Coroner Stories

One of my earliest memories of working death scenes goes back to my days in training. A man had gone to the edge of the patio in his backyard, placed the butt of a 12-gauge shotgun against the ground, bent over the shotgun with the barrel at the bridge of his nose, and pulled the trigger.

The receipt for the shotgun was found in the man’s wallet and indicated that he had purchased the shotgun that very morning using his credit card. A suicide note was recovered from inside the house. It referenced the man’s failing health and his unwillingness to become a burden on his family. The butt of the weapon had stamped a depression into the ground when it was fired.

As for the circumstances of the death, there wasn’t anything too remarkable. I would estimate that I’ve probably worked dozens like it. Still, there was one particular aspect of this scene that makes it stand out in my memory. I was amazed at how far skull fragments could travel as the result of a shotgun wound.

Prior to that particular scene, I had already been exposed to the devastating effects a shotgun can have on a body. I had seen skull fragments embedded in walls and ceilings. I had seen brain matter ricochet off a bathroom mirror and land in the hallway. I had even seen an eye connected only by its optic nerve. But all these situations involved an injury indoors. It wasn’t until the gentleman shot himself outdoors that I was able to fully comprehend the force involved.

As I said, the man shot himself at the edge of his patio. The weapon was presumably perfectly perpendicular to the ground. The arrangement of skull fragments and brain matter in a 360-degree area around the body gave me the impression that the initial blast must have resulted in a mushroom cloud-like distribution about the yard. The house was a single story ranch style home, and to my amazement there were fragments that had landed on top of the house despite the fact that the edge of the patio was a good twelve feet from the edge of the roof.

After examining the body in the backyard, it was time to go about the task of collecting as much of the shattered fragments of bone and tissue as possible. I was on my way back to the car to get a biohazard bag to place them in when I noticed a fairly sizeable skull fragment that was in the front yard near the street—at least forty feet from where the shot was fired.

I returned to the fragment with my biohazard bag and collected it. Still marveling at the force put forth by the shotgun, I canvassed the area collecting other fragments in what must have appeared to others to be some morbid version of an Easter egg hunt.

I recently received an email from a reader that was very complimentary of the subject matter I’ve discussed, but at the same time they couldn’t help but want to know more about some of the more gruesome aspects of my job. I’ve received similar “requests�? such as this one—direct or implied. I responded with my usual explanation that I did not wish to alienate or offend anyone nor did I wish to use the misfortune of others as shock value to attract readers.

The reader wrote me back, pointing out that anyone who continued to “voluntarily read�? beyond a title such as “Coroner Stories�? should be prepared for whatever gruesome subject matter that follows.

Almost immediately, I realized that there was a parallel between the offensiveness of my website and the offensiveness of an auto fatality. Every so often a citizen calls the office and complains because they were driving past an auto collision on the highway and saw a dead body at the side of the road or hanging from a car. The image haunted them to the point that they were unable to sleep that night.

I’ve ended up talking to some of these callers. I explain that 99% of the deaths that we work in the public eye are covered long before our office responds to the scene—a polite way of saying it’s not our fault. Instead of assigning blame to another agency, I assure them that they were probably just unfortunate enough to drive by moments before the body was covered. After hanging up, I daydream about the response I would have liked to have given…

“Here’s an idea—don’t look! Any time there are more than two patrol cars at the side of the road, it’s more than just a traffic stop. Lanes of traffic merging into one, road flares, and the presence of rescue vehicles indicate there is not a routine “exchange of information�? collision ahead. Upon arriving at a scene, officers aren’t concerned about the weak constitutions of rubberneckers. Their primary concern is to determine who needs medical attention and who is beyond it. Just watch the car in front of you instead of surveying the damage as you pass so you don’t cause a secondary collision blocking the only lane around the first one.�?

Sorry for the tangent just then. I guess I’ve handled more of those complaints than I’d realized. I’ll try to get back on topic now. Long story short, here are my thoughts. Since I started this website, no one has complained about the current level of graphic content and several people have posed questions that would have required more graphic content. Most of those questions have been variations of “What’s the grossest thing you’ve ever seen?�?

As I said, I’ve politely steered clear of those types of questions and instead have presented more vanilla aspects of this job such as filthy houses or general aspects of decomposition and such. My goal has always been to provide an accurate glimpse of life as a death investigator for those who have only seen Hollywood’s version of reality.

In the future I’ll try to offer a little more insight into the more gruesome aspects of death investigation. I’ll continue to present details matter-of-factly and with all due respect in order to avoid employing techniques that I criticize Hollywood for using.

The way I see it, this job is what it is. At any given moment it can be gruesome, rewarding, humorous, tragic—just about anything that any other job can be. I’m sure it will continue to be long after I move on to something else, decide to retire, or snap while waiting in line at Krispy Kreme and end up on the losing end of a hostage negotiation.

I’ve probably given the subject (not the hostage taking part) a lot more consideration than was necessary, but it’s in my nature. I’d be interested in hearing the thoughts of others—public or private. I’ll continue with my policy of publicly posting comments (good or bad, but relevant) and keeping emails private using only paraphrased excerpts in my posts. I look forward to any non-Texas Hold’em comments…

According to my wife, I use the phrase “one of the worst houses I’ve ever been in�? quite a lot. In retrospect, I seem to refer to a rather long list of houses I’ve had the misfortune to be exposed to. I suppose my use of the phrase is no different than when a person says, “It was one of the worst movies I’d ever seen�? when in truth there may very well be over a hundred titles on this list if the person was to write them all down.

