“The Church did nothing? Between 1633 and almost now?”
“Three and a half centuries. Rome doesn’t hurry its own confessions.”
Jorge laughed. “But if I use a condom on Friday, I’d better confess on Saturday. Or else!”
Ainslie smiled. “I know; it’s a crazy world. Getting back to your question—I didn’t like any kind of killing when I was a priest, and still don’t. But I believe in the law, so while capital punishment is part of the law, I’ll go along.”
Even as he spoke, Ainslie was reminded of the few dissidents—labeled by prosecutors as a lunatic fringe—who argued that Elroy Doil, because of his adamant denials, had not been proven guilty. Ainslie disagreed. He was convinced guilt had been proven, but wondered again about Doil’s proposed confession.
“Will you stay to see Animal executed?” Jorge asked.
“I hope not. We’ll see what happens when we get there.”
Jorge was briefly silent, then he said, “Rumor around the station is that you wrote a book, some important religious thing. Sold millions of copies, I’m told. Hope you made millions, too.”
Ainslie laughed. “You don’t get rich co-authoring a book about comparative religions. I’ve no idea how many copies were sold, though it went into a lot of languages and you can still pick it up in a library.”
The dashboard clock read 2:15 A.M. “Where are we?” Ainslie asked, realizing he’d dozed off again.
“Just passed Orlando, Sergeant.”
Ainslie nodded, remembering other, more leisurely journeys along this way. On either side of them, he knew, was some of the more glorious countryside in Florida. From Orlando to Wildwood, fifty miles ahead, the turnpike was officially a scenic byway. Out there, hidden by darkness, were rolling hills adorned with wildflowers, stands of tall pines, tranquil lakes and flowering trees with multicolored blossoms, cows grazing on vast fields of farmland, orange groves, loaded with fruit this time of year …
Florida, Ainslie reflected, had become one of the chosen, coveted places of the world. It seemed that whatever was innovative, sophisticated, artistic, and exciting was to be found there, especially in greater Miami—a sprawling, bubbling, international cauldron of much that was best in modern living. It was also, he was somberly reminded, a hodgepodge of the worst.
He had read once how the explorer Ponce de León had named Florida in 1513, invoking the Spanish phrase pascua florida—“season of flowers.” Still, that much was still as true now as then in the aptly named Sunshine State.
Ainslie asked, “Are you tired? Would you like me to drive?”
“No, I’m fine.”
They had been on the road slightly more than three hours, Ainslie calculated, and were better than halfway. Allowing for inferior roads after Interstate 75, which they would shortly join, they could reach Raiford at about 5:30 A.M.
With the execution set for 7:00 A.M., that left almost no time to spare. Except for a last-minute reprieve—unlikely in Doil’s case—there was no way a scheduled execution would be postponed.
Ainslie leaned back in the car in an effort to organize his thoughts. His memories of Elroy Doil and all that had occurred were like a file folder of jumbled notes and pages.
He remembered having seen Doil’s name for the first time a year and a half ago when it appeared on a computer-generated list of potential suspects. Then, later, when Doil became a prime suspect, Homicide had made extensive inquiries going all the way back to Doil’s early childhood.
Elroy Doil was thirty-two when the killings began. He had been born and raised in Miami’s “poor white” neighborhood, known as Wynwood. Though the name does not appear on published maps, Wynwood comprises a sixty-block, half-square-mile area in mid-Miami with a mainly underprivileged white populace, plus a grim record of high crime, riots, looting, and police brutality.
Immediately southwest of Wynwood is Overtown, also not named on maps, with a mainly underprivileged black occupancy, plus a similarly dreary record of high crime, riots, looting, and police brutality.
Elroy Doil’s mother, Beulah, was a prostitute, drug addict, and alcoholic. She told friends that her son’s father “coulda been any one of a hundred fuckers,” though she later advised Elroy that his most probable father was serving a life term in Florida’s Belle Glade prison. Even so, Elroy encountered a long succession of other men who lived with his mother for varying periods, and remembered many of them from the drunken beatings and sexual abuse he received.
