Detective

by Arthur Hailey

  Talking with detectives and the ID crew, the ME added, “That isn’t to say Doil didn’t do those other murders. Judging by the type of wounds, I think he did. But maybe he bought more than one of those knives, and you’ll find others when you search his stuff.”

  But, to the disappointment of detectives and prosecutors, who had hoped for conclusive solutions to the earlier killings, no knives were found among Doil’s skimpy possessions, nor, for that matter, was any other evidence.

  Solid evidence in the Tempone case, though, continued to pile up. The blood found on Doil’s clothing and shoes matched blood samples from both victims; so did blood on the rubber gloves he had worn—obviously to avoid leaving fingerprints. Shoe prints discovered at the crime scene—a few with traces of the victims’ blood—were identical with the sneakers Doil was wearing.

  And then, on top of everything, there was the testimony of twelve-year-old Ivan Tempone. Having recovered from his shock, he proved a self-possessed, convincing eyewitness. First to Detective Dion Jacobo, and later to a state attorney, he described how, peering through a barely open door, he had seen Doil torture and kill his grandparents.

  “We’ve simply never had a stronger case,” State Attorney Adele Montesino declared when announcing her controversial decision to prosecute Doil for the Tempones’ murders only.

  While the prosecution took more than six months to review evidence and prepare for trial, within the Miami Police Department an evaluation moved more quickly. At issue was the bungled surveillance of Elroy Doil that had resulted in the Tempones’ needless deaths, though full knowledge of those events was restricted as far as possible to a few high-ranking officers. Homicide detectives, in particular, were warned not to discuss the subject with anyone, including their families, and especially not with the media.

  For several days following the Tempone killings the Police Department, in effect, held its breath, wondering if some enterprising reporter would dig deeper than the surface news, dramatic though it was. An added concern was that Kingsley and Nellie Tempone were black. Though there was nothing racist about the police blunder—the victims could just as easily have been white—there were always activists eager to turn any opportunity into a racial confrontation.

  Then, remarkably—almost incredibly—what had been feared did not happen; the information dam held. The media, including national newspapers and network TV, gave prominence to the grisly crime and concentrated on the fact that an apparent serial killer had finally been caught. Another factor helped. Young Ivan Tempone, who, as one news writer put it, “courageously summoned police at the risk of attracting the murderer’s attention and being killed himself,” became an instant folk hero.

  There was neither air time nor column inches for much more.

  During it all, quietly and behind the scenes, penalties against the officers involved in what was privately described as “the homicide that shouldn’t have” were being debated. Because of potential public-relations damage if the truth should ever emerge, the discussion went as high as the chief of police. Final decisions, though, were left to Major Mark Figueras, commander of the Criminal Investigations Section, which ruled all detective branches.

  Figueras made his intentions clear: “I want to know everything, every last little detail, with not the smallest bit of fly-shit left out.” The instruction reached Lieutenant Newbold, who conducted separate hour-long, tape-recorded interviews with Malcolm Ainslie and Dan Zagaki.

  Ainslie, while holding nothing back about Zagaki’s actions, still blamed himself for reversing his original judgment about the young detective. He told Newbold, “I made a mistake. The responsibility was mine, and I accept it. No excuses.”

  Zagaki, on the other hand, tried to talk his way out of any wrongdoing, at one point accusing Ainslie of failing to issue explicit orders—a statement that Newbold did not believe, and went on record to that effect.

  Newbold delivered his report and tape recordings to Major Manolo Yanes, commander of the Crimes Against Persons Unit, who passed them upward to Major Figueras. A few days later the decisions were quietly announced.

  Detective Zagaki would receive a reprimand for “neglect of duty,” forfeit sixty hours of pay, and be removed as a detective and returned to uniform. Figueras commented to Yanes, “I’d like to throw the son of a bitch out altogether. Unfortunately, under Civil Service rules, neglect isn’t a terminating offense.”

  Sergeant Ainslie would receive a reprimand for “poor judgment.” When informed, Ainslie accepted it as his due, even though it would remain like an albatross on his record through the remainder of his police service.

  Lieutenant Newbold, however, had other ideas.

