Police Books

The Disposition of Human Remains

I am little behind on writing about my travels.  On January 8^th I took an overnight trip to Mariposa where I was installed as the Junior Warden of Mariposa Lodge No. 24.  Except for the Tule Fog throughout the California Central Valley, the trip was uneventful.  I went back up on the 15^th and sat in the East for a First Degree.  In between those trips, my brother and I escorted my father to his final resting place.  Yep, we disposed of human remains.

My father died more than 15 years ago.  I moved in with him for the last six months of his life and journeyed with him through severe Parkinson with dementia.  The last time I saw him lucid we were playing cards after dinner.  I caught him cheating and started teasing him.  Mostly about him drinking coffee out of sippy cup.  We all started laughing.  As he laughed, he went into a seizure. 

After a long night in the ER, he was finally admitted comatose with hard seizures.  My father’s medical condition was exacerbated by our general genetic hardiness.  His body kept working a long time after his mind had faded.  A long 35 days in hospice and pneumonia mercifully pushed him into the afterlife. I sat with him during his last 12 hours.  I reported his death to family.  Watched his body loaded into the funeral home van and signed for him to be cremated. 

Days later there was a reading of the will and then a memorial. All the paperwork was completed and his decision about final disposition of his remains was in play.  Someone was supposed to take care of that last detail.  Someone other than me was supposed to ensure a box of ashes was transported to the Neptune Society.  Someone else intervened with a better idea, so they thought.  I am not certain what happened because I was hundreds of miles away.  Indeed, it would be months before I figured out he was in limbo – his ashes, not his soul. 

In truth, when I found out who had done what, I washed my hands of it.  More than a decade ago I turned away from the people and the problem.  I had lived the real drama.  I had seen the last act.  I didn’t want to get involved in the knock-off roadshow.

A few months ago, I got a telephone call from a relative I hadn’t talk to in a pretty long time.  The person in possession of my father’s ashes wanted to proceed with disposition.    This relative was acting as a go-between (as a side note, the parties involved are very likely going to read this.  I am certain they have a different point of view; this is mine).  The Ash Holder wanted a funeral and they couldn’t get a necessary signature to make the funeral happen.  No, I thought, you don’t do funerals 15 years after the memorial.  Especially, expensive funerals.  But, what I was being asked to do was track down the person whose signature was necessary to make the funeral happen.  Supposedly, the “Ash Blocker” wouldn’t return messages.  I was in contact with them within 24 hours and had them agree to sign. 

I went over to my Brother’s and related what was going on.  He agreed that an expensive funeral was not a good idea.  He, however, was onboard with doing something.  I told him I was not involved.  I went home and thought about it.  It was all unnecessary family drama.  A made-up crisis.  However, my father was a fixer.  It had to be fixed.   I went back to my brother.  He agreed that if we could get possession of the Ashes, I would pay to have them properly scattered. 

He called the Ash Holder.  The Ash Holder agreed that my brother and I could drive 125 miles and pick up the ashes and then drive the 125 miles back.  In the meantime, I found a reputable company and start the paperwork.  The day before the 250-mile round trip, the Ash Holder called it off because of a family illness. 

My Brother, who received the call from the Ash Holder, told the Ash Holded, “Raymond said you find a way to fuck it up.”  I did say that, but relating it undid everything.  It would be another two months before we could get yet another relative to transport the ashes to my brother.  Once my brother received the ashes he drops another change – he wants to bury the ashes in the Riverside National Veterans Cemetery.  In my mind I see miles of bureaucratic red tape trying to unfuck the last 15 years of neglect and then trying to get his ashes into the Veterans Cemetery.   I don’t know how long I paused before I say, “Okay, let’s figure this out.”

First, we needed a DD214, his discharge paper.  No family member admitted to having this record.  His widow was willing to apply for one, but it turns out that a remarried widow isn’t next of kin for DD214s.  I am, the eldest son.  I filled out the form and requested the DD214. Weeks go by and nothing happens.  While both my brother and I are Veterans, he is the one with a VA card and active VA counselor.  I ask him to talk to his VA counselor and see what they can do.  Four days after their intervention, I get the DD214 in the mail.

