BOAR THE FOURTH
by The Boar
Now for a short story that is not specifically motorcycle related. However, it will hopefully give you an insight into the make-up of a cop's psyche and how we deal with the 'shit that happens'.
It is often said that a "policeman's lot is not so hot". I can support that hypothesis with a small story from the early 1980's.
Death is far from pretty. That is an accepted fact. Having said that, some deaths are more acceptable than others, particularly those of the 'rock spider' variety. What I speak of is the impact of having to view, and smell, some of the most abominable scenes imaginable.
Throughout my career I have had to view some fairly bleak things. Frankly, within reason, I don't care what I see. Perhaps I have a less receptive visual overload switch compared to my olfactory senses. I make no excuses for finding it hard to stomach the smell of a rotting corpse. Nor do I make excuses for how police generally handle such instances. Responses can, and do, include projectile vomiting, casting the foulest curses on the rapidly disintegrating victim or flatly refusing to get within the near vicinity of the actual body despite the many obligations that rest with the police in terms of searching the corpse and ultimately identifying the person.
Let me kid you not, a smelly dead 'un is one of the lowest jobs you can do.
I should set the scene in respect to this story by confirming that OH&S wasn't even a tingle in the loins of some legislator, so any concept of protective equipment to deal with abominations of the type I was to experience wasn't a consideration. You learned to put up with smells or you used a few simple tools, i.e. your handkerchief or substantial amounts of Vick's Vapour Rub jammed up your nose to ward off the smell. As a short aside, don't think that cocaine is the only thing that will burn the shit out of your nose. Vick's does a fair job as well, without the accompanying high.
The season was a hot dry summer (isn't it always with decomposing corpses?) The call was made to the police station from a young trail bike rider, who as I recall, sounded just a touch breathless.
"G'day, mate. Listen I was just out riding in the State Forest and I think I found a body."
Now lines like that are dreaded by cops because if you "think" you've found a body, the undeniable position is that you, in fact, have found a body.
"What do you mean you 'think' you've found a body?"
"Well, it's in the back of this panel van, but I can't get close enough to see because it stinks so much."
Well, goodo thinks I. Fucking sensational. My entire afternoon is now going to be gainfully employed looking at a human stew and dodging blow flies the size of cricket balls.
A few short questions and a rendezvous location decided, I tell my workmate. 'Stumpy' was a man who didn't let the grass grow under his feet, loved a beer, typically avoided work with much more energy than it would have taken to actually complete half the jobs, and, overall was a great bloke with a lot of experience.
Giving my most detailed briefing ("We've got a stinking fucken dead 'un in the forest in the back of a panel van"), we boarded the trusty F100 police truck and drove directly to the nearest chemist where utilising the few shekels that I am permitted to take for lunch money by my darling (ex) wife, I purchased one economy size barrel of Vick's Vapour Rub.
With all due diligence (praying for some major aircraft crash, armed robbery, etc, to occur so we don't have to go to the job) we made great haste to the agreed rendezvous.
Now if you've never been near a corpse in the advanced stages decomposition, let me give you a tip.
Maintain your virgin-like ignorance and avoid going near one at all costs. They stink like nothing you can imagine.
They stink like someone is driving hot lava-shit up your nose. They stink so bad that you will burp the smell for hours after. They stink so bad that your clothes, regardless of the number of wash-cycles, will still just have that little 'tinge'. In other words, if one was to imagine what hell would smell like then, you've got the idea.
When we pulled up there was no doubt there was a body in the van. I stopped the truck 50 or so metres away and the rich aroma was clearly evident as were the obligatory blowies. I noticed a garden hose coming from the exhaust into the side window of the van, so overall the scene appeared to be a suicide by gassing.
I grabbed the Vicks, as did Stumpy, and jammed some up our noses which gave the appearance of a rather nasty flu virus discharge on our faces. Stubby and I walked to the van. I recall clearly that we started to separate, walking widely apart which is a natural form of movement for cops when danger is perceived. I don't know why we do it, but we do.
As we got up to the van I could see a grotesquely swollen body face down on a small mattress. The body had turned a beautiful green colour and had caused considerable condensation on the inside windows of the van. The blowies' trails through that condensation were clearly evident, as was the millions of maggots on and around the body. Interestingly I also noticed four or five cans of KB beer.
"What do you reckon, Stumpy? Looks like he gassed himself." (My detective career must have been blossoming with such a razor sharp observation.)
"Fuck he's blown up!"
"Don't doubt it. I'm not surprised he fucken gassed himself drinking KB. Drinking that rat's piss is enough to make you want to top yourself!"
By this stage I had started to get the thickening saliva sensation in the mouth and throat, that gluggy feeling that leads into that most relaxing gagging sensation, and, depending on how recently one ate, a good old chunder.
