I was working for New York City’s Office of the Chief Medical Examiner when the unthinkable happened on Sept. 11, 2001.

As a death investigator, I would usually go to an apartment or the streets to investigate a homicide, a suicide or an accidental death.

Now it was my job to “work the pile” — that is, to recover and catalog the shattered human remains found in the burning, smoking rubble of the World Trade Center.

I had been at the OCME for nine years and had seen all manner of death.

Nothing could have prepared me for the enormity of this tragedy.  

After some months my boss, Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Charles Hirsch, called a meeting — even in the maw of death, there must be meetings.

He wanted to brief the city Department of Buildings and the newly formed 9/11 memorial committee about which artifacts would be held for future exhibition: Nothing that might contain the dust of human remains could be released.

It was a moment of tension in the ME’s conference room, as all of us did our best not to dwell on what these artifacts represented in the everyday lives of the dead.

It wasn’t just what was in front of us; it was the loop of news videos that had been imprinted on all our minds over those terrible months.

The worst of them, arguably, were those documenting the people falling out of the buildings’ highest windows, some 100 stories up.

It was impossible to emotionally detach from those lonely tragedies — to stop the thoughts of what those victims may have felt in their last moments. 

As Dr. Hirsch spoke about those who died in the impact zone where the planes hit, someone in the group made a reference to “the jumpers, the suicides.”

My boss was always calm and dignified, but at that moment I saw the strain on his face as he tried to maintain his composure.

His anger was palpable.

He put his hands flat on the table in front of him and said, “Never use those words. Never.”

They were pushed out, he explained, by flames and smoke.

Men and women were standing on the sills of the World Trade Center hoping for a miracle rescue, struggling for air to survive.

They were clinging to the window frames, straining toward the sky to draw breath.

Some lost their grip; some were forced to let go.

The terminology matters deeply, because the medical examiner determines the manner of death by strict protocols.

Suicide refers to “death at the hands of oneself with intent to die.”

Homicide is defined as “death at the hands of another.”

It is a fact that terrorists pushed these people to their deaths, murdering them.  

There was no evidence of suicide among the 2,753 people who lost their lives at the World Trade Center that day.

Every one of the estimated 200 people who came down from the windows was pushed by forces beyond their control.

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That’s why every single death certificate of those who died on 9/11 reads “Homicide.” 

It matters, too, because some families of the murdered adhere to religious traditions that teach that suicide is an unforgiveable sin.

We’ve seen heartbreaking cases of family members denouncing lost loved ones when confronted with the possibility that they intentionally jumped.

And yet, the National September 11 Museum posts a sign outside a room where images of the falling people are displayed referencing “those who jumped.” 

With the help of curators and directors there, I have sought to change that notice. 

The museum’s Signage Committee has declined, saying no one else seems to be bothered by it.

I am bothered.

Like Dr. Hirsch, those words make me angry — and sad, and hurt.

To call these people “jumpers” fails to capture the anguish they experienced, their lack of choice.

It doesn’t honor them; it blames the victims rather than the terrorists.

Call them “those who fell from the windows” — or who were “pushed out by forces beyond their control.”

Whatever we choose, let’s use the right words.

Barbara Butcher, the former chief of staff at OCME NYC, is the author of “What the Dead Know: Learning About Life as a New York City Death Investigator.”