Help wanted: Weak stomachs need not apply

They're dirty jobs and somebody has to do them, again and again
By Teri Banas
Lansing State Journal

If it weren't for being color-blind, Kameron Bradman, a young Lansing father, would probably have pursued his goal of becoming a Michigan State trooper. Now his line of work is something he admits left his parents shocked at first, and has strangers asking with crinkled noses, "Why do you do that?" My response is, 'Because I can.'"

Bradman, 30, says he didn't seek out the goriest profession. But a desire to reach beyond the status quo brought him to this calling -- running a cleaning service involving the recently deceased. Homicides and suicides are his work; the blood-stained rooms and private places of people's most tragic ends are his workplace.

A Sunday school teacher, devoted husband and full-time Meijer security manager, the Lansing man has a growing moonlighting business that began in 1996. BIOCLEAN has taken him around the state to 17 crime scenes.

He tells what drew him to this: "(It was) ' How can I use this gift, this talent or ability that I have for say, a strong stomach, to serve somebody?" "Blood. Gore. It just doesn't faze me, " he says. "I don't want to give the impression I'm a morbid person. I'm not."

People like Bradman -- those who do what other people couldn't do or find disgusting -- are a special breed, says researcher Blake Ashford. He who presented a study titled "How Can You Do It?" at the Academy of Management's annual meeting last month in San Diego. Road-kill crews. Garbage collectors. Bail bondsmen. Hospital orderlies. Strippers. Most people would find their jobs either physically, socially or morally tainted. But they aren't particularly bothered by the stigma, Ashford said.

Indeed Bradman is a contented man, partly because of his ability to help bereaved families in the throes of morbid discoveries. A middle-aged business woman takes her life as her sporting goods store fails. A lonely 17-year-old boy puts a shotgun to his mouth is his bedroom. A 21-year-old is found dead of a seizure in an old farm-house on a 95-degree day. Bradman's work cleaning up the aftermath begins when the county coroner's office or local funeral home has taken the body away. "I feel good about being able to do this," he says. "Who else would do it? Usually a neighbor, friend, distant relative. It's something an individual related to the incident should not have to endure."

Humming soft church hymns as he proceeds, Bradman says, his strategy is direct. Assess the location, devise a strategy for cleaning it, and get to work as unobtrusively as possible. Dressed in a scientifically designed body suit and using specially engineered cleaning supplies to deal with the dangers of blood-borne pathogens, he keeps a respectful, quiet tone, particularly when in contact with a houseful of grieving family members and friends.

"I'm absolutely, completely satisfied doing this," he says. "I love telling people I can help them." "The satisfaction that comes from leaving a scene completed, and seeing their gratitude, right through the eyes and into the heart of a family member, is immensely overwhelming."