The Education of a Coroner

by John Bateson

  In the meantime, Thomas had phone numbers for Carol’s parents in Brooklyn and her brother, John, in Florida. He thought it best to notify John first and have him tell his parents. They might receive the news better if it came from their son rather than a stranger. Thomas called police in Florida and asked them to inform John that his sister had died.

  When police knocked on his door, John told them that they had made a mistake. He said his parents lived in New York, but he didn’t have a sister named Carol or any relatives in California.

  An officer relayed this information to Thomas, who was puzzled. Among the personal items that he’d found and held on to for her file was Carol Filipelli’s address book. John’s address and phone number were there, exactly as Thomas had noted them. Moreover, written in parentheses next to John’s name was the word “Brother.”

  Thomas asked police to go back to John’s residence and have him phone Thomas. The officer told Thomas afterward that John was reluctant and had to be badgered to make the call. Eventually, he admitted to Thomas that he had a sister named Carol who lived in California. His excuse for not admitting it earlier was that he thought the cop “was a bill collector or something.” He said that he and his sister weren’t in touch with each other.

  When Thomas told him about his sister’s death, John merely said, “Thanks. I’ll tell my parents.” He didn’t ask any questions.

  The next day, Carol Filipelli’s father phoned the coroner’s office. Thomas wasn’t on duty, and Ken Holmes took the call. Without preamble, the father cried, “What’s happened to my baby?”

  Holmes told him that the investigation hadn’t been completed yet, but it looked like Carol overdosed. Her father was stunned and at a complete loss to explain how or why that happened. At one point he told Holmes, as if offering a kind of testimonial, “She’s a hardworking girl. We talk to her once a week on the phone.”

  Later in the investigation, Holmes collected copies of Carol’s phone bills for the six months prior to her death. Her father was right; every Sunday, like clockwork, she called home.

  After the autopsy, Carol’s remains were released to her parents. They said they were going to bring her home to be buried, but instead they had her cremated in California and her ashes sent home. That proved to be unfortunate because when the toxicology report came back several weeks later, it held a big surprise: there was no trace of drugs in her system. Carol hadn’t overdosed. Because her body already had been cremated, however, it wasn’t possible to reexamine it.

  THE INVESTIGATION

  A short time later, a San Francisco attorney walked into the Marin County Coroner’s Office and said he wanted to speak with someone who was familiar with the Carol Filipelli case. When asked why he was interested in it, the attorney said he was representing a client in the dissolution of her marriage, and the case had some bearing on it.

  According to the attorney, his client, named Martha, and Carol Filipelli were in the same profession. Both were high-priced prostitutes. Martha was fearful of her husband, who knew Carol, and refused to be alone with him at the present time, the attorney said. Then the attorney asked a curious question: During the autopsy, had Carol’s skin been examined closely to see whether any kind of “esoterical substance” had been rubbed on it? Bill Thomas told him that the autopsy had been thorough and nothing unusual had been found.

  During the conversation, the attorney noticed Carol’s driver’s license in Thomas’s case file and asked to see her photo. When Thomas showed it to him, the attorney was dumbfounded. He said that the two women, his client and Carol Filipelli, shared a strong physical resemblance. Both had brown hair, brown eyes, and light skin, and were beautiful.

  Thomas asked the attorney about the occupation of Martha’s husband. The attorney said that he was a marine biologist with a PhD.

  After the attorney’s visit, Thomas phoned Martha’s husband, whose name was Eddie. Thomas’s impression of him was that he was a meek, milquetoast kind of guy. Eddie admitted that he knew Carol Filipelli and had even been to her apartment. He said that Carol was security conscious and it was unlike her to leave any door unlocked. Also, she didn’t let her dog out unattended. In addition, she was secretive, to the point of removing mailing labels that were affixed to magazines she subscribed to. Recently, he noticed that she had an issue of Newsweek opened to an editorial titled “A Good Death.”