  Going to the office of Major Yanes, he requested an immediate interview with Yanes and Figueras.

  Yanes looked up from his desk. “You sound pretty formal, Leo.”

  “This is formal, sir.”

  “Subject?”

  “Sergeant Ainslie.”

  Yanes regarded Newbold curiously, then picked up a phone and spoke quietly. Replacing the phone, he nodded. “Okay, right now.”

  The two walked silently down a corridor and were escorted by a secretary into Major Figueras’s office. The secretary closed the door as she left.

  Figueras said sharply, “I’m busy, Lieutenant, so whatever’s on your mind, make it short.”

  “I’m asking you, sir, to reconsider the reprimand of Sergeant Ainslie.”

  “Has Ainslie asked for this?”

  “No, sir. I’m asking. Ainslie doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “A decision has been made. I see no reason to change it. Ainslie was at fault.”

  “He knows that. He’s his own biggest critic.”

  “Then why the hell are you here?”

  “Because Sergeant Ainslie is one of our finest officers, Major. His record is exemplary, his crime solving and his leadership outstanding. You know that, I believe. So does Major Yanes. And …” Newbold hesitated.

  Figueras snapped, “Get on with it!”

  Newbold looked both senior officers in the eye. “Recently Ainslie has had a goddam unfair deal, as just about everybody in the PD knows. I think we owe him something.”

  There was a momentary silence as Figueras and Yanes looked at each other, understanding exactly what Newbold meant. Then Yanes said quietly, “I support the lieutenant, sir.”

  Figueras glared at Newbold. “What do you want?”

  The lieutenant answered, “A ninety-day reprimand.”

  Figueras hesitated, then said, “Do it. Now get out!”

  Newbold did.

  What Ainslie would now receive was a reprimand that would go into his file for ninety days, after which the reprimand and all copies would be destroyed.

  As succeeding weeks and months went by, Elroy Doil and the crimes attributed to him ceased to be at the forefront of either Homicide’s concerns or public curiosity. For a while, during his trial, public attention came back when Ainslie, Dr. Sanchez, Ivan Tempone, and others appeared as witnesses, followed by a jury’s guilty verdict and the judge’s sentence of death. Several months later, there was some cursory interest as Doil’s automatic appeal was rejected, followed by the news that Doil himself refused to allow further appeals, and an execution date was set.

  Then, once more, Doil was almost forgotten until the night when Sergeant Malcolm Ainslie received a telephone call from Father Ray Uxbridge at Raiford prison.

  The message was puzzling. Elroy Doil, who would go to the electric chair in eight more hours, had asked to see Malcolm Ainslie before he died.

  Part Three

  1

  In the austerely furnished, windowless room to which Elroy Doil had been brought, Malcolm Ainslie’s thoughts were pulled back from the past by the pale, emaciated figure facing him. The man wearing leg irons and handcuffs secured to a waist belt and flanked by prison guards seemed so much in contrast to the physically powerful and aggressive Doil of the past that Ainslie found it hard
to believe this really was the condemned prisoner he had come to see. But Doil’s behavior had quickly left no doubt.

  The room was quiet now that the priest, Father Ray Uxbridge, had left under protest, after Doil’s insistent demand, “Get that asshole out of here!”

  Doil was still kneeling before Ainslie, and the words of the prison officer, Lieutenant Hambrick—If you want to hear it at all, better let him do it his way—hung in the air.

  “Whenever your last confession was,” Ainslie told Doil, “doesn’t matter now.”

  Doil nodded, then waited in silence. Ainslie knew why, and reluctantly, hating himself for the charade, recited, “May the Lord be in your heart and on your lips so that you may rightly confess your sins.”

  Doil said immediately, “I killed some people, Father.”

  Ainslie leaned forward. “Which people? How many?”

  “There was fourteen.”

  Instinctively, Ainslie felt a surge of relief. The small but vocal group who had been arguing Doil’s innocence would be squelched by the statement he’d just made. Ainslie glanced at Hambrick, who was a witness, remembering, too, that his own concealed tape recorder was running.

