Coroner's Journal: Forensics and the Art of Stalking Death

by Louis Cataldie

  —Lou Cataldie

  September 29, 2005

  TWO

  Coroner

  FIRST BLOOD

  My first death investigation came on a gorgeous spring day in 1976. I was standing on the porch of a beautiful white turn-of-the-century house graced with tall windows and delicate Victorian touches. This house—across the alleyway from the courthouse, a cold brick structure that housed the sheriff’s office and an un-airconditioned jail on the third floor—was the place where I worked. It had been converted into a medical clinic, and I was the only medical doctor in this rural outpost. I loved the feel and sound of walking on a wooden porch, especially this one—built out of cypress from the local sawmill. Though the interior had suffered from some modernizing attempts in the 1950s, the rooms were spacious and had twelve-foot ceilings. We had furnished the facility with medical equipment that was military salvage from a MASH unit—circa the Korean War by the looks of it—but it worked.

  I had decided to follow my altruistic inclinations and become a general practitioner in a small rural town in a state I hold close to my heart. Looking back, that altruism was mixed with an element of ignorance on my part—my desire for a sort of Norman Rockwell life. At any rate, I took my new wife and son to the tiny north Louisiana town of Colfax, population 1,800. There was only one other physician in the entire parish. It was about a year before that altruism was beaten out of me. While I was there, though, I became gratis coroner of Grant Parish, as well as the jail physician; both positions came to me by default. The other doc had served his time in the barrel and had no desire to continue the post. That’s called a clue! But who could blame him? There was no budget, and expenses, such as paying for an autopsy, had to be approved by the police jury.

  That morning, a breathless young man burst through the doors of a full waiting room while I was seeing patients. I ran out to the man, who kept yelling something to the effect that “the Colonel need to come quick.” It would not be the last time that I heard myself, the coroner, being referred to as “Colonel.” I rushed out of the examining room and followed the man onto the porch. I was expecting to be greeted by a medical emergency. Instead, what I found was an obviously dead body in the bed of a road-worn pickup truck.

  Of course, all my patients had rushed out behind me to peer at the corpse, too. The two guys in the cab of the old truck jumped out and explained what had happened:

  “Zack here got hit by a piece of pulpwood what fell off the truck,” said the first man. “It landed right smack dab on his head! That’s what happened, Colonel. We got the pulpwood log right here for you to see, uh-huh.”

  The fact that Zack was dead was apparent to all involved, and by now the whole town was involved, including the sheriff’s office. Zack’s skull was caved in, and the alleged cause of his demise—a rather hefty log that looked to be about eight inches in diameter and must have weighed several hundred pounds—was there as well.

  The witness continued: “We was way out in the woods and we didn’t know what to do except to bring him here to you, Colonel.”

  “I’m not a colonel. I’m the coroner.”

  “Okay, Colonel, sir. What we supposed to do now?”

  Everybody around the truck—a sizable crowd had gathered—nodded their heads in understanding and offered opinions.

  “Pulpwooding is dangerous business all right.”

  “Look, there’s the log right there.”

  “Kilt him dead.”

  I jumped up into the bed of the rusted green truck and examined Zack. He wore a faded denim shirt and jeans and was lying on his back staring up at the sky. He wore scuffed and battered tan work boots. The right side of his head was literally smashed in. Abrasions on his torso were compatible with the story presented by his coworkers.

  The truck bed was wooden and weathered. Zack had been bouncing about in the back of the truck during the heated journey from the piney woods to my clinic. He needed a shave and had brown hair. I judged him to be in his early forties, but he was actually in his mid-thirties. Life is rough for a pulp-wooder. The sky was clear and blue. It was such a peaceful day in Colfax. Death comes to Mayberry.

  There was no need for an autopsy. The sheriff’s office did their investigation and it was over. There wasn’t really much to do. The cause of death was head trauma and the manner of death was accidental.

  Twenty-five years later, I still have a 3-D color image of that moment in my mind. I see myself in my white doctor’s coat, crouched over poor ol’ Zack, trying to see if the story fit the evidence.

