What will your 2023 be?

A new year......new challenges.  Tradition has always been when the

old year is discarded and the new year is ushered in, that a person

takes a serious look at what is ahead for one self.  But those

resolutions that one makes are usually only half-baked in reality,

more often based on hope than a self proclaimed assurance that

those choices can and will succeed.



Those that make those resolutions for a new year suggest the

following;

1. resolve to accomplish a small goal or set of goals as opposed

to reaching for the 'pie in the sky'....failure only brings about

disappointment and can harm the ego.

2. reward yourself when you make one of those goals a success.

3. possibly making a resolution that will be part of an overall

five or ten year plan to make a change in your life; job, relationship,

financial situation.

4.  Maybe the most important of all, surround yourself with those

that will have good influence on you...not people who will bring you

down into their negativism..


Believe in YOURSELF; that's the most important aspect of the whole

deal. As Les Crane said in a song Desiderata many years ago...

"You are a child of the universe... you have a right to be here."

Simple, plain, straight forward. 

So, embrace 2023 with vision, clarity and hope. Remember,

2023 won't influence you....you will influence it!  SS

The haunted belfry.....

Do you believe in a lucky, or perhaps and unlucky number? Joshua Cobb's number was

3.  But  why a 3? Most of us are born with a number attached to us in some manner.

The story below is number 10, in Tales Unleashed.

The Haunted Belfry

The church near Berkley Creek, Pennsylvania has been closed many years ago. It’s pastor who had been loved by all, had been dismissed by the elders after engaging in an affair with a woman on the church’s finance committee.

And so it was that the church sat idle, entangled by the yearly growth of weeds and invasive vines which choked at it’s very shingles, decade after decade. The glorious Sunday morning worships which echoed the organ and choir sounds down the hollow were now silenced, replaced by the calls of wayward crows looking to roost. An occasional passerby walking on the dirt road out front would stop, give pause and try to imagine the building when it was king of the hill. It was now indeed a lonely place. The building had witnessed the baptisms, marriages and funerals of hundreds of it’s followers…..but now only silence, except for the occasional thrice ringing of the church bell. It was not a regular alarm in the tower….it only happened about three times a year, and it was usually on the third of the month, and it was always at 3:00 a.m., when all men and beasts within it’s range were nestled into their beds.

A bit unsettling to say the least, especially for neighbors who lived within the half mile separated only by the tall pines and sugar maples which buffeted the sound.

It had been rumored for years that the church was haunted…haunted by it’s organist Joshua P. Cobb, an elderly man in his 70’s who had played and maintained the pump organ for over sixty years. Joshua had met an untimely death in the church while practicing for a recital late in the fall of 1940. The custodian who discovered Joshua was stunned to find him face down, heading down the set of steps which numbered twelve. But Joshua had only made it part way down, his foot breaking thru the old board on step number three, his foot still lodged there… his body dangling down the remaining steps causing his demise.

The number three was Joshua’s number indeed.

Church records showed that he had been born on March 3^rd, 1873, and was one of three children.

So when that bell tolls three times at that ghastly hour, people think little of it….. they know that Joshua is still there, kind of a perpetual caretaker. But on that 3:00 a.m. ringing, people have a tendency to pull the covers up a little tighter and hope for early daylight.

Milk money.....strange but true.

Many many years ago, I believe around 1980 or so....it was a most

unusual day, an odd day.... a day I remember when ever I see an old milk

can at a garage sale or roadside stand. It was part of Undertakings in

2015...I think you'll enjoy the story...maybe it will bring back remembrances

of your own.

Milk Money

     This day wasn't unlike any other day during my residency. The day had started with the usual delivery of flowers from a previous day’s service. The cars were checked for fuel, the operating room given a quick overview for cleanliness and supplies in place.  That is one thing that is always foremost in the mind of a good undertaker: you always had to be ready for the next call as you did not know when the phone would ring or what circumstances the phone call would reflect.  And so, you were always ready, kind of like the firemen at the fire station, ready for the alarm to go off, and then you were off to the call, wherever it would take you, in a moment’s notice.

     And so it was on a typical day that the call came in from a local coroner who requested our presence at a home near Lake Ontario where a woman had died, unattended at her home.  An unattended death in New York State always summoned a coroner or medical examiner.  They would determine if and when an autopsy would be necessary, or, after talking to the person’s doctor, if the body would be released directly to the undertaker who was called. 

