Morgue

 

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To Dominick J. Di Maio, MD, and Violet Di Maio

My father and mother

 

Death is not an individual but a social event. When, with a barely noticeable sigh, the last gasp of air is exhaled, the blood stops pulsating through arteries and veins, and neurons cease activating the brain, the life of a human organism has ended. Death is not official, however, until the community takes notice.

—STEFAN TIMMERMANS

Postmortem: How Medical Examiners Explain Suspicious Deaths

Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.

—ERNEST HEMINGWAY

 

‹ FOREWORD ›

It's All About the Puzzle

By Dr. Jan Garavaglia

People are fascinated by forensic pathology. Yes, some are primarily interested in the forensic details, but it is the stories of how and why the dead people ended up in the morgue that intrigue most.

TV shows, movies, and novels with fictional portrayals of forensic pathologists are phenomenally popular, not because they are accurate about the art and science of forensic pathology, but because they piece together a puzzle. But every day, real-life forensic pathologists pull back the curtain to shine the light of truth on what really happened, and explore the true, hidden dramas of the human condition, too.

Many think the forensic pathologist's time is spent on murder and crime, but in fact murders take up less than 20 percent of a medical examiner's caseload. We care just as much about the mystery of a decomposing unidentified corpse found in a pond as we do about why an infant died suddenly in his mother's arms. Our autopsies and scene investigations might have public health or safety implications, such as identifying an emerging epidemic of drugs or disease. We might determine a woman died prematurely from a genetic abnormality, which could have profound implications for future generations of a family. We scientifically identify the burned, injured, and decomposed beyond recognition, if for no other reason than giving dignity to the dead.

Then comes murder. We determine whether a death was caused by the actions of another human, which has huge implications if you are a suspect. Even when the cause of death is obvious, the body is meticulously examined for trace evidence, subtle injuries, angles and trajectory of wounds, even natural disease … anything that might shed light on what happened.

Alas, in spite of the crucial need for more forensic pathologists, it remains the medical specialty with the fewest new doctors. That's partly the perceived negatives of the job. On a daily basis, we deal with gruesome injuries, decomposing flesh, hideous smells, horrific violence, feces and gastric contents that must be meticulously examined (or at least handled). Then we must confront grieving families and (occasionally) obnoxious lawyers.

Despite these unpleasantries, those of us in the field consider it a calling. We love the challenge of piecing together the puzzles to find the truth. We can't imagine doing anything else.

That describes Dr. Vincent Di Maio, my mentor and friend. I worked under him for ten years in San Antonio and never tired of his keen insight, his wealth of knowledge, and his seemingly limitless collection of great stories. Now in this fascinating and well-written book, readers and forensic buffs, too, are privileged to hear one of the most respected forensic pathologists in America share some of his most intriguing and provocative forensic cases of a long career.

And you will see that it isn't just about the forensics. It's about the puzzles, too.

—Dr. Jan Garavaglia

Dr. Jan Garavaglia—better known as Discovery Channel's “Dr. G”—is the chief medical examiner for Orlando, Florida, and its surrounding counties. A graduate of the St. Louis University School of Medicine, she completed her fellowship in forensic pathology at the Dade County Medical Examiner's Office in Miami, and later worked for Dr. Vincent Di Maio at the Bexar County Medical Examiner's Office in San Antonio, Texas.

Her hit cable TV show,
Dr. G: Medical Examiner,
is broadcast around the world and has made her one of the most recognizable faces of forensic medicine. She has appeared on
CNN,
The Oprah Winfrey Show, The Rachael Ray Show, The Doctors
, and the
Dr. Oz Show
. She has also testified in some highly charged criminal cases, such as the Casey Anthony murder trial in 2011, and written a book,
How Not to Die
(2008, Crown).

 

‹ ONE ›

A Death In Black and White

I don't know what's in a human heart.

I have seen more than my share of hearts, held them in my hands. Some were young and strong; some were worn-out, shabby, choked. Many had leaked away an entire life through neat little holes caused by bullets or knives. Some had been stopped by poison or fright. A few had exploded into a thousand tiny bits or were shredded in some grotesque trauma. All of them were dead.

But I never truly knew what was inside these hearts, and never will. By the time I see them, whatever dreams, hopes, fears, ghosts or gods, shame, regrets, anger, and love they might have contained are long gone. The life—the soul—has all seeped out.

