Detective

Then, remarkably almost incredibly what had been feared did not happen; the information dam held. The media, including national newspapers and network TV, gave prominence to the grisly crime and concentrated on the fact that an apparent serial killer had finally been caught. Another factor helped. Young Ivan Tempone, who, as one news writer put it, "courageously summoned police at the risk of attracting the murderer's attention and being killed himself," became an instant folk hero. There was neither air time nor column inches for much more.

During it all, quietly and behind the scenes, penalties against the officers involved in what was privately described as "the homicide that shouldn't have" were being debated. Because of potential public-relations damage if the truth should ever emerge, the discussion went as high as the chief of police. Final decisions, though, were left to Major Mark Figueras, commander of the Criminal Investigations Section, which ruled all detective branches.

Figueras made his intentions clear: "I want to know everything, every last little detail, with not the smallest bit of fly-shit left out." The instruction reached Lieutenant Newbold, who conducted separate hour-long, taperecorded interviews with Malcolm Ainslie and Dan Zagaki.

Ainslie, while holding nothing back about Zagaki's actions, still blamed himself for reversing his original judgment about the young detective. He told Newbold, "I made a mistake. The responsibility was mine, and I accept it. No excuses."

Zagaki, on the other hand, tried to talk his way out of any wrongdoing, at one point accusing Ainslie of failing to issue explicit orders a statement that Newbold did not believe, and went on record to that effect.

Newbold delivered his report and tape recordings to Major Manolo Yanes, commander of the Crimes Against Persons Unit, who passed them upward to Major Figueras. A few days later the decisions were quietly announced.

Detective Zagaki would receive a reprimand for "neglect of duty," forfeit sixty hours of pay, and be removed as a detective and returned to uniform. Figueras commented to Yanes, "I'd like to throw the son of a bitch out altogether. Unfortunately, under Civil Service rules, neglect isn't a terminating offense."

Sergeant Ainslie would receive a reprimand for "poor judgment." When informed, Ainslie accepted it as his due, even though it would remain like an albatross on his record through the remainder of his police service.

Lieutenant Newbold, however, had other ideas.

Going to the office of Major Yanes, he requested an immediate interview with Yanes and Figueras.

Yanes looked up from his desk. "You sound pretty formal, Leo."

"This is formal, sir."

"Subject?"

"Sergeant Ainslie."

Yanes regarded Newbold curiously, then picked up a phone and spoke quietly. Replacing the phone, he nodded. "Okay, right now."

The two walked silently down a corridor and were escorted by a secretary into Major Figueras's of lice. The secretary closed the door as she left.

Figueras said sharply, "I'm busy, Lieutenant, so whatever's on your mind, make it short."

"I'm asking you, sir, to reconsider the reprimand of Sergeant Ainslie."

"Has Ainslie asked for this?"

"No, sir. I'm asking. Ainslie doesn't know I'm here."

"A decision has been made. I see no reason to change it. Ainslie was at fault."

"He knows that. He's his own biggest critic."

"Then why the hell are you here?"

"Because Sergeant Ainslie is one of our finest officers, Major. His record is exemplary, his crime solving and his leadership outstanding. You know that, I believe. So does Major Yanes. And. . ." Newbold hesitated.

Figueras snapped, "Get on with it!"

Newbold looked both senior officers in the eye. "Recently Ainslie has had a goddam unfair deal, as just about everybody in the PD knows. I think we owe him something."

There was a momentary silence as Figueras and Yanes looked at each other, understanding exactly what Newbold meant. Then Yanes said quietly, "I support the lieutenant, sir."

Figueras glared at Newbold. "What do you want?"

The lieutenant answered, "A ninety-day reprimand."

Figueras hesitated, then said, "Do it. Now get out!"

Newbold did.

What Ainslie would now receive was a reprimand that would go into his file for ninety days, after which the reprimand and all copies would be destroyed.

* * *

As succeeding weeks and months went by, Elroy Doil and the crimes attributed to him ceased to be at the forefront of either Homicide's concerns or public curiosity. For a while, during his trial, public attention came back when Ainslie, Dr. Sanchez, Ivan Tempone, and others appeared as witnesses, followed by a jury's guilty verdict and the judge's sentence of death. Several months later, there was some cursory interest as Doil's automatic appeal was rejected, followed by the news that Doil himself refused to allow further appeals, and an execution date was set.

Then, once more, Doil was almost forgotten until the night when Sergeant Malcolm Ainslie received a telephone call from Father Ray Oxbridge at Raiford prison.

The message was puzzling. Elroy Doil, who would go to the electric chair in eight more hours, had asked to see Malcolm Ainslie before he died.

PART THREE

1

In the austerely furnished, windowless room to which Elroy Doil had been brought, Malcolm Ainslie's thoughts were pulled back from the past by the pale, emaciated figure facing him. The man wearing leg irons and handcuffs secured to a waist belt and flanked by prison guards seemed so much in contrast to the physically powerful and aggressive Doil of the past that Ainslie found it hard to believe this really was the condemned prisoner he had come to see. But Doil's behavior had quickly left no doubt.

The room was quiet now that the priest, Father Ray Uxbridge, had left under protest, after Doil's insistent demand, "Get that asshole out of here!"

