Detective (37 page)

Karen told her father, "Let Malcolm!"

Heads turned toward him. Gary Moxie
said, "Ball's in your court, Malc."

Raising his head, Malcolm said,
smiling, "A few unrehearsed thoughts
for this historic occasion. . ."

He continued, looking around and
speaking clearly, "At this table,
where we join for food and
fellowship, we reaffirm our belief in
ethics, truth, love, and especially
today the best ideals of family life.
We celebrate this family's unity, its
achievements, good fortune, and for
our youngest clan here their promise,
dreams, and hopes. On this sunny
occasion for George and Jason we
pledge our mutual loyalty, promising
to support each other in difficult
times, however and wherever these
occur. And as well as family, we
welcome those treasured friends who
share our celebration and
affections."

Malcolm concluded, aware of
bilingual Canada, with a robust
"Salut!"

Amid appreciative murmurs, the
toast was echoed. One of the guests
said, "I'm a churchgoer, but I like
that better than a lot of
conventional graces that I've
listened to."

The meal proceeded roast turkey as
its centerpiece

308 Arthur Halley

followed by more toasts and
responses, including a simple but
heartfelt "Thanks a lot!" from
Jason.

The following morning Malcolm,
Karen, and Jason walked together
through the residential lakeside
streets of Scarborough. From high
bluffs they could see clearly across
Lake Ontario, though neighboring New
York State, some ninety miles away,
was beyond their sight. It had
snowed again during the night, and
the trio threw snowballs at each
other. After three tries, Jason
finally found his target: Malcolm's
head. "Wish we had snow in Miami!"
he shouted happily.

He was a sturdy boy,
square-shouldered, with long,
well-shaped legs. His eyes were wide
and brown and often looked serious
and questioning, as if aware that
there was much to discover, though
the means of doing so was at times
unclear. But now and then his face
would light up with a radiant
smile as if to remind the world that
life was sunny after all.

Brushing the powdery snow from
each other, they resumed walking.
These moments were all too few,
Malcolm realized, draping his arms
around his wife and son.

After a while, as Jason skipped
ahead, Karen said, "I guess this is
as good a time as any to break some
news. I'm pregnant."

Malcolm stopped, his eyes wide. "I
thought. . ."

"So did I. It shows sometimes
doctors can be wrong. I've had two
examinations, the second yesterday;
didn't want to tell you sooner and
raise both our hopes. But, Malcolm,
think about it we're going to have
a baby!"

For the past four years they had
wanted another child, but Karen's
gynecologist had told her it was
unlikely to happen.

DETECTIVE 309

Karen went on, "I'd planned to tell
you on the airplane coming here . .
."

Malcolm clapped a hand to his head.
"Now I understand how you felt
yesterday. Darling, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I know you did the right
thing. Anyway, here we are, and now
we know. Are you happy?"

Instead of answering, Malcolm swept
Karen into his arms and kissed her.

"Hey!" Jason said, and laughed.
"Look out!" Then, as they turned, a
snowball hit them, perfectly aimed.

"We gotta do this more often," Gary
Moxie said early on the fourth day
when the family rendezvous was
breaking up with affectionate
farewells. They had risen before
dawn for a quick breakfast, then
departed in several cars, all
heading for the Toronto airport and
early flights.

George Grundy drove Karen, Malcolm,
and Jason. On the way, Jason chatted
happily. He said, "Gramps, I'm sure
glad we have the same birthday."

"Me too, son," the general told
him. "I hope when I'm not around
anymore, you'll celebrate for both
of us. Think you can do that?"

"Oh yes."

"He'll do it," Karen said. "But
you're talking a long way off, Dad.
How about having next year's
birthdays in Miami? We'll invite the
family."

"A done deal!" Her father turned to
Malcolm, who was seated behind. "If
that's okay with you?"

Malcolm looked startled. "Sorry!
What was that?"

Karen sighed. "Hello! Anyone home?"

George Grundy laughed. "Never mind.
Used to be that way myself; I know
the signs. Were you sorting out to-
morrow's problems?"

