Coroner's Journal

by Louis Cataldie

  He was hanging in the sparsely furnished room number 17 of a cheap, worn-out establishment on Airline and Sherwood known for cheap rooms—as you know, it was not my first call there. The Shawn Thompson case took place there. The pool was green with algae, and the room was what you might expect for thirty dollars a night: flat-green walls, mauve carpet, and the unmistakable aroma of stale, mildewy air.

  A well-traveled path of beige and brown led to the back of the room, where the bathroom was located. By the sink we found rocks of crack cocaine.

  Hanging can be a homicide, a suicide, or an accident. It most assuredly is not a natural death. This particular hanging appeared to be an autoerotic misadventure. I got that “crawling” sensation on the back of my neck the second I walked through the door. I think it’s a primal response that alerts one to danger or fear. The whole place seemed to say, “Something is very wrong here.” The only thing missing was one of those yellow signs from a freshly mopped floor that reads: “Caution/ Cuidado.”

  Herein lies a possible pitfall. If I get caught up in the bizarre aura of this death scene, I might jump to some sensationalist conclusion—this could all be staged. Even an autoerotic death is a murder until proven otherwise. The deceased is not some dumb freak who got what he deserved and died stupid. He is a victim, albeit a victim of his own hand.

  The two beds in the room were still made up with faded blue bedspreads. The thought of what you could catch by sitting on one of them was scary to contemplate. Strewn along the brown-colored path in the carpet were several pieces of evidence: an empty plastic bag from Lowe’s, the hardware store, along with several small clear-plastic bags that had been ripped open and emptied. The person opening the little bags must have felt a sense of urgency or impatience. Maybe the person was just excited and anxious to put the contents of the little bags to use. A receipt on the scene listed the items in the room: clothesline rope, electrical clamps, and duct tape—all purchased that same day.

  There was no evidence of forced entry. The maid had discovered the deceased. She used a passkey to enter the room. She ran out of the room the second she saw the deceased—wouldn’t you?—and called 911. I was subsequently called by EMS dispatch.

  I’m not really sure what I thought or felt when I saw this man hanging. The peculiarity of the crime does not impede us from doing a thorough investigation, but it does establish a strange atmosphere in the room. Yet, having said that, autoerotic deaths usually present bizarre scenes and elicit varied feelings and comments from investigators.

  Once the initial vibe leaves the room, unsolicited bantering, snickering, and off-color comments fly freely. The veteran detectives were complaining about the weird asshole who had to kill himself on their shift. Then there were the rookie police officers who wanted a close look. And of course, the “clever remarks” were being fired back and forth:

  “Hey, Tony, where do you guys buy underwear like that?”

  “Hey, Frank, you know this guy?”

  “I didn’t know those clamps were really marital-aid devices.”

  “The vice squad needs to do a raid at Lowe’s.”

  Real funny, assholes. It reminded me of a group of young boys using bravado to prove that they are not gay. I think it is a way of distancing from the victim. You sure don’t want anyone thinking you can empathize with this guy.

  The evidence indicated this was an accidental death—he just went too far this time. I’m sure the rocks of cocaine had something to do with his impaired ability to come back from the edge. I wondered how the family would take the news.

  Is he married? What will his parents think? How will we break this news to them?

  Looking back, it still seems sad and bizarre to me. It left me feeling sort of hollow. I guess I’m just not supposed to understand some of the things I encounter. But it’s a strange, strange world we live in.

  TRIPLETS

  It was about four P.M. on a Friday afternoon in the summer of 2001 when I was summoned to a crime scene on Comstock Avenue, behind the Sam’s Club store, which sells cereal, soda, and practically everything else in large volume. I’ve been to that store often, usually trailing behind my wife, on a quest for bargains. I know the area well.

