Coroner's Journal (15 page)

“I'm going to tell the nurse to make sure you get double meal portions.” It worked.

With Tomica, I merely assured her I was the coroner, not the Devil, and that I was there because her family was concerned about her health. Of course that was the wrong thing to say, given the recent encounter she'd had with her son.

“They don't care 'bout me.”

I countered that her momma cared, and she had no rebuttal to that. It is amazing to me how many people will calm down when I say that to them. “Can you get them to give me double portions on my plate? That nurse don't like me.”

She tends to switch topics easily. I asked her why she thought that about the nurse.

“'Cause the voices tell me. They want me to
get
that bitch.”

There was little reason to continue. She is a known schizophrenic who is noncompliant with medication. She is experiencing command auditory hallucinations that tell her to hurt the nurse. She is acting out on those commands. I thanked her for her time but she was already distracted. She turned to her right and remarked, as if to her voices: “Shut up, bitch! Hey, Doc, I need a place to live! They gonna help me with that?”

I assured her that everyone was here to help her. She trotted off to the dining room for a snack.

I returned to the nurses' station. Nurse O. had just convinced another psychotic patient to take his prescribed medication, albeit not without some urging. I looked at her and smiled. It was a smile of understanding between two veterans who have been in this trench before.

“Tomica gets to stay,” I said.

Nurse O. laughed. “Somehow I just knew you were going to say that.”

I changed the topic. “So, how are the lovebirds? Engaged yet? Are we invited?”

“Ha-ha. Not funny.” Her face softened a little and revealed a trace of doubt.

“You know, Doc, I think we've been in this business too damn long.” She regrouped and managed a smile. “How about a cup of coffee? It's even fresh this time.”

That translates into: Hey, I need to hear a friendly voice. And I need to hear it from someone who knows what the hell goes on here. I'm frustrated, overwhelmed, short-staffed, and I'm worried about these patients who are under my care. I need someone I respect to tell me I'm not crazy and that I'm doing the right thing. This sucks and I'm feeling a little on the powerless side right now, but I'll do my best. I just need a little affirmation from someone who gives a damn . . .

I smile back.
I do, but I'm a little pressed for time. I have two more hospitals to go to.

“Sure, cup of coffee sounds good.”

SEVEN

Some specifics of this investigation have been modified for reasons of confidentiality. The names that are fictitious include: Chris L. Cashio, Vernon Gantz, Mrs. Gantz, and Clyde P. Arceneaux. There have been at least two suicides in Baton Rouge that showed similar aspects.

I love spring mornings in Baton Rouge. The sky is clear and the temperature is in the seventies. You can smell the azaleas blooming from almost anywhere. I was enjoying this particular morning in 2000 by having coffee and warm French doughnuts outside at Coffee Call. I love a slow cup of hot coffee, the newspaper, and time with DeAnn. We were sitting in the cast-iron chairs on the patio when my cell phone went off. I recognized the number as the office and announced, “Party over!”

Being coroner of East Baton Rouge Parish is a 24/7 job. De understood; she always does.

The office always rings the cell phone first, then home. De is more attuned to the home phone and I to the cell. When it rings I pretty much expect the worst. These things seem to happen in the wee hours of the morning. The end of a drinking spree, fights over who is going home with whom, drunks on the road, hookers getting desperate, abusers at the end of a cocaine run. The robberies are usually shortly after dark—time to hit the mom-and-pop store. At night, after the party—time to get in the car and run down a group of kids who dissed you at the party, thereby killing five of them and becoming a young mass murderer—one of my first cases. But . . . if it has to come, I prefer an early-morning call, which is less disruptive to my family life.

The worst time is family time, in part because it induces so much guilt. “Okay, Michael, this dead person is more important than you—bye now!” I hopped into the Green Hornet and sped to the scene. I wonder if Michael will consider it unusual for a family to go out to dinner in one car when he's married and has his own family.