310 Arthur Halley

"To tell the truth, I was,"
Malcolm acknowledged. He had been
wondering: What was the best way
to deal with the still unanswered
questions arising from the final
dialogue with Elroy Doll? And how
quickly could it be done?

6

As it turned out, Malcolm Ainslie
had no chance whatever to think
about Doil during most of his first
day back at work. Upon reaching his
desk in Homicide, he found the
entire surface covered with files
and paper accumulated during the
four days he was away.

The first priority was a pile of
detectives' overtime slips. Ainslie
pulled them toward him. At the next
desk, Detective Jose Garcia greeted
him with, ''Nice to have you back,
Sergeant," then, seeing the overtime
slips, "Glad to see you're getting
to the important stuff first."

"I know how you guys operate,"
Ainslie said. "Always out to make an
extra buck."

Garcia feigned outrage. "Hey, we
got to make sure our kids get fed."

In truth, overtime pay was
critical to detectives' livelihoods.
Paradoxically, while a promotion to
detective was coveted and went only
to the best and brightest, on the
Miami police force no extra pay
accompanied the advancement.

Until 1978 Miami detectives
received an extra hundred dollars a
month in recognition of their
specialized duties, skills, and
risks. But that year the Fraternal
Order of Police

312 Arthur Halley

union, in which detectives were an
oft-ignored minority, needed a
bargaining chip and gave away the
bonus a sellout, as detectives saw
it, making overtime earnings a
necessity. Now, on average, a
detective working a regular
forty-hour week earned $880, from
which taxes took a hefty bite. An
additional twenty hours' overtime
produced another $660. However,
there was a price: any hours left
for the detective's normal home life
were virtually nil.

Every hour of overtime, though,
was reported in detail, then
certified by a sergeant in charge of
a detective team a time-consuming
chore that Ainslie impatiently com-
pleted.

After that came semiannual
personnel evaluations one was now
due for each detective on his team,
handwritten for a secretary to type.
Then still more paper a review of
detectives' reports on
investigations in progress, includ-
ing new homicides all for
memorizing, signature, and action
where needed.

"Sometimes," Ainslie complained to
Sergeant Pablo Greene, "I feel like
a clerk in a Dickens novel."

Greene replied, "That's because
we're all busting our butts for
Scrooge."

Thus, it was not until late
afternoon of his initial day back
that Ainslie had time for the Doll
matter. Carrying the tape recording,
he headed for Newbold's office.

"What kept you?" Leo Newbold
asked. "On second thought, don't
tell me."

While Ainslie set up a tape
recorder, Newbold told his
secretary, "No calls unless it's
urgent," and closed his office door.
"I've been looking forward to
hearing this."

Ainslie let the tape run from the
beginning when he had switched. it
on in the small, austere office near
the execution chamber. There was a
short silence, then the sound of a
door opening as the young prison
officer, Ham

DETECTIVE 313

brick, returned with Elroy Doll, his
head shaved, along with two prison
guards, the grim procession trailed
by the chaplain, Father Ray
Uxbridge. Ainslie murmured an
explanation of the sounds.

Newbold listened intently to the
exchanges that followed: the
chaplain's oleaginous voice . . .
Doil's blurred tones addressing
Ainslie, "Bless me, Father..." Ux-
bridge shouting, "Blasphemy!" . . .
Doil shouting, "Get that asshole
out. . ."

Newbold shook his head, his face
incredulous. "I can't believe this."

"Wait, there's more."

The recording was quieter as
Ainslie went through the charade of
hearing Doil's "confession."

"I killed some people, Father". . .

"Who was thefirst?"

"Coupla Japs in Tampa"...

Newbold, his attention riveted,
began making notes.

Soon, Doil's affirmation of his
other killings...Esperanzas, Frosts,
Larsens, Hennenfelds, Urbinas, Tem-
pones . . .

"The numbers don't add up," Newbold
said. "You told me so, though I was
hoping . . ."

"That my math was wrong?" Ainslie
smiled faintly, shaking his head.

Next came Doil's frantic plea
concerning the Ernst murders:
"Father, I swear. .. I didn't do it.
. . ain't fuckin' true. . . don't
wanna die bein' blamed for what I
never done . . . "

The outpouring continued, then
abruptly Newbold exclaimed, "Stop
it!" Ainslie pressed the black PAUSE
key. In the glass-paneled office
there was silence.

