The mood was somber in the Boardroom of The Peabodie Mortuaries. Nobody by the name of Peabodie was present because the founder was actually named Aaron Heimowitz. The Old Man, famous for his sense of humor, had chosen the name “Peabodie” for its etymology. The classic Old English name was derived from “pe” meaning peacock, and body, meaning “body, person.” It was a nickname for a flashy dresser. Aaron meant to slyly imply that the Peabodie Mortuaries turned out good-looking corpses.

Aaron’s son Max was now at the helm of the venerable company.

Max was a steady if uninspiring leader. The company had not exactly boomed under his directorship, but it had weathered downturns that other companies had not.

Grandson Aaron II was the manager of the Morton Grove “shop,” one of Peabodie’s five branches. Aaron II, or A-2 as he was known in-house, was as smart as a whip but as green as grass. Max had great hopes for his son, thinking that with more seasoning the lad might learn to rein in his unorthodox approach to business. A-2, however, feared that the old-fashioned approach of his father and the other fogies on the Board would run the company into the ground before he could take over. For example, A-2 had wanted to modernize his branch to give it an upbeat flair more in step with the times. He’d suggested several new names, but the Board had unanimously rejected “Cadavers ‘R Us,” “Heavenly Bodies,” and “Daisy Pushers.”

         The current recessionary economy had cut into Peabodie profits to the point where the company was just breaking even. The economy wasn’t the only problem. Several other factors had combined to depress funeral home revenues even further. For one, the death rate was dropping because Americans were selfishly insisting on clinging to life a little longer. Also, hardwoods were getting ever more expensive and the parsimonious bereaved were balking at paying for high-end caskets. Between tears, stingy customers were actually asking how much things cost instead of relying on the avuncular advice of the funeral director. In addition, cabinetmakers were having attacks of vanity and were rebelling against the mortuary practice of giving their magnificent creations a single day of glory, then sticking them in the ground to rot along with their contents.

         To compound the woes of the mortuary biz, consumers were beginning to question the use of increasingly expensive land for burial. Existing cemetery space was rapidly being filled up, so people were turning to cremation as an ecofriendly alternative. Cremation cost half as much, and people were beginning to realize that the dead didn’t care. Lastly, far greater population mobility had steadily reduced the desire to be buried in a particular spot, especially one hundreds of miles away.

         Young Aaron was well aware of the causes of the company’s current problems and had been for some time. H e felt there were some additional factors that his father had not touched on in his report. The younger Heimowitz had done more than gnash his teeth in financial frustration—he had gone in quest of solutions.

         As A-2 saw it, the cash cow of full burial was rapidly being evicted from the pasture, while cremation had risen from 15% in 1985 to almost 45% in the current year of 2012. This in itself was noteworthy. As he saw it, the problem was not how to engineer a return to the glory years of Pluck ‘em and Plant ‘em, but how to squeeze more money out of the present reality. If cremation is the way of the future, and it certainly looked that way, how could it be made more profitable?

Natural gas prices had risen steadily. A-2 felt that the boondoggle of fracking shale to get at natural gas would die as soon as people realized that the amounts of precious water required for the process were unsustainable. The way for The Peabodie Mortuaries to increase profits was to process more “units,” and use less natural gas while doing so. This realization had led to an epiphany no less stunning in its audacity than in its originality.

         But could the Olde Guard be dragged into the future? Aaron II had his doubts. The Board had not responded favorably to several of his past suggestions, meritorious though they were. Rheumy old eyes glazed over every time he pulled out his PowerPoint projector. He’d really have to come up with a dynamite presentation in order to sway them. It would also have to include obsolete printed material they could reverently fondle with their leathery old fingers

         And he had done just that! He’d spent evenings and weekends researching, calculating, sifting, rejecting, and refining his idea. He’d even enlisted the help of a top-notch computer techie, a young lady with a killer bod that gave no hint of the superabundance of brains above. A-2 thought that looking at her might keep the Olde Guard awake long enough for him to drive his idea home.

         As Max’s presentation droned to its narcotizing conclusion, A-2 could wait no longer. He raised his hand. Max could not ignore his smart but quirky son because he’d promoted the lad to manager of one of the branches. Five old heads swiveled toward the young man with dread. One of them had been glancing at his watch every five minutes, anxiously awaiting the end of the meeting so he could dive into his cherished bottle of Olde Mortuarie. Another was aching (literally) to get back to the sensational Swedish masseuse he had just hired to assuage his arthritis. A third could hardly wait to get back to his young oversexed bride who, incredibly, actually loved him. The last two Board members simply didn’t like A-2.