My list of worst houses changes as newer candidates for consideration come along, but my number one selection has yet to be replaced after years of holding the top spot. I’ve referred to some of the filthier conditions in previous posts (“Human Litter Boxes�? comes to mind), but this particular house doesn’t owe it’s ranking to an overabundance of misplaced fecal matter. Of course by misplaced I mean as in “put in the wrong place�? not as in “Now what did I do with that turd?�?

When I first took the call, my decision to investigate the death was based on the woman’s lack of sufficient medical history to account for her death. It had nothing to do with the condition of the house. For the record, I had no idea that the house was in such bad shape.

In recent years, I’ve gotten the impression that some officers are reluctant to voluntarily offer details that might discourage a visit from the medical examiner. Unless an officer is questioned thoroughly, the basic details they provide can be as misleading as a personal ad. For example, a scenario where a man found dead in bed by family is seemingly simple at first. The reality of the scenario is ultimately revealed when I arrive to find that the man is morbidly obese, his body is decomposed, his bed is a waterbed, and his bedroom is upstairs.

This issue of accurate scene description can go the other way as well. I’ve gone to countless scenes where the officers were convinced that the person had been dead for weeks based on the looks or smell of the deceased, and they absolutely refuse to go back inside or send in a rookie to accompany me. Almost every time I’m relieved to find that my perception of reality is not nearly as revolting as theirs.

Back to the story. When I arrived at the house, one of the officers led me around to the back door. I didn’t think the back door was particularly unusual. If I had given it any thought, I would have simply assumed that the reporting party or the officers had forced entry at the back door.

As it turned out, the front door had been kicked in, but the officers were unable to push the door open because there was something blocking it. That same object appeared to be partially blocking the back door as well. The officers had managed to shove this door open just enough for the slimmest officer to squeeze through and find the woman in her bed. That same officer was leading me to the back door. He expressed relief that I was of a similar build and described the object that blocked both doors—a pile of garbage that was waist deep covering the entire floor of the house.

Of all the times for an officer to describe a scene accurately, this had to be that time. It was a gigantic pile of everything that was exactly waist high. It wasn’t garbage in the sense that it was trash—of which there was certainly a fair amount. It was garbage in the sense that it was just stuff that no reasonable person would have wanted. Boxes of knickknacks (didn’t realize that was one word), bags of clothing, broken toys, parts of appliances. It was as though the woman had collected the leftovers from every garage sale that she and anyone else had ever been to.

Fortunately, the officer had been wrong in one respect. There was a small footpath that ran a course from the back door to the bed where the woman was located. The external examination was unremarkable. The only thing I found that I scratched my head over was how a woman of such girth was able to squeeze her way in the way I just had. Then a greater mystery presented itself. How was I going to get her out?

It seemed that the easiest route was going to be the shortest one—the window at the foot of the bed. Despite being on the first floor, there was still a considerable drop from the window to the ground. I pictured all of the things that could go wrong as the one person the local funeral home sent out to transport the body and I lowered a full-grown woman out a window. These images covered every likely outcome from “successful maneuver�? to “body falls out of torn body bag as crowd of onlookers vomit in succession.�?

I was called back to reality when one of the officers present offered some assistance…

“Do you want me to call the fire department?�?

Actually, death pressed on while I took a short break from death, but “Death Takes a Holiday�? sounds much more interesting than “Douglas Takes a Holiday.�? Or at the very least, it sounds a lot less like a children’s book. The opportunity to get out of town presented itself on short notice, so I left suddenly. The lack of internet access caused me to break my streak of posting new material at least every seven days. I apologize to anyone who has gotten tired of “dropping by�? only to see the same old post.

So here’s a new one…

While driving to a long distance scene one night, I found myself recalling a reader comment from a few weeks ago that seems to have stuck with me. The comment referred to what little television had taught the commenter about what I do for a living. As I drove, I realized that, according to television, I’ve been doing my job all wrong.

According to television, I should enter the crime scene and find something wrong right away (as I only have 60 minutes minus commercials to find the guilty party) and should spot key pieces of evidence at a glance and determine their significance almost immediately. I should then confront the potential suspect in the front yard and make some emotionally-charged, sarcastic statement to let them know that I’m “on to them�? in an effort to create an adversarial relationship that will only hinder the investigation.

Even though my role is restricted by statute to determining cause and manner of death, I shouldn’t let that fact deter me from getting involved in all aspects of a criminal investigation. If I were a ballistics expert, I should be able to look at a body and tell exactly what caliber of ammunition made the gunshot wound in the chest (something no self-respecting forensic pathologist would even claim to be able to do).

Since homicides apparently only occur one at a time, ordering evidence comparisons on projectiles, fingerprints, DNA, and fibers is as easy as ordering an extra value meal. I can devote all my time and energy as well as all of the resources of the entire agency into solving this one case.

I should ignore statutory limitations and embark on a personal vendetta against “my�? suspect by confronting them at their home or place of business or by reconstructing the crime using role-playing techniques that cause me to take on the pain of the victim.

Then as I drove, I wondered what type of person I’d become if I performed my job the Hollywood way. If I put pieces of evidence together as quickly and as flawlessly as they do on television, then I’d end up being the prime suspect. Aggressively confronting the suspect would certainly be used against me in court by even the greenest public defender. Portraying myself as an expert in all forensic disciplines (as most Hollywood investigators seem to be) would only serve to establish a reputation as a “know-it-all.�? Making it my personal mission to “put someone away�? or role-playing to catch the murderer would ultimately lead me to wash down numerous types of prescription medication with grain alcohol on a daily basis.

In reality, I let the evidence speak for itself. I don’t even speak to suspects. I limit my observations to the body and any other item relevant to the cause of death. I don’t try to understand how someone could have taken their own life, nor do I care what could lead someone to kill another. My way may not make for good television, but it’s a hell of a lot healthier.