The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 21

As the day progressed, Jonathan quizzed Emily regarding the identification and use of certain instruments, including those most commonly used as well as those employed during the most traumatic cases. Holding out a long rod-like instrument, he asked her what it was and what it was used for. Perhaps he had forgotten that she had already used it, or maybe he was trying to trick her. “What’s this?” he asked.

“That’s a trocar,” she replied. “There are a few different types, but this one is for releasing gases from the abdominal and chest cavities.” Before he could ask any further questions as to its use, Emily continued with the correct explanation. “The beveled end is placed above the collarbone and pushed underneath it. Then, it’s pushed deeper at an angle through the body until it pierces the diaphragm and enters the abdominal cavity. The track it creates allows a space for gases to pass through. Once the gases are released, a plug is inserted into the hole and sutured shut. There should be at least five sutures, and they should be tight so it doesn’t leak.”

Jonathan wasn’t really surprised at how much she had retained from her education, but it was her deep interest and commitment that, once again, caught him by surprise.

“You really love this work, don’t you?” he asked. Emily let out a slight sigh as her face flushed. “You have no idea,” she replied. Jonathan thought it was rare to meet someone who was so committed to the craft. He honestly believed that his level of commitment was unique, as he had been referred to by Frank as an artist. Was it possible that he had met his match in this young woman? Time will tell. It would only be when a traumatic case arrived that she would be truly tested. Routine preparation was one thing, but reconstructing someone who had been ripped apart, their bones shattered and perhaps decapitated would be the ultimate test of both her skills and her resolve. All the mortuary skills in the world were useless if one couldn’t keep themselves together. It was a head game one needed to learn to play on themselves – another skill one had to master. In similar fields of work, it’s referred to as detachment—the ability to place oneself outside what is often emotionally difficult as well as graphic. In the funeral industry, one can encounter both -- necessitating the mastery of both skill and mind. Usually this is discovered in the lab, where death is seen up close. The student either sinks or swims as they discover if they indeed have the stomach for working with the dead.

Leaning back against the door, Jonathan loosened his tie and, crossing his arms, studied the body Emily had so carefully prepared. It only took a few moments, but Jonathan discovered he was at a loss to find any flaws in her work. Given her level of experience, he would have given it an ‘A’ had he been her professor. But there was the dinner date he and his wife were hosting, and he wanted to arrange a time that would be convenient for everyone. “So, anyway,” he said. “My wife wants you over for dinner some time. How’s next Saturday sound?” Emily didn’t think she would actually receive an invitation. She had always been a loner, and in possession of a rather odd personality, most people kept clear of her. It seemed to be the story of her life. Always the outcast, she had been judged and alienated since her early teens. It seemed that the happiest part of her life was spent in college, when everyone who would otherwise judge or harass her was as busy studying as she was. But this was the real world, and in life, one can occasionally encounter good people who have discovered the uselessness of personal judgment when there is so much of life to be lived without it.

She had planned on renting a cabin in the nearby lakes area on that particular Saturday, but with a firm date for dinner with Jonathan and his wife, Emily decided the cabin would wait. Besides, Autumn would be the best time to go camping anyway.

“Next Saturday sounds great,” she replied. Pulling up his tie, Jonathan straightened it and prepared to move the body to the crematorium, where it would be transferred to a long cardboard and placed in a furnace. At four thousand degrees, it will be reduced to gray ash, while all traces of carbon would be burned away. The next day, a burial was to be held while Frank and Jonathan, once again, would be in attendance. It was all part of an elaborate play written to provide the deceased with a memorable send-off while at the same time offering the family ample time to say goodbye. The person who once occupied the body soon to be contained in a fashionable urn had drifted off to a place many had their own name for. But memories are as immortal as those who still live with them. They can be passed on from generation to generation only to fade away, victims of the transitory nature of time. Jonathan looked at his watch and, realizing that he was behind in his duties, panicked visibly.

“Oh shit,” he said. “We’ve got a body to move.” Turning around towards the door, he straightened his jacket and made his way out towards the viewing room where Frank was waiting. Although he had not been gone for more than five or ten minutes, he found himself being chastised for running late.