         “Yes, Aaron.”

         “Father, Board members, I have an idea that I think will double our profits by the second year and go up from there. I’d like to show you.”

         Mental groans filled the ether. A-2 got up and opened the door to usher in his computer expert. The attitude in the room improved instantly thanks to her long legs, short skirt, and eye-catching cleavage.

         “This is Miss Peabody. Yes, that’s no joke. It really is her name. She’s been helping me with the research and has put my presentation together. I’ve asked her to be here to field any technical questions.” And to keep you old bastards awake.

         While Miss Peabody set up her laptop and projector at a table in front of the room, A-2 handed out a brochure (full color, glossy finish) that contained the charts, graphs, and salient points of the presentation they were about to watch. He began by pointing out something they already knew: cremation was an increasing amount of their business. The bad economy was forcing more and more of their clients to choose low-cost funerals. The percentage of clients choosing cremation would almost certainly continue to rise, but that would still not be enough to offset the revenue lost by the drop in high revenue burial-type funerals. Also, he noted, the five branches combined only did about 600 funerals a year. This information and his father’s twenty-minute presentation were neatly condensed to three slides.

         One old pair of eyelids was already starting to droop. A-2 nodded to his assistant, who ostentatiously crossed her legs. The eyelids snapped back open.

         A-2 continued. “Things might improve in a few years as the boomers start dying off, but the problem is the present. The conclusion? We need more bodies to cremate. And we need to do it more cheaply.”

         He clicked to the next slide. “In addition to the dropping death rate my father mentioned, the murder rate has been dropping, too. Here are the statistics for the past twenty years.”

1990: 851

1991: 927

1992: 943

1993: 931

1994: 929

1995: 827

1996: 789

1997: 759

1998: 704

1999: 641

2000: 628

2001: 666

2002: 647

2003: 598

2004: 448

2005: 449

2006: 467

2007: 442

2008: 510

2009: 458

2010: 435

         “You can see that there’s a big drop-off from the halcyon days of the early ‘90’s. Now, using the figure from 2010, 30% of these murders were gang-related according to the FBI statistics. This means roughly 130 deaths. Another 39 deaths were ‘unknown cause,’ but some of those are likely mob hits. All told, we can safely attribute at least 150 deaths per year to organized crime.”

         “Gangbangers are organized?” muttered old Alonso Patterson, manager of the Loop shop.

         “I think we can do better,” Aaron II announced.  The immediate question crossing the minds of his audience was just who the “we” were and exactly what “better” implied? They didn’t have to wait long.

         “Miss Peabody and I have done extensive research into this issue,” A-2 continued. “We found that in today’s society, the primary deterrent to murder is not the innate immorality of the act, but the risk of getting caught. We found that if the risk of discovery and apprehension—I mean that in the sense of arrest, not fear—is removed, the murder rate will shoot up, so to speak. It is hard, if not impossible to prove murder without a body, and that is where The Peabodie Mortuaries come in.”

He had them with “shoot up.” The Olde Guard was now officially interested in spite of themselves. Undertakers have a better sense of gallows humor than anyone—even police. They are just extremely careful not to show it.

         “So what I’m proposing is an arrangement with the various mob leaders and the city’s leading street gangs, and there a lot of them. Most nights in our beloved town sound like the Fourth of July, there’s so much gunfire. Mobsters could have a body dropped off at one of our intake facilities with, say,  $500 tucked in the pocket, and the body would be gone within eight hours. Guaranteed.”

There was a shocked look on his father’s face, but the son was on a roll. “Look at it from a societal point of view.

·      The environment would be much improved—no corpses with cement shoes polluting Lake Michigan, so, cleaner water.

·      No bodies rotting in some alley, so, cleaner air. It would save the city’s Medical Examiners valuable time they could then devote to provable murders. This will improve the efficiency of the taxpayer dollar.

·      Most mob or gang murders involve other mobsters or gang members, so we would be thinning the criminal herd, so, less police expense involved. The list of benefits goes on.”

A-2 ticked off more bullet points on the screen with a laser pointer. Patterson raised his hand and said, “I’ll get into how you plan to set this up later, but for now, what’s it add to our bottom line?”

Miss Peabody answered, “We’re thinking 500 units is achievable in the first year, so it would add $250,000.”

“What if you subtract the ‘units’ resulting from youth gang activity?”

She looked at A-2 questioningly, and then answered, “Why would we do that?”

“The established mobsters are men, Miss Peabody. They have experience and understand business. The youth gangs are merely testosterone vessels with guns. They could easily expose us to unwanted attention through lack of judgment. What other sources have you considered?”