  I was hooked and I didn’t even know it.

  SOUTH CENTRAL LA

  Before I get started, I feel obligated to give you a little information about me, the responsibilities of my office, and some of the things that make Louisiana unlike any other place in the United States.

  Two types of forensic death-investigative offices or systems exist in this country: coroners and medical examiners. A medical examiner is a licensed medical doctor, often with a specialty in forensic pathology. A coroner, on the other hand, could be anyone who can get elected to the office. The coroner does not have to be a physician in some areas. In Louisiana we have three nonphysician coroners that I know of. If the office is not filled by an M.D. (usually because nobody wants it), a nonphysician may run for the office. But if an M.D. wants it, the M.D. gets it. I am not a medical snob, but having a doc as the coroner—a professional versed in the knowledge of medicine and human physiology—is a good thing.

  Medical examiners are appointed and therefore do not have to face the political gauntlet. Some argue that this makes the ME system a better one, but there is a critical difference: the ME works at the pleasure of his or her employer. So in the end it all comes down to someone’s integrity and their skills in the office. To complicate matters even more, some states have both coroner and medical examiner systems in place.

  In East Baton Rouge Parish, an area of about 400 square miles, I investigate about 2,000 deaths a year—around 60 homicides, 30 suicides, and 150 traffic fatalities, most of which involve a person driving drunk or sleeping at the wheel.

  Many cases are “routine”—if there is such a thing as routine in this context. The identity of the deceased is known and the family is easily contacted. In other deaths, critical information is missing. Identification may require dental records, DNA, or fingerprints. I call on anyone who can help me solve an open case, from forensic anthropologists, who can tell the sex and age by looking at bones, to forensic entomologists, scientists who study the life cycle of various insects that feed on corpses and can help determine time of death.

  Like that of other coroners, my office is responsible for investigating the time, cause, and manner of death. The body is our evidence, and we preserve evidence—anything from a blood sample to a body part—for examination and analysis. At autopsy we take photographs and/or direct the police to do so. We provide testimony at depositions and in court. My staff and I meet with police, doctors, and lawyers to answer questions in criminal and civil cases. We train law enforcement, aid victims’ groups, and inform the media about our role and function.

  An act of the Legislative Council of the Territory of Orleans, in April 10, 1805, created the office of the coroner. The duties in 1805 were, simply stated, to deal with the dead and with any death investigation. In 1814, the coroner was given the power of arrest, and today the coroner remains a conservator of the peace. Coroners were charged with pauper burials, which also continues today. In 1846, the office was changed from a governor’s appointment to an elected position, making it subject to the Louisiana election process. The coroner was not mandated to be a physician until 1879.

  In Louisiana, though, the duties of the coroner are different from those required by law in the rest of the United States. In addition to our death investigation duties, we have mental health commitments and carnal knowledge (rape) duties. The evidence I find can bring comfort to a grieving mate or send a man to death row.

&
nbsp; Under the mental health law in Louisiana, the coroner is responsible for involuntary commitments to mental institutions. A family member can request a pickup order, or OPC (Order of Protective Custody). If the coroner believes a pickup is warranted, he’ll sign an OPC and the subject will be picked up by the police and brought to the office or to a mental institution.

  Perhaps the most difficult part of the job is stipulated by the carnal knowledge law, which makes the coroner responsible for the examination of all rape cases. The Baton Rouge Women’s Hospital does this through its rape crisis unit—unless no one is available, in which case I give the rape examination—and the victims include not only female but also homosexual-male rape victims.

  The job is slightly more complicated than the state itself. Louisiana is divided into sixty-four parishes, which are the primary local government instead of counties, a legacy of colonial Louisiana, which was officially Roman Catholic under both France and Spain.

  If you want to understand the context, it’s best to view Louisiana as sort of a composite state. To the northwest is Shreveport, which, locally, is often considered to be a part of Texas. To the northeast is Monroe, home to rednecks mostly. (I should know—I went to college there.)