As I approached the residence, I noted that there was no press, only one detective unit, and only one marked car.
Good sign.
The house sat on a corner lot of an established neighborhood. The lawn was uniformly green and well groomed. The neighborhood had been developed in the 1950s, and many of the residents were originals and now senior citizens. It was picturesque and seemed so tranquil.

Detective Chris L. Cashio was waiting in the carport; after the usual amenities, he motioned to the door and in a rather flat tone said, “This is a weird one. I think it's a suicide. Still—weird.”

The word “weird,” especially when uttered by a seasoned homicide detective, always bothers me and puts me on full alert.
Approach with caution, Lou.

As I walked through the kitchen and living area I noted how neat and orderly everything was. Everything was clean and in its place. I followed Cashio's lead as he motioned for me to go through the hall and into the bedroom.

Vernon F. Gantz, age sixty-seven, was lying on his back on his made up bed. His feet and arms were crossed as if he were taking a nap. A black garbage bag, industrial grade, was under his hips. Another black garbage bag enclosed his head. He was fully clothed and even wore shoes. His shoes were polished. He wore a blue dress shirt and casual black slacks. His body was cold to the touch and had full rigor. EMS was correct: he had been definitely dead for at least twelve hours.

A glance about the room revealed that everything seemed to be neat and orderly. The garbage bag was sealed at his neck with a “twist.” I split the bag open gingerly with my lockblade pocketknife so as to maintain the twist for evidence. Vernon's face had a calm look, and his eyes were closed. There was no blood apparent and no evidence of trauma. Further examination revealed that the livor distribution—the reddish discoloration of the skin that forms in the dependent areas of the body due to the settling of blood—supported the fact that he had died in bed.

On his dressing table were his insurance policy, a burial policy, and a set of directions on how to handle his affairs. There was also a picture of Mr. Gantz and a lady I presumed to be Mrs. Gantz. Next to this was an empty zip-lock bag and a drinking glass that was empty but had a fine, whitish powdery residue in it. The bag and glass were collected. I looked up at the detective and asked, “Find anything I need to know about?”

Cashio was still rather flat as he responded, “Not yet. Haven't really looked that much. Thought I'd wait for you. If this is a suicide, it's an open-and-shut case. Makes it easy on me. Looks pretty much like that one they had in the northern part of the parish a year or so ago, don't it?”

I was somewhat surprised that Cashio knew about that. That particular suicide had been handled by the sheriff's office and this one was under the city police jurisdiction. The departments rarely share information. “Yes,” I said, responding to the detective's query, then paused, contemplated a moment, and added, “Yes it does, Detective, yes it does. So, let's have a look-see at his choice of reading material.” I left the bedroom.

Cashio followed and continued: “I wasn't at Seminole Street, but I heard there is some kind of book on how to kill yourself—kind of a
Suicide for Dummies
deal.”

I smiled to myself.
Homicide detectives certainly have a way with words.
But this seemed like an opportunity to “enlighten” the detective, so I did. “The name of the book is
Final Exit.
” It certainly is a “how-to” book on how to commit suicide. “And I'll bet you money Gantz had knowledge of it.”

I walked into Mr. Gantz's well-kept reading room and inventoried the area. Near his small reading table was a publication describing the techniques touted in
Final Exit
.

Detective Cashio seemed a little disconcerted, and, immediately thinking in the terms of his profession, he asked, “So
anybody
can buy this damn book you're talking about?
Kids
can buy this crap!” Cashio certainly wasn't detached at this point. Indeed, he had become quite animated. “Say, is there a way to get the guy who wrote this book on assisted suicide?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “But, of course, you'd have to ask the DA's office if you want an official opinion.” I felt a need to expand upon
Final Exit
for Cashio's benefit. There was no need to have him go charging at windmills. “This book was written for the terminally ill person who wants a way out, or as the book puts it, a ‘self-deliverance.' It goes through the decision process and tells you what to write and how to set up your affairs and what to take. The idea is that you go to sleep and never wake up because you die of asphyxia.”

