He smiled, remembering how skillfully he, Detective Dauntless Dan, had buttered up Ainslie these past two weeks, calling him “Sergeant” with almost every other breath, and still the dimwit hadn’t noticed. He’d even finagled his way back onto the serial killings caper by pretending to eat humble pie. And Ainslie ate it up. Fool.
“Oh damn,” Zagaki muttered, still sitting in the driver’s seat of the van. “I’ve gotta go again. How many times is that today?”
Like several hundred others in Miami, including the absent Detectives Wightman and Garcia, Dan Zagaki had intestinal flu. True, he didn’t have an intense fever so far, but the other symptoms, especially an upset stomach and acute diarrhea, were very much in evidence. Unlike others, however, he had kept quiet about it, determined to soldier on at any cost. He just couldn’t miss the chance to help break this case. He had managed to take care of his problem during several earlier stops today, but at this moment he had to, simply had to, find a sanctuary—and he could see one, a clump of bushes over to the right—where he could let nature take its urgent course.
Looking ahead, through the Burdines van windshield, he could still see the silhouette of Doil. If the bastard had stayed still this long, he sure as hell wasn’t going to move in the few seconds he needed—right now!
Should he call Ainslie by radio to let him know? Nuts to that! Dauntless Dan could make his own decisions.
Moving quickly, Zagaki got out from the van and, closing the door quietly, moved to the bushes. Moments later, Oh, what a relief! But hurry up! He didn’t have all night.
“I’ll make this quick, Malcolm,” Leo Newbold said. Ainslie had reached the backup surveillance car moments earlier and slipped into the backseat. The lieutenant continued, “I just took a call from Homicide in Philadelphia. We put out a nationwide ‘detain and hold’ BOLO on a Dudley Rickins. Right?”
“Yes, sir, I okayed it. It’s Bernie Quinn’s case, and Rickins is the hot suspect. If we question him, we think we can close it.”
“Well, they have Rickins in Philadelphia and can hold him seventy-two hours, but someone goofed by not calling us sooner, and there’s only twelve hours left before they must let him go. I know you need all the bodies here …”
“Just the same, we should fly Bernie up immediately.”
Newbold sighed. “That’s what I thought.”
As both knew, they could ill afford the loss of one more from the surveillance detail, but would have to manage somehow.
“Okay, Malcolm. I’ll get word to Bernie and send him on his way. Thanks. Now, you’d better get back. Doil still hasn’t moved?”
“Not yet. If he had, we’d have heard from Zagaki.”
Ainslie left the backup car and returned the way he had come.
Goddammit! Zagaki thought, adjusting his clothes. That took too damn long! He hurried back to the van.
As he arrived, so did Malcolm Ainslie.
Ainslie said incredulously, “Where the hell have you been?”
“Well, Sergeant, I just had to—”
Livid, Ainslie stormed, “Cut that crap out! Do you think I can’t see through you? Didn’t I tell you not to take your eyes off Doil, and if anything happened, to call me by radio?”
“Yes, Sergeant, but—”
“But nothing! When we finish tonight, you are through with this detail.”
Zagaki pleaded, “Sergeant, if you’ll only let me explain. I wasn’t well—”
Ainslie was not listening, but looking around the vehicles ahead toward the pickup truck. Then he shouted, “Oh Jesus, he’s gone!”
From the pickup’s cab, Elroy Doil’s silhouette had disappeared.
Briefly, confusion reigned. Ainslie ran toward the truck, peering into the darkness for any sign of Doil. There was none—nor were there any pedestrians in sight. From the pickup he ran the short distance to Tigertail Avenue. The streets were only faintly lit. Doil, Ainslie realized, could easily hide out in any of the shadows.
Dan Zagaki ran up behind him, panting. “Sergeant, I’m—”
Ainslie spun around. “Shut the fuck up!” He snarled at Zagaki, “How long were you away from the van?”
“Only a minute or two, I swear.”
“Don’t lie to me, you little bastard!” Ainslie grabbed the younger man by his lapels and shook him. “How long was it?” Seething, he pulled Zagaki toward him until their eyes were close. “Was it the whole time I was gone?”
