Detective

Again slowly, Doil obeyed as Ainslie held his gun steady. Then Zagaki moved in and seized Doil's wrists, quickly handcuffing him behind his back. As he did so, a brief flash from behind lit up the scene.

Instinctively, Ainslie swung around, his gun still raised, but a woman's voice called out. "Sorry, Chief. But it's what the papers pay me for."

"Dammit," Ainslie muttered, lowering his gun. He knew the news media monitored police radio and moved fast with a breaking story, but he was still dismayed to see them so soon. He turned to the uniform officers. "One of you cordon off this area with tape about fifty feet around the entire house and keep everyone behind it."

The yellow POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape, which all squad cars carried, was promptly wrapped around anything handy trees, streetlights, fence posts, and the mirrors of two parked police cars creating a visual barrier between detectives and a fast-assembling crowd of spectators and media people.

Zagaki, kneeling beside Elroy Doil, called out, "This guy is covered in blood! So are the knife and gloves."

"Oh no!" Ainslie groaned, knowing instinctively that what he had feared most had happened. Composing himself for the moment, he addressed the increasing number of uniform officers. "Two of you strip this guy down to his underwear; shoes and socks off, too. Keep the clothes off the ground; don't smear any blood, and get everything in plastic bags as soon as possible especially that knife and the gloves. And don't let up; guard his every move. He's violent and dangerous."

The reason for stripping Doil was to preserve the blood on his clothing in its present state. If DNA testing showed it to be a victim's, any case against him could be conclusive. Within the past few minutes Leo Newbold and Dion Jacobo had appeared. The lieutenant asked Ainslie, "Have you been inside?"

"No, sir. Just going."

"We'll come, too, okay?"

"Of course."

Ainslie instructed one of the officers who had been early on the scene, "I want you to come with us. Walk where we do, and stay alert." To Zagaki he added curtly, "You stay right here. Don't move a fucking inch."

Led by Ainslie, the four moved toward the house.

A side door was open probably where Doil had come out. Inside was a dim corridor; Ainslie snapped lights on. They moved forward, the corridor connecting with a paneled hallway and, on the hallway's far side, a wide carpeted and balustraded stairway. Sitting on the bottom step was a small boy about twelve, Ainslie guessed who was staring blankly into space and trembling violently.

Ainslie knelt down and put his arms around the boy, asking gently, "Are you Ivan?" He told the others, "He called nine-one-one." The boy made the slightest movement of his head.

"Can you tell us where. . ."

The boy seemed to shrink into himself, but turned his body, looking up the stairway, then began shaking even more.

The uniform officer said, "Excuse me, Sergeant, he's in shock. I know the signs. We should get him to a hospital."

"Can you carry him out?"

"Sure can."

"Paramedics were called for," Ainslie told him. "They should be outside by now. If they take the boy to Jackson Memorial, go with him and report back where you are. Do not, on any account, leave the boy; we need to talk with him later. Is that clear?"

"All clear, Sergeant." The officer put out his arms and lifted the boy. "Let's go, Ivan." And as they moved away, "It's gonna be okay, son. Just hang on to me."

Ainslie, Newbold, and Jacobo ascended the stairs. As they reached the first landing they spotted an open door directly ahead, the room inside lighted. A few steps inside the room, the trio paused to view the scene they faced.

Dion Jacobo, a veteran who had seen many homicides, made a choking sound, then, with a loud groan, burst out, "Oh my God! Oh my God!"

It was, as Ainslie had feared the moment he saw Doil's bloodstained clothes, a reenactment of the earlier killings this time with an elderly black couple the tragic victims. The only difference was that Doil had obviously acted more hastily and less precisely, probably because he heard the approaching police sirens.

The dead couple were bound, gagged, and facing each other; they had also been brutally beaten around their faces and skulls. One of the woman's arms was twisted and broken; the man's right eye had been pierced by a sharp instrument, leaving the eyeball split. Compared with the earlier killings, the knife slashes on both bodies were more random and deeper. It was as if everything had been done hurriedly, with the killer aware that his time was limited.

Ainslie stood transfixed, fighting to control his deep, despairing anguish, knowing that as long as he lived he would never forget this scene or his own terrible guilt. He must have remained motionless for nearly a minute before being brought back to reality by Leo Newbold's voice. "Malcolm, are you all right?"

With an effort he nodded. "Yes. I am."

"I know what you're thinking," Newbold said softly, "and I'm not going to let you carry this alone. We'll talk about it soon, but for now, would you like to go home and sleep? You're exhausted. Dion can take charge here."

Ainslie shook his head. "I'll see this through, Lieutenant, though I'd like Dion to stay and help. But thanks."

He reached for his portable police radio, beginning the standard procedures.

* * *

It was a few minutes after 1:00 A.M. when Malcolm Ainslie at last reached home, where Karen, whom he had managed to phone a few hours earlier, was waiting up, wearing a pale green cotton robe. When she saw him, she held out her arms and hugged him tightly. After a while she eased back, looking upward, and touched his face.

"It's been bad, hasn't it?"

He nodded slowly. "Pretty much."

