Detective

by Arthur Hailey

  Finally they agreed on August 17.

  Later, as they neared Jensen’s apartment, Virgilio repeated the substance of his warning the night of the wheelchair murder. “Hey. You double-cross me, I fuckin’ kill you.”

  “Virgilio, I would never, ever, double-cross you,” Jensen said, and meant it. At the same time he resolved to stay well clear of Virgilio after the Ernst murders. He was capable of killing anyone, including Jensen, if he thought it necessary to cover his own tracks.

  That same evening, Jensen phoned Cynthia and, without identifying himself, said only, “The date is August twenty-second.”

  Mentally she subtracted five, then answered, “I understand fully,” and hung up.

  6

  Cynthia had been in Los Angeles for eight days when she learned of her parents’ violent deaths. During that time she felt as if she were living two lives, one as she waited tensely, suspended in time, the other routine, normal, even prosaic.

  Ostensibly she had come to L.A. to give a series of lectures to a segment of the L.A. Police Department about Miami’s experience with police community relations—something she had done successfully for other forces. She also planned to spend a few vacation days with an old friend from her Pine Crest School years, Paige Burdelon, now a Universal Pictures vice-president, living in Brentwood.

  On June 27, after Cynthia had received the message from Patrick Jensen that the long-awaited date was August 17, she made arrangements to fly from Florida to California on August 10. Her trip and the planned lectures were reported by the Miami Herald in Joan Fleischman’s widely read “Talk of Our Town” column—the result of a friendly phone call from Cynthia the day before she left. Similarly, the Los Angeles Times made the same mention—the result of a suggestion by Cynthia to her West Coast counterpart, Commander Winslow McGowan. “It’s not that I want publicity,” she assured him, “but the more the public realizes that their police are concerned about the community, the better you and I can do our jobs.” The commander had agreed; thus her absence east, and presence west, were very much on record.

  Paige Burdelon was delighted to learn of Cynthia’s plans. “You have to stay with me,” she enthused over the phone. “Since Biffy and I split, I rattle around this big condo like a stranger in my own home. Come on, Cyn, we’ll have a blast, I promise.”

  Cynthia accepted happily, and went directly to Paige’s from LAX airport.

  The police department lecture series, six hour-long sessions scheduled over two weeks, began the day after Cynthia’s arrival. Her audience, gathered in a large conference room at the LAPD headquarters, comprised eighty selected officers from the department’s eighteen divisions, all of varying ranks and ethnicity, with about two thirds in uniform, the remainder in plain clothes. Currently the LAPD was attempting to convert a single area-wide force, for many years directed despotically from the top, into a group of localized forces with friendly community liaisons. At the same time the department hoped to put behind it a painful era symbolized by a bellicose ex-chief, Darryl Gates, the Rodney King travesty, and the Simpson debacle. Miami’s comparable transformation, which began much earlier and with considerable success, was respected nationwide as a prototype worth copying.

  As Cynthia expressed it to her audience in an opening statement, “Just as in medicine, where the emphasis nowadays is on prevention, so should it be in police work. That’s why the job of community relations has become so important. On the face of it, our job is simple: we must teach people to take precautions that decrease their chances of becoming victims of crime; at the same time we have to keep our citizens, especially kids, from being drawn into crime. We haven’t always done that, which is why critics believe that our bulging prison populations are not a sign of our success, but a symptom of our failure.”

  The audience stirred; some even groaned at the last remark. Cynthia added crisply, “I am not here to placate you, but to make you think.”

  She was also thinking herself—somehow with her mind divided … the interminable wait … lying awake nights, imagining that man entering Bay Point … finding her parents …

  She pushed those thoughts away, going on to describe Miami’s Community Relations programs, ranging from the CATE (Crimes Against The Elderly) Detail, through the Gang Detail—helping kids, so they didn’t join one; neighborhood crime watches; a Missing Persons/Juvenile Detail—among the busiest functions; a Crime Prevention Detail, and a dozen more.