Zagaki, close to tears, conceded, “Most of it.”
Pushing him away in disgust, Ainslie calculated that Doil’s head start could be ten minutes, maybe twelve. Even assuming he had remained in the area, he could be anywhere, and there was no way of finding him without help, which left only one choice. He reached for his police radio.
“Thirteen-ten to dispatcher.”
A woman’s calm voice answered, “Thirteen-ten QSK.”
“Send me several units into the area of Tigertail Avenue …” Ainslie paused to read the nearest street number. “Number 1611. We have lost a white male who was under surveillance. Height six feet four, weighs about two hundred and ninety pounds, is wearing red shirt and dark pants. He is armed and dangerous.”
“QSL.”
Within seconds, Ainslie could hear the approaching sirens, responding to a swiftly transmitted 315—3 for “Emergency,” 15 for “Officer needs help.”
Newbold and Jacobo would have overheard his transmission, Ainslie knew, and would also be on their way. For the moment there was nothing he could do.
Then he received a radio phone call from the communications sergeant in charge of dispatchers and radio traffic who spoke quickly but calmly.
“Malc, just caught your call. I have a boy on the phone who says his grandparents are being beaten and stabbed by a big man in their house.”
“That’s Doil, Harry! Give me the address fast.”
“I’m getting it, hang on. Kid has to whisper.” Ainslie could hear the communications sergeant asking patient questions, addressing the caller as “Ivan.” The sergeant came back. “Says his grandparents’ name is Tempone, their house is on Tigertail. Doesn’t know the number, we’re looking it up … We have it! It’s 1643 … I’ve called for paramedics, Malcolm, and am changing that 315 to a 331.” Meaning, “Emergency—homicide in progress.”
Ainslie scarcely heard. He was already running eastward down Tigertail Avenue. Dan Zagaki ran beside him, though Ainslie was long past caring.
As both drew near, they could see the number 1643 on the gate of a large two-story house fronted by several pillars and a wide paved path leading to a carved doorway. A high iron fence surrounded the entire property, with six-foot-high shrubbery on both sides. The double gate in the fence provided access from the street; one side of the gate was slightly open.
As Ainslie and Zagaki arrived, two squad cars with flashing lights and fading sirens pulled up, tires screeching. Four officers leapt out, guns drawn. Two more squad cars were speeding down Tigertail from both directions.
Ainslie identified himself and quickly described Doil. “We think he’s inside, maybe killing right now.” He motioned to two of the officers. “You two come with me.” And to the others, “Gendry, take charge and set up a perimeter four blocks each way. Don’t let anyone in or out until you hear from me.”
One of the officers called out, “Sergeant, over there!” He pointed to the side of the house, where a shadowy figure was creeping along a small path. Another officer directed a powerful flashlight. It lit up the back of a large man wearing a red shirt and brown pants.
“That’s him!” Ainslie shouted. With his own gun drawn, he raced through the gate and across the lawn, the others following fast behind him. Doil was running now, and Ainslie shouted, “Freeze, Doil, or I’ll blow your fucking head off!”
The figure stopped and turned. Doil snarled, “Fuck you!”
Moving closer, Ainslie could see a knife in Doil’s right hand, and noticed that both of his hands were encased in rubber gloves.
With his gun raised, Ainslie ordered fiercely, “Drop that knife. Now!” Then, as Doil hesitated, “And peel off those gloves. Let them fall beside the knife.”
Slowly, Doil complied. When he had done so, Ainslie bellowed, “Now down on your stomach, you son of a bitch, hands behind you. Move!”
Again slowly, Doil obeyed as Ainslie held his gun steady. Then Zagaki moved in and seized Doil’s wrists, quickly handcuffing him behind his back. As he did so, a brief flash from behind lit up the scene.
Instinctively, Ainslie swung around, his gun still raised, but a woman’s voice called out. “Sorry, Chief. But it’s what the papers pay me for.”
