Detective (61 page)

The shock at having the news she
had dreaded so suddenly confirmed
was too much. Barely aware of her
words, Cynthia shot back, "Please,
there is nothing I want to hear."
Then, remembering Doil was
supposedly guilty of her parents'
deaths, ''I came to watch him
suffer. I hope he did."

"He did." Ainslie's voice was still
quiet.

She groped for some authority.
"Then I'm satisfied, Sergeant."

"I hear you, Commissioner." His
tone was noncommittal.

They moved outside the witness
enclosure, and it was

DETECTIVE 513

then that Patrick made a clumsy
effort to introduce himself, which
Ainslie acknowledged coolly, clearly
knowing who Patrick was and implying
that he did not care to know him
better.

The exchange ended when Ainslie's
prison of ficer escort appeared and
showed him out.

On the bus conveying the witnesses
back to Starke, Cynthia sat beside
Patrick but did not speak. She found
herself wishing she had not
interrupted when Malcolm began, I
spoke to Doll about your parents. He
claimed . . .

What was it Doil had claimed? Most
probably his innocence. And if so,
did Ainslie believe him? Would he
probe still more?

A new and sudden thought occurred
to her. When, long ago, she used her
superior rank to abort Malcolm
Ainslie's promotion to lieutenant,
had she made the gravest error of
her life? The irony was glaring: If
she had not done so, Ainslie would
probably not be a Homicide detective
now.

The procedure following promotion
from sergeant to lieutenant was
automatic the person promoted was
moved to some other department in
the force. If it had occurred that
way, Ainslie would have been busy
elsewhere and not involved with the
serial murders. Therefore others in
Homicide lacking his specialized
knowledge were unlikely to have
perceived the link between the kill-
ings and the Book of Revelation, and
thus so many other things would not
have happened as they had. Even more
specifically, Ainslie would not be
prolonging the investigation of the
Ernst murders as he might be doing
now.

Involuntarily, Cynthia shuddered.
Was it possible that Malcolm
Ainslie who had remained in Homicide
because of what now seemed her
long-ago misjudgment would, at some
unknown time ahead, become her
nemesis?

Whether that was possible, or even
likely, she wasn't

514 Arthur Halley

sure. But because it just might
happen, and for what he had done
to her and hadn't . . . and for
everything he was and represented
. . . and for so much else logical
or not she knew now that she
hated, hated, hated him!

PART FIVE

Since Malcolm
Ainslie's decision
to summon an ID crew
to the small
temporary room in
Police Headquarters,
momentous
discoveries had
transpired. It was,
as a state attorney
would describe it
later, "like honest
daylight lighting up
black evil."

The objects in the
box unsealed by Ruby
Bowe appeared to
show convincingly
that six and a half
years earlier Pat-
rick Jensen had
killed his ex-wife,
Naomi, and her
friend Kilburn
Holmes. It was a
crime for which
Jensen had been a
strong suspect,
though detectives
were unable to prove
his guilt.

It was also
apparent from the
box that Cynthia
Ernst, who at that
time was a Homicide
detective, had
conspired to conceal
the evidence of
Jensen's crime.
Ainslie, though
stunned and
depressed by what he
saw, brushed aside
his personal
feelings and waited
impatiently for ID
assistance to
arrive.

The ID chief, Julio
Verona, who
responded personally
to Ainslie's call,
made a fast
inspection of the
box and contents,
then declared, "We
won't touch any of
this here.
Everything must go
to our labs."

Lieutenant Newbold,
who had also been
called and

518 Arthur Halley

briefed by Ainslie, told Verona,
"Okay, but do everything as fast as
you can, and tell your people this
is ultra-secret; there must be no
leaks."

"No leaks. I guarantee it."

Two days later, at 9:00 A.M. on a
Thursday, Verona returned to the
same small room with the box of
evidence and his report. Ainslie was
waiting for him along with Newbold,
Howe, and Assistant State Attorney
Curzon Knowles, chief of the state
attorney's Homicide division.

