Crime in Cemeteries

A bit of advice: don't visit cemeteries near closing time or whenever there are not a lot of people present. And lock up your valuables in your car (but keep your cell phone and pepper spray handy). Cemeteries seem like such peaceful, sacred places that crime is the last thing you might think about while visiting, but there are robberies and other crimes going on in cemeteries that we are not being told about, which I found out in my research following a personal incident. If you think about it, it makes sense: cemeteries are often isolated places cut off visually from the street and surrounding areas, with lots of nooks and crannies, and when nearly empty, they are a perfect place for a crime. The best time to go is when there are lots of other people there; for example, on Easter Sunday right after services.

My mother and I suffered a frightening incident at Gate of Heaven cemetery in Wheaton, Maryland, a while back. We called 911 to report that two men were menacing us on foot and would not let us get back into our car, and that we were "terrified." We had been alone at first with these men but, fortunately, several other people came to visit the cemetery and stayed with us until the incident was over. One of them got the gatekeeper and he got our car. The men finally gave up and left. It took the Wheaton district police at least 15 minutes to arrive after our emergency 911 call.

The men exited the cemetery gates in their white box truck just as a policeman was arriving. The policeman used no siren or flashing lights and didn't seem to be in much of a hurry. I waved him over to my car and explained that I was the person who had called. He said he had noticed the truck on its way out. I suggested that he might want to have the cemetery patrolled more often, especially in the half-hour or so before closing time, and he nodded his agreement. The police later told my mother that they are not responsible for patrolling the cemetery because it is private property. When I spoke with a policeman about the incident the following week, he told me the dispatcher had put my call on "non-priority" and that's why it took them so long to arrive. He was unable to explain why my call was put on non-priority status.

If two women are being menaced by two men in a cemetery who won't let them return to their car, and they call 911 to report that they are terrified, how is that a non-priority? Why did it take the Wheaton police at least 15 minutes to respond? Why did the officer mosey into the cemetery in an unhurried manner and tell us that he had been sitting around on a coffee break nearby while we were undergoing our little piece of hell? I still don't understand the lack of a proper police response. If it weren't for the fortuitous arrival of others, God only knows what would have happened to us -- robbery or worse. The police would have shown up just in time to file a report on the crime.

I've had to make a few other 911 calls in my life, some of which were answered promptly (such as the time a life-threatening fight spilled over into my front yard, and the police showed up within a few minutes). I know they have a tough job and mistakes can be made, but I still ask myself why the Wheaton police did not take our frantic call from the cemetery seriously. Is it because we were women and, therefore, probably just imagining things -- as a Washington Post newspaperman suggested when I contacted him about the incident and the issue of area cemetery security? Is it because we had reported two men in a white box truck, which fit the erroneous description of the snipers that had been in the area the previous year? I can imagine the police must have gotten a lot of "white box truck" calls during that period that led nowhere, but I would hope they wouldn't make assumptions that could endanger people, like the assumption the 911 dispatcher made in Detroit recently that a 5-year-old who called about his collapsed mother was a prankster. Following the instructions he had been given by adults about emergencies, the poor child called twice but it took them over an hour to respond, and that woman died. Or the assumptions made by various emergency personnel about the supposed drunkenness of the fellow in DC who was beaten by a robber and lost consciousness. He died too, after being ignored for over an hour on a gurney. How many more pleas for help are ignored that we don't hear about?

Our outcome could have been much worse too. We are especially grateful to the people who happened to show up in the middle of our ordeal and who stayed with us until the incident was over. Our rescue was due to the kindness of strangers -- and the grace of God. The good news is that the two men finally did not get whatever it was they wanted, but they robbed us of something I'm sure they cared nothing about: our peace of mind when visiting our departed loved ones. Never again will I go and sit alone for a half-hour on my father's grave just to meditate on his life.

We hope that efforts will be made to increase security at cemeteries, especially near closing time, and that 911 dispatchers will be trained not to make potentially fatal assumptions. Mistakes are made, and people die. If you call 911, you might get lucky and someone might show up in time. Or they might not.

