Then the unexpected happened.
Three days after the armored truck perpetrators were arrested, when routines in Homicide were beginning to return to normal, the Dade County assistant medical examiner phoned Malcolm Ainslie.
Sandra Sanchez said, “When we last met, Malcolm, I promised to look among old autopsy records for any unresolved deaths with similar wound patterns. Well, I have, and I’m sorry it took so long, but what I’ve been searching through is old stuff, papers that aren’t computerized—”
“Don’t apologize,” Ainslie said. “The point is, have you found anything?”
“Yes, I think so. It’s in a file with a lot of other material, and I’ve sent the whole lot over to you by messenger. The case is an old, unsolved killing seventeen years ago, with two elderly victims named Esperanza—Clarence and Florentina.”
“Are any suspects named?”
“There’s one. But look, I don’t want to tell you any more because you must read through the file. Call me when you’re finished.”
The file arrived a short time later. As Sanchez had indicated, it contained a lot of paper. Without expecting too much, Ainslie opened the now-faded cover and began to read.
The Esperanzas were both in their early seventies and lived in the Happy Haven Trailer Park in West Dade. Their bodies, discovered by a neighbor, were gagged and bound and in seated positions, facing each other. Both the man and woman had been brutally beaten and had suffered deep knife cuts. The official cause of both deaths was exsanguination—loss of blood resulting from wounds.
Ainslie skipped through the remaining medical papers, then found a copy of a police report that revealed the Esperanzas were comfortably off, though not wealthy. They had three thousand dollars in a bank account and, according to a nephew who lived nearby, the couple usually had several hundred dollars in cash on hand for their immediate needs. After the murders, no cash whatever was found.
At the back of the file, as Ainslie flipped more pages, he saw a familiar Form 301—a Homicide investigation report. It concerned a juvenile suspect who had been interrogated concerning the Esperanzas’ deaths, then released for lack of evidence.
A name on the 301 leaped out at him. Elroy Doil.
10
In conformity with Florida law, Elroy Doil’s juvenile crime record had been sealed when he reached the age of eighteen. At that point it became inaccessible to investigators except with a judicial order, which was rarely granted. Similar laws existed in most other states.
In Malcolm Ainslie’s opinion, shared by many in law enforcement, the procedure was a legal anachronism, absurdly out of date, and a brazen disservice to law-abiding citizens. During a meeting with Lieutenant Newbold the morning after the discovery of Elroy Doil’s name on the old Form 301, Ainslie spread out papers on the lieutenant’s desk, his anger barely contained.
“This is insane! There are things here we should have known a year ago.”
An hour earlier he had unearthed a file on the unsolved Esperanza killings from a storeroom containing old records. It was not a complete accounting because the crime occurred outside Miami, in Metro-Dade territory. But inquiries had extended across borders, and Miami Homicide opened its own Esperanza file, which included some Metro-Dade memos about the crime. It was among the latter that Ainslie found reference to the interrogation of Doil, which Sandra Sanchez had reported. But without the Sanchez tip there would have been no reason to disinter the long-ago file.
“Of course,” Newbold pointed out, “Doil was never arrested or charged.”
“Because his mother was smart enough not to let Elroy be fingerprinted. A knife was found near the murder scene with fingerprints on it, and both victims’ blood. A bowie knife. Metro-Dade Homicide wanted to compare those prints with Doil’s, and they were pretty sure they’d match. But because there wasn’t enough evidence for an arrest, plus Elroy being a juvenile, it never happened.”
Newbold agreed, “That’s sure a lot of coincidence.”
“Coincidence? The Esperanza MO at that trailer camp was the same as we’re seeing now. The way the bodies have been found—gagged, facing each other—then the beatings, knife cuts, stolen money. If we’d had Doil’s early records, those MO’s would have been matched and we’d have been all over him long ago.” Ainslie leaned forward staring fiercely. “Do you know how many lives we might have saved?”
Newbold stood up and glared back. “Hey, Sergeant, they’re not my laws! Now back off!”