  Miami Homicide, which conducted investigations into four double serial killings, and collaborated with Clearwater and Fort Lauderdale police concerning two more, would have their judgments confirmed. Then a thought struck Ainslie. “Who was the first you killed?”

  “Them Ikeis—coupla Japs in Tampa.”

  “Who?” Ainslie was startled. It was a name he had not heard before.

  “Two old farts. I-k-e-i.” Incongruously, as Doil spelled out the name, he chuckled.

  “You killed them? When?”

  “Don’t remember … Oh, ’bout a month, maybe two, before I done them spics at the trailer place.”

  “The Esperanzas?”

  “Yeah, them.”

  On hearing Doil admit to fourteen murders, Ainslie had assumed that number included Clarence and Florentina Esperanza, murdered seventeen years ago in West Dade’s Happy Haven Trailer Park. As a juvenile, Doil was never charged, though recent evidence had shown him to be guilty—as he had just admitted.

  And yet, if the Ikeis were included—a crime that, so far as Ainslie knew, Miami Homicide had never heard of—something was wrong with the numbers.

  Ainslie’s mind was racing. Would Doil admit to a murder of which he wasn’t guilty, especially now, when he was about to die? Inconceivable. So if he had killed the Ikeis and admitted to fourteen murders altogether, that left two victims unaccounted for.

  But everyone—police, state attorneys, news media, the public—were convinced that Doil had committed fourteen murders: the Esperanzas, Frosts, Larsens, Hennenfelds, Urbinas, Ernsts, and Tempones.

  If Doil was telling the truth, had some murders been committed by someone else? And if so, which ones?

  Inevitably, Ainslie remembered his own instinct, first expressed to Sergeant Brewmaster, that the Ernst murders might not have been the work of the same serial killer they were after. But for the moment he brushed the thought away; this was no time to indulge personal theories. Earlier, his colleagues had all disagreed with him and he had not contested the consensus view. But now, somehow—representing everyone, all viewpoints, including his own—he had to wring the truth from Doil.

  Ainslie glanced at his watch. So little time! Less than a half hour to Doil’s execution, and they would take him away ahead of time … He steeled himself and his voice to lean hard on Doil, remembering Father Kevin O’Brien’s words: Elroy was a pathological liar. He lied when he didn’t have to.

  Ainslie hadn’t wanted to assume the priestly role; now it was time to drop it. “That’s a crock of shit about the Ikeis and the Esperanzas,” he scoffed. “Why should I believe you? Where’s the proof?”

  Doil thought briefly. “In the Esperanzas’ trailer I musta dropped a gold money clip. Had ‘HB’ on it. Got it in a robbery, coupla months before I knocked off them slants. Missed it when I got away.”

  “And the people in Tampa. What proof there?”

  Doil smiled aberrantly. “There’s a cem’tery near where the Ikeis lived. Had ta get rid o’ the knife I used, hid it in a grave. Know what was on the marker? Same last name as mine. Saw it, knew I’d remember if I wanted the fuckin’ knife back, but I never got it.”

  “You buried the knife in a grave? Was it deep?”

  “No, not deep.”

  “Why did you always kill old people?”

  “They had it good too long, were fulla sin, Father. I did it for God. Watched ’em first, though. All fat cats.”

  Ainslie let the answer go. All of it made as much sense, or as little, as most of Doil’s tortured mind. But how much of the truth was he telling, even now? Some for sure, but Ainslie disbelieved the knife-in-the-grave story; probably the money clip, too. And there was still the problem about numbers. He became specific.

  “Did you kill Mr. and Mrs. Frost at the Royal Colonial Hotel?”

  Doil nodded several times.

  “You nodded your head. If that meant yes, please say so.”

  Doil looked at Ainslie sharply. “Gotta tape on, ain’t you?”

  Annoyed that he had given himself away, Ainslie said, “Yes.”

  “Don’t matter. Yeah, I done them people, too.”

  At the mention of a tape, Ainslie had glanced toward Lieutenant Hambrick, who shrugged. Now Ainslie continued.

  “I want to ask about other names.”

  “Okay.”

  Ainslie went through the list—Larsen, Hennenfeld, Urbina. In each case the answer was yes, Doil admitted having killed them.

