Detective (8 page)

Hambrick and Ainslie stopped
outside a secure control room
enclosed by steel and bulletproof
glass. Inside were two male guards
and a female lieutenant. The
lieutenant approached the two men
standing outside and slid a metal
drawer outward; Ainslie inserted his
Glock 9mm automatic pistol, a
fifteen-round ammunition clip, and
his police ID. The items were drawn
inside the control room, where they
would be placed in a safe until
retrieved. No one had asked him
about the recording device under his
coat, which he had strapped on in
the car. He decided not to volunteer
the information.

"Let's move it," Hambrick said,
but at the same moment a group of
about twenty people emerged from the
hallway behind and blocked their
way. The newcomers were well-dressed
visitors; all appeared intent and
serious as prison guards hustled
them through the corridor. Glancing
at Ainslie, Hambrick mouthed the
word "Witnesses."

Ainslie realized the group was
headed for the execution
chamber "twelve respectable
citizens" as required by law, plus
others whose presence the prison
governor had approved, though there
were always more applicants for
execution viewing than available
seats. The limit was twenty-four.
The witnesses would have been
assembled

DETECTIVE 61

not far away and brought to the
prison by bus. It was a sign that
events were moving on schedule as
7:00 A.M. approached.

Scanning the group of faces,
Ainslie recognized a woman state
senator and two men who were members
of the state House of
Representatives. Politicians were
competitive about attending
executions, hoping their presence at
such weighty law-and-order scenes
would garner votes. Then he was
startled to see one face: Miami City
Commissioner Cynthia Ernst, who had
once been important in his life, but
he realized why she would want to
watch Animal Doil's execution.

For a moment their eyes met, and
Ainslie felt a sharp intake of
breath, the effect she invariably
had on him. He sensed, too, that she
was aware of his presence, though
made no acknowledgment and, as she
moved by, her expression remained
cool.

Moments later the witnesses were
gone and Lieutenant Hambrick and
Ainslie moved on.

"The superintendent is letting you
use his Death Facility of lice to
talk with Doil," Hambrick said.
"We'll bring him to you there. He's
already been through preparation."
The lieutenant glanced at his watch.
"You'll have about half an hour, not
much more. By the way, have you ever
watched an execution?"

"Yes, once." It had been three
years ago. At the request of a
bereaved family, Ainslie had
accompanied a young husband and wife
who chose to witness the death of a
habitual criminal who had raped,
then killed their eightyear-old
daughter. Ainslie, who had solved
the case, had gone as a duty, but
had found the experience unsettling.

"You're going to see another,"
Hambrick said. "Doil asked for you
to be a witness, and it's been
approved."

62 Arthur Halley

"No one asked me,'' Ainslie
rejoined. "But I suppose that's not
relevant."

Hambrick shrugged, then said,
"I've talked to Doil. He seems to
have some special feeling about you.
I'm not sure admiration is right;
respect maybe. Did you get close to
him in some way?"

"Never!" Ainslie was emphatic. "I
arrested the son of a bitch for
murder, and that's all. Besides, he
hates me. At his trial he attacked
me, called me 'perjurer,' 'crooked
cop,' stuff like that."

"Nuts like Doil change moods like
you and I shift gears. He doesn't
feel that way now."

"Makes no difference. I'm only
here to get some answers before he
dies. Apart from that, my feelings
for the guy are zero."

They continued walking while
Hambrick digested what had been
said. Then he asked, "Is it true you
were once a priest?"

"Yes. Did Doil tell you?"

Hambrick nodded. "As far as he's
concerned, you still are. I was
there last night when he asked for
you to come. He was spouting
something from the Bible; about ven-
geance and repaying."

Ainslie nodded. "Yeah, it's from
Romans: 'Give place unto wrath; for
it is written, Vengeance is mine; I
will repay, saith the Lord.' "

"That's it. Then Doil called you
'God's avenging angel,' and the
message I got was that you meant
more to him than a priest. Did the
Father tell you all that when he
phoned?"