  It was clear to Thomas that Eddie was more than just a casual friend of the deceased. While Eddie didn’t seem particularly moved by Carol’s death, he knew things about her that belied a passing interest. Thomas looked to see if there were any gifts from Eddie in Carol’s apartment. There weren’t, nor did Thomas find a passport for Carol despite the fact that Eddie said she had traveled to Mexico recently, as well as to Hawaii. When Thomas asked Eddie about Carol’s secret life—the same secret life as Eddie’s wife—Eddie denied any knowledge of it. He said that Carol must have had a dual personality, and if he had ever married her then found out about it he would have killed himself. It was an odd comment, and Thomas noted it in his investigative report. Then he moved on to other cases. Inasmuch as no one was likely to know anything more, he couldn’t justify looking into it further.

  Ken Holmes wasn’t willing to let the case go, however. It would be a recurring theme in his work. Carol’s apartment with its fabulous view rented for more money than Holmes’s monthly salary at the time, yet Carol’s occupation, according to her neighbor, was hairdresser. Even if she was, in fact, a high-priced call girl, how could she afford such luxury? There had to be more to it, Holmes thought.

  Holmes went to Carol’s apartment, which was still secured and untouched. Near the hearth, he felt a bulge under one foot. Using a pen to peel back the carpet, he found two passports, three thousand dollars in cash, a checkbook, and a driver’s license. The passports and driver’s license had Carol Filipelli’s photo, but the names of different women.

  Now Holmes’s curiosity was piqued, and he began searching the whole apartment carefully. A number of shoe boxes were perched high on a shelf in the closet in the master bedroom. One shoe box contained copies of an ad that Carol had placed in the personals section of the Wall Street Journal and other publications. The ad was a teaser, and Holmes handed a copy to me.

  “Former bunny, five-five, 125 pounds, dark hair and eyes, would like to meet generous gentleman over 40. I will light your cigarettes and take off your shoes if you treat me sweetly. Write to Michelle.”

  The shoe box also contained dozens of responses to the ad, from men all over the country. Holmes showed me these, too. On some of them Carol affixed brief comments. “He’s a private pilot.” “He owns his own company.” “He has three kids.” The information was relevant, it seemed, in helping her decide which men were the best candidates to pursue.

  A second shoe box contained copies of a letter that she sent to men who responded, as well as a photograph of her. The letter was handwritten but xeroxed with space for Carol to add the person’s name in the salutation, as well as a signature at the end. She didn’t presign it, because she used different names in the ad—Michelle, Maureen, Jade, Rose.

  The letter said, “Thank you for answering my ad. A little something about myself. I’m 26, five-foot-five, light-skinned, brown hair and eyes, 125 pounds, and I do enjoy being feminine. I’m looking for a soft and warm friendship with no complications or misunderstandings. Since I have received several answers, I cannot reply to each letter individually by giving my telephone number because privacy and discretion are of utmost importance to me. Therefore it would be more convenient if you would give me your number and a particular date and time you’d like me to phone you with politeness and discretion assured. I’m hoping to meet you soon.”

  The photograph, of which there were several dozen copies, was in color and taken with a Polaroid camera. It showed Carol in enticing lingerie, kneeling on the same bed in her bedroom in Sausalito and holding a wineglass with red liquid. She was wearing a big, floppy-br
immed hat that hid most of her face, and her head was tilted down, further shielding her.

  A third shoe box had individually written follow-up letters that she sent to the best prospects. Usually it was a wealthy businessman who was married and traveled frequently. He told her when he was going to be in a particular city and where she should meet him.

  Holmes says, “The deal, I learned, was that Carol would join the man at a conference and do everything he wanted her to do. She would escort him to meals and functions, being more than arm candy because she was well read and conversant, and also provide sexual services while there.”

  Inside a manila envelope that had been taped shut, Holmes found other photos, which he showed to me. These were much different, and appeared to be for personal viewing. There were no copies, just single prints, all in black-and-white. They were eight-by-ten in size, of professional quality, and taken when Carol was nineteen, according to the date on the back. In all but one photo she was nude and on a beach, either frolicking in the surf or lying outstretched in the sand. Her full body was on display, unabashed and free. The lone exception was a close-up of just her face with the collar of a blouse visible. In it she looked pensive, unguarded, and, if possible, even more alluring.