  My hometown, Alexandria, is in the center of the state—the ankle of the boot in a Louisiana map. It’s a humdrum town that has never risen to its potential. But Alexandria, or, more accurately, the little town of Bunkie to the south, is (again, locally) considered to be the demarcation line between North and South. Welcome to the Deep South and the Deeper South.

  Alexandria is also the northern point of the “French Triangle,” with Lake Charles in the southwest and New Orleans in the far southeast. In between is Cajun country, inhabited by descendants of the state’s earliest French settlers, people with names like Boudreaux, LeBlanc, and Robichaux. Folks in these small towns generally have a very strong sense of family, and many still speak Cajun French as their first language. It’s a rich and colorful culture.

  New Orleans, known by many as the Big Easy, considers itself to be a state in and of itself. It is a town where you can legally gamble, drink openly in the street, and buy a ninety-proof daiquiri at a drive-thru window.

  Not quite so far to the southeast lies Baton Rouge, the state capital, where I live today and where I have investigated more than 300 homicides and thousands of other deaths. It is a green city with lots of stately oaks, beautiful antebellum homes, and river mansions. From the Mississippi River Bridge, you can see the needle point of the capitol building. Below, the mighty Mississippi cuts a wide swath between East and West Baton Rouge parishes. Baton Rouge is a little big town: little-town flavor with Southern manners and big-town problems. The population of the combined parishes is a little over 400,000 with over 200,000 people residing in the city proper. It holds the unchallenged title of having had the longest-running school desegregation case in the history of the United States—over forty-five years, and just recently resolved. Ironically, the white public school students are now in the minority. The city suffers from “white flight” and a shrinking tax base. It has two universities—LSU and the black college, Southern University.

  We have several police departments: the Baton Rouge PD, the East Baton Rouge Parish Sheriff’s Office, the city constable office, the LSU police, the Southern U police, and two other city police departments in the parish in Zachary and Baker. Most of the crime and homicides occur within the city of Baton Rouge, however.

  And the city bears the brunt of poor planning: major traffic problems, eroding tax base, and high crime. As if that weren’t enough, Baton Rouge is number two in the nation for new AIDS cases (per capita). Leadership, as always, is elusive. The last three secretaries of insurance have been sent to prison (Jim Brown served six months for lying to an FBI agent and is now out; Doug Green, his predecessor, is serving a twenty-five-year term for taking $2 million in illegal campaign contributions; and Sherman Bernard pleaded guilty to taking bribes and served thirty months). Governor Edwin Edwards is finishing out his ten-year sentence (for racketeering)—he was convicted of extorting money for river boat gambling licenses, and is appealing his conviction. The secretary of agriculture was under indictment initially for twenty-one counts of theft, money laundering, filing false public records, and bribery, but all were ultimately dismissed. The point being he was elected while under indictment. Louisiana politics are indeed “unique.”

  FAMILY MAN

  Like many people, I have found that many of my choices in life were dictated by family and circumstance. My father was a first-generation Italian-American and Catholic. His father was from Sicily and his mother from mainland Italy.

  My mother was neither Italian nor Catholic. She was not only a Baptist, but a hard-shell Baptist, who avoided the evils of music (except gospel), dancing, and the seven deadly sins. Every now and then she’d drag me off to a tent revival. She came up hard and poor in the northern part of the state on what could be described euphemistically as a farm. She was never really accepted into my father’s family.

  I, on the other hand, was totally accepted and embraced by the Italians and by the hillbillies. I was blessed with warm, caring grandmothers on both sides—my Italian “Mommee” and my hillbilly “Ma.” I loved my maternal grandma very much. She was a really good person who used to read the King James Version of the Bible to me. I’ve even been known to join in the hymn singing with her up there on Breezy Hill at tent revivals.

  At any rate, this was the backdrop, or battlefield, as the case may be, upon which my religious perspectives developed. Though I gradually drifted away from the Church, I think having a foot in several diverse belief systems allowed me to learn that diverse cultures can coexist. It was only later that I realized how valuable it had all been. Today, I’m still not into any organized religion, but I do believe there will be an ultimate accounting for the life I live.

