Days, Not Weeks: Fighting to Seal My Daughter’s Record

The Hidden Truth You Don't Expect to Find Out the Hard Way

Most people assume an autopsy is one of the most sacred, private things a person can go through. I did too. But depending on where you live, that assumption may be wrong. Your loved one's autopsy could become a public record, meaning anyone can request a copy. Death doesn't carry the same privacy protections life does. Nobody tells you this upfront. Often, you're left to discover it entirely on your own—sometimes when it's already too late. Nobody should have to figure this out the hard way, the way I did. Here is my story, and how fast everything moved once I knew.

The Call That Changed My Life Forever

My messages to Brittney had been turning green since Saturday, the seventh. I kept sending them anyway. I already had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was wrong. I didn't know how wrong until I received a voicemail from the medical examiner's office that Thursday afternoon while I was at work.

In my head, I thought, "Oh my God, they're calling to tell me that my daughter, Brittney, is dead." Because let's be honest, you don't receive a call from the medical examiner's office unless they're calling to tell you that someone has passed away.

I grabbed my coworker and dear friend in complete panic. I was already getting upset and shaking, and she stood with me. I remember saying, "Oh my God, Brittney is dead. Oh my God, Brittney is dead." I finally got a hold of myself, and I dialed the medical examiner's office. The same woman who had left the message answered the phone. I identified myself as Tiffany Cohn, Brittney Cohn's mom, and explained I was returning her call.

In that moment she stated that they had my daughter, Brittney Cohn, there, that she had passed away on February 7th, 2026, and that an autopsy had been performed. She said they suspected she likely died of an overdose. In that moment I felt immense panic. I let out a scream and fell to the floor crying, desperate that she was wrong, that Brittney was not dead.

As I lay on the floor sobbing, I listened to the investigator with the medical examiner's office tell me that I needed to make arrangements to have Brittney transported to a funeral home of my choice. I could only muster the strength to ask how long I had to get her transferred, and she told me that Brittney needed to be moved as soon as possible. She then asked me for my email address and said she would send me some information. As I got off the phone, I just lay on the floor, crying and screaming. It just didn't seem real.

After I kind of got my wits about me, I realized that the seventh was almost six days prior. It didn't make sense. Why was I just getting a notification now? So I called that number back. I was almost afraid to ask, because my worst fear was that Brittney had been found dead somewhere in Arizona and they had just found her. I needed to figure out what had happened. I contacted the medical examiner's office back, and they told me that Brittney had been brought there on the afternoon of February 7th. They stated that they had to submit a search for next of kin, which is why there was such a significant delay in contacting me.

It just didn't make any sense to me. Brittney was born in Arizona. I was listed on her birth certificate as her mom. I am up to date with the motor vehicle department. I have the traveler's ID where I had to verify my information. The courts had Brittney's address listed as my own. How did they not know how to find me? It's 2026, you can find people in an instant now. It just felt wrong.

My experience was nothing like it is in the movies or what you see on TV. It wasn't how you picture getting a notification like that. Somebody knocking on your door, asking you to sit down, making sure you have support before they gave you the worst news that will change your life forever. Mine instead was a voicemail from the medical examiner's office, standing at my job, collapsing to the ground, screaming and crying, bringing everybody out of their offices to see what was going on. If they were able to track down my phone number, they had what they needed to find my address. Someone should have come in person. Nobody should ever be notified of a death by voicemail.

That single voicemail set off a cascade of unanswered questions and suspicion.

I Thought the Case Number Kept Her Private

Later that same afternoon, I received an email from the investigator at the medical examiner's office. It contained a case number, a link to a website where I could look up her case, and a general pamphlet with phone numbers and information on low-cost cremations.

That case number meant something to me. It felt like proof that Brittney was in the system as a case, a number, not as a person whose details anyone could go looking for. I still believed an autopsy was sacred, guarded, protected. Nowhere in that email did it say her record could be requested by anyone. The case number felt like the thing standing between her and the rest of the world.

I went to the website that same day. Not to check the status. I needed to see her name on a screen. I needed it to be real, because it still wasn't.

I typed in the case number and got an error.

So I emailed the investigator back and told her the number she had given me was wrong, that Brittney wasn't pulling up. She replied with the correct number in the subject line. She never acknowledged the error. The way it was written left me feeling like I was the one who had missed something.