Why Beulah Doil had a child at all was unclear, having had several previous abortions. Her explanation: she “just never got around to getting rid of the kid.”
Eventually Beulah, a shrewdly practical person, instructed her son in petty crime and how to avoid “getting your ass busted.” Elroy learned fast. At ten he was stealing food for himself and Beulah, as well as filching anything else in sight. He robbed other boys at school. It helped that he was big for his age, and a savage fighter.
Under Beulah’s tutelage, Elroy grew up learning to take advantage of the lenient laws affecting juvenile crime. Even though he was apprehended several times for assaults, thefts, and petty larcenies, he was always released back to his mother’s custody with a virtual slap on the wrist.
At seventeen, as Malcolm Ainslie learned long afterward, Elroy Doil was first suspected of murder. He was caught running from the area where the crime had occurred, and detained for questioning. Because of his juvenile status, his mother was brought to the police station where he had been taken, and in her presence, Doil was questioned by detectives.
Had there been clear evidence against him, Elroy would have been charged with murder as an adult. As it was, Beulah knew enough to refuse to cooperate, and would not allow voluntary fingerprinting of her son, which might have linked him to a knife found near the murder scene. In the end, lacking sufficient evidence to hold him, the police released Doil and the crime remained unsolved.
Years later, when he became a suspect in a series of killings, his juvenile record remained closed and his fingerprints were not on file.
As it was, after Doil became an official adult at eighteen, he used his street smarts acquired as a juvenile to continue his criminal ways. He was never caught, and thus no adult criminal record existed. Only much later, when the Police Department delved into Doil’s background, was crucial information produced that had been forgotten or hidden.
Jorge’s voice broke in abruptly: “We need gas, Sergeant. Why don’t we stop at Wildwood, just ahead.” It was almost 3:00 A.M.
“Okay, but get this car filled like we’re making a pit stop in a race. I’ll run in and get some coffee.”
“And potato chips. No, make it cookies. We need cookies.”
Ainslie peered over fondly and realized why he sometimes looked upon Jorge as a son.
As they took the exit ramp, both men could see the beacons of several gas stations. Wildwood was a traditional highway interchange—in daytime an untidy conglomeration of junk-laden tourist stores, at night a refueling stopover for long-distance truckers.
Jorge chose the nearest gas station, a Shell. Beyond it was an all-night Waffle House with cars parked nearby. A half-dozen shadowy figures were huddled together around two of the cars. As the blue-and-white drove in, heads shot up and faces turned toward the new approaching headlights.
Then, with incredible speed, everything changed. The figures separated, some thrust aside, others running, the former close-knit scene a sudden melee of gyrating legs and arms. Doors of parked cars were flung open, figures hurled themselves in, and while doors were still closing the cars started up and drove away. Taking local roads, avoiding the main highway, they were quickly out of sight.
Jorge and Ainslie laughed.
“If we do nothing else tonight,” Ainslie pronounced, “we just broke up a drug deal.”
Both knew that I–75 was a dangerous route this late at night. As well as drug traffickers, there were thieves, prostitutes, and muggers, all looking for action.
But the sight of a police car had preempted everything.
Ainslie gave Jorge money for the gas, then, in the Waffle House, bought coffee and cookies, saving receipts for expense vouchers. As well as expenses, both men would receive overtime pay for this trip tonight.
They sipped their coffee through holes in the plastic tops of cardboard cups as Jorge pulled back onto I–75.
4
Ainslie and Jorge were 270 miles north of Miami now, with about a hundred miles to go. They were still moving quickly amid mostly commercial traffic. It was 3:30 A.M.
Jorge volunteered, “We’ll make it, Sergeant. No problem.”
For the first time since leaving Miami, Ainslie felt himself relax. He stared through the windshield into the darkness and muttered, “I just want to hear him say it.”