  “The black-and-white photos had the photographer’s name stamped on the back,” Holmes says, “so I tracked him down. He said he hadn’t seen Carol in years; nevertheless, he was brokenhearted when I told him why I was calling. He said that Carol hired him to take photos of her after she moved to San Francisco. A short time later, the two of them became lovers.”

  Once Holmes learned that Carol wasn’t who she pretended to be, he pursued the case with even greater vigor. In addition to her apartment in Sausalito, he learned that she maintained two other apartments in San Francisco under the same phony names that she used in the ads. She had bank accounts in those other names, too, as well as credit cards.

  The more he uncovered, the more absorbed Holmes became. His next stop was San Francisco, where he found, through word of mouth, three other former lovers of Carol Filipelli. While the photographer kept a low profile, these men had social standing and owned businesses. Also unlike the photographer, they were married. Holmes assured each of them that any information they provided wouldn’t be part of his report. His inquiries were intended solely to help fill in the blanks regarding how and why Carol died.

  From one of the men Holmes learned that Carol’s latest boyfriend frequently hung out at a bar on Lombard Street in San Francisco. Taking his wife with him as cover, Holmes chatted up the bartender, thinking he might know the boyfriend. He didn’t seem to, but that didn’t stop Holmes and his wife from going back to the bar seven nights in a row with the hope of running into Carol’s boyfriend.

  “Later,” Holmes says, “I found out that the boyfriend was a fringe player in Hollywood. He did frequent the bar, but only when he happened to be in town.”

  Eventually, Holmes tracked down Carol Filipelli’s Hollywood lover. His name was Romano, and when he came to Holmes’s office he was accompanied by his attorney. Romano said that he first met Carol when he was visiting the Bay Area and she was walking her dog on Stinson Beach, in Marin County. They began a conversation that evolved rather quickly into an intimate relationship. He said she told him what she did, which didn’t bother him. She also told him that oftentimes after a rendezvous with a client she went to the beach and swam in the ocean, as an act of cleansing.

  It was Romano who told Holmes about Eddie, Martha’s marine biologist husband. Eddie was Carol’s sugar daddy, Romano said. He was independently wealthy and paid for Carol’s apartment in Sausalito. He provided the Mercedes, too, and gave her $1,500 per month in spending money. When she told him that she wanted to visit her parents in New York and also do a little shopping, Eddie gave her $3,500. He didn’t know that she actually was visiting someone else.

  Romano told Holmes several other pieces of information that were helpful. The first was that Carol used Quaalude and Valium heavily, and sometimes talked about suicide when she was drugged but, to the best of his knowledge, had never attempted to kill herself. If nothing else, Romano said, she loved her dog too much to leave it uncared for.

  The second piece of information was that Carol had frequent doctor’s appointments. That was how she was able to keep getting refills on her medications. Romano said that one of her physicians was something of a lothario who was happy to trade drugs for sex.

  “I talked to two of the doctors,” Holmes says, “but didn’t ask whether either one had had a personal relationship with Carol. It never crossed my mind. I did ask if Carol had ever expressed any suicidal tendencies, and both doctors said no. The first doctor said that Carol was afraid her boyfriend might kill himself, which caused her to have difficulty sleeping. That was why he prescribed a sedative for her. He didn’t know that she was getting prescriptions filled by other physicians as well, he said. The second physician, a gynecologist, said Carol came in so frequently to be tested for a venereal disease that he wondered whether she was prostituting herself. Each time she told him that she was taking a trip and the thought of it made her nervous, which was why she needed medication, to calm her down. On one occasion she claimed that she had lost her prescription.”

  Another thing Romano told Holmes was that Carol’s going rate—which wasn’t in any of the ads—was three thousand dollars for a weekend. It didn’t include airfare, meals, or other expenses, which the client paid for as well.