     So it was on such a lovely sunny day that we put our removal stretcher into our grey station wagon to head to the scene, about thirty minutes north of the funeral home.  Our wagon was always pristine, shined to the max, immaculate inside and out, window glass sparkling and bug free.  In the days when station wagons were used for removals, the rear windows had to be black or darkened to some degree so the public could not see in.  You couldn’t have people gazing in to see a stretcher, let alone a stretcher with a deceased contained therein!  The funeral business has always been, and still is, concerned with the sensitivities of those who watch what you do and how you perform both when you are out on a call and in the funeral home itself.           

     So the owner and I, dressed in short sleeved white shirts and narrow neckties, headed north to the scene, really not knowing what we would discover upon arriving. My boss, a skinny little guy at sixty, showed signs of the thirty plus years he had already invested in the business.  As he lit up his usual cigarette, I lowered my window for some air.  He smoked too much, especially when he got a death call. It calmed him, he said.

    In a short time, we had arrived at the house. It was a dilapidated old farm house, the mailbox half off its rustic fence post it was attached to, the name on the box not even identifiable.  As we drove to the front door, we saw the sheriff’s car and another vehicle, the coroner I presumed.  Both men stood on the front porch, it too showing signs of extreme age and wear. In its time, I am sure the house was magnificent, a huge old three story farm house, and in its shadow, two or three smaller out buildings.  Yes, in its time, this must have been a wondrous place with its long tall windows and weathered oak door with its iron knocker, now frozen in place from lack of use.

     My boss and I both recognized the coroner and the sheriff’s deputy, and we exchanged pleasantries as we entered the home with our stretcher in hand.

    "She's been living alone for years," said the coroner, "Husband’s been dead over forty years according to the daughter.  She's been kind of a hermit since he died." 

    The inside of the house was like a museum, furniture all appearing to be those pieces you see in an antique shop, including mantle clocks, not running but stilled by time and covered in dust. Most of the windows were draped, allowing little daylight into what must have been a very private life, a life now quietly ended in this cavernous house that felt so lonely. 

     We made our removal and took the deceased to the funeral home where she was embalmed, dressed, and made ready for burial. The daughter had made very simple arrangements, as she felt her mom had little money for anything elaborate. And so on a quiet day we returned the woman to a small cemetery not far from her home and buried her in with only three people in attendance. 

     About a week after the service and burial, we received a call from the coroner who had handled the case.  My boss was sitting at his desk in the back room near where we did our work.  He had a metal study light on an adjustable goose neck that he could move around to illuminate his work.  Again, the smoke hovered near the lamp head as he took the coroners call.  After what seemed like only a minute or two of conversation, he put the black phone back in its cradle, shook his head and started laughing.

     "What?"  I said, wanting to know what I had just missed out on.

     "Do you remember Marian from last week? The lady we pretty much buried as a pauper?  Well, upon investigating the out buildings around the house, the coroner and the sheriff discovered an old milk can.  Upon opening the can, they found over one hundred thousand dollars in cash in bills of all denominations, covered in mold and dirt. I guess she wasn’t a ward of the county after all."

    We couldn’t believe it.  Evidently the lady had just continued to put more and more cash into the milk can, choosing to live a life of just barely getting by.  Her funeral had been a very meager one, but the final chapter was yet to be written.  Upon hearing of the discovery of her mother’s money, her daughter was moved to the extent that she purchased a very large and expensive grave marker to place upon the grave. 

    I revisited that grave site a few years later, and yes, there it was:  a marker that was a true testimony to a fine lady.  You can never judge what a person has on first discovery. Sometimes, you have to wait and see just how much milk money is saved for a rainy day.

Gettysburg.......a haunted place.

It was Saturday, October 17^th 2019. My sister, her daughter, my
two brothers and their ladies, plus myself were making a two day
visit and exploration of mysterious Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

Oh what history defines this historic place. Large open fields,

interrupted by splotches of dense trees and underbrush….

all accentuated by boulders and rail fences….culminating in

a real landscape of beauty and wonder.

Silent cannons and statues standing guard now over the still

country side that had been rocked in 1865 by the largest

three day battle of that great Civil war. So many dead, wounded,

bewildered and shocked. We had made several stops along the

historic battle ground to walk, listen, photograph and to imagine

what it must have been for those who were there to see, smell,

and feel the horrors of war.

The sun was shining brightly as we drove slowly along the

battle field route…with little being said amongst our group

as we meandered the fields on this beautiful fall day.

I was sitting in the left rear seat, facing forward, scanning not

only out my window on the left, but also observing the path

coming forth through the windshield.

To my great surprise…. all of a sudden, I felt my left arm being

grabbed…between the elbow and my  left shoulder.