  I was informed that one of our citizens had discovered three human embryos that had been dumped out onto the driveway of a local business. EMS had come and gone. The report I got was that since the fetuses were dead, EMS had deferred the whole matter to the police and the coroner. This was the right thing to do. The initial thinking was that this was the work of an abortion clinic or worse. I was duly notified of the three human fetuses in the zip-lock bag. The call sounded most bizarre, even to me, after nearly twenty years in a big city.

  Upon arriving at the scene, I noted that there were several uniformed officers there, as well as a crime-scene officer. They were all gathered around the contents of the aforementioned bag. Some were distraught if not outraged at the perpetrator of such a crime. Obviously this was the work of a heartless, perverted individual.

  Even before I knelt down to examine the contents of the bag, the mystery was immediately solved. But I wanted to see just how far this had gone.

  I stooped over the bag and asked, “So EMS came out here?” Pause. “And they looked at this?” Pause.

  “Yes, they did.”

  “And they said to call me?” Pause.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay,” I began solemnly. “Let’s get some photographs as I go through this process.”

  I removed the first body from the bag and laid it out for a photograph. No one seemed to have a clue yet. I was later provided with detailed photographic documentation of my every move. I would have continued but my back was really starting to ache and it was really hot out there.

  I could bear it no longer, so I made the announcement. “Well, I guess I have an advantage over you city folk, me being a north Louisiana boy and all.”

  Their brows furrowed.

  “Whaddya mean, Doc?”

  They awaited my explanation.

  “I mean that these are huge testicles. Not of human origin.

  These are bull testicles, evidently packed for sale. They were destined for a culinary fate.”

  “You mean they’re Rocky Mountain oysters?”

  It settled in for a moment and then the comments poured forth. It’s best that the content of those remarks die at the scene.

  I was told later that there was a specialty meat market in the area. I guess some unsatisfied customer had second thoughts about bringing the testicles home and elected to deposit them on the driveway at Comstock.

  However, I was pleased that my earlier years of working with cattle had finally paid off on the streets of one of the most violent cities in the nation.

  I know bull balls when I see them.

  WITCH

  “Witch”? Did he say . . . “witch”? I paused for a moment and then decided to ask for clarification. “We must have a bad connection here, Dispatch. I thought I heard you just say a witch was dead on Ninth Street.”

  It was true. All sorts of visuals with subtitles raced through my mind. Black witch . . . white witch . . . bad witch . . . Wiccan . . . satanic. Wow! Just when I get to thinking that I have somewhat of a handle on this job, the bizarre reaches out and taps me on the shoulder. A witch.

  I turned onto Ninth Street at about nine P.M. The house I arrived at looked like something out of the movie The ’burbs. All the houses on the street were circa 1940, nicely painted, with manicured lawns. Her house stood out. There were overgrown banana trees all over the narrow front yard. The sidewalk was overgrown with shrubbery, and the concrete was cracked in numerous places. The three steps leading to the porch were stained by algae. The porch itself was huge but darkened by the broad banana leaves that crowded it on all sides. The floor of the porch had been painted at one time but was now showing areas of exposed and rotted wood. Watch your step, Lou.

  Of course, the porch light was nonfunctional. There
was a closed screen door but the main front door was open. The creepiness was so exaggerated. I was half expecting one of the Munster clan to answer the door.

  My initial encounter with the detective on site yielded a prophetic statement, “You ain’t gonna believe this crap, Doc.”

  He was right. The word “creepy” kept coming to mind.

  I entered the living room, the walls of which were adorned with mounted animal trophies, albeit worn by time. The “chandelier” did not respond to the light switch. The fixtures and walls were replete with cobwebs that accentuated torn wallpaper of a bygone era. You’ve got to be kidding. This definitely feels like a bad B movie. The floor was mined with dog crap. The flashlight illumination added to the effect.

  The man who discovered the body currently had the dog in his custody. Of course, he was also the “prime suspect” of anything and everything at this time. Luckily, my path led away from that room and down a very dark hallway. The house smelled of incense—at least I think that’s what it was. The whole hallway was lined with bookshelves full of paperbacks. There were rafters in the hallway with large eyebolts inserted into them. I would later discover that these were engineered to suspend ropes and chains from them.