It was a small thing. But it was the second time that afternoon that an office whose entire job is precision had gotten something basic wrong. The first was the voicemail. This was hours later.

What They Don't Tell You: It's Already Public

I was there because Brittney couldn't be. On April 15th, I stood in a Maricopa County courtroom and read a victim impact statement at the sentencing of Terrell Whitehead, the man who trafficked and abused my daughter for nearly two years. He pleaded out to three felonies and received six months.

His defense attorney referenced her death. He had no reason to know that. Neither, officially, did I.

I learned later that the preliminary cause of death had been released six days before that hearing, on April 9th. Nobody told me. It just went up on the public website.

Then I learned something else that hadn't occurred to me to even look for: an advanced search on the medical examiner's public case site. You can search by nothing more than a date, or even just a first name. No case number, no date of birth. And everyone who comes up is listed publicly, by name, with the basic findings attached. That's how I found out my daughter's death was public record, not from the medical examiner's office, but by accident, because someone else noticed it before I did.

Learning I Had Days, Not Weeks

The defense attorney's reference to Brittney's death made it painfully clear that this information could continue to victimize her even in death. Her preliminary cause and manner of death were already public. Her full autopsy report had not been certified yet, and once it was, that would be public too.

Now knowing that her autopsy was public record, I reached out to the family liaison at the medical examiner's office. I sent an email asking, "How do I get Brittney's autopsy sealed from being a public record?" I assumed that it was just a simple email or a form to fill out.

I received a phone call back not long after sending that email. I was informed that I would need a court order, and I would also need to move fast. The medical examiner was getting ready to certify and release Brittney's official autopsy findings. We all know that when something is on the internet, there is no turning back. Unfortunately for me, I learned that on Thursday, April 16th.

Because Brittney was a documented victim in an active criminal case, she was assigned a victim's advocate through the state. I reached out to her explaining the situation, and I was told that I would need to file a petition with the superior court, and fast. The victim's advocate gave me a few phone numbers for some pro bono attorneys who help people who are victims of crimes. I reached out to them right away, but unfortunately, attorneys work at their own pace, especially pro bono attorneys. I didn't have time to wait around for a callback, so I started doing the research.

I had no idea what I was doing, so I literally took to the internet. And once again, those sleepless nights came back into play. I typed up the superior court petitions the best way I could and had them notarized.

I showed up at the superior court in Phoenix two hours before they were closing. It was Friday. I took a number and waited. What they don't tell you when you get a number is that you are not guaranteed to be seen. About ten minutes to closing, a woman came over the loudspeaker and said, "If you are not currently being served at a window, you will need to return the following business day." Panic set in. What if I don't get this filed in time? What if I wait to get to a window and they say my documents are not correct?

So I showed up Monday afternoon, racing from work, getting a number, and realizing there were forty people ahead of me. Panic set in once again. I was lucky this time, though. My number was called. I went up to the window. The clerk was kind and helped me make sure all of my documents were correct. She stamped them, took the filing fee of $386, and said, "You're going to need to hurry. You need to get this over to the judge's secretary to get it on the record."

Of course, the courtroom was on the other side of this massive court complex in downtown Phoenix. I literally ran, and I had to go up to the second floor. When I reached the window, I only had minutes to spare. That was Monday, April 20th. Four days after I learned any of this was possible.

I then sent over a copy of the court-recorded petition to the medical examiner's office. Once the medical examiner's office receives your petition, they will, as a courtesy, put a seal on the record until the judge rules. Of course, this only applies if there's actual movement on your case.

Sealing Her Out Meant Sealing Me Out Too

I thought that was the end of it. That she was protected, and I could finally breathe.

Then the window passed for when her findings should have been released, and I had heard nothing. When I asked, I learned two things.

The first was that they don't proactively notify families when results post. The reasoning I was given was that some families don't want to know.

The second was that because I had filed to seal her record, I had sealed myself out of it too, until the judge ruled. There is a waiting period built in. I understood it to be around sixty days.

That wait isn't special protection for grieving families. It is the ordinary Arizona civil procedure timeline for a petition against any government office, for anything. A permit dispute. A contract disagreement. Nothing in that system treats a mother waiting to learn how her daughter died any differently than a business waiting on paperwork.

