On Tuesday morning, I drove half a mile to the Wayne County Medical Examiner's Office. There in the circular lobby, many of the students from my Criminal Investigation class sat in silence. We were there for the tour.

Ever since the beginning of the semester, I had thought about what this day would be like. How would I react to seeing autopsies of humans? Would I be sick? Would I cry?

We all went into a classroom and listened to a hardened detective tell us about the ME's office. He threw in some comments about gun safety, as there were so many people who came in with gunshot wounds.

I stared down at a sheet of paper that he gave me. A chart of all the bodies brought in that day. There were a total of seven, all with their names blacked out. Under each name was a short description of the events leading up to death or the situation in which they were found. Age, weight and height were also listed.

We were informed that it was a slow day and only three of the people were being autopsied, so we'd have to hurry into the observation room.

I had been under the impression that this observation room would be completely isolated from the autopsy room. I was wrong. We walked by freezers and then into the same room that the autopsies were occurring and then veered off to the right to enter the thin observation room. I had prepared myself for the smell, thinking I would be smelling decomposition. Instead I smelled Pine Sol and blood. In fact, it brought back memories of fresh meat sections at the grocery store.

I stared out of the glass in this tiny cramped room and saw the bodies of three African American people. Two women and one man. The man had already been opened up, and his brain removed. I could see his sinuses and his internal organs being teased apart on a counter behind his slab.

One autopsy was just beginning, the Y incision being made as we walked in. It was a woman with long black braids in her hair. I watched as they expertly cut at her throat, pulled the tongue out through the hole, detached some connective tissue and pulled the entirety of her internal organs out in one fell swoop. Everything but the kidneys. The attendant held the mass by the tongue and set it on the counter for examination.

The other woman in the room hadn't been cut yet. I saw the curlers in her hair and unexpected tears sprang to my eyes. She had every intention of waking up in the morning and taking those curlers out. But she never woke up, her landlord forced the door open when she didn't answer. Her arms and other joints still moved freely. So freely, in fact, that her head kept falling off the head block.

I watched as the Y-incision was made. It was heavy handed and imprecise. It didn't matter. The skin, muscle and fatty tissue were pulled back to expose her rib cage. Then the attendant grabbed her tree trimmers (yes that's what they use) and began cutting each of the ribs, one by one. We could hear it. The entirety of her rib cage was removed. Then the organs. After that came the part that I had been worried about. The removal of the brain.

I watched as the attendant cut the woman's scalp in the back, losing a curler or two. She then peeled the scalp up over the face, and brought out the Stryker saw. Again, we could hear this through our thin glass. The skull is cut in a way that it is obvious which way it goes back on. A metal tool is inserted into the cut and twisted, prying the skull off. There, in front of me was the seat of this woman's intelligence, memories and life. And it was about to be pried from her head.

During all of this, two doctors answered our questions and told us stories. It was hard to take my eyes off the events beyond the glass. It all seemed so routine for the people doing it. They walked around in their personal autopsy stations, complete with knick knacks and humorous white board messages while we peeked into their world.

After the autopsies, we were allowed to go into the Crime Scene Photographer's office. He was a very cool guy who hauled out his binder of interesting and high profile cases that he had worked. We saw pictures of three of John Eric Armstrong's victims. We saw bodies so bloated and discolored they looked like horrible Anime characters. We saw children and three-hundred year old Native American skulls that were mistaken for murdered golfers. I could have stayed in there all day. The photographer gave me my favorite quote for the day, "Maggot season is pretty much done here in Michigan. Thank God."

My experiences at the ME's office made me feel accomplished and privileged. I didn't puke, I didn't pass out, and for the most part, I didn't look away. I looked at the indignity of death and didn't flinch. Does this mean that I can be a crime scene investigator? I don't know, but it's definitely a plus.