Ainslie shook his head; already
depressed by these surroundings, he
wished he were at home, having
breakfast with Karen and Jason.
Well, at least what he had just
learned explained Ray Uxbridge's
antagonism on the

DETECTIVE 63

phone and the priest's tirade about
a "blasphemous charade."

They had reached the Death
Facility, or "Death House," as it
was usually called. It occupied all
three floors of a cellblock building
and contained Death Row, where
condemned prisoners lived while
exercising their appeal rights and
later awaited their turn for
execution. Ainslie knew of the other
areas an ultra-Spartan "ready cell"
where a prisoner spent the final
sixty-five hours of life
continuously under observation; a
preparation room, its centerpiece a
decrepit barber chair where a con-
demned's head and right leg were
shaved before execution in order to
provide good electrical contacts;
and finally the execution chamber
containing the electric chair "01'
Sparky," as prisoners called
it where there were seats for
witnesses and, shielded from view,
the executioner's booth.

Within the execution chamber,
Ainslie knew, preparations would
have been going on for the past
several hours. The chief electrician
would have been first on the scene,
to connect the electric chair with
the power source and to check
voltages, a fail-safe bar, and the
ultimate control with which the
black-robed, hooded executioner sent
two thousand volts into a condemned
prisoner's skull in automatic
eight-cycle bursts. The massive
electric charge brought death within
two minutes, though unconsciousness
was supposedly instant and painless.
There were doubts about the
painlessness, but they were
unresolvable because no one ever
survived to report on the
experience.

Also inside the execution chamber,
within sight of the electric chair,
was a red telephone. Immediately
before an execution, the prison
warden spoke with the state governor
on that phone, seeking final
permission to proceed. Similarly,
the governor could call the warden,
even seconds

64 Arthur Halley

before the death control was thrown,
ordering a stay of execution,
perhaps on the basis of last-minute
evidence, a ruling from the U.S.
Supreme Court, or some other
judicial cause. It had happened, and
could even happen today.

Though unwritten and unofficial,
there was a rule that every
execution was delayed by one
minute a precaution in case the red
phone rang a few seconds late. Thus
Doil's execution, though scheduled
for 7:00 A.M., would not take place
until 7:01.

"This is it," Hambrick announced.
They had come to a sturdy wooden
door that he opened with a key.
Then, inside, he turned a switch,
illuminating a windowless, boxlike
room about twenty-four-feet square.
It was furnished with a plain wooden
desk and tilt-back chair, a heavy
metal chair bolted to the floor in
front of the desk, and a small table
to one side. Nothing else.

"The super doesn't use this much,"
Hambrick said. "Only when we have
executions." He motioned to the
chair behind the desk. "That's where
you sit, Sergeant. I'll be back
soon."

During the lieutenant's absence,
Ainslie switched on the recorder
concealed beneath his clothing.

In less than five minutes Hambrick
was back, accompanied by two prison
guards who were leading and par-
tially supporting a figure whom
Ainslie recognized. Doil was wearing
leg irons and handcuffs, the latter
secured to a tightly strapped waist
belt. Behind the trio was Father Ray
Uxbridge.

It was more than a year since
Ainslie had seen Elroy Doil; the
last occasion had been at the
sentencing following his trial. In
the meantime, the change had been
dramatic. At his trial and
sentencing he had been physically
robust, tall and powerful, with
matching aggressiveness; now he
seemed pitifully the reverse. He was
stooped,

DETECTIVE 65

with sagging shoulders, his body
thin, his face wan and gaunt. In
place of aggression, his eyes showed
nervous uncertainty. His head had
been shaved for the execution, and
the unnatural pink baldness added to
his desolate appearance. At the last
minute, conductive gel would be ap-
plied to his scalp, ready for the
electric chair's metal death cap.

Father Uxbridge stepped forward; he
was in clerical garb, a breviary in
hand. A large, broad-shouldered man
with patrician features, he
projected a presence that Ainslie
remembered from previous encounters.
Ignoring Ainslie, he addressed Doil.

"Mr. Doil, I am willing to stay
with you to provide God's comfort
for as long as these circumstances
allow, and I remind you again that
you are not required to make any
statement or answer questions."