“Dammit,” Ainslie muttered, lowering his gun. He knew the news media monitored police radio and moved fast with a breaking story, but he was still dismayed to see them so soon. He turned to the uniform officers. “One of you cordon off this area with tape—about fifty feet around the entire house—and keep everyone behind it.”
The yellow POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape, which all squad cars carried, was promptly wrapped around anything handy—trees, streetlights, fence posts, and the mirrors of two parked police cars—creating a visual barrier between detectives and a fast-assembling crowd of spectators and media people.
Zagaki, kneeling beside Elroy Doil, called out, “This guy is covered in blood! So are the knife and gloves.”
“Oh no!” Ainslie groaned, knowing instinctively that what he had feared most had happened. Composing himself for the moment, he addressed the increasing number of uniform officers. “Two of you strip this guy down to his underwear; shoes and socks off, too. Keep the clothes off the ground; don’t smear any blood, and get everything in plastic bags as soon as possible—especially that knife and the gloves. And don’t let up; guard his every move. He’s violent and dangerous.”
The reason for stripping Doil was to preserve the blood on his clothing in its present state. If DNA testing showed it to be a victim’s, any case against him could be conclusive.
Within the past few minutes Leo Newbold and Dion Jacobo had appeared. The lieutenant asked Ainslie, “Have you been inside?”
“No, sir. Just going.”
“We’ll come, too, okay?”
“Of course.”
Ainslie instructed one of the officers who had been early on the scene, “I want you to come with us. Walk where we do, and stay alert.” To Zagaki he added curtly, “You stay right here. Don’t move a fucking inch.”
Led by Ainslie, the four moved toward the house.
A side door was open—probably where Doil had come out. Inside was a dim corridor; Ainslie snapped lights on. They moved forward, the corridor connecting with a paneled hallway and, on the hallway’s far side, a wide carpeted and balustraded stairway. Sitting on the bottom step was a small boy—about twelve, Ainslie guessed—who was staring blankly into space and trembling violently.
Ainslie knelt down and put his arms around the boy, asking gently, “Are you Ivan?” He told the others, “He called nine-one-one.” The boy made the slightest movement of his head.
“Can you tell us where …”
The boy seemed to shrink into himself, but turned his body, looking up the stairway, then began shaking even more.
The uniform officer said, “Excuse me, Sergeant, he’s in shock. I know the signs. We should get him to a hospital.”
“Can you carry him out?”
“Sure can.”
“Paramedics were called for,” Ainslie told him. “They should be outside by now. If they take the boy to Jackson Memorial, go with him and report back where you are. Do not, on any account, leave the boy; we need to talk with him later. Is that clear?”
“All clear, Sergeant.” The officer put out his arms and lifted the boy. “Let’s go, Ivan.” And as they moved away, “It’s gonna be okay, son. Just hang on to me.”
Ainslie, Newbold, and Jacobo ascended the stairs. As they reached the first landing they spotted an open door directly ahead, the room inside lighted. A few steps inside the room, the trio paused to view the scene they faced.
Dion Jacobo, a veteran who had seen many homicides, made a choking sound, then, with a loud groan, burst out, “Oh my God! Oh my God!”
It was, as Ainslie had feared the moment he saw Doil’s bloodstained clothes, a reenactment of the earlier killings—this time with an elderly black couple the tragic victims. The only difference was that Doil had obviously acted more hastily and less precisely, probably because he heard the approaching police sirens.
The dead couple were bound, gagged, and facing each other; they had also been brutally beaten around their faces and skulls. One of the woman’s arms was twisted and broken; the man’s right eye had been pierced by a sharp instrument, leaving the eyeball split. Compared with the earlier killings, the knife slashes on both bodies were more random and deeper. It was as if everything had been done hurriedly, with the killer aware that his time was limited.
Ainslie stood transfixed, fighting to control his deep, despairing anguish, knowing that as long as he lived he would never forget this scene or his own terrible guilt. He must have remained motionless for nearly a minute before being brought back to reality by Leo Newbold’s voice. “Malcolm, are you all right?”
