The Education of a Coroner

by John Bateson

  None of that concerned Holmes, but he became part of the story again when Jim Mitchell’s twenty-nine-year-old son, James “Rafe” Mitchell, was arrested for the murder of Danielle Keller, also twenty-nine. She was struck multiple times in her Novato backyard with an aluminum baseball bat. A neighbor witnessed the assault and told Holmes afterward that he recognized the son as the assailant because he was the father of Danielle’s one-year-old daughter and had threatened her in the past. Rather than attempt to intervene, the neighbor had his wife call 911 while he went to a window and watched Mitchell leave through a side yard holding the daughter and then run down the street to his car.

  Police found Mitchell near Sacramento by tracking the signals between his cell phone and various phone towers. In addition to murder, he was charged with kidnapping, child endangerment, child abduction, stalking, and domestic violence. The daughter was unhurt and turned over to Child Protective Services.

  In his courtroom trial, Rafe Mitchell recognized Holmes from his father’s trial nearly twenty years earlier. Once again Holmes was in court because of a homicide case involving the Mitchell family. The only difference was that he was testifying as the coroner this time rather than as the assistant coroner.

  Rafe Mitchell told jurors that when he arrived at Danielle’s house, two men were there with a baseball bat and he fought them off before escaping with the young girl. No one bought his story.

  In the trial, Danielle’s mother wore one of her daughter’s dresses and wept as she recounted arriving at the crime scene and being restrained by police officers from approaching Danielle’s dead body. “I begged to touch her one last time,” she cried.

  Unlike his father, the younger Mitchell was convicted of first-degree murder, as well as other charges, and sentenced to thirty-five years to life in prison. He claimed that he was victimized by his father’s name and by the fascination that local media had with the family’s business. It was a valid point—none of Jim or Artie Mitchell’s children had it easy growing up—but it didn’t excuse or justify his actions.

  “You can love someone and still kill them,” Liberty Mitchell said afterward. “It’s not pretty, but that reality has always existed. That’s why they call it a crime of passion.”

  Her words were applicable to both deaths, to her cousin’s murder of his ex-wife and her uncle’s murder of her father. Regarding the latter, after Jim Mitchell died of natural causes in 2007, he was buried next to Artie. The two had had their share of arguments, but they were brothers to the end.

  CHAPTER 20

  NOTES AND NOTIFICATIONS

  The way next of kin are informed of a loved one’s death varies from community to community. In many communities it’s the responsibility of law enforcement. They knock on someone’s door or call the person on the phone and relay the news as quickly as possible, then get out of there or hang up fast. The last thing they want to do is have an extended conversation. It’s not that they lack sympathy; it’s that it’s an uncomfortable situation where cops feel powerless, and they are used to being in control.

  In Marin County, throughout Holmes’s career, coroner’s investigators did most of the death notifications, and always in person if possible. There were multiple reasons for this. First, it was best for the families. They received the information from someone who was caring and not in a hurry to leave. Holmes listened, empathized, and stayed as long as the person needed him to be there. He didn’t want someone to be alone after he or she received shocking news and was in a vulnerable state.

  Another reason why next of kin were notified in person was to give them important information. Holmes explained the process, including where the person’s body had been taken, the steps in claiming it, and how insurance and Social Security benefits could be applied for once the death certificate had been issued. He also answered, to the best of his abilities and based on what he knew at the time, questions regarding the circumstances surrounding someone’s death—where and how it happened, who else was present, whether alcohol or drugs appeared to have been involved, and whether death was instantaneous, which in many cases was the hope of families. If death was slow and the person suffered, however, he admitted it, as gently as he could.

  “I wish I could tell you that she died quickly, but that wasn’t the case.”

  Were he to say anything else, and family members learned later that they had been misled, the coroner’s office would be discredited. Inasmuch as family members often request a copy of a loved one’s file, they are likely to learn the truth regardless.

  In addition, Holmes provided information about local services. Most communities have free or low-cost bereavement programs operated by a hospital or nonprofit agency. In Marin County it’s Marin Counseling and Suicide Prevention. The organization offers no-cost individual and group grief counseling services to people who are mourning the death of a loved one. In the immediate aftermath, the service probably isn’t needed because people are too dazed to benefit from it, but later on, when individuals are still hurting and much of their support system has receded, it can be invaluable. The coroner had an arrangement whereby once a month the agency received the names and contact information for people whose loved one had died recently. This enabled the agency to be proactive in contacting families and letting them know about available services.

  There was a third reason for doing the notifications in person. Sometimes people literally collapsed upon hearing the news.

  A mile from the coroner’s office, a young woman was in a car accident right after she visited her mother. The mother lived near the top of a steep hill, and as the daughter was leaving, she turned left at the bottom and reached across the passenger seat in order to grab something that had fallen on the floor. Holmes couldn’t figure out what it was because after the crash everything was on the floor.