  To my right was a faint glow of yellow light. It was the bedroom and the location of the “witch’s body,” according to the officer. This room had the only functional light in the house—one bulb perched precariously atop a flimsy lamp that was sitting on a crowded nightstand. The lampshade was nowhere to be found. The nightstand was on the far side of the bed. The only path to the lamp was to walk onto the bed.

  The bedroom was filthy. Clothing, pillows, blankets, record albums, and innumerable containers filled the room. It was dark and musty despite the incense.

  What I saw next shattered any drama that might be associated with the house or its reputation. This is the real scene. She was on the bed, clothed in a cotton “peasant” dress that reminded me of the 1960s. She had her legs crossed and was leaning forward, head face down on several pillows.

  One of the things I have learned is to not go rushing in to examine the body. First, look around. Once you touch or disturb anything, especially the body, the scene is changed forever. You do not have the “luxury” of morbid curiosity. You are a professional and must remain professional.

  So, this is the alleged witch. She doesn’t look like a witch, but then again, I’m not sure what a witch is supposed to look like. I assumed she was of the Wiccan sort as there was nothing to indicate satanic worship or the like. She was on an iron bed. Above the head of the bed was a two-by-eight-foot board that ran the width of the bed. It was tricked out with devices used for bondage and S&M sex.

  As I looked about I realized that all of the containers—and there were at least fifty liquor bottles, jars, and jugs in this room alone—were filled with some type of liquid. It turned out to be urine—gallons of the stuff.

  What the hell is going on here? What could possibly happen next?

  In the dim light, we discover some Polaroids of some guy strapped to the two-by-eight apparatus, apparently getting his ass spanked.

  This is beyond the edge! I look down at the pictures again. Won’t his momma be proud?

  Her body is stiff and cold. I have to stand on the bed to move her. There is that much stuff on the floor. The sheets and pillowcases are a dingy brown color. This is one of those times when I start to worry about blood-borne germs and other nasty little bugs that can infect a person. I worry about getting stuck with a needle or sharp object. I worry about lice and fleas and insect vectors that could carry disease to me. I worry about bringing pathogens home to my family.

  I make a mental note: Take shoes off before going into the house tonight. I will Lysol them down in the morning.

  She was twenty-three years old. Her face had conformed to the pillows. It was flat, and drool dripped from her mouth. How sad. This is somebody’s daughter. Under her was an empty vodka bottle. A syringe was still in her left arm—heroin. “Poor girl. How did you get into this mess? You got into using drugs, and eventually the drugs used you up.” Yes, I talk to corpses. It grounds me. It allows me to conceptualize scenarios better.

  I examined her body for any other signs of trauma. There was none. This looked like an accidental overdose to me. She just got too deep into the pit of addiction. Young addicts can quickly develop a very high tolerance to the drug effects. In order to get a new high, they have to use in greater volume and with more frequency. It is a merciless spiral of compulsion and loss of self. Personal values, will power, and even moral choices become shrouded by the specter of drug dependency. You are lost. You become spiritually bankrupt. You see no way out. You enter into a state of oblivion. You die.

  The scene reminded me of a line I read once: “One of the things wrong with her is that she doesn’t know what’s wrong with her.”

  I spread a white body bag and a homicide sheet next to her on the bed. That sterile white sheet was such a contrast to the rest of the bed and bedding. I did not think this was a homicide but I believe in doing the full-court press every time. Once you touch or disturb anything, the scene is changed forever. You can’t go back if you miss something the first time.

  In order to get her into the bag, I had to break the rigor, the stiffness, of her muscles. In other words, I had to straighten her out. She was light and not muscular, so her muscles gave way rather easily. Her full rigor mortis meant that she had probably been dead for at least twelve hours. I zipped up the body bag. She was now ready for transport to the morgue. Once there, I could do a more thorough examination with proper lighting. I would also order additional forensic studies, including toxicology and rape tests. What if someone shot her up?