  “Of course,” Cynthia added, “while community relations is a current hot button in police work, we also let the public know that for those who do insist on committing burglary, rape, arson, homicide, we’re still in the business of solving crimes—with sharper investigative tools and tougher penalties.”

  The remark drew laughter and approving nods.

  Despite the initial skepticism, Cynthia’s speech was applauded loudly at the end, followed by many questions—so many that her first lecture ran half an hour overtime.

  As the group was filing out, one of the older officers, a heavily built uniformed commander with a lined face and graying hair, stopped beside her. “You’re a determined lady,” he said in a gravelly voice. “I’m one of the old guard, soon be out to pasture. Not saying I agree with your stuff; some I don’t. But like you said, I’ll go home and think.”

  Cynthia smiled; her own rank as major equaled an LAPD commander. “Thank you for that. Who could ask more?”

  Winslow McGowan, a tall, reedy man about Cynthia’s age, joined her and said, “Congratulations, it went well.” He waited until they were alone, then added hesitantly, “Listen, Cynthia, it’s none of my business, but ever since you arrived, you’ve seemed a bit distracted. Is everything okay, or have I messed up somehow with the arrangements?”

  Cynthia was startled; until this moment she was convinced she had kept all private thoughts to herself. But McGowan was clearly a perceptive man.

  “All the arrangements are fine,” she assured him. “Absolutely no problems.” But, she decided, she must be more careful.

  Cynthia’s concern with what was soon to occur three thousand miles away was eased by the whirlwind of activity Paige had organized. On their first morning together, Cynthia drove with Paige to work in her black Saab convertible, heading to one of the Universal sound stages, where a police thriller was being shot. They were cruising north on Interstate 405, the wind blowing through their hair.

  “Just like Thelma and Louise,” Paige laughed. She was tall and slim, with shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes. “A generic L.A. girl” was the way she described herself.

  “What’s the movie we’re going to see being filmed?” Cynthia asked.

  “Dark Justice. It’s a great story! A seven-year-old girl is murdered one night in an alley near the police station. The investigating detective is a good cop—intelligent, a family man—but the more that’s uncovered, the more the evidence points to him.”

  “The detective killed the kid?”

  “That’s how it was written. The guy has acute schizophrenia, so he doesn’t know he did it.”

  Cynthia laughed. “You have to be kidding.”

  “No, really; it’s fascinating. We have a psychiatrist on call to make sure our kooky bits are right.”

  “So what happens?”

  “Tell you the truth, I don’t know. The writers were told to change the ending after we landed Max Cormick for the role. His agent said it would ruin his career to play the murderer of a little kid. So I think we’re going to make his partner the killer now.”

  “His partner? That’s a bit predictable.”

  “You think so?” Paige sounded concerned.

  “Oh, for sure. What about the detective’s wife?”

  “The wife! Of course. Wait a second.” Excitedly, Paige picked up the car phone and hammered out a number. “Michael, listen. I’m here with an old friend who’s a Miami cop. She thinks Suzanne should be the murderer.”

  A pause. “Hold on … Cyn, why would his wife be t
he murderer?”

  Cynthia shrugged. “Maybe she’s in love with someone else and wants her husband trashed. So instead of doing it herself, she sets him up so he’ll be jailed for life or die in the gas chamber.”

  “Michael, did you hear that? … Okay, think about it.”

  Paige hung up the phone and smiled. “Now I can take you to the best restaurants in town—courtesy of the studio.”

  “What for?”

  “You’re a story consultant.”

  Paige drove into the back lot of Universal Studios, stopping outside one of the large white sound stages. Inside, the cavernous space buzzed with activity. Cynthia looked around in amazement. It was as if a genuine detective office had been dropped into the middle of the building, then surrounded with lights, scaffolding, cameras, and a regiment of people.

  She leaned into Paige’s shoulders and whispered, “Do I get to meet Max Cormick?”

  “Come.” Paige led the way to a group of chairs, where the celebrated star was waiting for his next take. He was tall and confident, about forty, with slightly gray hair and hazel eyes.

  “Max, good morning,” Paige said. “I’d like you to meet Major Cynthia Ernst. She’s from the Miami Police Department.”