My brother maked application to the cemetery.  I began to pursue the proper permits.  We don’t have a death certificate, either.  I go online, download the Merced County form, fill it out CORRECTLY and mail it with a check for the PROPER AMOUNT.  I mailed that form on December 2^nd.  On January 3^rd, I received a letter back from Merced.  Essentially, after January 1^st the fees increased.  I get a little angry, and then start laughing; I am wonder if the Ash Holder took a job with Merced County.  I re-filled out the form, gott a money order for the new amount and mail it off.  A week later I received two certified copies of his death certificate.

In the meantime, my brother had worked through the cemetery system and received permission to intern my father’s ashes.  They told him we need a “Burial Permit” and that we should get it from Los Angeles County.  On the face of it, that made no sense to me.  Moreover, while you need a “burial permit” it isn’t called a “burial permit.”  It’s called a permit for the Disposal of Human Remains.  I didn’t know that and it took a while to figure it out.  Moreover, not knowing the correct form made it difficult to find the right form and person.  After discovering which form I needed, I decided to follow Federal Government instructions.  Even though it sound stupid to expect Los Angeles County to issue a permit for burial in Riverside County, I followed instructions.  That County employee on the other end of the telephone acted like I was stupid.  They suggested I contact Merced. 

Merced explained that they could give me a “transit permit” but not a burial permit.  Well, since the ashes had been transported all over the State, it seem like that was unnecessary.  Okay, onto what I generally thought I should do.

I finally got someone on the phone in Riverside County.  I found the correct department and a reasonably knowledgeable person.  They told me what to bring and how much money I would  need.  They explicitly told me I must have valid identification to use my credit card to pay for the permit.  I can do that.

Thursday morning at 8AM I arrived at my brother’s house.  I pulled into my Brother’s driveway, parked and popped the trunk because I wanted to take off my leather jacket and put it into the trunk.  Out walks my brother with the green box of ashes.  He walks around the car and looks at the open trunk and then at me. 

“No, no.  Dad rides shotgun.  You get in the backseat.”  We both start laughing and I say, “Put him in the backseat, but if he spills its on you.”  We arrived at the Riverside County building at about 845AM.  It is actually multiple county buildings situated around a central parking lot. We went into the small room with a counter at one end.  There is just enough room for 4 rows of 4 old tired government waiting chairs.  They face the counter which now has the COVID protective glass that everyone talks around anyway. 

There were two couples ahead of me.  Each couple an infant.  And, although the conversations between the government clerk and the couples was in Spanish, I could tell they were getting birth certificates for the infants.  Each pays with a debit card, but before the clerk accepts the card, he asks to see identification.  He looks intently at the tendered identification, says something in Spanish and completes the transaction.  I watched this happen twice.

My turn.  I stated my reasons and presented my paperwork.  My stuff is in order.  He says, “That will be $12.”  I handed him my debit card and then bega to fish my driver’s license out of that little transparent pocket in my wallet.  Before I can get it out, he swipes the card, hands me a receipt and tells me to take a seat. 

“That’s it?”  I ask. 

            “Yea, it will be about 10 or 15 minutes.”  Now I was slightly turned from him and holding my wallet below the counter.  He could not have seen my identification.  So, I ask, “Aren’t you going to ask to see my identification?” 

            “Oh, yea.”  He says in a tone as if he forgot.  Well, he didn’t forget to check the identification of the two Hispanic couples in front of me.  I get it: two old White guys at the counter can’t be identity thieves, but the two young Hispanic couples might have been.  And, he is Hispanic.  My ears start ringing as my blood pressure rises.  This is that White Privilege thing. He is treating me differently because of his preconceived notions about me.  It does benefit me at that moment, but it is causing all kinds of chaos in general. 