It wasn’t a pinch, or a brush…it was a solid grab. I jumped and

 at the same time blurted out a “hey!”

It was like the flesh of my left arm was actually being held

for half a second or so. Those around me asked what was

going on and I recounted to them what had just transpired.

No one in the car was responsible for what I had just

reported to them.

Now I had to process this all in my own mind. I have never

had any spasms, twitches, or anything of the like in any of my

extremities….this was a brief but powerful squeeze  as if a

school teacher in ‘the old days’ might be trying to get your

attention in school.

I thought about that occurrence for the rest of the day… and

for many days ahead. I have read of others who have visited

Gettysburg and experienced seeing or photographing some type

of unusual activity or figure on the battle fields…or in many of

the old homes in Gettysburg itself.

So what did I experience that day in Gettysburg? I can’t explain

it…..was it the spirit of a soldier lost or killed there trying to get  my

attention…for whatever reason? Perhaps.

I’ve always thought there is a thin line or veil between where we

are now….and where we will be going upon death.

I’ll go back to Gettysburg again someday. It’s a place you could

easily spend a week in, not just two days.  I’m sure I’ll never have

another experience like the one I had that day….and I most

certainly won’t seek one out. Gettysburg is indeed a mysterious

and awesome place. I recommend it.  

On a death 93 yrs. ago....

'Piercing the veil'...

‘Piercing the veil’…….

The great magician Harry Houdini was a fascinating magician and illusionist. He captivated

audiences not only in the U.S. but abroad. His untimely death on Halloween in 1926 resulted

from an unusual incident days before while performing. For many years Houdini had been

challenged by his family and close followers to ‘bridge the gap’ after death; to make contact

from the great beyond. For years after his death, yearly se’ances were held in hopes of

making contact with Harry, and some with positive results were later debunked as just

fakes. Death was finally the ‘realm’ that Houdini could not escape. His story is a great one

and is briefed here with information from wikipedia. Many books have been written about

the man over the decades, and probably more will be forthcoming.

Harry Houdini died of peritonitis, secondary to a ruptured appendix at 1:26 p.m. on October 31, 1926 in Room 401 at Detroit's Grace Hospital, aged 52. In his final days, he optimistically held to a strong belief that he would recover, but his last words before dying were reportedly, "I'm tired of fighting. Eyewitnesses to an incident at Houdini's dressing room in the Princess Theatre in Montreal gave rise to speculation that Houdini's death was caused by a McGill University student, J. Gordon Whitehead, who delivered a surprise attack of multiple blows to Houdini's abdomen.

Before Houdini died, he and his wife agreed that if Houdini found it possible to communicate after death, he would communicate the message "Rosabelle believe", a secret code which they agreed to use. Rosabelle was their favorite song. Bess held yearly séances on Halloween for ten years after Houdini's death. She did claim to have contact through Arthur Ford in 1929 when Ford conveyed the secret code, but Bess later said the incident had been faked. The code seems to have been such that it could be broken by Ford or his associates using existing clues. Evidence to this effect was discovered by Ford's biographer after he died in 1971. In 1936, after a last unsuccessful séance on the roof of the Knickerbocker Hotel, she put out the candle that she had kept burning beside a photograph of Houdini since his death. In 1943, Bess said that "ten years is long enough to wait for any man."

The tradition of holding a séance for Houdini continues, held by magicians throughout the world. The Official Houdini Séance was organized in the 1940s by Sidney Hollis Radner, a Houdini aficionado from Holyoke, Massachusetts.Yearly Houdini séances are also conducted in Chicago at the Excalibur nightclub by "necromancer" Neil Tobin on behalf of the Chicago Assembly of the Society of American Magicians; and at the Houdini Museum in Scranton by magician Dorothy Dietrich, who previously held them at New York's Magic Towne House with such magical notables as Houdini biographers Walter B. Gibson and Milbourne Christopher. Gibson was asked by Bess Houdini to carry on the original seance tradition. After doing them for many years at New York's Magic Towne House, before he died, Walter passed on the tradition of conducting of the Original Seances to Dorothy Dietrich.

Houdini's funeral was held on November 4, 1926, in New York City, with more than 2,000 mourners in attendance. He was interred in the Machpelah Cemetery in Glendale, Queens, with the crest of the Society of American Magicians inscribed on his grave site. A statuary bust was added to the exedra in 1927, a rarity, because graven images are forbidden in Jewish cemeteries. In 1975, the bust was destroyed by vandals. Temporary busts were placed at the grave until 2011 when a group who came to be called The Houdini Commandos from the Houdini Museum in Scranton, Pennsylvania placed a permanent bust with the permission of Houdini's family and of the cemetery.

