California investigators work to identify thousands of unclaimed remains

• Los Angeles County investigators continue to work to identify thousands of unclaimed remains.
• If this is not possible, the bodies will be buried along with tens of thousands of other bodies in mass graves for the unclaimed.
• The team's investigative efforts include searching personal belongings, contacting nursing homes, and searching public records.

Arshak Martirosyan struggles to open the door to a stranger's one-bedroom apartment, filled with belongings from a life lived but not dead.

Tucked into the door are giant boxes of Gain laundry detergent and a pile of plastic tubs. Hanging your blouse or his T-shirt on a hanger on the curtain rail in your living room will block out almost all sunlight. Trash cans or boxes filled with lots of clothes hide carpets. Empty takeout containers and Tupperware with bugs inside cover the stove.

The 74-year-old woman died in a hospital in October, but no one came to claim her body several weeks later. Wearing a Tyvek hazmat suit and being followed by the building's caretaker, Martirosyan sent greeting cards and letters that may have family addresses on the return labels, offering the woman proper housing. Look for anything that can lead you to relatives who can provide. burial.

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Martirosyan serves as a living representative of what Los Angeles County calls the “unclaimed dead.” She is one of about a dozen inspectors working in the Office of Administration and Management, an understaffed and little-known division of the county's Treasurer and Tax Collector's Office.

Her job is to dig out from under all her belongings who the woman was, who she loved, who was loved by her, and what she wanted after death. It's about making it clear.

Martirosyan and his colleagues spent three years investigating the case, and then, as a last resort, the county cemetery transferred the deceased to a mass grave. Similar efforts are underway in cities across the country, but they are particularly difficult in Los Angeles, which has the nation's largest homeless population.

Looking back on your life is an arduous task. Investigators, who handle about 200 cases a year, are given a manila file folder for each death that lists their name, date of birth and most other information.

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“I experience their lives in different ways,” Martirosyan said. “They will be mine.”

First, it's a race against time. As investigators scrambled to find his family, his body lay frozen in the county morgue before they were forced to allow it to be cremated.

For weeks, they called nursing homes and houses of worship, searched public records and ancestry websites, and combed homes and apartments.

“We're kind of stepping into the shoes of the person who died,” said Denis Kotek, one of Martirosyan's supervisors. He admits that even after returning home that day, he still thinks about the people he met.

“I always say a little prayer for them,” he said.

The deceased may not have any living next of kin, or their loved ones may not be able to afford individual burial costs. In other cases, estranged relatives may refuse to be involved, or friends may not be able to petition the court to claim the remains.

Martirosyan, who has been on the job for just over a year, said it made her realize her own mortality and spurred a tearful but important conversation with her teenage son.

“This will happen to all of us in some way,” she said.

It's also a key driver in her and the rest of the corps of public servants' quest to bring dignity to the tens of thousands of people who die alone in America's most populous county. Their efforts culminate in a mass burial and a multilingual, interfaith ceremony held annually since 1896.

The latest ceremony, held on Dec. 14, was a reminder of the universal devastation and isolation caused by the pandemic. The 1,937 burials included the first person to die from coronavirus. Immigrants, children and homeless people were among the dead.

“We don't know enough about the people we're burying today to be able to make accurate decisions,” said County Supervisor Janice Hahn.

Dozens of people attended the outdoor ceremony, some wiping away tears, as clergymen offered prayers at a mass grave in the county cemetery. Each of them laid a white rose on the grave.

Susan Rourke, a local resident who attended the service, said: “I wish we could have been there for all of them in a better way when they were all still alive, so they weren't completely isolated.'' “I hope you don't have to die alone.” 10 years. “When I die, I may go to this cemetery for a ritual, so I don't miss this event.''

Many of those who attended the service were county employees, including Martirosyan and Carlos Herrera, a maintenance worker who has volunteered to help dig graves for more than 30 years.

In early December, Herrera and his team dug a site 14 feet (4.27 meters) deep and removed 1,937 pieces of plastic containing each person's ashes and, if known, a label with their name. I kept the box. A flat tombstone was placed in its place. It has no name. The only year they died was 2020 for this group.

Kotek and Martirosyan are just beginning to trace the 74-year-old woman's life. Investigators searched her apartment in November, but a manila folder contained only a few basic facts, including the local pastor's phone number and the 1988 date she moved into the apartment.

Martirosyan methodically leafed through the folders in the filing cabinet while Kotek pulled a worn black-and-white composition notebook from the bookshelf.

A framed Korean Bible verse was displayed on the wall. They found all the important clues in the evidence bag, including disability benefits applications, blank U.S. citizenship applications, and bank statements.

When the investigators returned to their office in downtown Los Angeles, they suggested searching for possible relatives in South Korea and handed the evidence bag to a colleague.

If no one is found after three years, the county will handle the burial of the woman. If she leaves enough money in her estate, her ashes will be placed in a private niche with a plaque in the columbarium where the urn is kept.

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Although none of her belongings were deemed worth selling, the county has a warehouse full of boxes full of items such as vinyl records, a collection of Barbie dolls, classic cars and framed art. It is being auctioned off to buy items for other families. If there is not enough to cover it, the person's remains are placed in a mass grave.

The woman could be buried there in 2026.

The day after searching the apartment, Martirosyan makes a breakthrough in another case. A woman sheds tears when she learns on her phone that her estranged mother has passed away. It's shocking news for her daughter, but it means her mother won't be buried in an unclaimed grave in the county.

“Today is a good day for us,” Martirosyan said. “They're connected, at least in this part of their lives.”

But in this county of about 10 million people, there's always another life left unclaimed.

Martirosyan turns to unsolved cases and begins again.