Einstein and the Mind of God

There are those who believe that it strains credulity to think that Einstein would have thought in terms of the "mind of God." These observers disparage such a thought as a religious anthropomorphism of the kind that Albert Einstein criticized and abhorred. The truth about Einstein, however, is more subtle and more intriguing, as the truth often stubbornly insists on being. In fact, Einstein famously said that his entire effort in physics was in order to know the mind of God. Einstein, to be sure, also said that he did not believe in a personal God in the traditional sense and was interested in design rather than theology. He saw true religiosity as knowing that "what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms." When he was close to death, Einstein said, "I want to know God's thoughts; the rest are details." Clearly, although he was not orthodox, he had no qualms about using religious phraseology to evoke the wisdom and beauty of the universe that is beyond measure.

Would that today's pack of warring ideologues, whose sights are set so much lower than Einstein's expansive view, could honor each realm of knowledge for what it is and not confuse it with what it was never intended to be. Would that they could teach children by example to respect both science, as the study of the measurable aspects of the universe for which we have physical evidence, and spirituality, as the appreciation of the awe, mystery, and meaning that lie beyond the grasp of our limited instruments and dull faculties. Instead they caricature each other's views, twist Einstein's words one way or the other to support their own ends, indulge in small-minded attacks, and inject nonscientific ideologies such as intelligent design into our schoolchildren's science curricula - and American science education is in danger of being undermined as a result. God and science both are larger, more subtle and intriguing, than this false dichotomy would suggest. If we continue on this path, America's future will pay the price for the ignorance and lack of imagination that some of us are imposing on our children. Do your homework.

Night of the Living Brain-Dead

Have you ever wondered how dead bodies are transported? By armored car perhaps, or helicopter? My associate, Dale Bandersnatch, and I discovered the nightmarish truth one morning: they are transported by Washington, D.C. subway! That’s right, the bodies are intermingled with those of live commuters, smuggled along right next to you. We have obtained confidential documents detailing the plans for concealment of this atrocity, which state that the underlying reason for using the subway is that you CAN’T TELL THE DIFFERENCE between a live D.C. commuter and a dead one.

This disconcerting fact was revealed to my associate and me when, while innocently waiting for our stop in our customary state of wide-eyed vegetative expectation, we were horrified to notice that we were surrounded by dead people! Now we are not easily fooled, let me tell you, but we noticed that all the signs were there: droopy facial expression, closed or semi-closed eyes, slack body posture. We became alarmed and utilized covert maneuvers to wake them up (taking our clothes off, for instance), but to no avail. We thought we saw one of them shift position, but this was only because the train stopped suddenly. There were also several dead people stacked up along the walls and doors; when the doors opened they simply fell out and were presumably picked up and carted off to downtown cemeteries by Metro personnel. We jumped off the train and ran from car to car, and our darkest suspicions were confirmed: they were all dead!

After making numerous contributions to powerful local politicians, we were presented with a package containing data on a new disease: D.C. Greater Metropolitan Area Existential Angst. The common breed of D.C. commuter fits the classic profile. Apparently the disease manifests itself while the victim reads one Washington Post too many on the way to work (the actual quantity required can vary, depending on genetic background and personal habits). The first sign is likely to appear when a self-consciously socially aware yet also upwardly mobile and secretly aspiring to Trumphood individual falls asleep right in the middle of wrestling with complex international problems as they appear in the “World News” section, to wit: “The latest wave of demonstrations zzzzzzzzzzz abiding public skepticism zzzzzzzzz denounced the administration zzzzzzzz called for free elections and the abolition of repressive zzzzzzzzz.” This phenomenon is easily observed on a typical subway commute. Trenchcoats and briefcases also appear to be predisposing factors.

