Detective

  Although police arrived too late to save Kingsley and Nellie Tempone, they were in time to catch Elroy Doil, who was still on the victims’ property, his gloved hands and clothing covered in their blood. Ivan, after being treated for shock, described the attack with such clarity and composure that Adele Montesino knew he would be convincing on the witness stand.

  “But if we prosecute those other cases as well,” the state attorney continued, “we do not, in any one, have the same positive, incontestable proof. Yes, there’s circumstantial evidence. We can prove opportunity, and that Doil was close by when the killings happened, and that he has no alibis. From the first serial killing there’s a partial palm print that is almost certainly Doil’s, though our fingerprint technicians caution there are only seven matching points, instead of the nine or ten needed for a positive ID. Also, Dr. Sanchez said a bowie knife, which killed the Tempones, is not the same knife used on other victims. Oh, I know he could have had several knives, and probably did, but the police haven’t found another.

  “So you can be sure any defense lawyer would make the most of those weaknesses. And if the defense infused enough doubt into those other murders, a jury could begin wondering if our one airtight, certain case—the Tempones—is also questionable.

  “Look, we’re going to get a guilty verdict for the Tempones, which will send Doil to the chair. We can only kill the man once. Right?”

  Despite the protests, the state attorney declined to alter her tactic. In the end, though, what Montesino had not foreseen was that her failure to charge Doil with at least one other double murder out of a presumed total of twelve serial killings would create a post-trial impression—especially among anti-capital-punishment crusaders—that some doubt existed overall, even extending to the one case where Doil was found guilty and sentenced to death.

  Doil’s eventual trial for the Tempone killings—as Malcolm Ainslie remembered—abounded with confrontations, stormy polemics, and even violence.

  Since the defendant had no financial resources, the presiding judge, Rudy Olivadotti, appointed an experienced criminal trial attorney, Willard Steltzer, to represent Doil.

  Steltzer was well known in Miami’s legal community, in part for brilliance in court, but also for his eccentric appearance and manner. At forty he still refused to conform to the traditional lawyer’s dress code, opting for antique suits and ties, generally from the fifties and bought at specialty shops. He also wore his long, coal-black hair in a braid.

  True to form, Steltzer’s first action as Doil’s attorney rankled both the prosecution and Judge Olivadotti. Arguing that it would be impossible to find an impartial jury in Dade County, owing to widespread publicity, Steltzer filed a motion for a change of venue.

  The judge, despite his irritation, ruled in favor of the motion and the trial was moved to Jacksonville, Florida—nearly four hundred miles north of Miami.

  As another defense ploy, Steltzer sought to have his client declared insane. He cited Doil’s fits of rage, the fact that he had been abused as a child, a ferocious violence demonstrated in prison, and his habitual lying, underscored by Doil’s insistence that he was never anywhere near the Tempone home, despite evidence that even defense counsel admitted was conclusive.

  They were all valid reasons for possible insanity, Steltzer believed, and again Judge Olivadotti reluctantly agreed. He ordered Doil to be examined by three state-certified psychiatrists, whose study lasted four months.

  At the end, the psychiatrists concluded that, yes, all of the assessments of Elroy Doil’s nature and habits submitted by his defense attorney were true. However, these did not make Doil insane. The crucial issue was that he knew the difference between right and wrong. The judge thereupon declared Doil to be mentally competent and ordered him to stand trial for first-degree murder.

  Doil’s presence at his trial was unlikely to be forgotten by anyone who attended it. He was an enormous man, standing six feet four and weighing two hundred and ninety pounds. His facial features were large, his chest broad and muscular, his hands immense. Everything about Elroy Doil was oversized, including his ego. Each day he moved into the courtroom with a superior, menacing swagger and a sneer. The combination made him seem indifferent, at times, to events around him—an attitude that persisted throughout his trial and beyond. One reporter wrote in a summation, “Elroy Doil might just as well have asked for his own conviction.”

  What might have helped him, as it had on past occasions, would have been the presence of his mother, who was wise in the ways of crime and the law. But Beulah Doil had died several years earlier of AIDS.

