Return to Main Menu

End Result reels senses, encourages reform by Cindy A. Abole Public Relations Most visitors to MUSC are familiar with entering the hospital through its front doors.  On a cold and sunny morning, 13 young men quietly marched up the set of double concrete ramps and entered MUSC Medical Center through its back door on Sabin Street. It is an entrance reserved for silent patients. It's the entrance to the morgue.  The young men were criminal offenders, accompanied by a crew of county and state parole officers. The group, mostly between the ages of 18 and 25, assembled in the morgue's narrow entryway. For the next two hours, they will participate in an innovative program that will teach them about the dangerous results of drug abuse and violence that can lead to death. The program is called End Result, formerly known as Scared Stiff. It is run by MUSC chief medical examiner Kim Collins, M.D., and Charleston County coroner Susan Chewning. The three-year program was organized by Collins in conjunction with the S.C. Department of Probation, Parole and Pardons Service. It was originally created for first-time offenders of violent and drug abuse crimes who have broken parole. Many participants are already in trouble with the law because of poor decision-making.  "It's a dose of reality," said Collins. "We're not just telling stories to these groups. We're showing them that whatever they see on the table, right in front of them is what's real." Since fall 1996, the program has hosted more than 1,760 participants attracting its share of statewide at-risk high school groups, plus other individual requests. Just recently, the production staff of syndicated talk-show host Maury Povitch hosted a second group of hand-picked teens to participate in the program.  Nineteen-year-old Hilton from Beaufort has troubles with drugs and the law. "He needs this program," said David Hotchkiss, a supervisor with Beaufort County Probation and Parole Board. "He's teetering on the edge, and a program like this can put him on the path to changing his ways."  Offenders undergo a sensory tour of death—drawing upon practically all of the human senses—smell, sight, hearing, taste and touch.  Upon arriving, the group is greeted by Julius Fielding, director of mortuary services. Fielding, a tall stoic man, has worked in the funeral business for 42 years as a licensed funeral director and embalmer.  He's very frank as he speaks about the 750 or so bodies that pass through his doors each year. "Bodies that come through this door get no special treatment," Fielding said plainly. "You get a toe tag and a place to park until your autopsy is scheduled." Fielding explains that all prisoners of the state and suspicious deaths will undergo an autopsy. Nothing can equal the acrid smell of death and decay, and Fielding wants to make sure his visitors experience that. As he calmly opens the heavy metal doors of two freezer vaults, death's smell is unmistakable. Immediately, the stench brings on a grisly reality of what lies beyond in the dark recesses. As an icy fog lifts from inside the chambers, Fielding quickly points to the red plastic body bags that lie neatly stacked on shelves. Most of the remains are of people who have yet to be identified. They are perhaps victims of various violent crimes like homicide or the result of a drug deal gone bad.  Fielding invites the young men to look inside for themselves and discourages them from covering their noses with hands and clothing. "We want you to experience this part of death," he said. From there, the tour moves to the autopsy room where autopsy technician Raymond Edwards awaits his cue. The small green tiled room resembles a combination laboratory and hospital operating room. All eyes are focused on the empty stainless steel tables. The farther one is empty, but the table closer to the group is draped with a lone white sheet with a red plastic bag sitting alone on a table corner.  Surrounding the area are flood lamps, weighing scales, medical cabinets filled with equipment and jarred specimens, two freezers, plus a small, lighted florescent corner for X-rays. Edwards is very direct in his lecture about autopsies.  This office conducts two-thirds of the Tri-county area's autopsies, which is equivalent to about two to three autopsies per day throughout the year. The team performs autopsies on all ages from babies up to older adults. He explains how the team works with the medical examiner, coroner and case solicitors.  "We're not trying to humiliate you from what you've seen today. We want to educate you," Edwards said. "We want you to take this as a real warning. You need to stop whatever you do in the streets. When you deal with crack or any other type of drug, it's dealing with certain death." At one point of his talk, Edwards displays two pairs of old, worn handcuffs or "life bracelets" as he terms them. "You have a choice to wear these in life," he said. "It's you who have the power to choose which way to go. If you're going to fail, like these handcuffs, it will be on you alone." Collins sometimes schedules guest speakers to accompany groups—motivating individuals and building up their confidence. People like Ray Leone of Charleston and the Rev. Jimmy Gallant, a motivational speaker and pastor, spend time with some of the groups.  The group spent the next 30 minutes observing slides and about hearing medical examiner Collins' role with the coroner in investigating suspicious deaths. Collins' graphic presentation featured different examples of local homicides that were in some way related to drugs or violence. This includes violence associated with gunshot and stab wounds, blunt force trauma, domestic violence, sexual assault, automobile accidents and burns.  Collins emphasized how investigations have confirmed that many of the victims knew their assailants and happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.  "I've seen immediate changes from participants who come in copping a tough guy attitude melt to pieces, cry and become suddenly withdrawn after going through just the first half hour of End Result, Collins said. "Once the program begins, participants seem to pay more attention."  The program ends with a closing activity guided by Chewning. She uses this time to explain her job as coroner and distributes her own business card to participants. On the back of each card, offenders are asked to write down the name of their next of kin, address and phone number. These participants have just made Chewning's job a little easier. "If I find my card in your wallet, it's going to break my heart," said Chewning, her voice barely a whisper. "It doesn't matter what you've done because your family loves you. But when I have to come and visit them, I'm going to break their hearts." Chewning, Collins and the parole board see this as an opportunity for change.  "It scares me to see that our next generation has no outlook, no hopes," said Chewning. "They live from day-to-day. They don't know how to think ahead and plan for next week. I'm not sure kids understand how fragile life can be."