  He looked confused. “We have a cop from Miami in this?”

  “No, no.” Cynthia smiled. “I’m not an actress.”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s just that … well, you look more like an actress than a cop.”

  “From all I hear, I’d make more money if I were.”

  The actor nodded with some embarrassment. “Yeah. Stupid, isn’t it?”

  “Well, maybe not. I tried acting once in school and found it tough. I was so busy trying to understand the role that it never seemed real.”

  Max Cormick took her arm and led her toward a table of food. “Major, as an actor you don’t think about acting—ever. If you do, it shows. An actor only thinks about being himself—the new self he’s just become in a world that’s now his. New life, family, job—everything!”

  Cynthia nodded, apparently with polite interest. In fact, she had memorized every word.

  August 18. Six days later.

  The door chime in Paige’s condominium sounded at 6:50 A.M. After a few seconds it sounded again.

  Cynthia, still in bed, though awake, heard the first chime, then, after the second, Paige’s muffled voice protesting, “Who the hell … at this hour …” followed by the sound of her adjoining bedroom door opening. Before she could reach the outer door, the chime sounded a third time.

  “All right, all right! I’m coming!” Paige called out with irritation.

  By now Cynthia could feel her pulse quickening, but she lay back calmly, letting what was about to happen take whatever form it would.

  At the main doorway, Paige peered through a peephole and saw a police uniform. She released two locks and a chain on the door, then opened it.

  “I’m Winslow McGowan, ma’am.” The voice was quiet and cultured. “I’ve been working with Major Ernst, who I believe is staying with you.”

  “Yes, she is. Is something wrong?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but I need to see her.”

  “Come in, sir.”

  Paige called out, “Cyn, are you up? You have a visitor.”

  Taking her time, Cynthia pulled on a robe and went out. Smiling brightly, she greeted McGowan. “Hello, Winslow. What brings you here so early?”

  Instead of answering, he asked Paige, “Is there somewhere Cynthia and I can talk quietly?”

  “Sure.” Paige gestured behind her. “Use the den. When you’re finished, call me. I’ll have coffee ready.”

  As she and McGowan sat down, Cynthia said, “You sound serious, Win. Is something wrong?” Behind the casual question her mind was working, replaying Max Cormick’s words at Universal Studios. You don’t think about acting—ever. If you do, it shows …

  “Yes,” McGowan said, answering her question. “I have some bad news, very bad news. Cynthia, you’ve got to prepare yourself.”

  “I am prepared. Just tell me!” Her voice was anxious. Then, as if she had a sudden thought, “Is it my parents?”

  McGowan nodded slowly. “It is your parents … the worst possible …”

  “Oh, no! Are they …” Cynthia stopped, as if unwilling to complete the sentence.

  “Yes, my dear. I wish there were some other way to tell you this, but … I’m afraid they are both dead.”

  Cynthia put her hands to her face and shrieked. Then she cried out, “Paige! Paige!”

  When Paige appeared, running, Cynthia screamed, “Paige, it’s my mom and dad …” As her friend’s arms enfolded her, she turned her face toward McGowan. “Is it … was it … an accident?”

  He shook his head. “No accident.” Then he said, “Cynthia, let’s take this slowly. There’s just so much a human being can handle. Right now I think you’ve had enough.”

  Paige nodded agreement, her arms tightly around Cynthia, “Sweetie, I beg you! Take it easy. Take your time.”

  It was another fifteen minutes before Cynthia—as her new self in a new scenario—absorbed the few details known so far about her parents’ murders.

  From that point on, she merely let things happen. Winslow McGowan and Paige were presuming Cynthia to be in a state of shock, an assumption she supported by her dazed, obedient behavior. McGowan, who had been joined by two more uniform officers who were making phone calls, told her quietly, “We’re arranging to get you home. I’ve canceled your remaining lectures, and you’re booked on a nonstop Miami flight early this afternoon. A department car will take you to the airport.”

  Paige chimed in, “And I’m traveling with you, Cyn. Wouldn’t dream of letting you go alone. I’ll go pack your bags. Is that okay?”