“Where’s the hearse?!” he asked. “We have a service in the morning and a burial in the afternoon.”

Normally, he was the one who drove the hearse, and knowing where the keys were, he quickly went to Frank’s office. The door was open, and rounding the door frame looked at the hook on the wall where they would usually hang. Again, Frank’s voice bellowed.

“I already got the keys,” Frank said. “C’mon, Jon. We gotta get going!”

Running out of Frank’s office, Jonathan sprinted to the viewing room and began clearing away the flowers and ribbons from around the casket. Already having been closed and locked the casket awaited transport to the crematorium across town. Going to the front door, Jonathan checked outside for any stray mourners who may have found themselves unable to leave. Sometimes, people can become so grief-stricken they become unable or unwilling to leave, not wanting to – in their minds, abandon their loved one who was being shut into a casket that would soon be locked. In rare occurrences, someone may return in order to say one last goodbye. This was generally not allowed as there were other matters to attend to, and the lone mourner would be gently sent away with an invitation to attend the burial service the next day.

During services, the casket was placed on a steel dolly and draped with a dark-colored velvet cloth. Strapping it down to the dolly, Frank and Jonathan rolled it out the side door and slid it into the hearse. Once it was secured, they drove to the crematorium – the final journey of the deceased. There they were met by the owner, who assisted them in transferring the body from the casket to the cardboard box that awaited it. Jonathan had made this trip many times but was still fascinated by what happens during the process of cremation – how the body behaves as the fire rapidly forces it into dehydration. Death was no stranger to him, and in spite of its daily appearance, Jonathan still possessed a strong interest in what he knew was a process, not a single event. His interest also extended to the anthropology of death. While in Romania, he learned of the folklore of people living in isolation who believed in vampires. They hung strings of garlic around their houses and put crosses in the windows. It also seems that after someone had been buried for any length of time, the local people would disinter the body so as to be certain the deceased had not become a member of the undead. Unbeknownst to them, discomposure forces gases and fluids to circulate, causing the body to move. After the coffin was opened, the movement was quickly believed to be a sign of nocturnal activity, and with pressure forcing fluids out of the mouth, this was seen as recent feeding. What would happen next was enough to make even Jonathan’s head spin. Once it was determined that they were truly dealing with a vampire, one of the town’s people was sent to retrieve an axe, and the while prayers were being spoken, the legs were chopped off and crossed over the chest. As a guarantee against the undead rising, the heart was sometimes removed, and a long stake was driven through the decedent’s chest, through the bottom of the coffin, and deep into the ground. After hearing of this gruesome event, Jonathan’s mind went back to the vampire movies he had seen, and quickly determined that how these perceived creatures were dealt with in the movies paled in comparison to how people acted out their paranoia in the mountains of Romania. The sad truth was that in these isolated areas, older people often died of Tuberculosis, otherwise known as ‘consumption’. They lost weight; their skin turned a deathly pallor as the end grew near, and with the final gurgle of tidal air, it was determined that they had crossed over into the hands of God. But the disease didn’t stop with one death. As the pole was being hammered through the chest, tidal air was being forced out – air that was, in fact, contaminated with Tuberculosis. And with so many crowded around the coffin in morbid curiosity, the disease would spread, allowing the vampiric cycle to begin anew. Although there were never any real vampires, there was something far more sinister – paranoia. It was paranoia that often reduced small mountain villages to ghost towns, leaving few, if any, to bury their dead. Should one wander into one of these lifeless villages, they would witness what paranoia can sometimes leave behind. What few dead remained were left as scattered bones and open graves, with dried remains having been dismembered and forgotten – a rusted axe lying nearby.

But that was years ago, and even though Jonathan left Romania with the only object of beauty he could find, the story of those mistaken for supernatural beings could never escape his mind. And during quiet times of peaceful repose, the story would come back, filling his drowsing thoughts with horrors he would never see during the length of his career. However, the telling of those events would make for a more than adequate campfire story.