  The daughter was driving a VW bug, and a plumbing truck came from the opposite direction. The driver told Holmes afterward that the woman looked directly at him, then her head disappeared, she veered into his path, and there was no way he could avoid hitting her. Holmes estimated that it was about a thirty-five-mile-per-hour impact—usually not fatal, but the woman was leaning over, the crash broke her neck, and she died.

  Forty-five minutes after the woman left her mother’s house, Holmes was standing at the mother’s door with a San Rafael policeman. There was a reason why he had a cop accompany him.

  “If you’re a little old lady,” he says, “and there’s a knock at your door, and you see through the spot hole a guy in a shirt and tie, you probably think he’s a salesman or scam artist and don’t let him in. If you see a guy in a shirt and tie and another guy with a badge, however, you’ll open the door.”

  After ringing the bell, Holmes thought through the conversation. Finding only one person home, especially a mother or wife, was the worst. At a time like this, people needed someone to hold on to.

  The woman opened the door a few inches. “Mrs. Roxbury?” Holmes said.

  “Yes,” the woman said hesitantly.

  “Is your daughter Margery Roxbury?”

  “Yes. She just left a few minutes ago. Why? What’s wrong?”

  Holmes didn’t want to have the conversation in the doorway. “Can we come in?”

  “No,” Mrs. Roxbury said. She wasn’t being combative, just cautious.

  “It’d really be more comfortable, ma’am, if we could come in and talk,” Holmes said.

  “I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

  It looked like he was going to have to tell her while he was standing in her doorway. “When Margery went down your hill,” Holmes said, “she made a turn at the bottom and was involved in a head-on crash. She was killed. I’m really sorry.”

  By this time Holmes had learned to use the person’s first name rather than refer to the decedent as “your daughter” or “Ms. So-and-So.” Not only was it more respectful but there might be multiple daughters. He also learned to avoid saying something like “she succumbed”
or “she didn’t survive” or “it was fatal.” He had to say the word “dead” or “killed.” If he didn’t, if he said something like, “Unfortunately, she didn’t make it,” the next questions were “How bad was it?” “Where is she?” “Can I go talk to her?” because the person didn’t hear. It was way too much information coming from a total stranger without any context or preamble. Holmes called it thirty-second psychology. From the time he knocked and heard someone moving behind the door, he had thirty seconds at most to figure out how he was going to deliver terrible news.

  Mrs. Roxbury looked at him blankly, then her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed. She didn’t fall; rather she seemed to melt. In the mortuary business, Holmes had seen people faint. Their knees locked and they fell like a board. In this instance, it was as if Mrs. Roxbury’s spine liquefied and she dissolved. He was only a few feet away, yet he couldn’t reach out fast enough to catch her.

  She hit her head on the tile floor in her entryway. There wasn’t any blood, but her head made a hollow sound and Holmes was afraid that she was going to end up with a brain bleed that would kill her in several hours. The cop called an ambulance, and paramedics revived her. She was woozy but aware of what Holmes had told her. Within a few minutes she was sitting up and didn’t need to be hospitalized.

  If she had been notified over the phone or by someone who left immediately after informing her of her daughter’s death, Mrs. Roxbury might have become a second casualty. Instead, she received quick medical care, and Holmes stayed with her until her minister arrived.

  PUNCHED IN THE FACE

  Late one night, Holmes was contacted by the Communications Center regarding a single-vehicle traffic accident outside Novato. An eighteen-year-old female driver named Drusilla Minor had the top down on her five-year-old Fiat convertible, which she had bought six weeks earlier. Next to her in the passenger seat was her best friend, seventeen-year-old Meyna Sablik. The two were seniors in high school, scheduled to graduate the following week. A third passenger, Tony Galatolo, age sixteen, was perched behind them, his legs straddling the two front seats.

  It was a curvy country road that was poorly lit. Drusilla took a turn too fast and lost control; the car shot across the road and into a culvert. Galatolo was thrown from the vehicle and landed hard against a wooden fence, alive but badly bruised. The two girls weren’t so lucky. As Galatolo watched in horror, the car hit a utility pole head on. On impact, Meyna was ejected onto the roadway and killed instantly. Drusilla was the only one of the three who was wearing a seat belt. She remained in the car but suffered traumatic head injuries. When the responding police officer arrived at the scene, Galatolo was standing next to the car, in a daze. The officer felt for Drusilla’s pulse, found none, and knew that she was dead. He pulled her from the vehicle, laid her on the ground, covered her fully with a blanket, and waited for Holmes.

  It was midnight when Holmes arrived. He spoke with the officer, then Galatolo, who told Holmes that the teens were driving to Galatolo’s house to finalize plans for the two girls’ senior prom the following evening. Galatolo was Drusilla’s date. After that, Holmes itemized each girl’s visible injuries in a notebook, to be transferred later to his typed investigative report. He also inventoried their clothing, jewelry, and the contents of their purses, including the exact dollar amount in their wallets, all of which was standard protocol.