  Cynthia nodded compliantly, murmuring, “Thank you.” It would be useful to have a companion for the journey, though she wouldn’t want Paige around for long in Miami, she decided.

  Lying full length on a couch to which she had been steered, Cynthia closed her eyes, separating herself from the activity around her.

  At last, she reflected, her parents were dead, and after long years of waiting, the objective she had planned so carefully was accomplished. So why didn’t she feel the euphoria she had anticipated, but only, instead, a curious flatness? Perhaps, she thought, it was because no one other than she and Patrick Jensen would ever know the truth—the reason for the murders or her ingenious planning behind it.

  Still, she did not for a moment regret her decision. Such an ending was necessary, a need that had to be fulfilled to redress the wrong done to her. It was a suitable retribution for the loathsome, despicable way in which Gustav and Eleanor Ernst had treated her as a child, making Cynthia in so many ways the person she had become. A person whom she acknowledged that at times she didn’t like.

  Ah! There was a vital question: Would she have been different, could she have been, if it were not for the rage and hatred instilled in her by her father’s perverted abuse and her mother’s hypocritical inaction … those all-consuming hatreds that had never gone away? Of course! … Yes! … She would have been a different person … less strong, perhaps … kinder, maybe. Who knew? But in any case, the question was irrelevant—half a lifetime too late! The mold that shaped Cynthia was broken long ago. She was what she was now, and would not—could not—change …

  Her eyes were still closed when Paige’s soft voice filtered through her ruminations. “Cyn, everything’s taken care of. We leave for the airport in a few hours. Maybe for a while you should go back to bed and sleep.”

  Gratefully she did. Later, the eastward journey—thanks to Paige—passed uneventfully.

  Before arriving in Miami, Cynthia discreetly rubbed a few grains of salt into her eyes. It was a subterfuge she had learned years ago during the same school dramatics she had spoken of to Max Cormick, and the effect was to produce tears and red-rimmed eyes. During the days that followed Cynthia shed no genuine tear
s, but more salt and residual red eyes helped.

  Apart from that pretense of grief, from her moment of arrival onward, Cynthia let it be known that her strength and composure had returned, and set out to learn whatever was known about her parents’ murders. Her own police status, providing immediate access to all units of the Police Department, made that simple.

  On her second day back, Cynthia visited her parents’ mansion in Bay Point, now encircled by yellow police tape. Inside a main-floor drawing room she talked with Sergeant Brewmaster, in charge of the Homicide investigation.

  His first words on seeing her were, “Major, I want to say how terrible we all feel …” but she stopped him with a gesture.

  “Hank, I appreciate that, and I’m grateful. But if I hear too much of it, especially from an old friend like you, I might break down. Please understand.”

  Brewmaster said, “Yes, I do, ma’am. And I promise we’ll do every last thing we can to nail the bastard who …” His own voice, choking too, trailed off.

  “I want to hear everything you know,” Cynthia told him. “From what I’ve heard already, I gather you see my parents’ deaths as some kind of serial killings.”

  Brewmaster nodded. “It does look that way, a definite pattern, though there are slight differences.” That jackass Patrick, she thought. “First, though, have you heard about the Homicide conference two days ago—just before your parents’ deaths—when Malcolm Ainslie linked four earlier double murders with the Bible and the book of Revelation?”

  She shook her head, a slight anxiety stirring.

  “When we started looking at those four cases,” Brewmaster continued, “laying the details out, there were what you’d call symbols left at each scene. It was Malcolm—because he knows about that stuff from being a priest—who recognized what they meant.”

  Cynthia looked confused. “You keep saying four double murders. I thought there were only two previous ones that seemed to match.”

  “Well, there was another one—the Urbinas in Pine Terrace—also like those others, and only three days before your parents’ deaths. And even before that, there turned out to be one more we hadn’t heard about.” Brewmaster described Ruby Bowe’s revelation, at the Homicide conference, of the overlooked BOLO from Clearwater and the similar slayings there of Hal and Mabel Larsen. “Those Clearwater killings happened about midway between the Frost and Hennenfeld cases.”