'Some Days, I Feel Like the Grim Reaper'

The natural squad is not spared.

They see suicide victims dangling from shower heads and disintegrating bodies whose stench has reached neighbors a block away.

Their work has two purposes: to ensure that the deceased is not a homicide victim and to help pathologists determine a cause of death by gathering as much information as possible. Thus, the job is often a solitary journey through a decedent's home and possessions. Was the deceased a hermit or just terminally sick? Is there a bank statement or letter lying around that will help locate the person's next of kin? What medications was the person taking? How many pills are missing?

Sometimes an entire life -- and death -- unfolds for a natural squad investigator through a few pieces of paper.

At the Northeast rowhouse, MacWilliams finds hospital records that indicate the dead man's father suffered from dementia. Perhaps, the detective says, mental illness runs in the family. MacWilliams opens a bank statement postmarked almost a month earlier. It shows a balance of $1.78.

MacWilliams's mind churns: The man couldn't afford to eat or pay his bills, he suspects, which explains the empty fridge and lack of electricity. Instead of seeking help, the man withdrew behind his drawn shades, amid piles of periodicals. He figures the death was probably caused by starvation or a heart attack. It will almost certainly be ruled a natural death, even if it doesn't feel like one.

MacWilliams walks out the front door into the sunlight.

Who knows when and where the next body will be found?

The Cheap Cigar

Natural squad detective Randy Brooks looks like an actor in a noir-style movie. He wears all black. Black shoes. Black slacks. Black shirt. Black tie. Black fedora. A dark, graying mustache curves around his mouth.

It is 10 p.m. on a Tuesday night, and Brooks has been summoned to a Northeast apartment complex where a 98-year-old woman was found dead in her bedroom.

Walking into the woman's cluttered apartment, he can smell death. He has something he finds particularly helpful on such occasions: cheap cigars, stashed in his jacket pocket and the glove box of his car. He doesn't normally smoke. But the aroma of his Black & Milds masks the putridness of rotting remains.

Brooks, who has been on the force since 1978, is never in a hurry. There is no need to rush and find witnesses or make sure that crime-scene technicians get the right photographs. Standing in the 98-year-old woman's kitchen, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigar. He lights it, the embers casting a glow across his face.