  As it was, Doil remained abusive and hostile. Even during jury selection he blurted out such remarks to his counsel as, “Get that fucking grease monkey out of here!”—speaking of a garage mechanic whom Willard Steltzer had been on the verge of approving as a juror. Because a defendant’s wishes count, Steltzer was forced to reverse himself, then use a precious peremptory challenge for dismissal.

  Again, when a dignified black woman showed some empathy toward Doil, he shouted, “That dumb nigger couldn’t see the truth if it ran over her.” The woman was excused.

  At that point the judge, who until now had refrained from comment, cautioned the accused, “Mr. Doil, you had better settle down and be quiet.”

  There was a pause while Willard Steltzer, visibly disturbed and clenching his client’s arm, spoke seriously into Doil’s ear. After that the interruptions ceased during jury selection, but resumed when the main trial proceedings began.

  A Dade County medical examiner, Dr. Sandra Sanchez, was on the witness stand. She had testified that a bowie knife, bearing the victims’ blood and found in Elroy Doil’s possession, was the actual weapon that killed Kingsley and Nellie Tempone.

  At that point Doil, his face twisted with rage, rose from the defense table and shouted, “You fucking bitch, why you tell them lies? All lies! It ain’t my knife. I wasn’t even there.”

  Judge Olivadotti, a martinet with lawyers but known for giving a defendant all the latitude he could, now warned sternly, “Mr. Doil, if you do not remain silent, I am going to have to take extreme measures to keep you quiet. This is a serious warning.”

  To which Doil responded, “Screw you, Judge. I’m tired of sitting here, listening to all this bullshit. This ain’t no court of justice. You already made up your minds, so execute me, goddammit! Get it over with!”

  Flushed with anger, the judge addressed Willard Steltzer: “Counsel, I order you to talk some sense into your client. This is my final warning. Court is adjourned for fifteen minutes.”

  After the adjournment, Doil was fidgety but silent while two crime-scene specialists testified. Then, when Ainslie took the stand and described the arrest at the Tempone murder scene, Doil exploded. Leaping from his seat, he raced across the court and hurled himself at Ainslie, screaming obscenities. “Crooked conniving cop … I wasn’t even there … fucking priest, disgraced. God hates you! … Bastard, liar …”

  As Doil pounded with his fists, Ainslie barely protected himself, raising one arm as a shield, and did not strike back. In seconds, two bailiffs and a prison officer threw themselves on Doil. Pulling him clear, they locked his arms behind him, wrestled handcuffs into place, then slammed him face forward to the ground.

  Once more, Judge Olivadotti adjourned the trial.

  When it resumed, Elroy Doil was tightly gagged, and handcuffed to a heavy chair. The judge addressed him sternly.

  “Never before, Mr. Doil, at any court proceeding, have I ordered a defendant restrained as you are now, and I regret this action greatly. But your disorderly behavior and abusive language leave me no choice. However, if your counsel comes to me tomorrow, before this trial resumes, with your solemn promise of good behavior for however long these proceedings take, I will consider having the restraints removed. But I caution that if your promise is broken, there will be no second chance; the restraints will be reinstated for the remainder of this trial.”

&n
bsp; The next day, Steltzer did make the promise on behalf of his client, and Doil’s gag was removed, though the handcuffs remained. Before the day’s proceedings were an hour old, Doil leaped up in his chair and screamed at the judge, “Go fuck your mother, you asshole!” after which the gag was reinstated and remained in place for the duration of the trial.

  On both occasions when the restraints were ordered, the judge cautioned the jury, “The restrictions I have placed upon the defendant must have no effect on your verdict. You are concerned here solely with the evidence presented.”

  Ainslie remembered thinking how impossible it was for the jurors to ignore the image of Doil’s courtroom histrionics. But whether that influenced a decision or not, at the conclusion of a six-day trial, and after five hours of deliberation, the jury returned with a unanimous verdict: “Guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  A sentence of death inevitably followed. Subsequently, while still insisting on his innocence, Doil refused to cooperate in any appeal process and stubbornly denied others the right to appeal on his behalf. Even so, substantial paperwork was needed before the legal machinery ground out an execution date. The law’s tedious process between sentencing and execution took a year and seven months.