He was speaking of Doil, and in some ways, he acknowledged, Karen was right. His interest in Doil had moved beyond the professional. After observing the carnage left behind at each murder scene, after hunting the killer down for months, after observing Doil’s total lack of remorse, Ainslie honestly felt that the world needed to be rid of this man. He wanted to hear Doil confess to the murders, and then—despite what he had told Jorge earlier—he wanted to see him die. Now it looked as if he would.
At that moment Jorge’s voice broke in. “Oh no! Looks like big trouble up ahead.”
The I–75 northbound traffic had suddenly thickened and slowed. Ahead of them, trucks were rolling to a stop, as were lines of cars between them. Across the divider, on the southbound lanes going the opposite way, not a single vehicle was on the road.
“Damn! Damn!” Ainslie slammed a hand on the dashboard. The blue-and-white had slowed to a crawl, with a bright chain of red taillights up ahead. Flashing lights of emergency vehicles were visible in the distance.
“Take the shoulder,” he commanded. “Use our lights.”
Jorge turned on their blue, red, and white flashers and eased across traffic onto the right-hand shoulder. They moved steadily but cautiously, passing other vehicles now at a standstill. Doors of trucks and cars were opening, people leaning out, trying to see the cause of the blockage.
“Go faster!” Ainslie ordered. “Don’t waste a minute.”
Within seconds, several Florida Highway Patrol cars loomed ahead, their roof lights flashing, blocking all traffic lanes, including the shoulder on which the Miami Police car now approached.
A Highway Patrol lieutenant put up a hand, signaling them to stop, and walked toward the car. Ainslie stepped out.
The lieutenant said, “You guys are really off your turf. You lost?”
“No, sir.” Ainslie held out his identification badge, which the other inspected. “We’re on our way to Raiford, and we don’t have much time.”
“Then I have bad news, Sergeant. This road is closed. Big accident up ahead. A tanker tractor-trailer jackknifed and flipped.”
“Lieutenant, we have to get around!”
The other officer’s voice sharpened. “Listen! It’s a mess up there. The driver’s dead; so, we believe, are two people trapped in a car the tractor rolled onto. The tanker ruptured, and twenty thousand gallons of high-octane gas are pouring onto the highway. We’re trying to clear traffic before some idiot lights a match. We’ve got fire trucks with foam on the way, but they aren’t here yet. So no! There is no way you can get around. Excuse me.”
Responding to a call from another officer, the lieutenant turned away.
Ainslie seethed. “We need another route.”
Jorge already had a Florida road map spread out on the hood of the car, and shook his head doubtfully. “There’s no time, Sergeant. We’d have to go back on I–75, then take side roads. We could easily get lost. Can’t we ride over the foam?”
“No way. Triple-F foam is mostly liquid soap, and slippery as hell. Besides, there’d be gasoline underneath; a car as hot as ours could start an inferno. So there’s no choice—we turn around. No time to waste. Let’s go!”
As they climbed in the blue-and-white, the Highway Patrol lieutenant ran back. “We’ll do our best to help you,” he said quickly. “I just talked with Control. They know about you, and why you’re going to Raiford, so here’s the plan: From here, go back south to Micanopy; that’s exit 73. Take that exit, go west to Highway 441.” Jorge was scribbling notes as the lieutenant continued. “You’ll reach 441 almost at once. When you get there, turn left, go north toward Gainesville; it’s not a bad road, you should make good time. Just before Gainesville you’ll intersect with Highway 331. There’s a traffic light; when you reach it, turn right. On 331, one of our patrol cars will be waiting. Trooper Sequiera is in charge. Follow him. He’ll escort you all the way to Raiford.”
Ainslie nodded. “Thanks, Lieutenant. Okay to use our lights and siren?”
“Use everything you’ve got. And hey, all of us here know about Doil. Make sure that bastard fries.”
Jorge already had the car in drive. He eased across a grass-and-shrubbery divider, swung sharply left, and headed south—emergency lights flashing, siren wailing, and the accelerator to the floor.
They were now critically short of time. Ainslie knew it. So did Jorge.