  Ninety minutes later, at 1:30 A.M., Holmes knocked on the door of the house where Drusilla Minor lived. It didn’t matter how late it was; notification was made as soon as possible so that loved ones heard the news from the coroner rather than anyone else. A policeman accompanied Holmes.

  Drusilla’s father answered. He was big—muscular, not fat—and filled the doorway. He also was surly. Seeing the cop he said, “What did she do now?”

  At least he was awake. He wasn’t half asleep.

  “I’m with the county coroner’s office,” Holmes said. “There has been an accident. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Drusilla and a friend were killed.”

  There was no way to sugarcoat the worst kind of news, and Holmes didn’t try. It was best to be as simple and straightforward as possible.

  Without warning, Mr. Minor punched Holmes hard in the face. Holmes staggered backward, and the cop was on Minor instantly, ready to arrest him. Holmes told him not to. It had been a reflex action; Minor thought he was the victim of a sick joke.

  After that Mr. Minor and Holmes talked for a while with Holmes telling him more about the accident. Then Minor asked Holmes if he had been to Meyna Sablik’s house yet. Holmes said no, that was his next stop. Minor said, “I wouldn’t want your job for anything.”

  Holmes knew that cops said that sometimes, but he didn’t expect to hear it from someone whom he had just notified of a death. “Why is that?” Holmes said.

  Minor said that a year earlier Meyna’s father had died. Five months ago, Meyna’s brother had died. Just recently her mother learned that she had terminal cancer.

  Hearing that, the cop who had accompanied Holmes begged off going to Meyna’s home. Holmes went alone, oddly grateful for the information. At least he knew what to expect.

  PLANE CRASH

  Next door to the coroner’s office, on the same floor of the Marin Civic Center building, was a restaurant with typical cafeteria food. Many county employees who worked at the civic center ate lunch there because it was convenient. Holmes did, too, on occasion. He lived close enough to work, however, that he could go home for lunch if he wanted to.

  One day at noon as he was driving home, he saw a huge plume of black smoke shoot up into the air off to his right. He was on a frontage road that ran parallel to Highway 101, and his first thought was that there wasn’t anything in the immediate area to burn—no homes, businesses, or grassy hillsides. Then he realized that it was at Smith Ranch Airport, a small airport on the outskirts of San Rafael with several dozen private planes and no buildings or control tower. Pilots coordinated their takeoffs and landings through an air traffic center in Oakland, thirty miles away.

  As soon as he knew it was a plane, Holmes put on his red light and siren to get people out of the way and raced to the airport. He saw the ball of flames on the runway and felt the heat, even though it was impossible to get close. He was the first person on the scene—no one else happened to be there at that time—and reported the crash to the county’s Communications Center.

  The pilot and sole occupant of the twin-engine Cessna C41 was Earl Pickens II, age thirty-five. He lived in Marin, and Holmes learned that for the past week Earl had been flying back and forth from the county to a family ranch in Cody, Wyoming. The family was having a reunion, and Earl transported one or two people each trip from Marin to the ranch. He was an experienced pilot and had returned home alone a final time to pick up a few things. Immediately after lifting off from the short runway, however, he crashed and was killed.

  The plane’s log was destroyed in the fire. Holmes checked the airport fuel log, which showed that Earl had purchased 109 gallons of 100-octane airplane fuel the same day. No maintenance was listed at that time. Given the scattered and burned wreckage, it was impossible to know what cargo he had been carrying, but the National Transportation Safety Board determined that the plane was overloaded, and that caused the accident.

  After Holmes confirmed Earl’s identity, he contacted police in Wyoming and asked them to notify Earl’s family. This was standard practice if the victim’s next of kin lived out of the area. Police officers didn’t like to do it, but invariably they agreed. The officer Holmes talked to balked, however. When he drove up and saw all of the parked cars, he knew he would be walking in on a large family gathering. He called Holmes and said he couldn’t go through with it.

  “You have to,” Holmes said. “They need to know.”

  “I can’t,” the officer said. “I just can’t. All these people are waiting for him.”

  Holmes sympathized. Whenever he did a death notification, he knew that he was t
aking what started out as a normal day for someone and turning it into the worst day of the person’s life. Coroners never deliver good news. In this instance, the officer would be ruining a day of celebration that people had been looking forward to for months. Still, it had to be done.

  Holmes offered some coaching as well as encouragement. He said that at a party, the person who opens the door may not be the homeowner but rather whoever happens to be closest to the entrance. This means that in the few seconds after the door is opened, you have to look over the person’s shoulder and do a quick assessment of the scene to determine which of the adults in the room is the appropriate person to inform of someone’s death.

  “Do you think you can do that?” Holmes asked.

  “I’m not prepared,” the officer said. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not. You’re going to have to let them know another way.”

  “You can do it,” Holmes said. “Just think that if you were in their shoes, you’d want to hear from someone in person rather than over the phone.”

  To Holmes’s amazement, the officer still refused. In frustration, Holmes called Earl’s attorney, who said that he would notify the family. It wasn’t a good outcome, but there wasn’t another option.

  ADVISING THE BEREAVED