  Growing up, I found my career choices to be rather limited. The most obvious: follow in my father’s footsteps, working in a café or a grocery store for the rest of my life. My grandfather had a gambling hall, with cops on the take per family legend. I was exposed to crime and the frailties of the police at an early age. I guess my other (unstated) career choice was to become a bookie in Alexandria.

  Fortunately, Brother Cosmas of the Sacred Heart Order stepped in and changed my life forever. I was in Menard High School, a Catholic all-boys school run by the Brothers of the Sacred Heart. Brother Cosmas was a no-nonsense kind of guy who informed me one Monday that I would be taking a test the following Saturday. I still have a vivid image of him—a tall, gruff-looking guy, but with a heart of gold. He actually practiced what he preached in that cassock, and he stood for something. People feared him, yet I knew for a fact that he regularly fed a skinny old stray dog that came by the side of the handball court on the school grounds. The test turned out far better than I had expected: it led to a full academic scholarship to Northeast Louisiana State College. I graduated with honors and was accepted by two medical schools.

  I thought this was the perfect time to get married. It wasn’t. My first marriage was a complete mismatch, for both of us. I was immature and had no idea what to expect. It was a stupid thing to get married and then go off to medical school. I was never home, and even when I was, I wasn’t. The bottom line is that it turned out to be a crappy deal for her, and I take responsibility for the failure. I didn’t have another healthy marriage to model mine on, and that just compounded the problem. The marriage lasted eight months before we divorced.

  When I entered LSU medical school, the Vietnam conflict was in full swing, and high school classmates started coming home in body bags. I fully anticipated going into the military during my internship at Lafayette Charity Hospital, but as was to become the norm in my life, fate intervened and the war ended.

  So I got married. Again. We ended up in the picturesque north Louisiana town of Colfax. Hooker’s Café served great home-cooked food. Everyone knew everyone. And the folk
s were nice, though the money and the hours were horrible. I was paid with fish, deer meat, fresh vegetables—which I respected, but I would have preferred cash. Most of the folks were poor but proud. The closest hospital was in Alexandria, thirty miles away.

  I was in over my head. They needed a seasoned physician, not a tenderfoot just out of med school. I think I would have self-destructed had I stayed there any longer.

  Over the next year or so I investigated several accidental deaths, one open-and-shut homicide, and two suicides. There were also a few natural deaths—no mysteries.

  Being a GP in a rural town wasn’t working out, for my wife or me. My wife was from Baton Rouge, and when an offer to work there as an emergency room physician came my way, it seemed awfully attractive. The year was 1976, and at the ripe age of twenty-eight, I escaped with her to the “big city.”

  “RED STICK”

  In French, Baton Rouge means “red stick,” and some say the place was named for the giant cypress tree where the settlement was located. Darker theories hold that it was named for the blood of an Indian massacre at the spot. Most folks just figure it was a skinning post. Take your pick. I joined an emergency physician’s group there in late 1976.

  The emergency room life was a frenzied, high-stakes test of wits and adrenaline, and I took to it right away. I was based at Baton Rouge General, one of the two hospitals in town. Though it is now in a bit of decline, I remember the floors were always clean and shined—so much so that I slipped one time when I was running to answer a code 14—cardiac arrest. Those were the “good old days,” when there was no ER specialty and we covered emergencies in the whole hospital.

  The place felt like home. The brave nurses I had the privilege to work with were always trying to make things better, despite rowdy drunks and violent PCP addicts. The action was quick and it was most rewarding to save someone. What kept me and others juiced was the element of suspense: What would be coming through the door next—an MVA (motor vehicle accident), a GSW (gunshot wound), or a stabbing? In retrospect, I think we were all adrenaline junkies. We not only liked to win, but we took defeat personally. Defeat, whether by natural or unnatural causes, was unacceptable. That attitude of perfectionism took its toll on all of us. There was no such animal as “critical incident debriefings” or Employee Assistance Programs in the late 1970s. We were on our own down there.