It tells you how not to create a mess to be cleaned up by whomever. That's why Gantz had a plastic bag under his butt. He was being considerate in case he lost control of his bladder and bowels.

“I'll refer to the book when I talk to his family. Folks just don't want to believe a loved one killed themselves. You know, Detective, if a person went into Tiger Stadium at halftime, pulled out a gun, and shot himself in the head with ninety thousand witnesses present, someone would be in my office within the week with a murder conspiracy theory. Family members often have a very difficult time with acceptance.” I stopped, glanced around, and asked, “By the way, where
are
the family members?”

Cashio answered, “They all live out of state. We are trying to contact them. There is a daughter in Ohio. The only person this guy had much contact with was his neighbor. One thing really bothers me here, though, and that's the fact that this guy ain't terminally ill.”

I added, “Well, not as far as we know. The guy who wrote the book was national executive director of the Hemlock Society.”

Cashio interjected, “Now, there's a cute name, Hemlock Society. Do they mail-order hemlock out to you?”

I smiled and continued, “No, they won't mail poison to you. But they also don't support suicide in the case of emotional or financial stressors.”

“Yeah? Well, somebody shouda told that to Gantz.”

I agreed, “Yeah, poor guy. I need some history here. Where's that neighbor?”

Mr. Gantz's neighbor, Clyde P. Arceneaux, had discovered Gantz. The neighbor went into the house to check on his friend of over twenty-five years because it was unusual for Vernon not to get his newspaper in the morning. Mr. Arceneaux, who appeared to be in his seventies, had collected the paper, and since the door was open, he came in looking for his friend. When he saw Vernon in bed like that, he called 911.

The neighbor reported that Mr. Gantz had been depressed for many months, “since the recent death of his wife of forty-three years.” He was a good neighbor. His children lived out of state and he didn't have much contact with them. He had talked about wanting God to just take him in his sleep. He had been making frequent references to “just being tired of living.”

Mr. Arceneaux was one of those honest, warm-hearted, Cajun gentlemen who always have time to help their friends and neighbors. His comments were as accurate as anyone living could make, and summed up the whole case: “Me, I t'ink Vernon just don't want to be here wit'out his wife no more. You know, he was never the same after she passed. . . . You know, he didn't laugh no more, and he just moped around. But he kept his yard up, yeah, 'cause she always was proud of dis yard. He was a damn good man, dat Vernon. Maybe he love her too much, I dunno. Dat's all between him and God now.”

My autopsy revealed no evidence of physical trauma. There was also no evidence of any major physical illnesses. The stomach contents consisted of numerous small pill fragments of various colors. Toxicology was positive for two sedatives, diazepam (trade name Valium), and a barbiturate. There was a small concentration of alcohol. The sedatives had been combined with the alcohol to have a much more powerful effect and induce a heavy sleep. There was also Compazine, which would prevent him from vomiting the contents of his lethal concoction.

The residue in the glass was from the Valium and barbiturate that had been dissolved in alcohol. This was the fatal slurry that Mr. Gantz ingested—one just like that described in the book.

Euthanasia, or mercy killing, is the act of killing someone painlessly, and the term is frequently associated with people who want to avoid a slow death from a terminal illness. I think it is something all of us must face and analyze. Euthanasia is a morally and ethically heated topic. Terms such as “assisted suicide” have become familiar. Is it euthanasia not to put a feeding tube in a terminally ill patient? Is it assisted suicide to abide by the “living will” of a person who does not want “heroic measures” instituted to save his or her life?

The death of Vernon F. Gantz highlighted these issues for all of us.

While my internal conflict with euthanasia, suicide, and “assisted suicide” continues, I do not judge Vernon Gantz, and I agree with Mr. Arceneaux that it's “all between him and God now.”

Cause of death: asphyxiation by drug overdose.

Manner of death: suicide.