Above us is a huge lift for bodies. Hooks hang from every direction. It’s meant to ease the wear and tear of the people lifting bodies (especially the 600-pound body from a couple of weeks ago). The garage is directly behind us, it has fire equipment scattered around (what’s the easiest way to cover up a murder? Set it on fire). Below us is the slick, gray and grainy floor. Down the hall, yellowing pieces of tissue swim in formaldehyde, over 100 body bags are stacked in neat piles and even farther down locker rooms and scrubs are left for “messier situations.”
In front of us are two black doors. He grips the gray, metal handle with one hand, turns to me and says:
“You’re not squeamish at all, are you?”
He pulls down on the horizontal handle and swings the door open.
Cold air rushes out of the room in a wave that first hits you in the face, then tickles and pricks every nerve of your body.
There are metal drawers. One has a white sheet covering it. Beneath it is the curve of pointed feet, the peak of a nose and the natural curve of an arm, a leg.
I stare for a moment, but it feels like walking in on someone while they’re getting dressed— heat flushes your face, you want to look away but you can’t, you pause like you’re waiting for movement.
But, even as we make our way back upstairs which is deemed as “where all the alive are,” there’s no movement. Just nothing.
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The DuPage County Coroner’s office is right off Country Farm Road. It’s seated near the Dupage Emergency Services Department and the Dupage Care Center, amongst other buildings in the government complex.
Dr. Richard A. Jorgensen, MD, ran and was elected to the position of Coroner back in November of 2012. He is the first doctor to serve as Coroner in DuPage County in 40 years. Now his days revolve around supervising the examinations of the deceased to determine a cause of death. This can mean visiting the scene of the death, filling out death certificates and speaking to the family members of the deceased.
Every morning he parks his car in the lot, walks up to the staircase, scans in and struts up the flight of stairs. He’s greeted by the person manning the front desk. He continues straight where he passes the old room that was once where court cases were held, which is no longer a requirement in the state of Illinois. He’ll pass old Joesphine, a real skeleton left behind in an old wooden box.
All the way down the hall is his office. Before he sat at a desk and did administrative work, he certainly would have a different approach coming into work. But maybe the mindset has always been the same.
Anthony Altimari, MD surgeon, worked with Jorgensen for 15 years before Jorgensen had to leave medicine for developing a latex allergy so severe he couldn’t even be in an operating room without losing his breath and being unable to stand.
When they first met all those years ago, Jorgensen was the chief resident and Altimari was an intern. They were transferring a patient from the emergency room when they rolled him into the elevator. As the doors slowly shut and Jorgensen hit the button down to the radiology department, the patient lost his airway.
A second later, Jorgensen was performing an emergency tracheotomy.
It takes an average of 13 years to become a general surgeon. At that point, it’s more than just a job, it’s an identity. At the peak of his career, he was forced to quit and do good somewhere new.
“We all have a tendency to compartmentalize. We’ve all been trained to do that over the years.”
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Now, he leaves the cutting to Hilary McElligott, MD chief forensic pathologist. Her work in the mornings tends to be downstairs performing autopsies; she will then transfer her findings upstairs to other parties. There are three counters for autopsies: one has a mirror and a viewing room right next to it, the other is in the center of the room and the last is in a quarantined room with its own ventilation system for extreme cases.
Surely, a pretty dark environment.
Scribbled on a small board between supplies is “Board of shame: I can smell it through my hat!”
After stitching back up the body, taking that hat off, the crew would make their way back upstairs. They would all pile into a small conference room with a circular Last-Supper-style table together for a “family lunch” or a “Christmas gathering.” It’s something Jorgensen always stressed was important.
Despite the day, the office comes together for a meal. Even on a day where a baby is found in a backpack on the side of the road (named Baby Hope, although the parents were never found). Jorgensen connected with other organizations to give the baby a proper burial.
“I think people think it’s a bit darker than it actually is…”
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Richard Jorgensen often walks the families into the Coroner’s office, where they may be looking for the final answers to their loved one’s death. It’s an open investigation. I imagine he pauses for a second at the door right outside of Tim Rounce, chief deputy of the Coroner’s Office.
“Supportive,” said his daughter. “Compassionate” and “business-like,” said Altimari. “Educator,” said Rounce. “Social” and “engaging,” said McElligott.
He can read people. He has to. The person next to him, they could just be a spouse, or they could be a murderer.
“It’s a depressing job, to begin with. You’re walking into someone’s worst nightmare, then you have to go in there and get that information, whether it’s from families or physicians,” said Rounce.
Even if that family member is “a large man” a “big boy” and an absolute “unit.” Even if he’s a bodybuilder waving his finger in your face and threatening to kick your ass. Even if he just repeats and repeats the dying mantra “you think I killed my father.”
Turns out, it’s more than just dead people. It’s the ones they left behind.
“TV doesn’t deal with the sounds, the smells, any of that. There is a lot that goes into things whether it’s a 95-year-old person or a small child, emotions run high.”
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According to LiveStories, there were 124 deaths related to opioid overdoses in 2017 in DuPage County alone.
An article from the Naperville Sun said that opioid deaths climbed 3 percent in 2018. Within the article, Jorgensen released statistics showing synthetic opioid fentanyl is a rising problem— there were 30 deaths in 2018 dealing with that and 34 with mixing fentanyl and heroin.
Jorgensen was the leader of the initiative to have all officers carry Narcan, which is used to treat narcotic overdoses.
“The heroin is really the thing that tugs on his heart … heroin is not what it used to be where it was the drug dealer shooting up on the corner. It’s young kids, heroin is super cheap and they have no idea what they’re buying,” said Meaghan Jorgensen, Richard’s daughter.
Even beyond having officers carry Narcan, Jorgensen went to each high school in DuPage county and did a presentation with a recovering heroin addict.
Amongst the crowds were families, faculty and young kids.
The same kind of kids that would probably back in the day say “let’s call Mr. Jorgensen for a ride” or “the Jorgensens are on vacation I want to go with.”
“My dad is the person that everyone else wishes were their dad.”
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The Coroner’s office never dies down. Death is growing, evolving—never an extinct thing.
From sorting out the meaning of missing bones to old skin samples left soaking in clear containers to holding onto a pipe that had just gone through a man’s chest to stitching back up the body of a 17-year-old who died of an opioid overdose.
From consoling a devastated mother to questioning an irate son to managing an office.
Serving the dead is about understanding the living. That’s more than just nothing.