  “Commissioner and Mrs. Ernst.”

  “No, I never done them. That’s what—”

  Not letting him finish, Ainslie said sharply, “Wait!” He went on, speaking for the consensus viewpoint he was representing, “Elroy, at this time, because of what’s soon to happen, you must tell the truth. The Ernsts were killed in the same way as all the others—exactly the same way. And you knew about Bay Point, where they lived. You went there when you worked for Suarez Motors; you knew the security system and how to get in. And the day after the murders, you left your job at Suarez and never went back, even to collect your paycheck.”

  Doil’s voice was frantic. “That’s ’cause I heard about them killings, watched the fuckin’ TV an’ figured, because of them others, they might think it was me. But it wasn’t. Father, I swear! That’s what I want forgiveness for. I didn’t do it!”

  Ainslie persisted, “Or is it because you think the Ernsts were important people and—”

  Doil cut in, shouting, his face flushed. “No! No, no! It ain’t fuckin’ true. I done them others, but I don’t wanna die blamed for what I never done.”

  Was it a lie or the truth? Superficially, Doil was convincing, Ainslie thought, but it was like flipping a coin for the answer.

  He pressed on. “Let’s clear up something else. Do you admit you killed the Tempones?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I done that.”

  Throughout his trial, despite overwhelming evidence against him, Doil had insisted he was innocent.

  “About all those killings—the fourteen you admit to. Are you sorry for those?”

  “Fuck ’em all! I don’t give a shit! If you wanna know, I enjoyed doin’ ’em. Just forgive me them others I never done!”

  The demand made no sense, and Ainslie wondered if Doil should, after all, have been declared insane before his trial.

  Still trying to reason, Ainslie said, “If you didn’t murder Mr. and Mrs. Ernst—as you claim—then you don’t need forgiveness. In any case, without contrition and penance for all you’ve done, a priest could not give you absolution, and I’m not a priest.”

  Even before the words were finished, Doil’s eyes were pleading. When he spoke, his voice was choked with fear. “I’m gonna die! Do somethin’ for me! Gimme somethin’!”

  It was Lieutenant Hambrick who moved first. The young, black
prison officer confronted Ainslie. “There’s less than five minutes left. Whatever you were or weren’t, or are now, doesn’t matter. You still know enough to do something for him. Put your goddam pride in your pocket and do it!”

  A good man, Hambrick, Ainslie thought. He also decided that, true or false, nothing would persuade Doil now to change his story.

  He groped in his memory, then said, “Repeat after me: ‘Father, I abandon myself into Your hands; do with me what you will.’”

  Doil reached out as far as his belt-secured handcuffs would allow. Ainslie moved forward, and Doil placed his hands on Ainslie’s. Doil repeated the words clearly, his eyes locked on Ainslie.

  Ainslie continued, “‘Whatever You may do, I thank You: I am ready for all, I accept all.’”

  It was Foucauld’s Prayer of Abandonment—left for all sinners by the French nobleman Viscount Charles-Eugéne de Foucauld, once a soldier, then a humble priest remembered for his life of study and prayer in the Sahara Desert.

  Ainslie hoped his own memory would last. He took it line by line.

  “Let only Your will be done in me,

  and in all Your creatures—

  I wish no more than this, O Lord,

  Into Your hands I commend my soul.”

  There was a second of silence. Then Hambrick announced, “It’s time.” He told Ainslie, “Mr. Bethel is waiting outside. He’ll take you to your witness seat. Let’s all move quickly.”

  The two prison guards had already raised Elroy Doil to his feet. Strangely composed, as compared with his mood of a few moments earlier, he let himself be led, walking awkwardly in his leg irons, toward the door.

  Ainslie preceded Doil. A waiting guard outside, with the name tag BETHEL, said, “This way, sir.” At a fast pace now, they moved back the way Ainslie had come, through concrete corridors, then circuiting the execution area and pausing at a plain steel door. Beside it a sergeant guard held a clipboard.

  “Your name, please?”

  “Ainslie, Malcolm.”

  The sergeant checked off the name on the clipboard. “You’re the last. We saved a hot seat for you.”