I had no positive ID, I wasn’t sure of the cause of death (though I was damn sure it wasn’t natural), and I don’t know the time or even the day of death. In short, I had a mystery on my hands.
A murderer could conceivably go free if I screwed up. And this murder was becoming more and more complicated as events unfolded. Complexity, of course, equates to a greater likelihood of mistakes. I have only one shot at the evidence, and from an evidentiary standpoint, once the body is disturbed, things are forever changed. I approach every homicide with the same professionalism. And therein, as you shall see, lies my salvation.
I have a limited budget and manage to operate within those parameters in part thanks to the good will of volunteers and professionals who have never failed to step up to the plate. Why? Because it is the right thing to do. I called in Mary Manheim, forensic anthropologist at the LSU FACES Lab, and Dr. C. Lamar Meek, the best forensic entomologist I know. (FACES is shorthand for Forensic Anthropology and Computer Enhancement Services.) Dr. Meek died June 27, 2000. He was fifty-six years old. His untimely death was a loss to all of us. I might add that both of these folks were always very generous with their time.
Dr. Meek collected his specimens and carted them off for examination and rearing in his bug chamber in order to be sure of the species. They would tell him about the time of Edwin’s death.
Even with the decomposition, we were able to get fingerprints from the corpse. That was a real break, especially since he had prints on file.
Mary (aka “The Bone Lady”) and I agreed that she should be involved throughout the autopsy process, as we might need her services not only for dental comparison and identification but also for determination of the cause of death. It’s amazing what those bones can tell you—if you know how to ask the right questions, and how to listen for their answers.
Autopsy revealed the victim had sustained head trauma, but there was a confounding variable: he had previously undergone brain surgery, and the surgical intervention had, of course, required the removal of part of his skull. So it was essential that we determine and document the skull damage due to trauma sustained at the time of his death and distinguish it from the healing skull abnormalities resulting from the surgery.
Edwin Robillard’s head was disarticulated from the rest of his body. Mary cleaned the skull at her LSU lab, and due in part to her efforts, we had our answer: Edwin Robillard had a fresh skull fracture in the area that also was affected by the surgery. He died of head trauma. We were now ready to defend our findings and allow any challenging expert to examine the evidence.
The skull was subsequently put into evidence and the rest of Edwin Robillard was cremated, as a pauper burial, at the expense of the coroner’s office.
Job well done. At least, I thought so. But this opinion was not shared by several disgruntled ex-employees of the coroner’s office, or by Mr. Robillard’s ex-wife, who sued me on behalf of her sons. I was accused of being a “headhunter.”
The suit claimed that I removed forty-one-year-old Edwin Robillard’s head and stored it in a forensics lab without their permission, and that I unlawfully returned his remains to his aunt. The sons also said they did not receive formal notification that their father was killed until they saw a news report of the slaying.
Efforts to discredit my actions were amplified when a “news” reporter from a local network showed up in my office with a camera and some baseless and absurd allegations. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone when I saw the resulting piece on TV. I’m not sure what amazed me more, the misinformation or the disinformation. The reporter was Marvin Hurst of Channel 2. I like to think that Marvin was misled by the lawsuit and was not just a sensationalist reporter seeking to advance himself at the expense of responsible journalism. I was told that another news agency had been approached with the story, but that agency saw through the smoke and mirrors and declined to go with it.
But the piece did beg the question: Why did I keep the skull? Was it so that I could prove the body was Edwin Robillard or was it so that in my macabre, narcissistic way, I could parade it into the courtroom, as one disgruntled ex-employee would later claim?
Of course I never intended to bring the skull into the courtroom—how ludicrous. That was a spiteful and ignorant statement. The skull was being retained so that once the killer was caught, the defense expert and any other experts the prosecution might need to call upon could do their own examinations. I fully expected the cause of death to be challenged in criminal court, and I wasn’t going to leave any loopholes for the defense to wriggle through. I would also expect any competent death investigator to know that. Bottom line—no murderer is going to get off because Louis Cataldie failed to retain critical evidence. No way.
When I received notice that I was being sued, the case seemed moot to me and I fully expected a summary dismissal. The Louisiana Constitution, Revised Statue 33:1563:B.(4)(a) clearly states: “[The coroner] may remove and retain for testing or examination any specimens, organs, or other portion of the remains of the deceased that he may deem necessary or advisable as possible evidence before a grand jury or court. . . .” I was also astounded by the fact that the plaintiffs’ attorney was Rob Marioneaux, a Louisiana state senator.
Here was my thinking about that—obviously flawed! Legislators are responsible for making the law and changing those laws that need changing, right? So how can a senator sue me for obeying a law that originated in his own state senate? I mean, I am sworn to uphold the laws of our great state. He is the law-maker! What’s the deal here?
But my attorney assured me that in Louisiana a senator can make a law, make me responsible for upholding the law, then sue me for fulfilling my responsibilities under that law. Is it just me or does this sound screwy? I still don’t get it. Be that as it may, the case continued.