Doil was still kneeling before Ainslie, and the words of the prison officer, Lieutenant Hambrick If you want to hear it at all, better let him do it his way hung in the air.

"Whenever your last confession was," Ainslie told Doil, "doesn't matter now."

Doil nodded, then waited in silence. Ainslie knew why, and reluctantly, hating himself for the charade, recited, "May the Lord be in your heart and on your lips so that you may rightly confess your sins." Doil said immediately, "I killed some people, Father." Ainslie leaned forward. "Which people? How many?"

"There was fourteen."

Instinctively, Ainslie felt a surge of relief. The small but vocal group who had been arguing Doil's innocence would be squelched by the statement he'd just made. Ainslie glanced at Hambrick, who was a witness, remembering, too, that his own concealed tape recorder was running.

Miami Homicide, which conducted investigations into four double serial killings, and collaborated with Clearwater and Fort Lauderdale police concerning two more, would have their judgments confirmed. Then a thought struck Ainslie. "Who was the first you killed?"

"Them Ikeis couple Japs in Tampa."

"Who?'' Ainslie was startled. It was a name he had not heard before.

"Two old farts. I-k-e-i." Incongruously, as Doil spelled out the name, he chuckled.

"You killed them? When?"

"Don't remember . . . Oh, 'bout a month, maybe two, before I done them spies at the trailer place."

"The Esperanzas?"

"Yeah, them."

On hearing Doil admit to fourteen murders, Ainslie had assumed that number included Clarence and Florentina Esperanza, murdered seventeen years ago in West Dade's Happy Haven Trailer Park. As a juvenile, Doil was never charged, though recent evidence had shown him to be guilty as he had just admitted.

And yet, if the Ikeis were included a crime that, so far as Ainslie knew, Miami Homicide had never heard of something was wrong with the numbers.

Ainslie's mind was racing. Would Doil admit to a murder of which he wasn't guilty, especially now, when he was about to die? Inconceivable. So if he had killed the Ikeis and admitted to fourteen murders altogether, that left two victims unaccounted for.

But everyone police, state attorneys, news media, the public were convinced that Doil had committed fourteen murders: the Esperanzas, Frosts, Larsens, Hennenfelds, Urbinas, Ernsts, and Tempones.

If Doil was telling the truth, had some murders been committed by someone else? And if so, which ones?

Inevitably, Ainslie remembered his own instinct, first expressed to Sergeant Brewmaster, that the Ernst murders might not have been the work of the same serial killer they were after. But for the moment he brushed the thought away; this was no time to indulge personal theories. Earlier, his colleagues had all disagreed with him and he had not contested the consensus view. But now, somehow representing everyone, all viewpoints, including his own he had to wring the truth from Doil.

Ainslie glanced at his watch. So little time! Less than a half hour to Doil's execution, and they would take him away ahead of time . . . He steeled himself and his voice to lean hard on Doil, remembering Father Kevin O'Brien's words: Elroy was a pathological liar. He lied when he didn't have to.

Ainslie hadn't wanted to assume the priestly role; now it was time to drop it. "That's a crock of shit about the Ikeis and the Esperanzas," he scoffed. "Why should I believe you? Where's the proof?"

Doil thought briefly. "In the Esperanzas' trailer I musta dropped a gold money clip. Had 'HB' on it. Got it in a robbery, couple months before I knocked off them slants. Missed it when I got away."

"And the people in Tampa. What proof there?"

Doil smiled aberrantly. "There's a cem'tery near where the Ikeis lived. Had ta get rid o' the knife I used, hid it in a grave. Know what was on the marker? Same last name as mine. Saw it, knew I'd remember if I wanted the fuckin' knife back, but I never got it."

"You buried the knife in a grave? Was it deep?"

"NO, not deep."

"Why did you always kill old people?"

"They had it good too long, were fulla sin, Father. I did it for God. Watched 'em first, though. All fat cats."

Ainslie let the answer go. All of it made as much sense, or as little, as most of Doil's tortured mind. But how much of the truth was he telling, even now? Some for sure, but Ainslie disbelieved the knife-in-the-grave story; probably the money clip, too. And there was still the problem about numbers. He became specific.

"Did you kill Mr. and Mrs. Frost at the Royal Colonial Hotel?"

Doil nodded several times.

"You nodded your head. If that meant yes, please say so."

Doil looked at Ainslie sharply. "Gotta tape on, ain't you?"

Annoyed that he had given himself away, Ainslie said, "Yes."

"Don't matter. Yeah, I done them people, too."

At the mention of a tape, Ainslie had glanced toward Lieutenant Hambrick, who shrugged. NOW Ainslie continued.

"I want to ask about other names."

"Okay."

Ainslie went through the list Larsen, Hennenfeld, Urbina. In each case the answer was yes, Doil admitted having killed them.

"Commissioner and Mrs. Ernst."

"No, I never done them. That's what "

Not letting him finish, Ainslie said sharply, "Wait!" He went on, speaking for the consensus viewpoint he was representing, "Elroy, at this time, because of what's soon to happen, you must tell the truth. The Ernsts were killed in the same way as all the others exactly the same way. And you knew about Bay Point, where they lived. You went there when you worked for Suarez Motors; you knew the security system and how to get in. And the day after the murders, you left your job at Suarez and never went back, even to collect your paycheck."