With an effort he nodded. “Yes. I am.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Newbold said softly, “and I’m not going to let you carry this alone. We’ll talk about it soon, but for now, would you like to go home and sleep? You’re exhausted. Dion can take charge here.”
Ainslie shook his head. “I’ll see this through, Lieutenant, though I’d like Dion to stay and help. But thanks.”
He reached for his portable police radio, beginning the standard procedures.
It was a few minutes after 1:00 A.M. when Malcolm Ainslie at last reached home, where Karen, whom he had managed to phone a few hours earlier, was waiting up, wearing a pale green cotton robe. When she saw him, she held out her arms and hugged him tightly. After a while she eased back, looking upward, and touched his face.
“It’s been bad, hasn’t it?”
He nodded slowly. “Pretty much.”
“Oh, sweetheart, how much more can you take?”
Ainslie sighed. “Not too many like tonight.”
She snuggled closer. “It’s so good to have you home. Do you want to talk?”
“Tomorrow, maybe. Not right now.”
“Malcolm, dear, go straight to bed. I’ll bring you something.”
The “something” was hot Ovaltine, a drink from childhood that he liked at night. When he had finished it, and fallen back on his pillow, Karen said, “That should help you sleep.”
“And keep the nightmares away?”
Climbing into bed beside him, she held him tightly again. “I’ll take care of those.”
But while Malcolm slept soundly and deeply, Karen lay awake thinking. How long, she wondered, could they survive this kind of life? Sooner or later Malcolm would have to choose between his home and family and the demons of his work. Like so many other wives, past and present, of Homicide detectives, Karen could not foresee indefinitely a harmony between their marriage and her husband’s present career.
The next day brought an ironic postscript.
A professional photographer with ties to syndicated photo services lived in Bay Heights, a short distance from the Tempone murder scene. It accounted for her immediate presence at the house and the flash photo she had taken while Doil was being subdued.
The dramatic action shot showed Doil facedown and struggling, and Detective Dan Zagaki securing him with handcuffs. Distributed by the Associated Press, the picture appeared in major U.S. newspapers with the caption:
POLICE HERO
Following a dramatic chase, Detective Dan Zagaki of the Miami Police captures and subdues a suspect, Elroy Doil, who is charged with the murders of an elderly black couple and is being questioned about other serial killings. Asked about his work and its dangers, Zagaki replied, “It’s r
isky sometimes. You just do the best you can.” He is the son of General Thaddeus Zagaki, Commander, First Army Division, Fort Stewart, Georgia.
13
Elroy Doil was arrested, charged with the first-degree murders of Kingsley and Nellie Tempone, and imprisoned in Dade County Jail. As required by law, a bond hearing was held at the adjoining Metro Justice Building within twenty-four hours of his arrest. Doil was not required to plead; that would come at a preliminary hearing two to three weeks later. Instead, a court-appointed attorney perfunctorily asked for bail, which was just as perfunctorily refused.
Doil showed little interest in the proceedings, refused to speak with his defense attorney, and yawned in the judge’s face. However, when he was due to be removed from court and a bailiff grasped his arm, Doil punched the man in the stomach so hard that he doubled up. Instantly two other bailiffs and a prison officer leapt on Doil, pummeled him, shackled him with chains, and removed him from the court. Outside, in the prisoners’ holding cell, they hammered him again with their fists until he was gasping and subdued.
While official decisions in the case now rested mainly with state prosecutors, a team of ID technicians and Homicide detectives continued to accumulate evidence.
The weapon—a bowie knife—which Elroy Doil had been holding when apprehended, had blood on the blade and handle that matched the blood of both murder victims. Further, Sandra Sanchez was prepared to testify that that particular knife, identifiable by distinctive notches and serrations, was the actual weapon that killed Kingsley and Nellie Tempone.
According to Sanchez, however, it was not the bowie knife used to kill the Frosts, the Urbinas, or, more recently, the Ernsts. The wound details from the Clearwater and Fort Lauderdale murders had not yet been received in for comparison.
Detective Page 21