  But now, inexorably, the day had come, and with it the tantalizing question: What did Doil want to say to Ainslie in the closing moments of his life?

  If they made it in time …

  Jorge was still speeding north on Highway 441 in the mist and rain.

  Ainslie checked the time: 5:48.

  He reached for his notepad and the cellular phone, then tapped out the number. There was a curt answer on the first ring.

  “State Prison.”

  “Lieutenant Hambrick, please.”

  “This is Hambrick. Is this Sergeant Ainslie?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m about twenty minutes away.”

  “Well, you’ve cut it fine, but we’ll do our best when you get here. You understand, though—nothing can be delayed?”

  “I understand that.”

  “Do you have your escort yet?”

  “No … Wait! I see a traffic light ahead.”

  Jorge nodded vigorously as two green lights came into view.

  “Turn right at the light,” Hambrick instructed. “Your escort is around the corner. We’re alerting Trooper Sequiera now. He’ll be rolling when you get there.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay, listen carefully. Follow Sequiera closely. You’re already cleared through our outer gate, the main gate, and two checkpoints after that. The tower will spotlight you, but keep moving. Stop at the front entrance to Administration. I’ll be waiting. Got all that?”

  “Got it.”

  “I presume you’re armed, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “We’ll immediately enter the control room, where you’ll hand over all weapons, ammunition, and police ID. Be ready. Who’s driving you?”

  “Detective Jorge Rodriguez. Plainclothes.”

  “We’ll give him separate instructions when you get here. Listen, Sergeant. You’ve got to move fast, okay?”

  “I’ll be ready, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

  Ainslie turned to Jorge and asked, “Could you hear all that?”

  “Got it all, Sergeant.”

  The traffic light ahead turned red, but Jorge ignored it. Barely slowing, he entered the four-way intersection and swung right. Directly ahead, a Highway Patrol black-and-yellow Mercury Marquis, bristling with roof antennae and flashing emergency lights, was already moving. The Miami blue-and-white fell in behind, and within seconds the two were a single eye-catching coruscation hurtling headlong through the night.

  Later, when Ainslie attempted to recall that final portion of the four-hundred-mile journey, he found that all he could remember was a vague flashing montage. As best he could calculate later, they covered the last twenty-two miles of minor, twisting roads in less than fourteen minutes. Once, he noticed, their speed reached ninety-two miles per hour.

  Some checkpoints were known to Ainslie from previous journeys. First the small town of Waldo, then Gainesville Airport to the right; they must have passed both so fast that neither registered. Then Starke, the dismal dormitory town of Raiford; he knew there were modest houses, prosaic stores, cheap motels, cluttered gas stations, but he saw none of them. Beyond Starke was an interval of gloom … an impression of trees … all lost in a miasma of haste.

  “We’re here,” Jorge said. “There’s Raiford, up ahead.”

  5

  Florida State Prison looked like a mammoth fortress, and it was. So were two other prisons immediately beyond.

  Paradoxically, the State Prison was officially in the town of Starke, not Raiford. The other two, which were in Raiford, were Raiford Prison and the Union Correctional Institute. But it was Florida State Prison that contained Death Row, and it was here that all executions took place.

  Looming ahead of Ainslie and Jorge was an immense succession of high, grimly austere concrete structures, a mile-long complex punctuated by row after row of narrow and stoutly barred cellblock windows. A functional one-story building, jutting forward, housed the State Prison Administration. Another concrete mass to one side, three stories high and windowless, contained the prison workshops.

  Three heavy-duty chain-link fences enclosed it all, each fence thirty feet high and topped with rolls of concertina barbed wire and a series of live electrical wires. At intervals along the fences, tall concrete towers, nine in all, were manned by guards armed with rifles, machine guns, tear gas, and searchlights. From there they could view the entire prison. The three fences created parallel twin enclosures. Within the enclosures, trained attack dogs roamed, among them German shepherds and pit bulls.