Ainslie slumped into the chair behind him and sighed. “Sorry. But, Leo, our whole juvenile system is crazy, not just in Florida but everywhere. There isn’t just juvenile crime anymore; at whatever age, it’s plain, simple crime—you know it as well as I do. Every day we see murders committed by kids—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, for God’s sake! Or younger. Of all weapons arrests, more than half involve teenagers. In Detroit a woman was murdered by boys of eleven and fourteen. Two twelve-year-olds in Chicago threw a kid of five from a high-rise. In England two ten-year-old boys killed a two-year-old. It’s the same with robberies, assaults, rapes, carjackings, you name it. Yet here we are, policemen, law enforcers, handcuffed by this ridiculous, archaic system that should have been thrown out years ago.”
“You’re suggesting that juvenile records shouldn’t be sealed at all?”
“Damn right I am! Every crime should go on record, stay there, and be available to investigators from that point on. If parents and the ACLU don’t like it, screw ’em! You break the law, it goes on your record. That’s the price to be paid—that should be paid—no matter what your age.”
“There’s been talk in the Department about petitioning state government along those lines,” Newbold said. “Send me a memo with the details about Doil, plus your opinions, and I’ll pass it on. Then, if there’s a public hearing, I’ll recommend you as a witness, and you can sound off all you want.”
“I’ll write the memo,” Ainslie said. “But I doubt they’d want me to appear.”
Newbold said sharply, “Don’t write that off, or yourself, either.” His eyes met Ainslie’s directly. “My influence isn’t as great as that of some other people we know. But I have friends, upstairs and upstate, who listen to me.”
So, Ainslie thought, Newbold knew about Cynthia Ernst blocking his promotion, and had probably guessed the rest. None of it surprised Ainslie. The Police Department could be a small place, where rumors and gossip ran rampant, leaping departmental barriers and every rank.
“So what do you plan next?” Newbold asked. “You’ll seek an order to have Doil’s record opened, I presume.”
“I’m working on that now. I’ve phoned Curzon Knowles; he’s drafting the affidavit. I’ll take it to Judge Powell. We don’t want this talked about yet, and he won’t ask too many questions.”
“Your buddy Phelan Powell?” Newbold smiled. “As I recall, His Honor has obliged you often. If I asked what you’ve got on him, you wouldn’t tell me, of course.”
“I’m his illegitimate son,” Ainslie deadpanned.
Newbold laughed. “That would mean he knocked up your mother when he was what? Twelve? So it’s something else, but never mind. In this game we all accumulate our debits and credits.”
On that score, of course, Newbold was right.
Many years before, when Detective Ainslie was new on plainclothes duty, he and his partner, Ian Deane, drove into an alley one night and saw a light blue Cadillac ahead. As they drew closer, a partially naked white male emerged from the driver’s side, hurriedly pulling on trousers, and from the other side appeared a scantily dressed young black girl. The detectives recognized both. The girl was a prostitute named Wanda, the man a circuit court judge, Phelan Powell, before whom both detectives had appeared as witnesses on numerous occasions. Powell was tall and athletically built and normally had a commanding personality. This moment was an exception.
He and Wanda shielded their eyes from the headlights, trying desperately to recognize the figures emerging from the c
ar behind them.
As Ainslie and Deane moved closer, momentarily blocking the lights, Wanda emitted a resigned, “Oh fuck!” The judge, in contrast, looked dazed. Then, slowly, the reality of his predicament crystallized.
“Oh my God! Detectives.” His voice was desperate and strained. “I beg of you—please, please overlook this! I’ve been an idiot … gave in to sudden temptation. This isn’t my way, but if you report it, I’ll be disgraced, finished!” He paused and the three men exchanged awkward glances. “Officers, if you’ll just let this pass, this one time, please! … I’ll never forget … And whatever I can do for you, I will.”
Fleetingly, Ainslie wondered how the judge would have responded to his own plea.