“Well,” A-2 hesitated, “several, actually. Nursing homes, other funeral homes, the CIA, but there were problems.”
         “Such as?”
         “Nursing homes were unsuitable for the second phase of our plan, which we’ll get to in a minute. Other funeral homes have their own crematoria. The CIA does, too. That’s why we focused on organized crime.”

The Board members were impressed by the correct plural form of ‘crematorium.’ Grammar awareness in A-2’s generation was so rare.

“Have you bothered to calculate our net profit? Disposal costs money, you know,” Vincent Mathers inquired. Mathers headed Peabodie’s Oak Park branch.

Miss Peabody fielded this one. “Actually yes. It takes on average 682,400 BTU’s to cremate a body. That’s 6.8 therms at a dollar a therm, so seven dollars for energy. Figure 2.5 hours of labor, which is an overestimate because the attendant could be doing other things during the two hours of incineration. Add facilities amortization, and we get a rough estimate of 80 dollars. Net profit at $500 per unit would be $420.”

“Hmm. Considering the service we provide, and our risk in providing it”—Mathers had a law degree—“I bet we could get at least a thousand per unit. But we’ll come back to this. Do go on.”

A-2 was encouraged.  At least two of the Board members appeared to be listening, if not receptive. It was time to segue into the centerpiece of his grand vision. He cleared his throat.  “We have also identified several related businesses that could easily dovetail with the cremation business. Some capital investment is involved, but we believe you’ll find the projected profits to be impressive. I’d like to present an overview of the plan, then go through each point in more detail. Here it is, step by step.”

The screen lit up again as each bullet point was projected in a separate slide.

·      Co-opt the night shift of a nursing home so that units can be dropped off during the midnight shift.

·      Set up a new crematorium in the meatpacking district west of the Loop.

·      Units will be picked up from the nursing homes and delivered to the crematorium by our own ambulance service.

·      The units will be processed in three stages. First, usable flesh will be removed by a robotic flenser. Second, the body will be cleaned to the bone by dermistid beetles. Third, the clean bone will then be burned to produce calcium carbonate, which we can sell.

·      Form a new company to produce sausage. This company will be located next door and connected by an underground tunnel.

·      The stripped flesh will be transported to the sausage operation. There we’ll mix it with pork to produce a very high quality product.

Jaws dropped. Eyes bugged out. At a signal from A-2, Miss Peabody put the first slide back up. A-2 rushed on before anyone had a chance to object. “To the first point, we needed a place to accept delivery of the units. Dropping dead bodies off directly at the crematorium would endanger the operation. Too obvious. So, have them taken to a nursing home during off-hours. Half the patients are drugged to the hilt and the other half is barely sentient. The staff is so underpaid that they’ll be easy to co-opt.”

There was silence. A-2 hastened to fill it. “The new equipment is so efficient that there is no smoke and no odor. It is also capable of handling several units at a time. You have no idea how much better the new furnaces are than what we’re currently using. And by cremating less of the body, we’re using less fuel.”

Eyes starting blinking in that slow fashion that indicates the onset of cogitation. “Our proprietary ambulance service will pick up the units daily and deliver them to the crematorium.” Miss Peabody clicked to the next slide as A-2 continued. “There we begin the processing.”

A-2 watched the stunned Board turn his brainstorm over in their minds. He watched them wrestling with the same logistical questions and problems he’d dealt with. Initially he had thought to hire descendants of Polynesian cannibals to do the actual butchering, figuring that some genetic quirk might predispose them to be better at it. But Miss Peabody had asked, “Aaron, what profession would your immigrants put on the entry visa application? Long pig butcher? I don’t think so.”

A-2 had then sought an alternative. To his utter astonishment, he found a webpage that described in graphic detail how to butcher a human carcass. Anyone with a sharp knife and a dull moral compass could do it.

But again Miss Peabody had objected, pointing out that they would never find a normal person for that job. Abnormal employees always meant problems. She then suggested robots. A robot capable of doing surgery could certainly be programmed to cut up the human body.

“A robotic flenser will be expensive,” A-2 plunged on, “but much cheaper in the long run if you think about it. No employee problems. The removed flesh will then be sent over to the sausage operation. Dermistid beetles are often used by labs to clean skulls for identification. They do an excellent job. They will leave no impurities to contaminate the bone, which we then calcine at high temperature to get both phosphorus and calcium carbonate.  We can sell both chemicals profitably. We even thought of maybe establishing our own calcium supplement pill factory. Our calculations show that initial equipment investment and set-up costs can be recouped within a year and a half. Projected second year profit will be over a million dollars, and it should keep going up as business gets more established.”