"Just a moment," Ainslie said,
springing up from the desk chair and
moving closer to the others. "Doil,
I've driven eight hours from Miami
because you asked to see me. Father
Uxbridge told me you had something
to say."

Glancing down, Ainslie saw that
Doil's hands were clenched tightly
together, and that his wrists were
raw where the handcuffs had chafed.
He glanced at Hambrick and gestured.
"Can you take those off while we're
talking?"

The lieutenant shook his head.
"Sorry, Sergeant, can't do it. Doil
has beat up three of our people since
he's been here. One had to be
hospitalized."

Ainslie nodded. "Scratch that idea."

As Ainslie spoke, Doil lifted his
head. Perhaps it had been the
preceding humane thought about the
handcuffs, or perhaps Ainslie's
voice, but for whatever reason, Doil
fell to his knees and would have
tumbled face forward if the guards
had not supported him. As it was, he
brought

66 Arthur Halley

his face close to one of Ainslie's
hands and attempted, unsuccessfully,
to kiss it.

His voice blurred, he mumbled,
"Bless me, Father, for I have
sinned. . ."

Father Uxbridge leapt forward, his
face flushed with anger. "No, no,
no!" he shouted to Ainslie. "This is
blasphemy!" Turning toward Doil, he
insisted, "This man is not "

"Shut up!" Ainslie snapped. Then,
to Doil, more quietly, "I am not a
priest anymore. You know that. But
if you want to confess anything to
me, I will listen as a human being."

Uxbridge shouted again, "You can't
take a confession. You have no
right!"

Doil began speaking to Ainslie.
"Father, it has been . . ."

Uxbridge shouted, "I have told you
he is not a Father!"

Doil mumbled, and Ainslie caught
the words, "He is God's avenging
angel . . ."

"This is desecration!" Uxbridge
roared. "I will not allow it!"

Suddenly Doil turned his head. He
snarled at Uxbridge, "Fuck off!"
Then, facing the others, he cried,
"Get that asshole out of here!"

Hambrick advised Uxbridge, "I'm
afraid you'll have to go, Father. If
he doesn't want you here, that's his
privilege."

"I will not go!"

Hambrick's voice sharpened.
"Please, Father. I don't want to
have to remove you by force."

At a signal from the lieutenant,
one of the guards left Doil and
seized Uxbridge's arm.

The priest jerked his arm away.
"Do not dare! I am ? priest, a man
of God!" As the guard stood
hesitantly, Ux

DETECTIVE 67

bridge faced Hambrick. "You will
hear more of this. I shall
personally bring your behavior to
the attention of the governor." He
snapped at Ainslie, "The church was
well rid of you." Then, with a
final, all-encompassing glare,
Uxbridge left.

Elroy Doil, who was still on his
knees before Ainslie, began again,
"Bless me, Father, for I have
sinned. My last confession was . . .
I don't fuckin' remember."

In other circumstances Ainslie
might have smiled, but he was torn.
His conscience troubled him. He
wanted to hear what Doil had to say,
but not as an impostor.

It was Hambrick who, glancing at
his watch, added words of common
sense. "If you want to hear it at
all, better let him do it his way."

Ainslie still hesitated, wishing
this moment could have happened in
some other way.

But he wanted to know to have
answers and insights to so many
events that had begun so long ago.

It was two years earlier, in Miami's
Coconut Grove a fresh January
morning, shortly after 7:00 A.M.

PART
TWO

~i' i 2.
~<6

Orlando Cobo, a
middle-aged security
guard at Coconut
Grove's Royal
Colonial Hotel, was
tired. He was ready
to go home when he
entered the eighth
floor a few minutes
before 7:00 A.M. on
routine patrol. It
had been an un-
eventful night, with
only three minor
incidents during his
eight-hour shift.

Security problems
relating to youth,
sex, or drugs rarely
occurred at the
"Royal Colostomy,"
as it was sometimes
called. The
clientele comprised
mainly middle-aged,
staid, well-to-do
people who liked the
hotel's
old-fashioned quiet
lobby, its indoor
profusion of
tropical plants, and
an architectural
style once described
as "brick wedding
cake."