And the stones on the grave marker? It’s really a Jewish custom but is now practiced by

many of all faiths..the simple act has come to be a great sign of respect for our deceased

loved ones. It is a ‘sign’ to those stopping by that the grave has recently been visited and that

the deceased has not been forgotten…so next time you visit… take a small stone or two

with you!

It's Halloween....pumpkin time.

The Pumpkin Weeps

“Slow down, Jimmy! Carving a pumpkin takes patience, a keen eye, and most importantly, a steady hand.”

Chad Osborn was sitting next to his son Jimmy as the eight year-old boy inserted the knife into the outer skin of the pumpkin they had just purchased a half mile down the road. The knife was not a sharp one—which was probably part of the problem—and Jimmy tried in vain to accomplish a deep cut. Chad knew that his wife would not approve of this whole plan, but under strict supervision, Chad thought Jimmy could at least do the task without taking a finger off.

“I want to make a big frown on the face, Dad.”.

“Why a frown?”

“Well,” replied Jimmy, “I can’t be too sure the pumpkin would have a smile on his face after being pulled out of his patch. That was his home, right?”

His dad chuckled. “I guess that’s right, son . . . I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

And so the two continued for the next half hour to make the face that Jimmy had envisioned, Jimmy getting his wish as he put the finishing touch on the pumpkin that made it quite sad-looking indeed.

“Can we put in on the front stoop tonight with a candle inside, dad? I’ll be careful. I promise. And I’ll watch it closely.”

“Okay” his dad said. “We’ll come out at dusk and light it up for a couple of hours before you go to bed.”

And so the plan was in place. Jimmy couldn’t wait to eat his supper, get his homework done, and prepare for the first pumpkin lighting of his young career. Wow, what a night it would be! A couple hours had passed, and Jimmy became increasingly anxious to start the night’s festivities. Jumping on his dad’s lap and knocking the newspaper from Chad’s hands, he asked, “Can we go out front and light it now dad? Can we, can we?”

“Okay son, I’ll go get some matches and we’ll see how that project of yours turned out.” His dad put down his paper, grabbed his son, and they headed out the front door with a shared mission in mind.  

Sitting on either side of the pumpkin, Jimmy and his dad examined the masterpiece they had created earlier in the day. The face wasn’t scary—it looked more sad than angry. Jimmy lifted the stem attached to the top and sat it aside as his dad struck the match and reached down inside to light the small white candle. 

Replacing the top and getting down in front of the pumpkin, Jimmy exclaimed with joy, “Dad, look at it . . . it’s perfect!”

 But Jimmy’s broad smile became a straight line as his face went from joyful to serious.

“What’s wrong, son?” his father asked.

“Dad, look at this.”

Coming around front, his father knelt beside Jimmy and saw what had changed the child’s face.  On either side of the pumpkin, and at the outer corner of each eye, several drops of water dripped down the pumpkin’s cheek. Almost a stream, if you will. “Oh that’s just condensation from inside son. Pumpkins are very wet inside you know.”

“No, dad. This pumpkin is most unhappy that we have ripped it away from its home, and it’s crying. Look at it.” Jimmy started to well up himself, his bottom lip quivering. “We have to take it back tomorrow. It has to go back.”

“Son, nobody’s going to take back a carved pumpkin . . . but we’ll try.” With that, the pair blew out the candle and retired for the evening.

The next day being Saturday, Jimmy and his father placed the pumpkin in the front seat of the station wagon and headed back down the road to the stand from which it came. The old man who operated the stand sat on a rusty old milk can and struck a match to his pipe as the pair approached him.

 “Problem?” inquired the man as Chad and Jimmy placed the carved piece at his feet.

“No, none at all,” replied Chad. “It was nice, but my son wants it returned to where it came from. Can you do that?”

“Well, I’ve never had anyone bring one back before, rather unusual, but guess I could. Can’t give your money back though.”

“Oh no, don’t expect that. Thanks so much, we’ll try and get back next year.”

“Suit yourself,” said the old man as he loaded the pumpkin into a wheelbarrow.

Sitting in the car, Chad and Jimmy reviewed the day that had just passed between them and the pumpkin.

“Do you think that pumpkin felt it when I cut it with the knife dad?”

“I don’t think so Jimmy. Many say that plants can communicate with each other, but I don’t believe that a plant can show any kind of emotion, let alone produce tears. How about an ice cream?”