  After that, I began to search about with the detective for any additional clues that might explain what brought a twenty-three-year-old girl to this type of death. As I mentioned, there were no other functioning lights in the house. With the assistance of a flashlight, I wandered down the remainder of the hall. I was leery of something jumping out and biting me—a wharf rat, for instance.

  I walked into a room that was clearly once a kitchen and stumbled upon a key clue to her final moments. On a kitchen table, I found a handwritten spell book. Several of the spells called for human urine. Well, that explained one thing. I guess she planned on casting lots of spells.

  That was about the extent of my findings.

  Cause of death: respiratory arrest due to drug overdose.

  Manner of death: accidental.

  Responsible parties: the victim, the ones who used her, the ones she used, the drug dealers, the failed war on drugs, and hence the government, society, genetics. There is always plenty of guilt and blame to go around, and in the final analysis she is just as dead. The answer, as usual, is all of the above to varying degrees.

  It is frequently said in my field that the dead have much to teach us. I have a passion for the study of all types of religion. Wiccan philosophy and practices involve pagan rituals, but from what I gather, a big part of it is about doing good, not evil. Wicca is certainly not my cup of tea, but it is not my place to judge what spiritual path another person chooses to follow. It is my place to apply scientific principles to ascertain facts related to the time, manner, and cause of death.

  It is important not to judge others, a weakness that can distract me from my duties and the forensic process. Any prejudicial bias can taint the investigator, and hence the investigation. If that happens, I betray not only the dead, I betray myself.

  Yes, it is frequently said that the dead have much to teach us. Sometimes, they teach us about ourselves.

  FIVE

  Too Young to Die

  BON MARCHÉ MEANS GOOD-BYE

  One day in August in my first year as coroner, a call interrupted lunch at home with my youngest son, Michael. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and we had planned to spend the day together. Lunch—and unfortunately, Michael—would have to wait.

  I arrived at
the scene within five minutes of notification because the mall is so close to my home. It was high noon. “Mall City” is a section of Baton Rouge that had become synonymous with drugs and death. The area is well defined and takes its name from what was once Bon Marché Mall (in French, bon marché means “bargain,” or “good buy”), a cavernous structure housing a movie theater, restaurants, department stores, and specialty boutiques, all facing Florida Boulevard. Unsupported, the mall was now essentially abandoned—despite several attempts to salvage it. However, it does seem to keep the police precinct stationed there busy. There is another salvage attempt going on now. This one may actually work!

  Florida Boulevard is a demarcation line of sorts between north and south Baton Rouge. North Baton Rouge is considered a high-crime area. Behind Bon Marché Mall lies Mall City. The streets there are named after such artists as Renoir and Monet—names that are in sharp contrast with the decline of the area and the reputation for danger and crime that now defines it. It’s a well-deserved reputation. Not many cases surprise me there. But, this one—this was a new low.

  As I drove up to the crime scene, I could only think to myself: How on God’s earth does this happen?

  I stood over the body of a young black male. He was seventeen, and looked younger. His new purple off-road bicycle was lying on the sidewalk and he was on the curb. His eyes were still open, as if he were looking up at the pale blue sky. At first it just looked like some kid had wrecked his bike. I almost expected him to get up, look embarrassed, and ride off. But this kid wasn’t getting up. He was dead. He had been executed by two other drug dealers, or “gang bangers,” of similar age. I’ll call the decedent Tyrone. He had on a white T-shirt, short pants, and Nike tennis shoes. His Raiders cap was still on his head.

  I began to go through the paces of the investigation but all the while there was the nagging sensation. This is not supposed to happen. This is the stuff you read about happening somewhere else, not in Baton Rouge. Hell, I can see Florida Boulevard from here. My family and I drive Florida Boulevard all the time.