Exhuming the Memory of 9/11

John Williams almost chose not to do this interview, unsure whether he was ready to talk about his experience in New York City in the days after September 11, 2001. 

The forensic anthropologist helped identify human remains for over four decades, but the two weeks he spent answering the nation’s call following the worst terrorist attack in its history remain the most challenging and important of his career. 

In 2003, Williams took a position at Western Carolina University, where he established the “Body Farm” to study the decomposition of human remains to help inform the work of detectives and scientists. He also co-edited a 2022 book to guide professionals and policymakers in victim identification following a disaster.

In the 25 years since the Twin Towers fell, he’s talked about his experience less and less. But the memories have never faded. Now, he’s decided it’s time to share more of his story. 

Williams, 73, grew up in Cleveland and received a master’s degree and doctorate in biological anthropology from Ohio State University. He wanted to become a paleontology professor before eventually shifting his focus to humans; interest in dinosaurs was experiencing a renaissance at the time. He received a one-year contract with the University of North Dakota and stayed for two decades.

Just a month after taking that job, a local sheriff brought him an incomplete skull, the origins of which he couldn’t pin down. Williams was able to identify it as a “teaching skull” from an anatomical specimen. Then agencies across the country started asking him for help identifying everything from prehistoric skeletons to homicide victims.

“I’ve been on a number of forensic cases over the years, from missing persons to murder investigations,” he said. “One of my specialty areas was sharp trauma, and specifically dismemberment.”

Giving crime victims dignity, and their families closure, felt compassionate. He also got intellectual fulfillment from helping solve delicate mysteries. A trained eye can glean a lot from a person’s skeletal remains, including their height, body type, age, biological sex, and likely their race.

Williams earned certification from the American Board of Forensic Anthropology in 1995, which opened even more doors. A colleague recruited him to join the federal Disaster Mortuary Operational Response Team, or DMORT, a Department of Health and Human Services program that responds to situations where there are more casualties than local resources can manage.

DMORT’s 10 teams are divided by region and include coroners, funeral directors, medical examiners, and dental assistants. In April 1995, the program worked to identify victims of the bombing at the federal building in Oklahoma City. At the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, DMORT was called in when large cities struggled to keep up with the growing number of fatalities. 

Williams’ first deployment was in August 1997, after Korean Air Flight 801 crashed three miles southwest of the runway at Guam’s international airport. Of the 254 on board, 228 died; Williams spent two weeks helping identify them. When EgyptAir Flight 990 plunged into the ocean shortly after takeoff from New York City’s John F. Kennedy International Airport on October 31, 1999, Williams was sent in again. 

From those first disasters, he learned that deployments are never the same. Professionals may use the same skills—skills honed with experience—but there would always be new challenges. 

Getting the Call

Williams was in his university office in Grand Forks when the first plane struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center. A colleague rushed in and told him what had happened.

“My God,” Williams recalled saying, “how can that kind of accident happen?” 

When the second plane hit 17 minutes later, it became clear this was an attack. 

Williams thought the destruction would be so severe that authorities may not even try to identify victims. But about two weeks later, he received deployment orders. He arrived at Ground Zero on September 30, nervous about what horrors might await. 

It all felt surreal. He’d stayed in a nearby hotel two years earlier on a vacation, and those pleasant memories were shattered by a new reality. His colleagues took a photo of him in front of the famous Woolworth Building as a reference point; piles of debris skirted the 792-foot neo-Gothic landmark the towers once flanked, its windows entirely blown out. 

Flyers featuring the faces of the missing lined the streets, posted by families desperate for any sign their loved ones might still be alive. The emotional toll on survivors weighed heaviest on him.

That was the only time Williams would see Ground Zero. For the next 13 days, he worked 12-hour shifts at a landfill on Staten Island that became a sorting ground for all the World Trade Center debris. Fresh Kills had been the world’s largest landfill before it closed in March 2001 after five decades of operation. The New York City Police Department reopened it in the wake of the attack to process 1.6 million short tons of material. Thousands of detectives and forensic specialists worked 1.7 million man-hours, recovering 4,257 individual bones from the 2,753 victims. 

Whenever workers found a possible specimen, they would bring it to the forensic anthropologists for analysis. Williams said they received “all manner” of objects. Among the most common were nonhuman bones—detritus from dozens of restaurants and breakrooms that came down with the towers. Some things were more surprising, like when detectives brought in what he thought was part of a finger but was really a bone-shaped novelty pen.

They wore Tyvek suits to prevent contamination and masks to mitigate exposure to carcinogens. But Williams would often take his off—to the dismay of Occupational Safety and Health Administration personnel on site—so he could perform the most basic of analyses: a smell test. One time, he received what looked like a piece of skin crushed under immense weight. It was roughly the shade of tanned flesh and had small pores.

“We smelled it and said, ‘This is citrus; it’s an orange peel,’” he said. 