While Max Heimowitz was horrified at the mouthings of his only spawn, the eyes of the other Board members had narrowed to crafty slits.

“What will the name of this sausage making venture be?” Mathers wanted to know.

“The Long Pig Sausage Company,” A-2 answered.

In spite of himself, a slow smile broke out on Patterson’s face. As a young Navy officer, he had been stationed in the Pacific islands and knew that “long pig” was the name Polynesian cannibals of old gave to their food source.

“There is no way we could do such a thing,” Max sputtered.

Mathers said, “Oh, I don’t know about that, Max. Look at it this way—in the long history of sausage making, who knows how many workers have wound up in the product? You don’t have to read Upton Sinclair to know that. All we would be doing is increasing the ratio of long pig to short pig.”

“Besides,” Patterson added, “I believe it was Bismarck who said, ‘Laws are like sausages. It's better not to see them being made.’”

A-2 and Miss Peabody looked at each other. Upton Sinclair? Bismarck? Who were the old guys talking about? Anyway, it looked like at least two of the Olde Guard were on board. Then Anthony Bonasera, the manager of the Morton Grove branch, slowly raised his long bony hand and asked, “You said you considered nursing homes as a possible source for, ah, units. Why did you reject them?”

“Unsuitable product,” A-2 replied. “The aged tend to be either mostly fat or tough atrophied muscle. Not worth the time and labor. This is why I was reluctant to give up gang members. You’re talking young prime flesh there, up to 40% of body weight. Nursing home candidates are barely 15 to 20%, if that.”

“Hmm,” Bonasera commented as he regarded his own hand. “Another question. Had you thought of boiling the bones to obtain gelatin?”

“Yes, and we discarded that idea, too. Too much equipment, time, and labor involved for the yield. Stockyards can do it because there are a lot more bones involved. Our enterprise would not generate sufficient quantity to be profitable.”

Patterson asked, “Question about the cleaning process. Wouldn’t we quickly get an oversupply of beetles, considering the ample food and their reproduction rate?”

A-2 nodded. “Yes, but we’ll just take the oversupply, put them in a box, and burn them.” 

“It seems cold to punish employees for doing an excellent job by getting rid of them.”

“Is that any different from what companies are doing nowadays?”

“Good point, good point.”

Mathers said, “One last question, Aaron. What about the FDA?”

A-2 shrugged. “Hey, this is Chicago. Besides, the FDA is so understaffed and underfunded that it’ll take years before they get to us. I plan on turning out a very good product, so there should be no incentive to look at us.”

Mathers glanced around the table. “Tell you what. Why don’t you and Miss Peabody go have a cup of coffee while we deliberate.”

As soon as the door closed behind the two young people, Max turned to Patterson and snapped, “Jesus H. Christ, Alonso, don’t tell me you’re seriously considering this. I’m thinking of disowning him!”

“So some of his ideas are a little radical, Max, but there’s some meat there. No pun intended.  Vincent, as a lawyer, what’s your take?”

“Point one—co-opting nursing home personnel. Easy. Point two, setting up a new crematorium in the meatpacking district. Also very doable. Actually, it might be cheaper to dispense with our regional crematoria and centralize the process. Not a bad idea. Point three, our own transportation, also very doable. I’ll come back to that. Points four, five and six—the Long Pig Sausage Company—very environmentally sound. Very green. Unfortunately, the idea is way ahead of its time.”

“Speaking of green, isn’t it like that movie? Soylent Green?”  Patterson asked.

“No. In the film it was your civic duty to become soup. Here most people will regard young A-2’s proposal as flawed, if not sociopathic. And were it to get out, market reaction could be negative.”

“Could be negative?” Max screamed. “They’d crucify us.”

“Calm down, Max. Let’s toss all this chaff in the air and do some winnowing. The wheat here is, more units for cremation, and I’m not so sure that making arrangements with the mobs is a bad idea, and two, centralizing the cremation process. We’ll put the Long Pig Sausage Company on the back burner.”

“You want us to get into bed with the Mob, Vincent?”

“We’re in bed with our bank. Do you see any difference in principle? I don’t.”

Patterson said, “At least the boy had some ideas, which is more than I can say for the rest of us. Let’s vote on those two items: more units, centralization. Then let’s call the boy back, task him with a detailed plan on making arrangements with the Dark Side of the Force, and pat him on the head.”

Max sighed. “I can’t help wondering what my father would say to all this.”

Mathers snorted. “Don’t kid yourself. Old Aaron would be applauding while laughing his ass off. This is Robber Baron stuff.”

The End