In fact, if an arrest had been made by Ainslie and Deane, or a citation issued, the charges against Powell would have been “soliciting a prostitute” and “loitering and prowling.” Both were misdemeanors, for which, assuming this was a first offense, the penalty at most would be a fine; the charge might even be dismissed. But the judge’s judicial career would be over.
Ainslie, who was the senior officer, hesitated. He knew the principle of law: justice should be blind, never drawing distinctions. On the other hand …
Without analyzing, or consciously debating a decision, Ainslie said to Deane, “I think I heard a radio call. We should get back to the car.”
And so, the detectives left.
Over the years that followed, nothing was ever said, by Ainslie or Judge Powell, about that incident. Ainslie told no one, and Detective Ian Deane was killed soon afterward in a shootout during an Overtown drug raid.
But the judge kept his promise. Whenever Ainslie appeared before him as arresting officer or witness, he was treated with utmost courtesy and consideration. There were also times when Ainslie had gone to Judge Powell, seeking quick judicial action in a matter of investigative importance, and he invariably received it—as he hoped to do now.
Before leaving Homicide, Ainslie phoned the judge’s office. Across the years, Phelan Powell had advanced in the judiciary and was now a member of the Third District Court of Appeals. Ainslie explained the situation to a secretary and after a short wait was told, “The judge is about to begin a hearing. But if you come to the court he’ll call a recess and see you in chambers.”
On the way, Ainslie stopped at the state attorney’s office, where Curzon Knowles had prepared the required form. When signed by Judge Powell, it would unseal the juvenile record of Elroy Doil. The whole procedure was complicated and time-consuming—another reason why it seldom happened.
A bailiff in the Third District courtroom had obviously been given orders, and the moment Ainslie appeared he was escorted to a front-row seat. Judge Powell looked up, nodded, and almost at once announced, “Let us take a fifteen-minute recess. An urgent matter has come up that requires my attention.”
Everyone in court then rose, the judge retired through a door behind him, and the same bailiff escorted Ainslie to the judge’s chambers.
Judge Powell, already at his desk, looked up, smiling. “Come in; it’s good to see you, Sergeant.” He motioned Ainslie to a chair. “Let me guess—Miami Homicide is still in business.”
“For all eternity—the way it looks, Your Honor.” Seated, facing Phelan Powell, Ainslie described his mission. The judge was still an imposing figure, though over the years he had put on weight and his hair was almost white. Along with the signs of age were symptoms of strain; Ainslie supposed it went with the job. Appeal courts nowadays were heavily burdened, and even high rankers like Powell could be reversed by another appeal level above them—supporting the view, some said, that little had changed since Dickens wrote, “The law is a ass.”
At the end of Ainslie’s spiel, Powell nodded. “Okay, Sergeant, happy to help you out. Just to make everything regular, I should ask why you want this juvenile record unsealed.”
“The record was sealed twelve years ago, Your Honor. Mr. Doil is now a suspect in a serious crime, and we believe some earlier details will help our investigation.”
“So be it. Let’s break that seal. I see you’ve brought the papers.”
Ainslie passed them across.
In front of any other judge, he knew, the answer he had given to the single question would be dismissed as inadequate. And there would be other questions, more intense, perhaps even combative. Judges loved their prerogatives; many insisted on a verbal fencing match before approving anything. But what Ainslie wanted was a minimal number of people to know that Elroy Doil was now a prime suspect in the serial killings. The fact that Ainslie had not had to explain more details meant there was less chance that the opening of Doil’s record would be talked about, or that Doil himself would find out he was under suspicion.
“All this looks in order,” Judge Powell said. “Now the ritual is, I have to swear you in, but since we’ve known each other so long, let’s take that for granted. You know the terms of the oath, and I’ve sworn you in. Okay?”
“I’m duly sworn, Your Honor.”
A fast signing by Powell and it was done.
“I’d like to stay longer and talk,” the judge said, “but they’re waiting for me out there, and the lawyers are on metered time. You know how it is.”
“Yes, Judge. And thank you.”
They shook hands. At the doorway Powell turned back.
“Any other time you need my help, don’t hesitate to come. You know I mean that—any time.”
