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CHRISTMAS AND CRIME

© Elizabeth Becka Lansky

It would seem that Christmas /Hanukkah /Kwanzaa is a strange season at a coroner’s office. Do we really hang wreaths, pictures of Santy Claus, and garland through a building which is largely populated by dead bodies? Do we giggle about the gag gift we bought for a favorite uncle over the slowly cooling body of a murder victim? Well, yes. After all, it’s Christmas. We buy presents, send out cards, have parties and eat too much just like everyone else. So there’s a decorated tree in the lobby and Christmas carols on the P.A. Maybe at times it seems a little surreal, but what do you expect us to do? Yes, we have a Christmas party with lots of food, even in a building which smells faintly of formaldehyde. We wear red Santa hats and clutch our plastic forks with glee. Okay, we don’t actually pull up chairs in the autopsy room (despite the fact that it is, or at least appears to be, the cleanest room in the building) but a good time is had by all. Everyone has their own views on Christmas. Some would prefer to ignore it, some have never sent a card in their lives, some decorate their house with enough bulbs to double their electric bill, some, like me, are obsessive types who have everything wrapped and tagged by Halloween. (Hey, it saves a lot of stress come December, let me tell you!) I love the holiday, myself; I think it really started in college where any break in the routine—a wreath here, a carol there—was a welcome surprise. This means that for the entire month I greet every body with the thought, “Gee, it’s only three weeks till Christmas.” “Dead from a car accident, and it’s only two weeks till Christmas.” “Not going to be a merry Christmas for this family, their sister murdered the day before Christmas.” “Aw, died from a heart attack only two days after Christmas.” Okay, it’s a weird quirk, but it’s mine. December is a busy month. (A digression: December, however, does not beat September for volume. One September we had exactly six days on which there was NOT a homicide. I am convinced that this is because during the childhood of almost every American, school started in September. No matter how many years it has been since we’ve last seen a chalkboard, that anxiety of impending change still invades us with the turning of the leaves. Something in our lives should be changing, and we don’t know what. We get antsy. And when criminals get antsy, people die.)

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