped within thirty miles of the downtown city limits. For
months, authorities hunted for the killer and finally received a break when the
killer was actually spotted near the scene of one of his last killings. He was
apprehended, convicted and sentenced. His name was Arthur Shawcross. Shawcross
died in prison, but his deadly killing spree in upstate New York is remembered
and re-hashed regularly by law enforcement and members of the justice system.
It was an eerie day when this writer came in contact with one of his victims, a
day that still gives me chills when it is reviewed in my mind. The following is
from the notes I made the day I met one of his victims.
I hadn’t planned on going to the medical
examiner’s office that day. Our local coroner had pronounced a fellow dead at
home who had not been seeing a doctor regularly, so it was pretty much cut and
dry that the body would have to go to the medical examiner in Rochester for an
autopsy. Our local county did not have a forensic pathologist, so all cases
referred by the coroner had to be transported by vehicle, eighty-five miles to
the north. It was cold, and a winter wind was blowing pretty good, but the
roads were passable for sure, even with the brief gusts that would billow some
light snow on my path from time to time as I steered my black Suburban
northward over the hard gray asphalt.
In the two hour trip to Rochester, I always
had a lot to think about. Would the pathologist on duty take just blood and
fluids? Would he require a full autopsy, which could take several hours? Would
he send me home to come back tomorrow? About an hour into the trip, I encountered
my first delay of the day; an 18-wheeler had jackknifed and blocked part of the
north bound lanes. Wonderful. The sheriff’s deputy in the middle of the road
putting down a flare as I eased closer had that “I'd rather be home watching
football today look" as I rolled down my window to inquire about the stop.
"Shouldn’t be too long," he
blurted.
I rolled up my Suburban window as a good
blast of wintry air came at me from the west. I turned on the radio to check
the conditions from here into the city and heard nothing threatening, so I
eased back into my seat and reached for my coffee thermos, which I always took
on the road. And if I remembered correctly, there should be a Dunkin stop
coming up in twenty-five miles or so. Ah, my spot indeed. I must know where
every Dunkin Donuts is east of the Mississippi. I should have purchased stock
years ago. Why do I procrastinate when I know something is so good? Back to
reality…
The deputy was right; the delay didn’t last
long. Within five minutes or so, my vehicle, my deceased on the stretcher in
the back, and I had resumed our motoring northward. Mmm, just past noon. I
should arrive at the medical examiner's by 1-1:30, hopefully a quick turn
around, and I could actually be home by dark, which in this part of the world
in winter is usually between 4:30 and 5:00 pm. As I rounded the back of the
medical examiner’s office, it appeared to be quite busy for a Sunday afternoon;
usually the place is deserted. What appeared to be two unmarked police cars
shadowed each other as the crisp wind swirled around the entrance doors. I
punched the outdoor buzzer expecting a quick "Can I help you?" A
minute or two went by, when finally a sullen voice said, "Yep. Be right
there." The speaker went lifeless.
So here I was, on a nice wintry day,
standing at the medical examiner’s with my deceased all tucked in on my stretcher,
awaiting an entrance into the world of forensic science. Within a couple of
minutes, the attendant had hit the bar on the fire door, and I was wheeling in
my charge, past one of the coroner’s removal wagons, which was covered in some
mud and road debris, looking like it had just been out on a run.
"Busy day?" I inquired as the
attendant sat at his computer screen and started punching his keyboard.
"Oh yeah," he replied and
continued, "big time stuff going on today...real big stuff."
I wondered what that referred to. Had there
been a multi-fatality traffic accident? Major fire in the city? Multiple
homicides all brought in at once? We completed the paperwork quickly to log in
my remains, and I had started to prepare to move my deceased to the attendant’s
table for prints and photography when my eye glanced into the next room.
Surrounding a stainless steel exam table were two guys in white shirts and
ties, all wearing latex exam gloves, one with a camera, one with a clipboard.
They chatted to each other, then refocused on the table itself.
"Want to take a look?" asked the
attendant. He didn’t have to ask me twice. In a quick ten steps, I was at the
foot of the exam table stretching my neck to its breaking point, my eyes going
wide and focusing.
My
first impression was that these guys weren’t pathologists. They didn’t have the
bio garb on, and they just didn’t look the part. No, these guys were cops,
better yet, detectives. The serious
looks on their faces were like stone on Mt. Rushmore. One actually looked like
Joe Friday on Dragnet. That was scary in itself. Now, what do I do here,
introduce myself? Be still and play stupid? Start asking questions? I opted for
the first. They weren’t impressed that I was a funeral director and member of a
local sheriff’s department eighty-five miles to the south, although the latter
statement did have some weight with the older of the trio.
"Alright," he muttered, "Just don’t get close or touch
anything alright?"
All of
our eyes returned to the stainless steel table, brilliantly lit by an overhead
spotlight. My eyes raced from top to
bottom, then right to left, trying to determine what I was looking at. Bones. I see bones. I see some other
artifacts, some tufts of hair. Whoever this was, they had been deceased for
some time, and it was impossible to tell from first glance if they were male or
female.
"This is one of them we think," blurted the guy closest to me.
“One of
them,” I thought to myself. One of them? Let’s see now. Rochester N.Y…skeletal
remains…Rochester N.Y. Every muscle in
me instantly froze. I caught my breath. My gut did a flip.
"This is one of the victims of the Genesee River killer," I
said in a very low and subdued voice.
"We
think so," came the response, "We think the remains are female. She
was found last night."
The two detectives made some quick notes on
small spiral notebooks they had taken out, then quickly tucked them back into
their sports coats.
"Put her away for tonight. The Dr. said
he'd start his work in the morning. Maybe we can make out something from this
one. Not much for him to work with, but maybe we'll get lucky."
The two made their way out of the medical
examiner’s office, as I stood motionless at the exam table, looking closer now
to see what I could recognize as familiar. There was a vertebral column for
sure, roughly thirty inches long, pale and grey in color and weathered from
what looked like months of outdoor exposure. Several small bones, looking to be
from either a foot or hand, lay near the spinal column, several small patches
or clumps of dark brown or black hair entwined one of the small bones. Ah, here
was something familiar: a cassette recording tape. This would be of great
interest to police. It, too, was covered in mud and grass and showing long
exposure to the elements. And finally, there was what appeared to be two small
pieces of jewelry chain, perhaps from a wrist or necklace.
I wondered if this person would ever be
identified. Were they male or female? Would they be able to determine a cause
of death? It seemed unlikely. There wasn’t much here to work with. I also
wondered what went through this person’s thoughts, minutes, or perhaps just
moments, before death. And was it at the hands of the Genesee River killer? If
this was one of his victims, she would be like the others, between the ages of
twenty and forty, living on the streets with not much future. But no one,
living on the street or not, deserved to end up here, on a stainless steel
table with a Jane Doe tag and an ID number to match the date and time found.
The answers to my questions probably would
come in time, but for tonight, my day was at an end. I nodded to the attendant,
grabbed my paperwork, and headed for the exit door. As I headed my car south
with the empty stretcher on board, my mind kept reviewing what I had just
witnessed. The remains of some unknown human were now held in cold storage at
the medical examiner’s office. Who was that person? How had they died? What
were their last thoughts before things went dark forever? The chill that came
over me was amplified as I turned the wiper blades on high. The snow was coming
fast now. My trip home might be a challenging one. The chill that was the
Genesee River killer stayed with me, all the way home.
