Coroner's Journal (10 page)

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

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.

It's called cognitive emotive dissonance. You know it cognitively. It's a dangerous place. But emotionally you can't make the connection that it's really happening.

I thought of the people driving by right now, unaware that one block off the boulevard, two kids killed another kid in broad daylight. I reflected on how insulated we become in our own little worlds, and how false that security is.

Tyrone was a skinny kid—a skinny kid with two bullet holes in his chest. There was hardly any bleeding, which told me he had died quickly—probably a hole in his heart. I noted a tattoo on his right shoulder and asked the detective if it had any particular significance.

“Yeah. Seen it before. Gang tattoo.” His matter-of-fact response was chilling. This would likely mean gang retaliation and more kids being murdered.

There was an empty gun magazine at Tyrone's feet. I could tell without touching that it belonged to a Browning 9mm semiautomatic pistol. The pistol was nowhere to be found. Tyrone had several rounds of 9mm ammunition in his front pocket. No two of the cartridges were of the same brand or bullet design. I suppose he had acquired them individually, whenever the opportunity presented itself.

The detective was also going through his paces. He had been in homicide for many years and he was familiar with this neighborhood, or “hood.” He knew the drill cold. This would not be a mystery for long. Someone would talk. Hell, he figured to have this one wrapped up by sunset.

I asked the detective for an opinion about the pistol magazine. He said that one of the shooters had probably taken Tyrone's gun. Or someone else had come along after the murder and picked up the gun. “Of course, it ain't that hard to buy a stolen gun up in this area.”

People were beginning to gather. The news media arrived. Tyrone was the star attraction today. I cringed at the thought of his mother being informed that her teenage boy was dead. Hopefully, we would tell her before she saw it on TV. But both the detective and I knew that the grapevine—the underground telegraph, or “the drums”—would have already gotten the information to her. As we stood there rehearsing how to break the news to her, she probably not only knew her son was dead but also who had murdered him. We also knew that it was best to move Tyrone's body to the morgue as soon as possible, because things tend to get really crazy out here when a kid has been murdered.

Even though I was green to the ways of city life, I didn't see a drug dealer shot by rival gang members, nor do I today. I see a skinny kid with two bullet holes in his chest. I see a scrawny little teenage boy dressed like any other—no gang colors, just a white T, shorts, and a ball cap. I see him often.

“We got a house fire, Doc—over on Monet—Mall City—they're still fighting the fire. . . .”

The knot starts to grow as soon as I hear the words “house fire.” I've been to too many of these, I guess—but one is too many. The knot turns to nausea as the next anticipated words reach out through the phone and slap me—“There're two children trapped inside . . .”

Shit! . . .
I'm angry, and the visuals of previously burned children rush up from the inner recesses of my brain, and the haunting intensifies . . . the dead children call out, and the call echoes in my brain . . .

I pause for a moment.
Why am I doing this again?
I feel guilty about questioning myself.

It's about nine P.M. in the fall of 2002, almost three full weeks before trick-or-treaters raid the neighborhood. As I turn onto Cézanne Avenue, I see the flashing lights about six or seven blocks down. The outskirts of the crowd begin at about three blocks out. The main crowd has gathered and is five deep at the crime-scene tape barrier. It's muggy and the acrid smoke assaults me. The media is here and we exchange a wave to the tune of “Lemme know what you find, Doc.”

There they are, the “usual suspects,” as they say. One of my investigators has arrived and is standing by the coroner van. Hoses are stretched across the parking lot. Smoke is still seeping out of a hallway. One has but to trace the smoke to the crime scene. A cascade of water is pouring out of the building and onto the parking lot. Of course, all electricity has been cut to the apartment complex.

The detectives are in a huddle with the firemen and the arson investigators. We exchange greetings and I get the rundown. At any fire, FD sets up an incident commander. The police are there to determine if it's negligent homicide or, worse, “intentional.” The detective begins: “Okay, here it is. Mom leaves the two kids alone—she says for just a few minutes. We strongly question that, of course. The place catches on fire. We have two dead children in the corner of the living room. We think the fire started in the bedroom because of the fire damage—well, you'll see for yourself. . . . Actually, we don't know if we are going to charge the mother with negligent homicide.”

I ask, “Where is the mother?” Of course what I really mean is:
What is her affect? Is she duly upset? Is she loaded on alcohol or drugs? Is there a history of call-outs to this address? Is there any case file with child protection? Was someone else living in the house—a husband? A boyfriend? Does he have a record?

“She's hysterical and in the back of one of the units. We are taking her downtown but she can't really tell us much right now,” he responds.

I explained my position: “Here's the deal for me. I am going to ‘post' both of them in the morning. I'll do X-rays to rule out fractures and the like. I'll be looking for fresh fractures which might indicate recent trauma, and I will be looking for old fractures that might indicate a pattern of abuse. I'll also get some blood chemistry to check for smoke inhalation and toxicology. Right now, I'll hold them in the cooler until you complete your investigation and we complete ours. We can get together in the morning to decide where we go from there.”

We agree to the plan, break the huddle, and go to work.

The investigation will include all of the above and will ultimately be reviewed by the state child-death review panel. Maybe we can avoid similar tragedies.

The apartment opens into a breezeway. The door was locked when the firemen arrived. There was a large glass picture window that is now a gaping hole—probably shattered by the firemen, or perhaps by the intense heat within the apartment, as the kids were being literally cooked.

In the corner, by what was the picture window, are two small children. The older child, maybe four years old, is a boy. He is covering his little sister, who is about one or two years old. At least that is my guess. The flashlights give little detail—or too much. The steam is still coming up from the burned furniture and the water is several inches deep and black. It smells of burned wood and textiles and burned flesh.

The light beams hang in the air because of all the smoldering materials, many of them carcinogenic—part of the job. Just because the fire is out or under control doesn't mean the smoke has cleared. The FD has a huge fan going via their noisy generators. It helps some. We are standing in a couple of inches of water and wondering if some stray electrical current is going to make us the next victims.

It stinks. The smell of cooked human flesh only becomes more intense when we disengage the two little corpses from each other. No one says a word—the furrowed brows and grim facial expressions say it all. The corpses are handled ever so gingerly—a last act of guardianship over these bodies. It's about honor, respect, and spiritual values.

The little bodies are stiff and hot to the touch. It appears as though the brother was indeed trying to protect his sister. They are frozen in time, like the bodies at Pompeii consumed by Mount Vesuvius when it erupted.

The little girl is not as burned as the boy. His body and a pillow offered some protection to her. All of us want to think that he was trying to protect his sister. It's part of trying to lessen the horror for her, hoping that someone would champion her, since her mother obviously had not done so. Maybe it is the responders wanting to think that deserted kids somehow get by taking care of each other, or wanting to think that the little girl received some comfort, hope, a semblance of protection that made her death less horrific for her. Maybe it's just that everyone needs a hero and we all tend to look for one. The Hero with a Thousand Faces comes to mind. I don't know. It is what it is.

We will never really know. I can only imagine the fear and horror these two babies must have gone through. I envision them trying to get the door unlocked and then having to retreat to the corner of the room. Screaming for their mother and dying there in the corner, just a thin glass pane away from safety.
What is that . . . a half-inch? A quarter-inch of glass away from being burned alive?
Questions that will never be answered come to the forefront of my thoughts, but the big one is:
Why? A quarter-inch and they are out of harm's way.
It's like being tormented or taunted—such a violent, undeserving ending. In that split second, questions that span the time of our existence on this planet rush forth—questions of religion and spirituality. But . . .
deal with it later. Back to work, Cataldie!