Human remains were logged as evidence and passed on to the medical examiner for further evaluation. Sometimes, bones were easily identifiable, but they weren’t always so sure. They erred on the side of moving things forward to the next step of the process, where remains would be recorded and sent off for DNA identification.

The people working at the Staten Island landfill often felt forgotten compared to other first responders. Even visits from mental health professionals were rare. 

Burnout became a problem. The work was difficult, tedious, and emotionally taxing. Even during lulls when new specimens weren’t coming in, they didn’t rest. Williams and other forensic experts would help sort through rubble, which brought a degree of reassurance about how attentive the workers who dug all day had to be. After standing shoulder to shoulder with them, he believed they didn’t miss a thing.

“We worked with pretty much the same people over that two-week period,” he said. “There were some rotating in and out, but pretty much it was all NYPD. We got to know them quite well.” 

During their few hours of free time, Williams found solace in the company of his peers in the forensic anthropology community. After a long day, they would “go to a restaurant, sit, and just talk about anything but what we did that day.”

Williams felt fortunate to serve alongside a close friend who had also been with him in Guam.

“When you know someone well enough, if you see them not responding well, you know you can take the right steps,” he said. 

On their last day of the deployment, mental health experts offered to speak with any DMORT member who wanted to talk. After a debriefing with incident command, Williams and his friend drove to a hotel near the airport. Williams then set off on his own, stopping at a deli and visiting a large specialty shop for model trains.

“I didn’t buy anything, but it was fun to just go in the store,” he said. “It sounds weird, but I just wanted to do something normal.”

The next day, Williams and his colleagues were relieved by a fresh DMORT squad.

‘It Was Still Very Fresh’

Back home, Williams’ wife asked if he wanted to talk about his experience. He obliged. For a while, he could get through conversations with the many people who were curious. He’d been the only person from North Dakota deployed to New York with DMORT, so local TV stations, radio shows, and even the university newspaper wanted to talk to him.

Those conversations were cathartic at first, but soon he began to struggle to relay his experience. “Initially, it was still very fresh,” he said. “But years went on and it’s like you could tell this really wasn’t something that they understood.”

There was always one exception. Every year on September 11, he’d discuss the details with his students. It was both relevant professional experience and a perspective on the event he believed younger generations should hear.

Williams returned to teaching just days after getting back to North Dakota. Occupying his mind seemed like the best way to get past what he’d seen. For good or ill, he said he “divorced” himself from that experience quickly. He has since avoided anything that depicts the September 11 attacks or their aftermath.

“I had a job to do, and I did it,” he said flatly. 

In 2003, Williams took a position at Western Carolina University in Cullowhee, where in 2007 he founded the Forensic Osteology Research Station, or FOREST. Many know it as a “Body Farm,” a moniker he has never been comfortable with. WCU’s 5,000-square-foot research area is one of just seven worldwide that studies donated human corpses.

Williams said FOREST has helped “further understanding of human decomposition” through its observations and added that it has also helped increase the visibility of the field.

Williams also chaired the American Academy of Forensic Sciences’ Disaster Victim Identification Consensus Body from 2016 to 2024, which established the first set of best practices for the discipline, such as how to process DNA and fingerprints.

Williams retired on July 30, 2020, at a time when mass casualty incidents—from natural disasters to mass shootings—have made the research even more crucial. 

“I thought that we had reached saturation in my field, and I was totally wrong,” Williams said. “Agencies now all over the country are hiring forensic anthropologists. A few years ago, we never even thought of doing that.”

He was called upon to work with a DMORT team again when Tropical Storm Helene devastated Western North Carolina in 2024, but declined. He wasn’t directly affected, but his daughter in Asheville lost power and water, and he wanted to be there to help her. But there was also another concern, a fear shared by many first responders: What if he happened upon the remains of someone he knew? 

“You always feel that you should have been there,” he said. “But in this case, I’m very comfortable with my decision to stay here.” 

Williams doubts he’ll deploy with DMORT again. He doesn’t know that he could handle the physical strain, let alone the mental and emotional toll. But he still sometimes works as an assessor, someone who goes out into the field post-disaster to determine what resources are needed. 

His feelings about his work after 9/11 have grown more complex with time. Now, reflection inspires an uneasy pride, and he sees his role after an attack that rattled the nation as something that must be documented. It may not sound like he did a lot to outside observers, he said. But that work helped overwhelmed first responders and brought closure to thousands of grieving families.

“It’s been 25 years, and very few people know who was involved,” he said. “If I don’t say something now, it’ll just pass, and with it, everything that needs to be known.”

And while there’s little room for nostalgia in tragedy, he recalled one example. While walking through the remnants of death and destruction at Fresh Kills one day, he encountered an unexpected sign of life. A small patch of sunflowers had sprouted. Sure to soon die in the hostile habitat, they nonetheless reached toward the heavens.