I set my timer for 15 minutes, walk out of building with my brother and across the parking lot.  I smoke and brother laughs as I pontificate on White Privilege. Timer goes off and we go back in.  I go up to the counter and the clerk says in officious voice I hadn’t heard earlier, “Its not ready.  Take a seat.”

I sit down and look at the time on my phone.  People come and go.  Thirty minutes elapses.  I pull out my phone and set my timer for 10 minutes.  My brother says, “what’ca doing?”  I tell him loud enough for the clerk to hear, “I am setting my timer for 10 minutes.  Then I am going to raise holy hell.”  The clerk looks up at us, immediately gets up behind the counter and walks to the back.  A minute or so later another clerk comes to the counter and announces out permit is ready.

As we are walking back to the car, my brother says, “Did you use that White Privilege?”  I replied curtly, “I wasn’t being a hypocrite, I was being an asshole.”  He laughed at me and we drive off toward the cemetery.

The Riverside National Cemetery is beautiful, peaceful and busy.  There were at least three funerals taking place.  We walked into the administration building.  Me with the paperwork and my brother lugging what’s left of my father.

The man behind this counter is a short Filipino man about our age.   He is all energy with a recognizable military bearing.  Within a few minutes he has looked up the reservation, checked our paperwork and received the green box of ashes.  He then gives us a form to fill out for the grave marker.  He clearly, if not somewhat forcefully, instructs us to go outside and complete the form in pencil.  I take the form and number two pencil from him and we go outside.  My brother and I decide what the marker should say and go back inside.

The man looks at the form and then compares it to other documents.  He points to a line we have left blank and says, “You should add Vietnam here.” 

            I shake my head, “My dad was discharged in 59.”

            The clerk raises his voice a little and says, “Excuse me Sir.  Are you a Veteran?” 

            “Yea I am.  And, so is my brother here.”  I replied firmly while jerking my thumb toward my brother.

            The man says, “The Vietnam War went on for a long time.  The government has a listing right here.”  He points to a form with dates and wars all the way back to the Revolutionary War.  “Congress says he is a Vietnam Veteran.” 

            “Well, Congress is wrong.  He didn’t serve in Vietnam.  It wasn’t even a thing in 59.”  I said.

            “For the purposes of the VA, he is a Vietnam Veteran.”  He counters.  I am thinking that besides war being terribly punishing on the men and women who experience it, that war, in particular, was devasting to many American Servicemembers.   I am old enough to remember how they were treated.  When I see that on a grave marker I think the man was there.  At least in Country.

            “No.  That is for men who at least got close to the pointy end of the stick.  Not……” My voice trails off as I stop myself from being too insulting.  I am thinking “Not REMFs.  Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers.”  I don’t say it, but his eyebrows go up as he explains his service around the time of Desert Storm.  Whew, I dodge the one.  I looked over at my brother.  “Yea,” my brother says, “The VA says I am a Veteran of the Lebanon bombing.  Hell, I was in boot camp.”   He pauses and shakes his head no.

            “We will go with Vietnam Era, if we have too.”  I say trying to strike a reasonable compromise.  The clerk says, “No.  Its Vietnam or nothing.”

            “Nothing it is.”  I then added, “Are we done?”

            My brother takes over and asks the reasonable follow-up questions.  When will he be interned? Will we be notified?  How long does it take to place the marker?  Once we really are done we start walking back to the car.

            “Finally, it’s done.”  I say to my brother.

            “Yea.  And you made two new friends today.” He replies.

About the Author:

Lieutenant Raymond E. Foster, LAPD (ret.), MPA is the author of 11 books including Police Technology (Prentice Hall, 2004) and Leadership: Texas Hold 'em Style.  More information can be found about Raymond at Police Consultant.

Israeli expert on security, protection, operations and prevention of criminal and terror acts; and, Dr. Reuven Paz, Ph.D., an Israeli expert on militant and radical Islam and Islamist movements.