The Hearing

Eventually, I received an email saying that an on-camera oral argument was set for a certain date and time. I made sure to clear my schedule at work and have all of my patients rescheduled. About a week later, I received another email stating that they had a scheduling conflict and would need to reschedule it yet again. I had to be flexible, because this wasn't just an ordinary thing. This was the argument to have my daughter's record sealed.

When the hearing finally happened, it wasn't a ruling. It was the judge requesting that the medical examiner's office send him the complete case file, so he could review it privately before deciding anything. I had asked for limited access as next of kin, since I was the one who petitioned the court. I teared up as I asked. The medical examiner's office took the position that the seal applied to everyone, no exceptions. The only people privy to Brittney's record at that point were the medical examiner and the judge.

The judge was very kind. He told me not to worry, that it should move quickly. The oral argument was in June. I didn't get the final ruling until July 22nd. Almost a month.

Due to the holiday, the attorneys were out of the office for the week leading up to it and the days after. Once the attorneys returned, the judge was on vacation, which delayed it further.

The Quiet Clock Running Underneath It All

While all of that was happening, a second deadline was running that I hadn't known to track. The courtesy seal had its own expiration, separate from the court case. If there was no movement by a certain date, it would lapse on its own.

I received an email that it had been extended, for less time than I had hoped, and heard nothing back when I asked about the delay.

So I did something on purpose. I replied to that extension email and copied everyone involved: the medical examiner's attorney, the judge's assistant, and the court reporter. I noted that the extension might need to be longer, since the judge was still reviewing. The next day, I learned the judge had already ruled. It just hadn't been entered into the system yet.

The court isn't going to move faster because a mother is waiting. You either make yourself impossible to ignore, or you wait indefinitely.

Getting the File, and Finding Out It Still Wasn't Whole

Once I had the ruling, I sent it straight to the records custodian myself, along with a written request for Brittney's complete case file. I was told it would take seven to fourteen business days. It came sooner than that. But it wasn't complete.

The photographs weren't included. Those required a second, separate, notarized request, mailed in, and another seven to fourteen business days on top of the first.

Getting the sealing order wasn't the end. It was the beginning of another process, one that nobody walked me through either.

What I Want Another Parent to Take From This

The record becomes public unless you act, and nobody tells you that. There's no warning, no form, no phone call. You have to find this out yourself, usually by accident.

You need a court order. There is no simple call or form to get a death record sealed. It's a civil petition, filed in the county or jurisdiction where the death investigation took place.

Ask about sealing options in the first days, not weeks. By the time most families find out the record is public, there isn't much time left.

Track every deadline yourself, including the ones that run separately. The courtesy hold on my daughter's file had its own expiration date, independent of the court case. The medical examiner's office was upfront about it, but it was still mine to watch. Brittney's case took longer than sixty days to move through the courts, and if that seal had lapsed before the judge ruled, her record would have gone public while I was still waiting.

When something stalls, put it in writing and copy everyone. The day I copied the judge's assistant, the court reporter, and the medical examiner's attorney on one email, I found out the ruling had already happened. It just hadn't been entered yet.

If You're Standing Where I Stood

I'm not telling you this so you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because there is no resource that walks you through any of it. Nobody hands you a checklist when you lose someone you love. You either hire an attorney who already knows the terrain, or you have to learn it on your own, and fast, while you're still in shock. Because the system will not wait for you to catch your breath.

It doesn't matter whether you've lost someone or not. Everybody should know their rights and know what can happen.

I think a lot of people assume that HIPAA, which protects your medical information in life, follows you in death. It doesn't. Deaths are reportable, and in many places the medical examiner's findings are public record by law. But it depends entirely on where you live. Some states restrict access to next of kin. Arizona does not. Find out what the law is where you are, before you ever need to know it.

And know this too. Just because you ask the court to restrict access to your loved one's information does not mean the court will agree with you. Filing is not the same as winning.

Ultimately, when I first fought to seal Brittney's medical record, I felt that I needed to protect her in death because she had been victimized in life. What I didn't realize when I started fighting was that I wasn't actually protecting Brittney. Brittney was gone. I was protecting myself. Because I loved her that much. And if that's why you're fighting too, that's reason enough.

For Brittney. Always.