While my job may entail a lot of unpleasantries, giving a death notification is simply not in the job description. Crime Scene Investigators are only concerned with the evidence, not the people. That sounds good on paper, but in reality, it doesn't work that way. In some cases my arrival is enough to give the death notification. The words "Crime Scene Unit" emblazoned on the truck pretty much remove all doubt.
No one actually wants to give a death notification. Like a game of Hot Potato, the responsibility is bounced around until someone gets brave enough to swallow their gut and do it. Most of the time, we punt it to the Medical Examiner. It's sad really. The problem is that for all their bravado, police officers are just like everyone else - they don't like to see someone's heart ripped out. This can manifest itself in several ways. Most often, officers want to pass the buck. I've been guilty of this on numerous occasions, and it's never a proud moment for me. A tearful group of family members approaches the crime scene tape and they want to know if your body is their loved one. You will try to dodge the question by telling them that you don't have a "positive identification" yet. At this point they will try to give you a detailed physical description that perfectly describes your body. Their tearful eyes will search yours, pleading. You know it, and they know it, but they need to hear it. And this is where most of us drop the ball.
Some officers become gruff, repeat themselves, and walk further inside the crime scene tape, leaving grieving family members hurt and confused. While I don't condone it, I understand it. Over the years I've seen how this scene plays out. With positive confirmation, more family and friends will arrive, and the scene can get out of hand. This is the reason we tell ourselves that we delay giving a death notification, but the cold, hard reality is that like everyone else, we flat-out don't want to be the person to fullfill someone's nightmare.
I watched this sad drama play out again this week. A couple approached me, their eyes brimming with tears, and with trembling lips, they begged me to tell them what the dark shadow filling their stomach already whispered. A patrol officer attempted to brush them aside. His efforts came across as rude. I know him. I know the pain he's suffered in his personal life. He's really not the callous, indifferent man they saw. While I didn't agree with his actions, I understood them. What happened next really made an impression.
There was a young man training with me. He wants to be a crime scene investigator. He is bright, eager to learn, and already a big help on scenes. Without waiting for a cue from me, this young man placed his hand on the shoulder of the grieving man and steered him away from the other officer. While some may call this young man a Rookie, I was moved by his compassion for others, which marked him as so much more than a Rookie. He patiently explained why we were unable give them the news they so desperately sought. While it still delayed the inevitable, this young man took the time for a moment of kindness. He kept his scene secure, he bought himself a little more time, and in some small way, he assured them that someone cared. And perhaps that is the best we can do. We cannot take away the pain, but we certainly don't want to add to it. For this day will forever be etched in the minds of that couple.
I applaud the young man's maturity and compassion. May I never become so jaded that I lose that.