  The most important thing Romano told Holmes was that Carol and Eddie had had a big fight several days before she died. This was after Eddie found out about her and Romano. Eddie thought he was the only man in Carol’s life, or at least the only one who mattered. Certainly he had paid handsomely for the privilege.

  Holmes listened to everything Romano said with a sense of wariness. Romano was circumspect, measuring his words in order to avoid saying anything that might be incriminating. The fact that his lawyer accompanied him added to Holmes’s distrust.

  “In my experience, only people with something to hide bring their attorneys with them to the coroner’s office,” Holmes says.

  At the end of their conversation, Romano told Holmes that he had changed his name after he was charged with dealing marijuana and jumped probation, that Romano wasn’t his real name. Holmes wasn’t surprised.

  Nevertheless, like each of Carol Filipelli’s other lovers whom Holmes interviewed, Romano seemed genuinely upset by the news that she had died. Talking about her many months later, his voice still caught at times. That led Holmes to think that Romano probably was telling the truth. It didn’t make things any clearer, however. On the contrary, the more Holmes learned from Romano, the more confusing the case became.

  During the course of his investigation, Holmes had three face-to-face meetings with Eddie. While soft-spoken, slight in build, and of average appearance, Eddie was smart and exhibited a steely resolve.

  “In the first meeting,” Holmes says, “Eddie played the grieving boyfriend, never letting on that he knew about Carol’s other boyfriends or about how she earned money beyond what he gave her. The second meeting was at Eddie’s house, an impressive residence in Tiburon. [Tiburon is next to Sausalito and even more upscale.] Eddie let me in, but was cagey and didn’t admit anything. When I returned several weeks later, Eddie met me at the door and said, ‘I prefer that you don’t come in.’ I tried to ask him several questions while standing in the doorway, but Eddie demurred, saying politely but firmly that he was done talking.”

  Holmes is silent for a moment, replaying the conversations with Eddie in his mind. They happened long ago, but the memory of them is still fresh.

  “So you don’t know whether he killed her?” I say.

  “Oh, I think I figured it out,” Holmes says. “It took a while, and I can’t prove it, but I know. During the latter part of my investigation I learned that Eddie’s specialty as a marine biologist was poisonous fish—pufferfish, stonefish, lionfish, boxfish
. They store or excrete toxins that, in sufficient quantities, can be lethal to humans if swallowed or absorbed through the skin.”

  The toxicology tests that were done on Carol’s body didn’t reveal any trace of barbiturates, morphine, Doriden, Librium, Quaalude, methamphetamines, or other common drugs. They also didn’t show any evidence of lead, mercury, strychnine, or arsenic. Tests weren’t conducted for more exotic and unusual substances, however, because no one knew that that was a possibility. Similarly, the drink on her nightstand, which subsequently was discarded, wasn’t tested for tetrodotoxin or other fish poisons. Once her body was cremated, the case was closed. It has been that way ever since.

  “And you never talked to Eddie again?”

  He shakes his head. “I had no reason to. The only thing I did was check periodically to see whether he was still alive.”

  “And?”

  “He died several years ago from natural causes.” Holmes adds with a touch of bitterness because his certainty can’t be confirmed, “If he was responsible for Carol’s death, he took the knowledge to his grave.”

  CHAPTER 07

  INVESTIGATING HOMICIDES

  For coroners, murder investigations are time-consuming. Police are involved throughout, autopsies are longer, and unless a suspect pleads guilty, courtroom testimony follows, orchestrated by a district attorney.

  In many instances the cause of death is fairly obvious, but there are cases where things aren’t what they seem. The Ladd case is one example. Gloria Ladd was a forty-eight-year-old former teacher and unemployed realtor whose husband, a NASA test pilot, had drowned in Florida sixteen years earlier. Her two sons, John and James, ages nineteen and eighteen, lived with her in a modest one-story, wood-framed house in San Rafael. Holmes was called to the house on a warm night in August 1975.