As the judge disappeared through his private doorway to the bench, Ainslie heard the bailiff’s call: “All rise!”
Criminal Records was in the Metro-Dade Police Department Building, west of Miami International Airport. There, after more form filling and signing, the juvenile file of Elroy Doil was produced and opened in Ainslie’s presence. He was free to study the file in a private room down the hall. He could make whatever copies he needed, but not take any part of the file away.
The file was bulkier than he’d expected. When he examined the papers, it became evident that Doil’s skirmishes with the law were far greater than even Ainslie had believed.
He counted thirty-two apprehensions by police (with juveniles the word “arrest” was not used), resulting in twenty misdemeanor convictions, undoubtedly a mere sampling of the total number of offenses Doil had committed in his young life.
The record began when Elroy was ten years old—a charge of shoplifting a Timex watch. At eleven he was panhandling on a street corner, begging for money at his mother’s instigation, and was taken home by police. At twelve he assaulted a woman teacher, inflicting bruises and a cut lip that required stitches. After questioning by the police, Elroy was released to his mother, Beulah Doil—a pattern that continued for years and was common with juvenile offenders. A few months later, Elroy was involved with a street gang specializing in purse snatching, and again he was apprehended, then “released to mother.” Another purse snatching at thirteen was accompanied by an assault on an elderly woman—with the same outcome.
What the Doil file demonstrated, Ainslie thought, was that most juvenile crime was simply not taken seriously, either by police or the courts. He knew from his own experience that a police officer could “apprehend” a juvenile at 9:00 A.M. and before the officer went off duty at 3:00 P.M. the same offender would be back on the streets. In the meantime the parents would have been called to Police Headquarters, where the juvenile was released to their custody—incident closed.
Even when a juvenile was taken to court, penalties were minor—usually a few days’ detention at Youth Hall, a not-unpleasant place where the kids stayed in fairly comfortable rooms, played video games, and watched TV.
Many believed the overall system, or lack of it, spawned lifelong criminals who became convinced, as minors, that crime was incredibly easy to get away with. Even the counselors of juveniles shared that belief and confirmed it in reports.
Counselors were assigned to juvenile offenders after two apprehensions. These were underpaid, overworked
individuals with little or no special training, and of whom a college degree was not required. Each counselor, burdened with an impossibly large caseload, was expected to give advice to juveniles and parents—advice that was largely ignored.
Elroy Doil apparently had the same counselor, one Herbert Elders, throughout his juvenile crime career. The file contained several single-page sheets headed INFORMATION REPORT ONLY, all written by Elders, who seemed to have done his best in difficult circumstances. One report, written when Doil was “thirteen, but big for his age and very strong,” warned of “a probability of long-term violence.” The same report noted “indifference” from Doil’s mother when confronted with the problem.
Ainslie was especially interested in an episode in which Doil, then thirteen, was caught torturing a cat to death. He had cut off the cat’s legs one by one, then its tail, using a knife that, according to the report, he habitually carried. He was caught watching the cat writhe in agony as it died. This produced a charge of “cruelty to an animal,” resulting in a fine of a hundred dollars. The record did not say who paid it.
Another “Information Report Only,” also by Elders, referred to Elroy’s involvement at age twelve in Operation Guidance, a city-sponsored program for underprivileged kids. Father Kevin O’Brien directed the program at Miami’s Gesu Church; it included meals, sports, and Bible study every Sunday in the church’s fenced-in grounds. Elders referred hopefully to Elroy’s “awakening interest in religion and the Bible.”
However, another report a year and a half later recorded dismally that religion had not curbed Doil’s misdemeanors, nor had his religious-biblical fervor, which, according to Father O’Brien, was “erroneous and incoherent.”
Ainslie scribbled down Father O’Brien’s phone number and address.
Across the remaining years until Doil reached eighteen, the record showed an orgy of offenses, none of which had ever required Doil to be fingerprinted. A juvenile’s fingerprints could only be taken after an arrest for a felony or with a parent’s permission, which, according to the file, Beulah Doil consistently refused to give.