Body still unclaimed a week after man's lonely death in South Bend hotel room

SOUTH BEND – There will be no obituary for Dennis Fuson, no funeral, no memorial service. For more than a week, since his body was discovered on Jan. 18 in a Wooden Indian Motel room, his remains have sat unclaimed at Hanley and Sons Funeral Home, one more testament to a world where it's easy to disappear and even easier to be forgotten. That Fuson died alone, tucked into bed, at the Wooden Indian Motel is not surprising, said deputy corner Chuck Hurley, who ruled 59-year-old Fuson's death as natural, complicated by a litany of medical problems. The Wooden Indian, perched on a narrow ridge between Lincoln Way East and the St. Joseph River, is synonymous with some of the city's poorest, sickest and loneliest. It's one of the few places where, for $33 a night, you can rent a heated room. Last week, three days after Fuson died, a 67-year-old resident of the Wooden Indian died of an apparent heart attack. In the past two years there have been others, some from natural causes, some from drug overdoses. "There's probably not a room there that we haven't been called to," Hurley said. But the story of Fuson's death really isn't about where he died, but about how easy it is to go from being a somebody – apparently with a house, a car, a job and friends – to the kind of person we tend to ignore, or at least avoid, when we meet on the street. Of all the people who probably knew Fuson in life, officials have found only one to share the news of his death. Richard Nichols says he met Fuson in 1982, working together at the Sport Coach RV plant in Elkhart. "I'm really the only friend he had left," Nichols said. "He didn't ever have any family, and he kept to himself." Nichols said he and Fuson enjoyed working together and taking trips to northern Michigan, where they would fish, camp and relax. In the late 1980s, during a slowdown in the RV business, they attempted to start a home improvement and concrete business together, but it failed. "He was a good guy," Nichols said of his friend. "He was kind of gruff, but he was real intelligent, and we'd have good conversations." But Nichols said Fuson was a three-pack-a-day smoker who struggled with his weight, averaging more than 300 pounds and sometimes ballooning above 400 on a diet that consisted mostly of meat, cheese and bread. Fuson had no known relatives, Nichols said, because he had been adopted as a boy and raised on a farm in Cassopolis. His adoptive parents, who were in their 50s when they adopted the boy, died at least 15 years ago. But even though Fuson led a quiet life, it was apparently a respectable one. He owned a home in the 1100 block of Bissell Street, he owned a Chevy Blazer that he loved to drive, and he worked various jobs — none lucrative but enough to provide for the life of a single man. Downward spiral Nichols said the change came in 2004, when an accidental fire at his house left Fuson with a severely burned leg. Fuson spent weeks in the hospital, Nichols said, and came out with ever worsening heart problems, complicated by his overall poor health. Fuson applied for and received Social Security disability benefits, but they weren't enough to maintain his home. In 2005, Portage Township trustee records show, Fuson applied for income assistance and food stamps. That same year, records show he sought services from the state's Vocational Rehabilitation Services office, but he never returned to that office. Soon, Fuson would lose his house. County tax records show that property taxes and his mortgage weren't paid for several years, and the home was sold at a sheriff's sale. By that time, Nichols said, Fuson's health was deteriorating, and he was living on the streets. With his Social Security checks, he was able to qualify for a low-income apartment on South Scott Street. With his history of smoking and his large frame, Fuson developed heart problems and spent days and weeks in and out of hospitals. At home, an oxygen machine became his constant companion. Last June, Nichols said, Fuson had a heart attack and spent a month in a coma. Nichols said Fuson came out of the hospital less sharp and even less able to take care of himself. Nichols became his friend's lifeline, picking up groceries, going to the bank, any errand that Fuson needed. Somehow, in that transfer to the hospital, Fuson lost his apartment. When he came out, he moved into the Wooden Indian, where he stayed about a month, before medical problems sent him back to the hospital. Then, at the hospital, Fuson disappeared. Searching for a friend Nichols said he went to visit his friend, only to find out that Fuson wasn't there. Because Nichols wasn't a family member, federal HIPPA regulations prevented hospital officials from divulging Fuson's information. Nichols, thinking the worst, went to the police and filed a missing person's report. It wasn't until August that he learned his friend was in Bremen, recovering at a rehabilitation center. On Jan. 12, Nichols went to Bremen to bring his friend home. With no apartment to return to, Fuson returned to the Wooden Indian. Six days later, the motel's cleaning woman would unlock the door to Fuson's room and make the discovery. A day later, the funeral director called Nichols, asking whether he knew a man named Dennis Fuson. They were able to track him down because Fuson had his bills sent to Nichols' house. Nichols said he plans to claim Fuson's cremated remains, if no one else comes forward. He'd like to take them up to Michigan, somewhere near Ludington, and spread them out on the land where the two friends once roamed. Nichols said he doesn't expect anyone will miss Dennis Fuson, the man who died broke and alone, leaving only a scattering of check stubs and medical bills behind. But Nichols said he'll try to remember the guy who was a good friend, a good co-worker, a valued part of society. And, in the end, how thin the line is that separates it all. Staff writer Dave Stephens: dstephens@sbtinfo.com (574) 235-6209