Mick Lynch - The Removal Men

Vampires, Ghosts, and the Church

Michael, Michael, get up. Well be late! What is the matter with that child? my grandmother says.

Theres nothing wrong with me, Nana. I dont want to go! I say to myself as I slap my slippers on the floor to make her think I am out of bed.

Where is it that I dont want to go? Mass. This one in particular is a requiem Mass. Im a good Catholic boy, but after all Im only ten. What do I know? Well, I know this. My religion tells me that when you are dead, you leave this world: if you were good, you go to heaven; and if you were bad, you go to hell. You cant come back to life and there are no such things as ghosts, but when we go to Mass, I am told that the son of God died and rose from the dead three days later and we pray to God, the Holy Ghost. I just dont get it!

Anyway, back to more pressing matters. When we go to Communion, I have to walk past a real live coffin. Oh God, what if I brush it with my clothes or worse with my bare arm? My nana knows this.

Get up! she yells again.

Remember the dead cant hurt you; its only the living. Oh really? And what about Dracula? Hes dead but he still goes around biting people, and then they die and come back to life at night. What if the person in the coffin is one of those? This fear of the dead, the undead and all of Americas Hollywood and Englands Hammer Horror Productions weird and wonderful creatures stayed with me up to middle age. Ive never seen The Exorcist, Freddy, or any of the fright movies. I can watch suspense movies because I know, more often than not, there is nothing around the corner of the dark room, but in the horror films there always is. So how is it that forty years later I am cradling the head of a dead Dorchester boy who has been shot through the head in a drive-by shooting in Lynn?

New Neighbors

Well, it happened like this. Our quiet little street in Marblehead has one rental house, so people move in and out about every other year or so. As I look out my window one Saturday morning, the new people arrive in two minivans; what looks to me like a husband and wife in their mid-forties, two kids, and an older guy. The husband seems be the one giving out all the orders military-style. Maybe he is a former sergeant or something. A couple of days later, I notice two of the minivans have numbered license plates with the word Hearse underneath.

Oh god, are you kidding me? I think as I shudder by.

The vans are owned by Phil Handley and his wife Julie. The older guy turns out to be Harry, Phils number 2. Phil has an embalming and body-removal business called TRE (Trade Removals and Embalmings). He contracts with funeral homes where he will pick up the deceased, takes them to a specific funeral home, and then, in most cases, embalm the body. The Boston Medical Examiners Office employs him in a similar process, but in those cases he is picking them up from accident and crime scenes, homicides, suicides, and were just not sure-icides. Any suspicious or unexpected deaths end up at the MEs office.

After working for a print finishing company for ten years, I became self-employed. I have an interior painting company and I design and build English/Irish pubs, sports bars, man caves (and, for that matter, woman caves), wines bars, etc., in peoples homes. So, when Im not working for myself during the day, I hang out at Phils, which is not usually for very long as the phone calls come in at regular intervals.

July 4th Celebration

Phil and I become fast friends. He is a very likeable and organized character, generous to a fault. He can take the most reserved people and turn them into party animals, for a short while anyway. July 4th is here and Phil is having a party at his home. The mix of people at the gathering is astounding and from every walk of life. Its like his own private collection of characters, Phils human menagerie, if you will: politicians, mega-rich gay men, police, firemen, couples, singles, and some characters you wouldnt want to turn your back on (oh sorry, I already mentioned politicians, didnt I?). We are well into July 5th now and with only Phil and I standing (me, barely), he asks me if I would like to go out on a case with him. Its 3:00 a.m. and I have been drinking that black-bodied, cream-headed liquid imported from Ireland by the pint all night long, so I am up for pretty much anything.

Sure, I said.

When do we start?

We have to get a phone call first, Mick.

Oh. Okay. I leave Phils at 3:30 a.m. and go to my house next door.

Fancy a Trip to the Seaside?

Its 3:33 a.m. There is a knock on the door below.

Come on, Mick. Drive-by shooting on Lynn Beach. Put on good pants and a shirt. Lets go!

An instant adrenalin rush goes through me. I am not drunk anymore. As I get in the hearse, he says we are going to Dunkin Donuts.

Grab a coffee, eat some mints, and dont breathe on the policemen.

I remember it as being a mixture of trepidation and overwhelming excitement. My wife, however, remembers it differently. She recalls that in the middle of the night, all of the bedroom lights went on and shoes and clothing came flying out of the closet. She described me as being barely able to stand and dress myself.

What do I have to do?

Youre the ankle man, he said smiling. Just follow my lead.

We arrive at the scene. The road is cordoned off. I see the look on the officers face. We are in an unmarked minivan. It doesnt say Phils body pickup service or Have body, will travel. It just has that little license plate with Hearse on it. The officer looks like he has been turning people away for a while now. As we pull up, I can see he is about to tell us to make a U-turn or words to that effect. When Phil tells me to yell to him MEs office, his growl turns into a smile.

Right through, guys, he says.

Theyre always happy to see us. It means they can leave soon. There are state troopers, local police, the fire department, and detectives there. The scene is ablaze with blue and red flashing lights, news media, cameras everywhere, onlookers, and a helicopter overhead. My god, this is CS-freaking-I Miami, Lynn style.

That would be the only part of the operation that would resemble the glitzy TV show as I would find out upon on our arrival at the MEs office.

We are going to be in and out of here in five minutes, says Phil as we pull up and open the back of the van.

He shows me where the release handles of the stretcher are, and he grabs a body bag and two sets of gloves.

Just follow my lead. We will put the stretcher next to the door. I will pull him out, lay him down, zip the bag up, and we will be gone.

Okay, Phil, as long as I dont have to touch him, I think. The boy is sitting in the drivers seat of the car. We lower the stretcher (at least I didnt screw that up), and the body bag is unzipped and opened. I wonder how we will get him out of the car. Wont he be stiff?

Phil grabs him by his T-shirt and pulls him out.

Hold his head, he says.

Who, me?

He must be mistaking me for someone who doesnt mind touching dead bodies, but there is no time to do anything but react to his command. Both hands went under his head and we laid him down gently on the open body bag.

We dont want there to be any postmortem bruising before the autopsy.

Of course we dont, Phil , I quipped to myself, like I should know this. We zipped up the bag. I took the ankle end and lifted the stretcher. The kid only weighed about 110 pounds. I would soon realize why weight was important. We wheeled him to the van, slid him in the door, shut it, and we were gone. It couldnt have taken more than four minutes. Phil is so proficient that he made me look good.