 As the two drove away, they watched the old man as he moved the wheelbarrow out from behind his stand. Picking the pumpkin up and gently placing it back near another of its kind, the old man walked away with water dripping from his hands. “Boy, I don’t think I’ve ever handled one that wet,” he remarked as he dried his hands with his well-worn handkerchief.

Jimmy’s pumpkin was back home, as Jimmy had requested. Had his pumpkin produced tears after being ripped away from the fertile ground? Had it felt not only the separation, but also the knife that Jimmy had held to produce the frown that now adorned its face? Lots of questions indeed to ponder.

The sun settled two hours later on the old man’s pumpkin patch. Tonight, there would be a new face there, one with a most distinctive frown, and perhaps even a dried tear or two to reflect the moonlight that was yet to arrive.

The haunted belfry....

Enjoy the story... it's story number 11 in Tales Unleashed.

The Haunted Belfry

The church near Berkley Creek, Pennsylvania had been closed many years ago. It’s pastor who had been loved by all, had been dismissed by the elders after engaging in an affair with a woman on the church’s finance committee.

And so it was that the church sat idle, entangled by the yearly growth of weeds and invasive vines which choked at it’s very shingles, decade after decade. The glorious Sunday morning worships which echoed the organ and choir sounds down the hollow were now silenced, replaced by the calls of wayward crows looking to roost. An occasional passerby walking on the dirt road out front would stop, give pause and try to imagine the building when it was king of the hill. It was now indeed a lonely place. The building had witnessed the baptisms, marriages and funerals of hundreds of it’s followers…..but now only silence, except for the occasional thrice ringing of the church bell. It was not a regular alarm in the tower….it only happened about three times a year, and it was usually on the third of the month, and it was always at 3:00 a.m., when all men and beasts within it’s range were nestled into their beds.

A bit unsettling to say the least, especially for neighbors who lived within the half mile separated only by the tall pines and sugar maples which buffeted the sound.

It had been rumored for years that the church was haunted…haunted by it’s organist Joshua P. Cobb, an elderly man in his 70’s who had played and maintained the pump organ for over sixty years. Joshua had met an untimely death in the church while practicing for a recital late in the fall of 1940. The custodian who discovered Joshua was stunned to find him face down, heading down the set of steps which numbered twelve. But Joshua had only made it part way down, his foot breaking thru the old board on step number three, his foot still lodged there… his body dangling down the remaining steps causing his demise.

The number three was Joshua’s number indeed.

Church records showed that he had been born on March 3^rd, 1873, and was one of three children.

So when that bell tolls three times at that ghastly hour, people think little of it….. they know that Joshua is still there, kind of a perpetual caretaker. But on that 3:00 a.m. ringing, people have a tendency to pull the covers up a little tighter and hope for early daylight.

My publisher says....

I should start teasing my book for next year...so here is a tease.

The thrill of October...

What a great time of year it is....the fall....cool nights....

spooky stories...walking down a country road at dusk

looking behind every tree to make sure there is no one there

to give you a quick scare.

We'll tell a few good ones here starting... well, very soon.

Stop in often.

Like maybe...a new project?

Is a new podcast my next project? With the success of my writing

blog over the last couple of years...and both books out on the web...

I've been urged by a couple of former- fellow- broadcasters to 'throw my hat'

in the ring and start a weekly podcast to talk about my usual subjects.

So, the search has started for some expertise, the right company to help

me produce such...and a few extra dollars it will take to get one

up and running... I'll keep you informed...could be a lot of

fun!

Remembering Betty Ong....

Crew member Betty Ong, a flight attendant on American Airlines Flight 11 from Boston Logan (BOS) bound for LAX. Not long after take-off, terrorists stabbed the purser and a first-class flight attendant and locked themselves in the cockpit. Amid the terror of the flight, Ong found a crew phone and called her airline colleagues. For over 20 minutes, she gave a detailed account and description of the hijackers, even identifying their seat numbers. This information would help the FBI quickly get their passport data and learn their identities. Watching as the plane turned and flew over Manhattan Ong's last words were reportedly "Pray for us. Pray for us."

May her family have continued peace as the years continue to click by....

Remembering 9-11....

The nation continues to weep for the families of all the victims

who were lost 18 years ago.  The loss is deep...the recovery is a

slow agonizing process....some never recover. 

Let's keep them in our prayers...now and in the weeks, months

and years ahead.

Below is the contingent sent from the Allegany County Sheriff's

office, led by former Sheriff Randall Belmont. 

It was humbling duty.....chilling.....there are no other words.

Chapter 4 from Undertakings....

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.