We went through the deposition process, then the various forms of attorney-to-attorney negotiation, and then finally to trial. On the day of the trial, my attorneys approached me to see if we wanted to make one last offer to the plaintiffs before the trial got under way. My response was simple, direct, and loud: “Hell no!”
On the stand, I was accused of being a head-collector and assisting Mary Manheim with her “collection.” And at one point, their attorney asked me what I would tell the sons of Mr. Robillard or how would I explain this atrocity to them. I had no trouble at all looking them straight in the eyes right there in the courtroom and assuring them that their dad was not going to be denied justice by any error on my part. I’m just guessing here, but I don’t think that’s the response the senator wanted to hear.
I left the courtroom after my testimony. In January 2004, my lawyers called to announce that not only did State District Judge Mike Caldwell rule in my favor, he ordered the plaintiffs to pay court costs. I was relieved but not elated because the whole lawsuit and trial seemed so useless and I’m sorry Edwin’s sons had to go through all that. It’s sad enough that their father was murdered, but to worsen the trauma with some lame attempt at litigation seemed heartless to me. My code of ethics at the coroner’s office was simple: “DO THE RIGHT THING.” I can even tolerate mistakes as long as no one tries to cover them up.
Edwin Robillard’s skull remains at the LSU Forensic Anthropology Computer Enhancement Laboratory awaiting a suspect. His slaying remains unsolved.
TEN
Monster on the Loose
KILLER CITY
Baton Rouge is a violent city. Now, that’s not the most politically correct thing to say, especially if you want to win political friends and influence same, but it’s true, and trying to minimize, ignore, rationalize, or otherwise hide the fact can only make things worse. Most of the murder and mayhem here occurs within a few relatively circumscribed areas, and often these crimes are “impulse” killings, associated with passion, ego, robbery, and/or drugs. Of course there is also the occasional “get-back” killing, in which a person is killed as a form of retaliation or retribution for some past transgression, real or
imagined. But if, avoiding these specific areas or situations, you consider yourself relatively safe, insulated from such crimes, you’re only fooling yourself. To use the vernacular: “It just ain’t so!”
It’s the ones you don’t see coming that get you. Since I have been in office, Baton Rouge has been plagued by at least four known sets of serial killings. I also suspect we have had other murderers come to town, kill, and move on.
At least thirty to forty killings of women in the Greater Baton Rouge area in the past decade remain unsolved, according to the Baton Rouge Police Department and the East Baton Rouge Parish Sheriff’s Office. The victims are young and old, black and white, rich and poor. No one, and I mean no one, is immune from being relegated to the role of victim by these malicious, twisted predators.
My first exposure to a true serial killing was in the abandoned Dynasty Lounge, in the 1100 block of North Boulevard in September of 1999.
Though it is not confirmed, it’s my firm conviction that this murder was one of an infamous series known locally as “the black prostitute murders.” These killings purportedly began in the late 1990s, and many remain to be solved. At least ten women have been killed in a four-mile-square area east of downtown since 1999. Most of the women were black, in their mid-thirties, and were found nude or partially nude in or near parks or vacant buildings. Most of the women had rap sheets and had been arrested for drugs or prostitution. It was in 2000 that a couple of young BRPD detectives, Ike Vavasseur and Keith Bates, just back from FBI school, spearheaded a sort of summit to review these deaths as being possibly the work of one person, a serial killer. Multiple agencies, my office among them, participated in the summit, but the idea of organizing a task force just drifted away. I suppose we could say these bright young detectives were ahead of their times. Later we would see two serial killer task forces; but I am getting ahead of myself.
A suspect, Sean Gillis, had been arrested, and though his confession may account for some of these victims, it doesn’t account for all of them—and specifically not for this one. Her name was Florida Edwards.
It was dusk when I arrived at her death scene on that balmy summer night, and as expected in southern Louisiana, balmy rapidly gave way to brutally hot and humid. What else is new? I was met by a detective and given a short briefing, which pretty much consisted of “We have a dead woman inside . . . we were notified by an unknown person via a phone call . . . it’s hot as hell in there, Doc.” Then I was channeled down a well-worn path that ran along the side of the lounge. The whole building was almost completely surrounded by thick vegetation, some of which disturbingly resembled poison ivy. I kept waiting for some rodent to rush out and bite me. On your toes, Lou . . .
I was met by another detective at the back, and only, entrance to the place. The rear door was off its hinges and served sort of as a bridge from the trail into the usually dark recesses of the lounge. He essentially repeated what I already knew: there was a dead female inside. He told me he felt a need to go outside for a few moments to cool off. I know this guy, he’s tough, and if he needed to go outside to cool off, that was a very, very bad sign.
When I looked into the doorway, my olfactory sensors were assaulted by the stench. Equally harsh was the iridescence of the crime-scene lights emitting a glare from inside the lounge. I turned around to go back to my car to get the necessary supplies, which would include a pair of heavy-duty rubber boots.
Once I had the appropriate foot attire, I began my journey back to the crime scene. That journey took me through a small crowd that had started to gather outside. I know that once I am on the business side of the yellow tape, I am insulated from them at least temporarily. But I was accosted by a reporter prior to making it into that safe haven.