Newbold had offered to move the
proceedings to Knowles's of lice in
another building, several miles
away state attorneys were notorious
for insisting that the police come
to them, rather than the other way
around but Knowles, a former New
York cop himself, always liked
coming to what he called "the heat."
Thus the five were standing in the
small, crowded space.

"I'll report on the plastic bags
first," Verona told the others. "All
of them bear fingerprints matching
Cynthia Ernst's." As they all knew,
police officers had their prints
recorded, and they were not removed
from the files when someone left the
force.

The ID chief continued, "Then
there's the handwriting on the
labels. We have a couple of
handwritten memos in our files from
when Commissioner Ernst was a major,
and our handwriting expert says it's
a perfect match." He shook his head.
''To be so careless . . . she must
have been crazy."

"She never intended any of this to
be found," Knowles said.

"Keep going," Newbold told Verona.
"There was a gun.''

"Yes, a Smith & Wesson .38."

One by one, the ID supervisor
listed the checked items and
results:

DETECTIVE 519

The revolver bore the fingerprints
of Patrick Jensen. Several years
previously his house had been broken
into, and he had let himself be
fingerprinted to compare his prints
with others left by the thief.
Routinely, Jensen had received his
fingerprint card back, but what he
and other non-suspects were not told
was that copies often were retained
on file.

The gun, sent to the firearms lab,
was loaded and fired into a tank of
water. Immediately after, the bullet
was placed in a double microscope
along with one of the two original
bullets removed from the dead
victims. The distinctive markings on
both bullets, put there by the
rifling of the gun barrel, were
identical. The same was true of the
second crime-scene bullet. "There's
no doubt whatever,'' Verona
declared, pointing to the box. "This
is the gun that was used to kill
both those people."

Bloodstains on a T-shirt and
sneakers found in the box showed the
presence of both Naomi Jensen's and
Kilburn Holmes's DNA.

"Then here's the clincher," Verona
announced, producing an audiotape
cassette. "This is a copy; the
original is resealed and back in the
box. Apparently it's a statement by
Jensen of how he did the killing.
But there are gaps. It looks as if
someone else's voice was originally
on the tape, but has been wiped
out.''

He produced a portable
player-recorder, inserted the tape,
and pressed PLAY. As the tape ran,
there were several seconds of
silence, then sounds like objects
being moved, followed by a faltering
male voice, at moments choking with
emotion, though the words were
clear.

"I didn't plan it, didn't intend .
. . but always hated the thought of
Naomi with someone else. . . When I
saw those two together, her and that
creep, I was blinded, angry. . . I'd
been carrying a gun. I pulled it
out, without even think

520 Arthur Halley

ing, fired . . . Suddenly it was
over. . . Then I saw what I'd done.
Oh God, I'd killed them both!"

A silence followed. "Here's where
someone wiped the tape," Verona
said. Then, again, the same voice
from the player.

". . . Kilburn Holmes. . . He'd
been seeing Naomi, was with her all
the time. . . People told me.''

Verona stopped the tape. "I'll
leave you to listen to the rest.
It's bits and pieces, obviously
answers to questions that were
erased, and all the same voice. Of
course, I can't say for sure it's
Jensen speaking; I've never met him.
But we can run a voice test later."

"Make your test," Ainslie said.
"But I can tell you right now, that
was Jensen." He was remembering
their encounter at Elroy Doil's
execution.

When Julio Verona had left, there
was a silence, which Leo Newbold
broke. "So, anyone have any doubts?"

One by one the others shook their
heads, their expressions somber.

The lieutenant's voice was
distressed. "Why? In God's name, why
would Cynthia do it?"

Ainslie, his expression anguished,
raised his hands helplessly.

"I could make some guesses,"
Curzon Knowles said. "But we'll know
better when we've talked with
Jensen. You'd better bring him in."

"How do you want us to handle
that, counselor?" Ainslie asked.

Knowles considered, then said,
"Arrest him." He gestured to the box
that Verona had left. "All the
evidence we need to convict is here.
I'll prepare an affidavit; one of
you can take it quietly to a judge."

DETECTIVE 521

"It was Charlie Thurston's case,"
Newbold pointed out. "He should make
the arrest.''