After onset, the next episode is likely to involve lapsing into a past-life regression while reading a perfectly normal article, say, on the “Metro” page. For instance: “Former Mayor-for-Life Marion Barry was accused today of purchasing and possessing a large red plastic nose obtained from Bozo the Clown, whom he was seen meeting with in a luxury hotel in the Virgin Islands. [Bozo is known to be an international large red nose dealer.] When questioned by reporters, Barry denied the charge, stating that the media shouldn’t jump to the conclusion that he had actually purchased a large red nose, and he certainly wasn’t even aware that Bozo was in the large red nose market anyway. ‘This is just another example of the media conspiring to discredit me,’ he said while scratching under his large red nose.”

The victim is likely to wake up in a cold sweat, noticing just then that (bing bong!) the doors are closing on Farragut West and he will have to get off at Foggy Bottom. The next time he rides the subway, he will find himself slipping into a coma almost immediately upon sitting down and not waking up until several stops too late. Unfortunately, the victim is not likely to seek treatment, because peer pressure will convince him that this is simply the normal state of affairs; indeed, all he has to do to confirm this is to look around him, and he will see people who are actually dead. So how bad off can he be? He still lifts an eyelid once every five or six stops. It’s only those other people who have a real problem. During this phase the victim will be able to maintain the characteristic droopy, expressionless gaze all the way to his office building door, only snapping out of it when he gets onto the same elevator as his company president.

The final stage of the disease features escape fantasies of running off to join the Canadian ski patrol or to open a Tahitian branch for one’s firm, involving elaborate communications via fax and modem. If the victim is lucky, he will refrain from actually proposing this at the next planning meeting. The last fellow who tried this ended up on the island of Tonga with nothing but his laptop, and we are told it was not at all what he had expected. Apparently he was approached by natives while operating a graphics program and had a very hard time explaining such “magic.” His head will be on display at the newly opened Smithsonian Exhibition of Post-Employment Artifacts. Next of kin have filed a class-action suit in the D.C. Superior Court, charging the government and numerous corporations with conspiracy and negligent boredom.

When questioned about this case, attorneys for the defendants maintained they had no knowledge of the syndrome or of the disposal operations, declining to provide any details. It has been difficult to obtain witnesses because they are all suffering from the same disease. An inside informer, however, conceded off the record that the day of reckoning was near, and that once the disease reached the train engineers, the entire subway system could be shut down. It remains to be seen whether the government will admit to violating §321.659(a)(2)(G) of the Code of D.C. Mass Transit, which states in relevant part that “no unaccompanied dead people are allowed on the subway during rush hours, except at the front and rear cars of the train.”

It can take years for a D.C. commuter to realize he is actually dead. And a dead person’s problems only increase when he gets off the subway and enters the world of the living. Once word gets around that you are dead, you can’t get adequate housing, no one will hire you, banks revoke your credit. Friends stop coming to visit. Being dead in D.C. can be depressing. Even though the dead people are in the majority, they are still treated like second-class citizens.

But there are some jobs available if you know where to look. You could, for instance, hire yourself out as a third commuter for HOV lanes. You could prop open doors, work for the D.C. government or pose as the latest homicide victim for TV news programs. One man had himself cremated and sold himself as bags of all-purpose spice. If you have an entrepreneurial soul, and I mean that literally, there is no end to the jobs you can find under the table. I even know a bar where you can pretend you’re a customer and actually lie under the table all night. Nobody will bother you there, and some people might even give you spare change.

And don’t overlook the self-help books out there, both for the nouveau-dead and those who have been in that unfortunate state for some time and are just now realizing it. Denial is a hallmark of this disease. But once you admit the problem, there are numerous titles on the bookshelves to help you: 101 Uses for a Dead Commuter, Men Who Are Dead and the Women Who Love Them, How to Kill Friends and Influence Dead People. Or you can just stay home and watch any number of the new shows that have been designed to meet the burgeoning consumer needs of the dead market. Someone said Oprah did a recent show featuring dead people from D.C. discussing the special needs of their unique lifestyles. Or if TV bores you (which is difficult for a dead person), you can always take in a movie. A long while back, The Hunt for Dead October was a big hit. Dead on the Fourth of July appealed to the macho crowd, and if you have a more philosophical bent, try Dances With Corpses.