What's left is just evidence. That's where I usually come in.

SANFORD, FLORIDA. SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 26, 2012.

Tracy Martin dialed his teenage son's cell number and it went straight to voice mail.

It was late, well past ten, on a dark, wet Sunday night. Tracy and his girlfriend Brandy Green had been out most of the weekend, leaving seventeen-year-old Trayvon and Brandy's fourteen-year-old son Chad alone at her townhouse in the Retreat at Twin Lakes, a gated neighborhood in the relatively sedate Orlando suburb of Sanford, Florida. Tracy and Brandy had been dating for two years, and it wasn't unusual for Tracy and Trayvon to drive up from Miami, four hours each way, for an overnight or a weekend.

It wasn't just the romance. Tracy desperately wanted Trayvon to wise up, to get away from thug life in Miami, and those long trips were his chance to talk some sense into the kid.

Trayvon didn't seem to be listening. In some ways, he was a typical teenager, obsessed with girls, video games, sports, and the pounding of rap music in his earbuds. He loved Chuck E. Cheese and watching TV sitcoms. Someday, he thought he'd like to fly or fix airplanes. Family was important, too, even though some of their relatives were black sheep. He often hand-fed his quadriplegic uncle, baked cookies with his young cousins, and had begun wearing a button memorializing another cousin who'd died mysteriously after a drug arrest in 2008.

But Trayvon was no Boy Scout. At nearly six feet tall, he could be intimidating, and he knew it. He flirted with thug life, smoking pot and playing a badass on Facebook. In the past year, his Miami high school had suspended him three times, for tardiness, tagging, and having a bag of pot in his backpack. Tracy, a truck driver who'd been divorced from Trayvon's mother since 1999, began to hector the boy about his friends, his behavior, and his grades.

He dialed Trayvon's number again, and again it went straight to voice mail. Brandy's son Chad told them Trayvon had left around six p.m. to walk to a convenience store less than a mile away. They thought they might catch the NBA All-Star game on TV at seven thirty. Before he left, he'd asked Chad if there was anything he wanted. “Skittles,” Chad said as he went back to his video games. Trayvon tugged on his hoodie and left. He never came back.

Maybe the kid had gone to the movies with a cousin nearby, the father thought, or maybe got sidetracked by a girl along the way. He did stuff like that.

Tracy called the cousin, but got no answer, so he shrugged it off and went to bed. Trayvon was still finding his way and got easily distracted. He was always testing his limits, and sometimes he went too far. He'd just turned seventeen, for god's sake. He'd turn up.

The next morning, Tracy got up early and dialed Trayvon's number again. The phone was still switched off, still dumping him directly into voice mail. He called the cousin over and over again until he finally answered—but he hadn't seen Trayvon at all.

Tracy started to worry. Around eight thirty, he called the sheriff's dispatcher to report his son missing. He described Trayvon: seventeen, wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt, light red tennis shoes, and probably slacks. He told her that he and Trayvon were from Miami but staying at his girlfriend's house in Sanford. In a few minutes, another dispatcher called him back with more specific questions, and she told him that police officers were on the way to the townhouse. He felt some relief that he'd soon have some help finding Trayvon.

Three police cars pulled up outside. A somber detective introduced himself and asked Tracy for a recent picture of his son. Tracy flipped through the camera roll on his phone and found one.

The detective gritted his teeth. He told Tracy he had a photo to show him and he wanted to know if it was Trayvon. From a manila envelope, he pulled a full-color image of a young black man. He was dead.

It was Trayvon.

At that moment, Tracy's boy was lying in a tray in the morgue, ashen and cold, shot once in the chest.

That instant blurred for Tracy Martin. And his sudden shock would soon evolve into a long, painful moment of profound anxiety across America.

*   *   *

The rain fell sullen and persistent as Trayvon left the townhouse. It was one of those ambivalent February nights in Florida, not quite cold and not quite warm, hovering in the mid-fifties. He pulled up his hood and walked through the Retreat, past the front gate, to the 7-Eleven convenience store on Rinehart Road, almost a mile away.

Inside the store, Martin grabbed a tall can of AriZona Watermelon Fruit Juice Cocktail from the cooler and a small package of Skittles from some shelves near the cash register. He fumbled in the pockets of his tan slacks and put a couple of bucks and some coins on the counter to pay for the snacks, then left. A store surveillance camera watched him leave at 6:24 p.m.