Their delay and rerouting would cost them the better part of an hour, possibly more.
The clock on the dashboard showed 5:34 A.M. Animal was to be executed in less than an hour and a half. What remained of the journey, assuming all went perfectly, would take roughly forty minutes, which meant they’d arrive at Raiford at 6:14. Allowing time for Ainslie to enter the prison and reach Doil, plus time at the end when the prisoner would be taken to the electric chair and strapped in, the longest time Ainslie could hope for with him was a half hour.
Not enough! Not nearly enough.
But it would have to do.
“Oh shit!” Ainslie muttered, tempted to urge Jorge to go faster. But there was no way they could. Jorge was driving superbly, his eyes riveted on the road ahead, his mouth set tightly, hands firmly on the wheel. He had passed the instructions to Ainslie, who used a flashlight to read them out when needed. Highway 441, which they were on now, was rougher than I–75, with frequent intersecting side roads and some cumbersome truck traffic. Still, Jorge was maneuvering around it, making every second count. The emergency lights and siren helped. Some of the truck drivers, observing them in rearview mirrors, moved over, giving way. But a light rain had begun and there were occasional patches of mist, both slowing them down.
“Damn!” Ainslie griped. “We’re not going to make it.”
“We have a chance.” Jorge was sitting forward, his eyes glued on the road; he increased their speed a little. “Trust me!”
That’s all I can do, Ainslie thought. This is Jorge’s moment; mine is coming—maybe! Anyway, he told himself, try to unwind, think of something else. Think about Doil. Will he spring any surprises? Will he finally tell the truth, the way he didn’t at his trial? …
The sensational murder trial of Elroy Doil prompted headlines in almost every newspaper in the country and was featured daily on network TV. Outside the courthouse some demonstrators paraded, their placards urging the death penalty. Journalists competed—many unsuccessfully—for the limited courtroom space allotted to the media.
Public outrage was compounded by the state attorney’s decision to try Doil for the most recent crime only—namely the first-degree murders of Kingsley and Nellie Tempone, an elderly, wealthy, and respected black couple who were savagely tortured, then killed, in their home in Miami’s exclusive Bay Heights.
As for the additional ten murders Doil was believed to have committed, if he was found guilty and executed for the Tempone killings, they would remain forever unresolved.
The controversial decision by State Attorney Adele Montesino, acting on advice of her senior prosecutors, produced an outcry from families of other victims who desperately wanted to see justice done in the names of loved ones they had lost. The media reported their indignation, providing an opportunity
to link Doil’s name publicly with the earlier killings. Newspapers and TV seldom worried about liability in such matters. As an editor expressed it, “When did you last hear of a serial killer suing for libel?”
Thus awareness and criticism grew.
Miami’s chief of police was also known to have urged the state attorney to include at least one other double murder in the charges against Doil.
But Adele Montesino, a short, heavyset fifty-four-year-old, sometimes referred to as “the pit bull,” remained adamant. She was serving her third four-year term, had already announced her intention not to seek another, and could afford to exercise her independence.
Sergeant Malcolm Ainslie had been among those attending a pretrial strategy meeting at which Ms. Montesino said, “With the Tempone case we’ll have a cast-iron prosecution.”
She used her fingers to tick off crucial points. “Doil was arrested at the scene with both victims’ blood on him. We have the knife found in Doil’s possession, identified by the medical examiner as the murder weapon, and also with both victims’ blood. And we have a strong eyewitness to the murders, whom the jury will sympathize with. No twelve people in the world would let Doil off on this one.”
The witness to whom she referred was the Tempones’ twelve-year-old grandson, Ivan. The boy had been visiting his grandparents and was the only other person in the house when Doil broke in and attacked the elderly couple.
Young Ivan was in the next room, where he remained transfixed, watching with silent horror through a partially open door while his grandparents were continually cut and stabbed. Though terrified, knowing he would be killed if discovered, the boy had the sense and courage to go silently to a phone and call 911.
Detective Page 4