Backing away from the van (I wouldn't ever turn my back on something like that it case it got me!) I pulled my hanky from my pocket and started trying to filter the air that was entering my lungs.
I mentioned earlier that it was summer and it was hot. Well, it was bloody hot and the most rudimentary inquiries revealed that the rapidly expanding deceased had been missing for at least a month. At least a month! In this weather! Fucken hell. When that body was removed from that van the stench would be horrendous. You see decomposing bodies tend to 'melt' onto the surface on which they rest. That 'melting' causes a seal and we all know what happens when you break a seal.
The other lowest job in the world would have to be the Government Contractor. These are the people who turn up and collect bodies for the cops and cart them off to the morgue. They drive nondescript white vans and are generally unaffected by these types of jobs.
When they arrived on this occasion the crew consisted of two men, one older and one younger. Not actually unlike the police crew already in attendance. Stumpy began to have a quick chat with his contemporary whilst the younger one approached me.
This young bloke was a gangly fellow with a large and bobbing Adam's apple which was going 10 to the dozen at the time. He leaned in towards me and in a most conspiratorial tone whispered,
"Is it a bad one?"
To say I was speechless was an understatement. Here I am standing 50 yards away with a handkerchief over my mouth and a pound of Vic's hanging out of my nose; the drone of blowies was akin to a squadron of B52 bombers and the rich aroma of rotting flesh was thickening the air. Was it a bad one? Was this bloke for real?
"Mate, have you got a cold or something? Can't you fucken smell that? It's not bad, IT'S THE FUCKEN WORST!"
He looked at me with watery eyes and said, "What is that smell?"
"Haven't you had a smelly one before?"
"No," he shook his head.
"Well mate, your baptism of fire is just about to commence. Have fun, I'll be hiding up here."
He trudged off to his older workmate (who ironically enough had that skinny undertaker look about him). They spoke briefly, then drove their van down to the panel van and parked behind it.
An opening of the van doors confirmed my fears. Despite being some distance away, the smell (incredibly) increased. The contractors laid out a body bag in preparation for the corpse. As they began to reach into the van Stubby yelled out.
"Hey boys, are there cans of KB in there?"
A quick glance by the elder. "Yep," he confirmed.
"Do us a favour will you. Wipe the shit off a couple and throw them up here. It's fucken hot standing around waiting for you to finish."
There is always a pregnant pause that follows one of the all-time great comments. It's like time stops 'cos no-one would expect a line like that. The laughter began and continued as the contractors dragged the mattress out of the van breaking the 'seal' of melted skin. The contractors began to gag, the younger quite properly vomited, while still laughing at Stubby's request. Stubby and I began to laugh at them laughing and vomiting. A wise man once said 'he who laughs last?'
The pestilence that flowed from that vehicle to my nose was direct and deadly. I had a false tooth at the time, and on the occasion where vomiting was the de rigeur pastime, I always ensured the removal of the tooth and plate prior to the activity. I just managed it in time.
Stubby promptly went out in sympathy.
Have you ever tried to laugh and vomit at the same time? Give it a try some time.
Well, the body was bagged and taken away. Inquiries were finalised and a post mortem conducted. I could tell you about the probationary constables that were taken to view that post mortem; one in particular who was a very dark-skinned Mauritian ex-butcher who came out of the post mortem mid-procedure as white as a ghost and muttering a response to some friendly advice given by his training officer ("Think of it as a butcher shop"). I recall the probationer suggested "It's not like any fucken butcher shop I've been in!"
But, the story does not end there.
Around this time the police station I was working at was running an operation that required the posting of a guard at the rear underground car park entrance. Some four or five days later, I was in the command centre for the operation when I received a call from the guard assuring me that there was a dead body in the basement of the police station. I've seen a few strange things in the basements of police stations (some of which will be other stories, I'm sure), but I've never seen a dead body there. When I went downstairs, lo and behold I recognised that distinctive aroma. I looked around, and there was the van parked in a dark corner of the building. Well, it looked like the infamous van so I walked up to check. Imagine my surprise when I could see sheets of rotting flesh and the accompanying maggots happily munching away.
A few quick calls solved the mystery.
The family of the deceased gave the van to Stumpy as they, understandably, had no further use for the vehicle. Stumpy arranged for a friendly tow truck operator to jump start the vehicle after adding petrol. He happily drove his latest acquisition to the station and parked it there. Stumpy was delicately told to "shift that fucken car", a direction he complied with by parking the vehicle on his front lawn. Legend has it for the rest of summer he ran a garden sprinkler in the van with liberal and constant doses of heavy grade detergent. Legend also suggests that he sold the car to an unsuspecting youth during winter as the sale of the vehicle would have been impossible during the summer months.
So if you ever get into a van that has a funny smell, you'll be able to tell where it's been -- or more accurately, who's been in it.
