Coroner Stories

Click here for “The Girl of My Dreams—Part I�?

I’ve walked into scenes spattered with blood before and not been shocked—reason being that when someone has been beaten to death with a hatchet it’s natural to walk in expecting to see some blood. But this scene was nothing like that. Not a drop of blood, and yet I was shocked nonetheless.

The bedroom itself appeared as though a laundromat had exploded. There were clothes scattered everywhere with the exception of two places. The first was an area on the full size bed that had been cleared just enough for an adult to sleep. The second was an area of floor in the corner of the room with one of the large round cushions that are available at any pet supply store. The fact that it was made for a large animal to sleep on didn’t discourage the girl’s caregivers from concluding it was an appropriate spot to place a child needing special care.

I understand that not everyone in this world can afford a crib or a bed and that some people have to make do or improvise. If that were the only issue, it could have easily been overlooked.

But it wasn’t.

The girl was lying face up in the center of the cushion. Scattered around the perimeter of the cushion and the room were dozens of empty cans of Pediasure that—when used with the tiny funnel and syringe that was present—were apparently administered through the girl’s feeding tube.

I snapped a few distant photos and as I stood counting the empty cans, one of the technicians asked, “What’s with all the baby powder?�?

He was referring to the white powder that had been scattered all over the girl and the pad as though she had been dusted with powdered sugar like a pastry. As I knelt down in the garbage next to the pad I noticed a small canister that was different from the Pediasure cans. Examining the canister I realized the baby powder was actually lice powder and a closer look at the girls head confirmed the presence of insect activity on her scalp.

During the entire external exam, it felt like there were bugs crawling all over my forearms. Thankfully, it was just my imagination. Part of me wanted to find some sign of trauma so I could at least go home knowing that the little girl’s parents would spend the night in jail. I borrowed the cleanest baby blanket I could find and spread it out on top of the cans, diapers, and clothing and wrapped the little girl inside.

I exited the house with the lieutenant, gave the funeral home the go ahead to remove the body, and asked the lieutenant to introduce me to the family. At this point I was simply going through the same routine I always did with families: introduce myself, let them know what I’m doing there and where their loved one is going, and answer any questions they have at that time. If I hadn’t just been going through the motions, God only knows what I would have said to them.

After giving them one of my cards, the lieutenant walked with me back to my car.

“Do you think we ought to call Homicide out?�? he asked.

“No. But if you’re not going to call Child Welfare, I damn sure am.�?

“They’re on their way,�? he assured me.

I got in the car and headed home, scratching my forearms from time to time.

Late one night I was called out to a house in one of the lower economic regions of the city. It was actually my first trip to this particular area. I’d driven past it numerous times on the expressway and never even knew it was there. There are several of these types of areas in this and every other city I suppose. Thousands drive past them on the interstates and main roads and never actually go through them. These are areas of the city I would never drive through if it weren’t for the fact that there were police officers waiting for me.

This particular part of the city was certainly known to law enforcement. The fact that one of the major thoroughfares for rail traffic in the city was only two blocks to the west would have made one think that I was now on the wrong side of the tracks. One look down the street to the neighborhood on the other side of the tracks, and I was immediately aware that neither side was particularly enviable.

As I parked across the street from the address, a police lieutenant appeared from nowhere as I opened the door. He spoke quietly so that only I could hear, “We’ll talk inside.�?

He then ushered me past a large group of people that had accumulated in the driveway and we made our way to the front porch. An officer on the porch nodded at me with a look as though he recognized me from some previous scene and opened the screen door. I nodded back politely, though in truth I didn’t specifically recall him. It’s fairly easy for thousands of officers to remember a dozen or so death investigators. It’s not so easy the other way around.

My first clue that the inside of this house was going to be an absolute pit was the circuitous route that the lieutenant and I made to the front porch as we navigated our way through car parts, appliances, and broken toys. People who give little regard to the impression their front yard makes seem to care even less when it comes to the part of their property that is not in the public eye. I have yet to walk across such a yard and enter a house where I would consider sitting down or touching anything without gloves on.

As I entered the house I couldn’t help notice the pie-shaped “snow angel�? pattern that the front door had carved in the debris that covered the living room floor. Beyond that, a small path had been trampled in the garbage that forked at the other end of the room and led to other parts of the house. It was along this path that the lieutenant and I now stood along with another officer and two crime scene technicians, each of us seemingly afraid to step off the main path into the surrounding area.

I got the rest of the information I needed from the officer inside the house. A mother had gone to check on her two and a half year old girl and called 911 when the little girl didn’t respond. The officer had arrived at the scene shortly after the paramedics who were in the process of checking for vital signs. The lack of vital signs and the obvious presence of rigor mortis was enough for the paramedics to pronounce the girl dead at the scene. The little girl was also known to have some sort of debilitating disease because paramedics noticed that she had a gastric feeding tube in place.

After the briefing in the living room, I carefully followed the two crime scene technicians into the back bedroom of the house. To say that I was shocked by what I saw is an understatement. The significance of first exposure to that scene was evidenced by the way that both crime scene technicians were looking at me to see my reaction.

Stay tuned for Part II…