  Approaching the State Prison, both the Highway Patrol and Miami Police cars slowed, and Jorge, who was seeing the complex for the first time, whistled softly.

  “It’s hard to believe,” Ainslie said, “but a few guys have actually escaped from here. Most of them didn’t get very far, though.” He glanced at the dashboard clock—6:02 A.M.—and was reminded that Elroy Doil would be escaping in less than an hour, in the grimmest way of all.

  Jorge shook his head. “If this were my home, I’d sure as hell try to escape.”

  The State Prison’s outer gate and a large parking lot beyond were bathed in lights. The parking area was bustling—unusual for this time of day, but public interest in the Doil execution had lured many reporters to the scene, and at least a hundred others now milled around, hoping for a hint of the latest developments. Several TV mobile trucks were parked nearby.

  As usual, demonstrators stood in small groups, chanting slogans. Some bore signs denouncing today’s execution and capital punishment in general; others held lighted candles.

  A new breed of protesters held placards reading YOUR TAXES ARE PAYING FOR THIS SUICIDE and STOP STATE-SPONSORED SUICIDE. These were mainly young lawyers or their supporters who objected to condemned murderers like Elroy Doil being allowed to decide against the prolonged process of appeal.

  After every death sentence, one appeal went automatically to the Florida Supreme Court, but if that was rejected, as most were, further appeals could take ten years or more of legal effort. Now, instead, some prisoners accepted the death penalty for their crimes and let it happen. The state governor had wisely ruled that if a condemned prisoner made that decision, it was part of his or her freedom of choice and not “suicide.” As to the objecting lawyers, the governor commented acidly, “They are less concerned about condemned prisoners having another day in court than about having their own day in court.”

  Ainslie wondered how much thought, if any, the demonstrators gave to the silent: a murderer’s victims.

  Driving past the parking lot, Ainslie and Jorge neared the main gate, a two-lane entranceway with uniformed figures standing guard. Normally at this point all arrivals were asked for identification documents and questioned about their business at
the prison. Instead, uniformed guards in distinctive kelly green pants and white shirts waved both police cars through. At the same time a tower searchlight encompassed the two cars and tracked them toward the prison buildings. Ainslie and Jorge put up hands to shield their eyes.

  They were similarly cleared through two other checkpoints and, within seconds, were approaching the Administration building. Ainslie had visited the prison several times before, usually to interview crime suspects, and once to arrest an inmate on new charges, but never had he reached the interior so quickly.

  The Highway Patrol car stopped at the Administration entrance, and Jorge maneuvered the Miami blue-and-white alongside.

  As Ainslie stepped out, he saw a tall, slender black man, wearing a prison guard’s uniform with a lieutenant’s rank badges, move forward. Probably in his mid-forties, he had a trim mustache and wore half-glasses over penetrating eyes. On one cheek was a long scar. His speech was brisk and confident as he put out his hand. “Sergeant Ainslie, I’m Hambrick.”

  “Good morning, Lieutenant. Thanks for the arrangements.”

  “No problem; let’s just keep moving.” The lieutenant led the way inside, walking quickly down a brightly lit hallway—a tightly controlled linkage between the strict security outside and the formidable cellblocks ahead. The two paused briefly for clearance through two separate sets of electrically operated steel gates, then a thick steel door opening to a main cellblock corridor, as wide as a four-lane highway and running the length of the prison’s seven cellblocks.

  Hambrick and Ainslie stopped outside a secure control room enclosed by steel and bulletproof glass. Inside were two male guards and a female lieutenant. The lieutenant approached the two men standing outside and slid a metal drawer outward; Ainslie inserted his Glock 9mm automatic pistol, a fifteen-round ammunition clip, and his police ID. The items were drawn inside the control room, where they would be placed in a safe until retrieved. No one had asked him about the recording device under his coat, which he had strapped on in the car. He decided not to volunteer the information.