''Jesus! It's so goddam real."
Newbold rose from his chair, took an
impulsive turn around the room, then
asked,

314 Arthur Halley

"How far away was Doil from being
dead when he said all this?"

"Ten minutes, maybe. Not much more."

"I don't know, I just don't know.
I was sure I wouldn't believe him .
. . But when death is that close .
. ." The lieutenant faced Ainslie
directly. "Do you believe what he
said?"

Ainslie answered carefully. "I've
always had doubts about that one, as
you know, so. . ." He left the
sentence incomplete.

Newbold finished it. "You find it
easier to believe Doil."

Ainslie was silent. There seemed
nothing more to say.

"Let's hear the rest of it," Newbold
said.

Ainslie pressed PLAY.

He heard himself ask Doil, "About
all those killings the fourteen you
admit to. Are you sorry for those?"

"Fuck 'em all!. . . Just forgive
me them others I never done. ''

"He's insane," Newbold said. "Or
was."

"I thought so, too; still do. But
the insane aren't lying every
minute."

"He was a pathological liar,"
Newbold reminded them both.

They stopped, listening again as
Ainslie told Doil, ". . . a priest
could not give you absolution, and
I'm not a priest. "

Then Lieutenant Hambrick,
confronting Ainslie: "You know
enough. . . Do something!''

Newbold's eyes were on Ainslie
during Foucauld's Prayer of
Abandonment, which Ainslie intoned
and Doil repeated. The lieutenant
passed a hand across his face,
seemingly moved, then said softly,
"You're a good man, Malcolm."

DETECTIVE 315

Ainslie switched off the recorder
and rewound the tape. Back at his
desk, Newbold sat silently, clearly
weighing what he had believed
against what he had just heard.
After a while he said, "You were in
charge of the task force, Malcolm,
so to that extent it's still your
case. What do you suggest?"

"We check everything Doil
claimed the money clip, a robbery,
the Ikeis, the knife he talked
about, and a grave. I'll give it to
Ruby Bower she's good at that kind
of thing. At the end we'll know how
much Doil was Iying, or if he was
Iying at all."

"And if, just for once," Newbold
queried, "Doil wasn't Iying?"

"There isn't any choice. We take a
fresh look at the Ernsts."

Newbold looked glum. Few things in
police work equaled the frustration
of reopening a closed murder case
that everyone believed was solved,
especially one so public and
celebrated.

"Do it," Newbold said finally. "Get
Ruby started. We have to know."

"Check out those things in whatever
order you want, Detective," Ainslie
told Ruby Bowel "But at some point
you'll have to go to Tampa."

It was shortly after 7:00 A.M. the
morning following Ainslie's session
with Lieutenant Newbold, and they
were in the Homicide offices, Bowe
in a chair alongside Ainslie's desk.
The previous evening he had given
her a tape deck and a headset,
telling her to take both home and
listen to the State Prison
recording. When he first saw her
this morning she had shaken her head
in dismay. "That was heavy shit. I
didn't sleep much afterward. But I
felt it. Closed my eyes and I was
there."

"So you heard the things Doll
said, the stuff we need to check?"

"I wrote them down." Bowe handed
Ainslie a notepad, which he glanced
at. Typically, she had listed every
point requiring follow-up.

"It's all yours," he told her
finally. "I know you'll get it
right."

Ruby Bowe left, and Ainslie
returned to the accumulated paper
that confronted him though unaware
he would have only a few fleeting
minutes in which to work on it.

DETECTIVE 317

. . .

The 911 call came through to the
Miami Police Communication Center at
7:32 A.M.

A complaint clerk responded.
"Nine-one-one Emergency, may I help
you?" Simultaneously the caller's
phone number and a name, T. DAVANAL,
appeared on an ID box above the
clerk's computer.

A woman's breathless voice: "Send
the police to 2801 Brickell Avenue,
just east of Viscaya. My husband has
been shot."

As the caller spoke, the complaint
clerk typed the information, then
pressed a computer "F" function key,
sending the data to a woman
dispatcher in another section of the
spacious room.