Phoenix works to ID victims of heat wave

When that happens, funeral homes take possession of the dead and place notices in the obituary section of the local newspaper in hope that someone might recognize a name and call. It’s easy enough to spot the abbreviated bulletins, tucked in between heartfelt remembrances and photographs of loved ones.

“Christopher Daniel Blanco, 43. ... Any family please contact Harper Funeral Home.”

“Alvin Duncan, 54. ... No services scheduled at this time.”

Blanco and Duncan were homeless men who both passed away in June; the causes of their death are still undetermined. After efforts to locate any relatives were fruitless, the cases were referred this month to Maricopa County’s Indigent Burial Program.

About 350 people are buried or cremated at county expense each year, including elderly folks with no other family, abandoned babies and the homeless, program director Shari Tomlinson says.

Most cases land on the desk of burial coordinator Ramona Loza. This, she says, is “the end of the line,” the last chance to unite the dead and their loved ones. “We make one more attempt,” she says.

Sometimes, luck is on her side. Loza ran Blanco’s name through an Internet database and came up with an old address and a phone number. She dialed and found Blanco’s stepfather. His mother has since been in touch with the funeral home and is handling burial arrangements.

Sometimes, Loza finds relatives who want nothing to do with the decedent’s arrangements.

Sometimes, she can’t find a soul.

Loza’s database turned up nothing about Duncan. Discovering he was American Indian, Loza contacted a local Indian hospital to check, unsuccessfully, for records.

'Somebody’s sons, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters'
Thursday morning, as city police worked to identify the latest homeless to die on their streets, Duncan was buried at the county cemetery west of town. A nun and a few volunteers from a homeless shelter whispered prayers. Then a prison chain gang, which digs the graves, broke into “Amazing Grace” as his casket was lowered.

There are no lush, manicured lawns or elaborate headstones or fresh flowers at the cemetery. Most days there aren’t any visitors, either. For now, a tiny, plastic stake marks the spot where Duncan rests. Eventually, a metal disc with his name and date of death will be placed atop the grave. The discs are sprinkled throughout the cemetery, sprouting from hard, cracked dirt.

A few of them have no names at all, reading simply “Male, Unk” — unknown.

Loza hopes for a different outcome for the homeless who died this past week. So do other transients, who know all too well that living alone on the streets shouldn’t mean dying alone.

“They’re people — somebody’s sons, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters,” a man named Izzy says as he reclines under a shade tree at the downtown city library. A damp washcloth sits on his forehead, a bottle of water by his side.

“They’re homeless,” Izzy says, “but they’re still people.”

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