Her question was simple and prefaced with a disclaimer: “I know you can’t tell me anything yet. I only have one question. Should I stay out here or go home?”
I paused, thought for a second. She’s a decent person and a decent reporter, so what the hell?
“You’d probably be upset if you didn’t stay for this one.”
“Thanks, Doc. When will you know something?”
“That’s two questions.” Typical reporter behavior, you’d think I’d get used to it. “Later,” was my rather cryptic reply to question number two.
The lounge was truly one of the filthiest places I have ever had the misfortune to enter in my entire career. Evidently this hole was frequented by the dregs of society, such as drug addicts and prostitutes, the so-called high-risk-lifestyle people. Strewn across the dusty floor were empty liquor bottles, used condoms, used syringes, feces, clothing matted to the floor, and bric-a-brac from a rotting building.
It was dark, dirty, and dangerous. Inside, I was greeted by the acrid odor of urine and feces—nauseating. I shuddered to think what other secretions were present. In addition to that stench, there was the foreboding smell of stagnant mold and mildew. I became very aware of my breathing. Who wants a lungful of that medley of potential pathogens?
Crime scene had set up several shop lights against the southern wall of the joint, that being the back wall; and while that helped us see, the lights were generating a tremendous amount of heat. They seemed to increase the temperature beyond human tolerance. No wonder people were taking breaks to go outside to cool off. Cool off in the Baton Rouge heat—that says it all.
The illumination did allow me to survey the area. One of the first things I noted were the falling ceiling tiles. Look out overhead, Lou. Surprisingly, there were some bent-up lighting fixtures still dangling from above. They had been passed over by scavengers because they were aluminum and not worth the effort. The same could not be said for any of the copper that may once have been there. Indeed, there were some ragged holes in the walls that indicated someone had “salvaged” the copper piping. The walls were greenish from the mildew stain. I thought of my lungs again and the challenge to my immune system.
The floodlights also illuminated the corpse, which was near the front, or northern, wall. Indeed, the whole immediate area of the crime scene was revealed in stark detail. The shadows of the detectives and crime-scene personnel were magnified against the front wall. Those shadows danced back and forth on the wall like specters involved in some macabre ritual or play—a poorly choreographed one at that.
She had been strangled. She had also been positioned in a sexually suggestive manner. I studied her face with my flashlight from several angles. I could usually recognize mental patients or addicts that I had committed in psychiatric hospitals. I did not recognize her.
As I continued my examination, I noticed an empty five-gallon bucket standing upright about four feet from her body. I shined a light into it and noted a spiderweb replete with what I thought was a brown recluse. Do not disturb!
My protocol or custom in this type of setting is to go through a physical examination of the person. I look for trauma, of course, but other things that may help, too. She had stretch marks on her abdomen, which indicated she had children. This is someone’s momma. I look for bruises, bite marks, weapon marks, and areas to swab for DNA.
I start my mental checklist. Was she strangled from in front or from behind? Does the pattern tell us if her killer was right-handed or left-handed? Did she fight back? Will she have his DNA under her fingernails? Can we get fingerprints off her body? How do we best preserve trace evidence? What was the time of death?
My back hurt from bending over. It was so hot! We were all sweating. So much so that I cautioned everyone not to let their sweat, and therefore their DNA, drop onto her body. I had to take a break. As I stood up to relieve my back, I noted that there were fresh sweat drops all around her. She was practically outlined in sweat—my sweat. I pulled off my gloves and noted my “granny fingers” that had resulted from all the sweat that had accumulated. What would Granny say now if she saw me standing here like this?
When I walked out into the Baton Rouge heat, it actually did feel cool to me. The detective handed me a bo
ttle of water. We stood there talking about how clear the sky was and how nice it would be to be at the beach now. We seemed to be holding a casual conversation while a horror was just a few feet away from us, waiting for us to return. It’s a form of stress decompression. It’s a way to clear your mind a little before going back into the battle. It helps.
Once back inside and next to the body, I produced a thermometer—similar to a cooking thermometer—from my equipment case. It has a digital readout button that sits atop an eight-inch stainless-steel shaft that looks like an elongated ice pick.
I noted the ambient temperature in the room and called it out so that everyone could note it, along with the time it was taken: “Ninety degrees Fahrenheit.” I then drew a small circle on the skin of the victim just over the liver. I initialed it and made a small incision with a scalpel in the circle. The reason for the circle is that I didn’t want anyone to think that she had been stabbed by her killer. I then inserted the thermometer shaft into her liver in order to get a reading of her core body temperature.
I waited for the digital readout to stabilize then called out the temperature and the time: “Core temp is eighty-nine degrees.” As a rule of thumb, a body generally cools at about one degree Fahrenheit per hour. That’s a very rough estimate and an oversimplification. But the core temperature often tells us something about the time of death. One thing is certain, if you don’t get it as soon as possible, you can never go back and get it. Her body was cooler than the room. She had been there at least ten hours, probably longer. We had heated the room up with the lamps by at least one or two degrees according to my calculations.
Coroner's Journal: Forensics and the Art of Stalking Death Page 16
