Read Online Coroner's Journal by Louis Cataldie - Free Book Online Page A

therefore tend to make stupid mistakes.
    My experience has been that criminals generally learn just enough to botch the cover-up attempt. Do these FX forensics shows give people ideas and encourage crime? I doubt that. Attempts to manipulate forensic evidence are not new, and from what I have experienced they are not very sophisticated. In any case there are definitely thorns on that bush—such attempts often support the concept of premeditation at trial.
    My wife DeAnn, son Michael, and I were having dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, Las Palmas, a Mexican place with fabulous enchiladas. We were into our first basket of chips and salsa when I got the call. I hate that look of disappointment on their faces when it comes. From a practical standpoint, we’ve learned to go to dinner in two cars just in case I get called away.
    I ended my phone call and made the announcement: “Somebody burned up in a hotel room. I gotta go.”
    They both seemed somewhat resigned to it. De admonished me to be careful and Michael said he would get my order to go. We exchanged “I love you’s,” and I was off.
    All I had at the time was: “Somebody burned up in a motel room.” But as the events of the evening unfolded, the plot sickened.
    It was a warm October night in 2002 when I pulled into a motel on Airline Highway. The police, detectives, fire department, and arson investigators had beaten me there. I was waved through a parking lot of fire department and police vehicles. My circuitous route ultimately led me to the second floor and the detective. He didn’t look very happy.
    We exchanged the usual amenities, then he got right to it. His voice was a little hoarse as he related the story: “Fire department is wrapping up. We can get in shortly . . . here’s the deal so far. This may be a suicide. The guy who lives in the room had been talking suicide. He’s supposedly depressed ’cause he’s going to jail for some charges related to sex with a minor. So that’s it right now. . . . Did we get you away from anything important?”
    My response was a little on the sarcastic side. “Just dinner with my family.”
    His was just a terse “Yeah, me too.”
    This was a “special” crime all right. I was staring into the black abyss that was once a motel room—now burned out. My “street guide” was Leon Jarreau, a veteran arson investigator with the fire department. He explained: “We controlled the fire, found a dead body in the bed, and called you. We just verified he was dead, then we backed out.”
    I must have looked hesitant to him by the way he asked, “You ready to go in, Doc?”
    I wanted to say no. Especially after his caution to watch for any live electric wires, even though “we think we have all the power off, but you never can tell in these places.” I hoped he was joking, but I knew he wasn’t.
    This was not exactly a five-star motel. The odors drifting out of the gaping hole that was once a doorway were a mixture of burnt carpet and cheap furniture. I had smelled them before. I also knew that the combustion of such items produces carcinogenic gases as well as cyanide fumes. Of course, the firemen had a couple of big fans going to help evacuate those fumes. I was assured that the electricity to power those fans came from fire department generators. Now, that’s good to know.
    I anticipated that I would soon be assaulted by the odor of burnt human flesh. I was not. As I entered, what I smelled was some type of petroleum. Smoke limited the illumination provided by my flashlight beam. The entire room was covered in soot. And there was that sickly squishing of the burnt, saturated carpet as I walked up to the bed that held the remains of our John Doe.
    The fire had been intentionally set, and an accelerant was used, probably charcoal lighter. Since the room was relatively airtight, the fire had been limited