It’s Time For Your Checkup — Complimentary Shuttle Service Provided

I eat frozen pizza every day. I may have mentioned that in a previous essay. I don’t remember. I just write this shit. I don’t read it. Why add to the tedium?

Jack’s Supreme. Two bucks. Loaded with sodium. A pizza a day keeps the doctor away. Because you leapfrog the doctor and go directly to the coroner. The waiting room is cold, but you don’t really feel inconvenienced.

Sue is my family coroner. She performs all of the final physical examinations in my county. I had the opportunity to observe her in action a few years ago when I exhumed a body under court order resulting from a reopened homicide investigation. It wasn’t my first exhumation. I have dug up carcasses when the family members decide they want to move granny to a sunnier spot in the boneyard. I have dug up carcasses when junior gets a job transfer and wants to bring mommy along. Do yourself a favor and have yourself incinerated and flushed. If you leave the slightest apparition behind after you throw in the towel, they won’t stop fucking with it. You’d rest in greater peace if you were a Samsonite in the hands of a disgruntled airline baggage-monkey.

The dead woman’s husband had a nasty habit of beating his wives to death, then pushing them down the stairs to complete the "accident." He had gotten off on this case fourteen years ago, but only because our county coroner at the time was a drunk who conducted autopsies by telephone. If the deceased didn’t answer the phone, cause of death was "inconclusive." He did sign one death certificate with cause of death cited as "can’t talk now — I’m expecting an important call." Anyway, the model husband was currently standing trial for accident number two. The odd coincidence wasn’t lost on the local constable, so here we were, digging up the first clumsy wife to take another looksee.

The exhumation was routine, with the exception of the presence of local television film crews. As is common during these operations, we cracked a corner of the concrete vault lid while hoisting the assembly out of the grave, allowing the aroma of finely aged embalming fluid and slow decomposition to sweeten the spring air. True to form, the Ridin’ Boss had to scamper off to purge his breakfast, never to be seen again that day. His weak constitution serves him well whenever there is heavy lifting to be performed. He’d get queasy watching himself chew food. Pussy.

Sue noted my interest in autopsy procedures during the exhumation, or perhaps she was just tired of my endless barrage of questions. In any event, she invited me to observe the autopsy the next morning.

I arrived early for the morgue show, and I assisted Sue and the deputy coroner in the cracking of the casket and the hefting of the corpse onto the autopsy table. Sue exuded compassion throughout the process. Health care providers could learn a lesson from this death care provider. She actually greeted Crystal by name and expressed empathy for her untimely demise as well as apology for the rude interruption of her dirt nap. She straightened Crystal’s hair and removed her makeup (no, the hair and fingernails don’t continue to grow after death. Another myth debunked). She then removed Crystal’s clothing and hung it neatly on a clothes rack in the manner that June Cleaver would hang up Beaver’s Sunday school clothes.

Due to the nature of the procedure, the morgue was abuzz with detectives and lawyers. A noted forensic archaeologist was contracted to examine the remains, which I guess makes sense since Crystal had been unearthed. The forensic specialists poked and prodded at Crystal in search of previously undetected trauma that couldn’t be explained away by a fall down the stairs. While these guys approached the task in a very detached and workmanlike manner, Sue doted over Crystal. If an arm were left dangling off the table, Sue would gently lift it and place it by Crystal’s side. Again, it was reminiscent of a mother tending to the needs of her child during a pediatric examination. Except the pediatrician doesn’t diagnose a skull fracture by lopping the kid’s head off and soaking it in a bucket of bleach. Doesn’t sound like a bad idea, though. It wouldn’t affect the scholastic prowess of the kids in my neighborhood. And their ears would finally be clean.

How many friends could I make on MySpace?

I’m sure it wasn’t in keeping with legal protocol, but I perused the crime files for the Dead Wives’ Club while everybody else was focused on the procedures at hand. The death scene photos of both women were eerily similar. Both were splayed at the bottom of a basement staircase in as careful a manner as they could possibly be splayed. I couldn’t splay myself that perfectly if I were a compulsive splayer. Crystal’s body told a silent story all by itself. Fourteen years of dehydration served to vividly enhance the bountiful contusions she wore. She had bruises in places her shower massage never saw. Crystal must have been in great shape, because she obviously ran up and threw herself down those stairs seven or eight times.

The autopsy results? Inconclusive. Sue’s gotta quit drinking.

The husband of the year got life for his second wife’s demise, though. That’s a pretty good deal for him. A two-fer.

Here’s the good news. Unlike the doctor’s office, nobody hassles you about payment at the coroner’s office. No deductibles. No copayments. No out-of-network penalties. The coroner practices socialized medicine. The coroner’s services are funded by the tax system, and every citizen can avail himself of a coroner’s services regardless of race, creed, color, economic status or health history. In Canada, every citizen is provided comprehensive health care from cradle to grave. In America, every citizen is provided one comprehensive physical exam. From last gasp to grave. Or in the case of Crystal, two physical exams. Bonus.

That’s why everybody goes to the coroner, but not everybody goes to the doctor. However, everybody who goes to the doctor goes to the coroner.

Food for thought. Preferably pizza.