But unfortunately, all these methods are only stop-gap. Eventually, the typical dead person will grow weary of his lifestyle and may even have fantasies of doing away with himself. Once he realizes that suicide is not a viable option, he is liable to consider doing something even more rash. Running for elected office, for instance, or going to work for the Postal Service's dead-letter division.

Nobody but me seems to be publicly acknowledging this problem. That’s why I thought I had better speak out. Recognition of the problem is crucial if we are to solve it. Why do you think D.C. is in such a mess? It’s not because of poor leadership, a lack of statehood, or economic recession. It’s because the city is populated by so many dead people! This is why, for instance, the lines at the DMV are so long, and the real estate market is beginning to slump after the boom. Who wants to sell their house to a dead person? For one thing, dead people don’t have any money. For another, when a dead person moves in your neighborhood, the property values go down. Who wants to live next to a dead person? They’re ugly, they’re smelly and they have dull parties. And they never mow their lawns.

I would go on, but I don’t want to beat a dead horse.

What the Heck: Jack Abramoff's House

A friend and I got adventuresome the other day and decided to try and track down Jack Abramoff's house, as part of our What-The-Heck series. I had found out from my Web "research" that his home is at 812 Edelblut Drive (sometimes spelled Edelbut in various postings) in Silver Spring, Maryland, which can be located on MapQuest. Nothing nasty, we just wanted to get a quick look at it. A cheap thrill, if you will. One of his companies, through which some of his alleged financial shenanigans are alleged to have been allegedly perpetrated, listed the same address. He also apparently had purchased #800 for use in his alleged "activities," although it appears 800 may have since been sold. Anyway, to make a long story short, we drove over there and we suspect someone has removed the street sign and/or the house number, because Edelblut and 812 were nowhere to be found. Pretty clever, no? If you can't hide the house, lose the street. We found a #800 in the general location on the map but never did find any sign that said Edelblut despite driving around in circles numerous times. It was a pleasant drive anyway. Very nice neighborhood, surprise surprise. If anyone else finds it, let us know!

A Modest Proposal

Speeding at relatively low speeds above the posted limit is a “crime” shared by almost all otherwise law-abiding citizens, who have been led to believe that there is a “grace” limit of five to 10 miles per hour above the posted speed limit, and that keeping up with surrounding traffic is a good thing. As a result, anyone having the gall to flout the unwritten limit by driving at or below the posted speed limit is frequently nearly run over, is a cause of lengthy backups, and arguably contributes to hazardous lane-changing, tailgating, and road-rage incidents. Indeed, drivers who are not speeding are told to stay to the right in order to allow faster drivers to pass, all of whom presumably are speeding and thus breaking the law, but none of whom is similarly admonished to slow down. Also, whenever asked, our police spokespeople always sanctimoniously state on camera that driving any number of miles per hour above the speed limit is breaking the law, at the same time that police are routinely observing the same inflated speed limit as the surrounding cars, sometimes even sailing past other drivers when there is no emergency. This collective disregard for the posted speed limit has led to some drivers bumping their speed up even further, which escalates the risk for everyone.

If the police and public officials are serious about the safety ramifications of speeding -- rather than simply focusing on revenue enhancement via the clever placement of speedcams, or waiting until everyone's speed creeps upward and then nabbing a few -- they would raise the posted limits by five or 10 miles per hour and then rigorously enforce the new limits, accompanied by a public education campaign aimed at reeducating drivers that exceeding the posted limit by even one mile per hour may result in a ticket. And the police would set an example by not exceeding the limit unless there is a bona fide emergency. Eliminating the unwritten “grace” speed limit would go a long way toward restoring people’s respect for the posted limits, and would eliminate the public’s understandable feeling of having been tricked by traffic cams or other ploys into suddenly receiving tickets for traveling at relatively low, safe rates of speed that have been treated for years as acceptable by the police and the vast majority of drivers.