"All right," Knowles agreed. "But
let's have as few people involved as
possible, and warn Thurston not to
talk to anyone. For now, we must
continue keeping a lid on this,
screwed down tight."

Newbold asked, "So what do we do
about Cynthia?"

"Nothing yet; that's why we need a
tight lid. First I have to talk to
Montesino. Before we arrest a city
commissioner, she'll probably want
to go before a grand jury, so Ernst
mustn't even hear a whisper."

"We'll do our best," Newbold
acknowledged. "But this stuff is red
hot. If we don't move fast, word
will fly.''

By early afternoon, Detective
Charlie Thurston had been called in
and given the arrest warrant for
Patrick Jensen. Ruby Bowe would
accompany him as backup. Newbold
told the balding veteran, Thurston,
"We don't want anyone else knowing
about this. No one!"

"Fine by me,'' Thurston
acknowledged, then added, "For a
long time I've wanted to collar that
prick Jensen."

From Police Headquarters it was
only a short distance to Jensen's
apartment. Ruby, at the wheel of an
unmarked car, said to Thurston on
the way, "You got a problem with
Jensen, Charlie? You sounded pretty
intense back there."

Thurston grimaced. "I guess bad
memories got to me. When the case
was running, I saw a lot of him, and
from the beginning we were positive
Jensen killed those two people. But
he was arrogant as hell, all the
time acting as if he knew we'd never
nail him. One day I went to ask a
few more questions and he laughed,
told me to beat it."

"Do you think he'll be violent?"

"Unfortunately, no." Thurston
chuckled. "So we'll

522 Arthur Halley

have to take him in unmarked.
Looks like we're here."

As Ruby stopped the car a few
yards from a six-story brick
building on Brickell Avenue,
Thurston surveyed it. "Guy's come
down in the world a bit; had a fancy
house when I last knew him." He
checked the warrant. "Says here
apartment 308. Let's do it."

Moments later, at a push-button
panel by the main glass doorway, the
third-floor number was confirmed,
though neither detective had any
intention of alerting Jensen from
below. "Someone'll come soon,"
Thurston said.

Almost at once a slight, elderly
woman wearing a tam, tweeds, and
high boots appeared in the hallway
inside with a small dog on a leash.
As she released the door, Thurston
held it open and showed his
identification badge. "We're police
officers, ma'am, on official
business."

As Ruby produced her badge, the
woman peered at both. "Oh dear, and
just as I'm leaving! Is this going
to be exciting, Officers?"

Thurston responded, " 'Fraid not.
We're just delivering a parking
ticket."

The woman shook her head, smiling.
"I read your badges. Detectives
don't do that." She tugged at the
dog's leash. "Come, Felix; it's
plain we're not wanted here."

Thurston rapped twice on the door of
apartment 308. They heard movement
inside, then a voice. "Who is it?"

"Police officers. Open up, please!"

In the door a small circle of
light appeared as a peephole was
used, followed a moment later by the
sound of a latch, and the door
opened. As it did, Thurston pushed
it wide open and strode in. Patrick
Jensen, wearing an open sport shirt
and slacks, stepped two paces back.
Ruby, entering behind Thurston,
closed the door.

DETECTIVE 523

Thurston, arrest warrant in hand,
spoke crisply. "Patrick Jensen, I
have a warrant for your arrest on a
charge of murdering Naomi Mary
Jensen and Kilburn Owen Holmes . . .
I caution you that you have the
right to remain silent. You need not
talk or answer questions... You have
the right to an attorney..." As the
Miranda words rolled on, Thurston
watched the other man's face, which
seemed strangely unperturbed. It was
almost, the detective thought, as if
this moment had been expected.

At the end, Jensen said quietly,
"May I phone him from here?"

"Yes, but I have to check you for a
weapon first." While Jensen held up
his hands, Thurston patted him down,
then announced, "Okay, sir, you can
go ahead and use the phone. One
call."

Jensen went to it and tapped out
what was plainly a familiar number.
After a moment he said, "Stephen
Cruz, please." A pause, then,
"Stephen, it's Patrick. Remember I
said a day might come when I'd need
your help? That day is here. I've
been arrested." Another pause, then,
"Murder."