"Oh, sweetheart, how much more can you take?"

Ainslie sighed. "Not too many like tonight."

She snuggled closer. "It's so good to have you home. Do you want to talk?"

"Tomorrow, maybe. Not right now."

"Malcolm, dear, go straight to bed. I'll bring you something."

The "something" was hot Ovaltine, a drink from childhood that he liked at night. When he had finished it, and fallen back on his pillow, Karen said, "That should help you sleep."

"And keep the nightmares away?"

Climbing into bed beside him, she held him tightly again. "I'll take care of those."

But while Malcolm slept soundly and deeply, Karen lay awake thinking. How long, she wondered, could they survive this kind of life? Sooner or later Malcolm would have to choose between his home and family and the demons of his work. Like so many other wives, past and present, of Homicide detectives, Karen could not foresee indefinitely a harmony between their marriage and her husband's present career.

* * *

The next day brought an ironic postscript.

A professional photographer with ties to syndicated photo services lived in Bay Heights, a short distance from the Tempone murder scene. It accounted for her immediate presence at the house and the flash photo she had taken while Doil was being subdued.

The dramatic action shot showed Doil facedown and struggling, and Detective Dan Zagaki securing him with handcuffs. Distributed by the Associated Press, the picture appeared in major U.S. newspapers with the caption:

POLICE HERO

Following a dramatic chase, Detective Dan Zagaki of the Miami Police captures and subdues a suspect, Elroy Doil, who is charged with the murders of an elderly black couple and is being questioned about other senal killings. Asked about his work and its dangers, Zagaki replied, "It's risky sometimes. You just do the best you can." He is the son of General Thaddeus Zagaki, Commander, First Army Division, Fort Stewart, Georgia.

13

Elroy Doil was arrested, charged with the first-degree murders of Kingsley and Nellie Tempone, and imprisoned in Dade County Jail. As required by law, a bond hearing was held at the adjoining Metro Justice Building within twenty-our hours of his arrest. Doil was not required to plead; that would come at a preliminary hearing two to three weeks later. Instead, a court-appointed attorney perfunctorily asked for bail, which was just as perfunctorily refused.

Doil showed little interest in the proceedings, refused to speak with his defense attorney, and yawned in the judge's face. However, when he was due to be removed from court and a bailiff grasped his arm, Doil punched the man in the stomach so hard that he doubled up. Instantly two other bailiffs and a prison officer leapt on Doil, pummeled him, shackled him with chains, and removed him from the court. Outside, in the prisoners' holding cell, they hammered him again with their fists until he was gasping and subdued.

While official decisions in the case now rested mainly with state prosecutors, a team of ID technicians and Homicide detectives continued to accumulate evidence. The weapon a bowie knife which Elroy Doil had been holding when apprehended, had blood on the blade and handle that matched the blood of both murder victims. Further, Sandra Sanchez was prepared to testify that that particular knife, identifiable by distinctive notches and serrations, was the actual weapon that killed Kingsley and Nellie Tempone.

According to Sanchez, however, it was not the bowie knife used to kill the Frosts, the Urbinas, or, more recently, the Ernsts. The wound details from the Clearwater and Fort Lauderdale murders had not yet been received in for comparison.

Talking with detectives and the ID crew, the ME added, "That isn't to say Doil didn't do those other murders. Judging by the type of wounds, I think he did. But maybe he bought more than one of those knives, and you'll find others when you search his stuff."

But, to the disappointment of detectives and prosecutors, who had hoped for conclusive solutions to the earlier killings, no knives were found among Doil's skimpy possessions, nor, for that matter, was any other evidence.

Solid evidence in the Tempone case, though, continued to pile up. The blood found on Doil's clothing and shoes matched blood samples from both victims; so did blood on the rubber gloves he had worn obviously to avoid leaving fingerprints. Shoe prints discovered at the crime scene a few with traces of the victims' blood were identical with the sneakers Doil was wearing.

And then, on top of everything, there was the testimony of twelve-year-old Ivan Tempone. Having recovered from his shock, he proved a self-possessed, convincing eyewitness. First to Detective Dion Jacobo, and later to a state attorney, he described how, peering through a barely open door, he had seen Doil torture and kill his grandparents.

"We've simply never had a stronger case," State Attorney Adele Montesino declared when announcing her controversial decision to prosecute Doil for the Tempones' murders only.

* * *

While the prosecution took more than six months to review evidence and prepare for trial, within the Miami Police Department an evaluation moved more quickly. At issue was the bungled surveillance of Elroy Doil that had resulted in the Tempones' needless deaths, though full knowledge of those events was restricted as far as possible to a few high-ranking of ricers. Homicide detectives, in particular, were warned not to discuss the subject with anyone, including their families, and especially not with the media.

For several days following the Tempone killings the Police Department, in effect, held its breath, wondering if some enterprising reporter would dig deeper than the surface news, dramatic though it was. An added concern was that Kingsley and Nellie Tempone were black. Though there was nothing racist about the police blunder the v~ctims could just as easily have been white there were always activists eager to turn any opportunity into a racial confrontation.