“Let’s move it,” Hambrick said, but at the same moment a group of about twenty people emerged from the hallway behind and blocked their way. The newcomers were well-dressed visitors; all appeared intent and serious as prison guards hustled them through the corridor. Glancing at Ainslie, Hambrick mouthed the word “Witnesses.”
Ainslie realized the group was headed for the execution chamber—“twelve respectable citizens” as required by law, plus others whose presence the prison governor had approved, though there were always more applicants for execution viewing than available seats. The limit was twenty-four. The witnesses would have been assembled not far away and brought to the prison by bus. It was a sign that events were moving on schedule as 7:00 A.M. approached.
Scanning the group of faces, Ainslie recognized a woman state senator and two men who were members of the state House of Representatives. Politicians were competitive about attending executions, hoping their presence at such weighty law-and-order scenes would garner votes. Then he was startled to see one face: Miami City Commissioner Cynthia Ernst, who had once been important in his life, but he realized why she would want to watch Animal Doil’s execution.
For a moment their eyes met, and Ainslie felt a sharp intake of breath, the effect she invariably had on him. He sensed, too, that she was aware of his presence, though made no acknowledgment and, as she moved by, her expression remained cool.
Moments later the witnesses were gone and Lieutenant Hambrick and Ainslie moved on.
“The superintendent is letting you use his Death Facility office to talk with Doil,” Hambrick said. “We’ll bring him to you there. He’s already been through preparation.” The lieutenant glanced at his watch. “You’ll have about half an hour, not much more. By the way, have you ever watched an execution?”
“Yes, once.” It had been three years ago. At the request of a bereaved family, Ainslie had accompanied a young husband and wife who chose to witness the death of a habitual criminal who had raped, then killed their eight-year-old daughter. Ainslie, who had solved the case, had gone as a duty, but had found the experience unsettling.
“You’re going to see another,” Hambrick said. “Doil asked for you to be a witness, and it’s been approved.”
“No one asked me,” Ainslie rejoined. “But I suppose that’s not relevant.”
Hambrick shrugged, then said, “I’ve talked to Doil. He seems to have some special feeling about you. I’m not sure admiration is right; respect maybe. Did you get close to him in some way?”
“Never!” Ainslie was emphatic. “I arrested the son of a bitch for murder, and that’s all. Besides, he hates me. At his trial he attacked me, called me ‘perjurer,’ ‘crooked cop,’ stuff like that.”
“Nuts like Doil change moods like you and I shift gears. He doesn’t feel that way now.”
“Makes no difference. I’m only here to get some answers before he dies. Apart from that, my feelings for the guy are zero.”
They continued walking while Hambrick digested what had been said. Then he asked, “Is it true you were once a priest?”
“Yes. Did Doil tell you?”
Hambrick nodded. “As far as he’s concerned, you still are. I was there last night when he asked for you to come. He was spouting something from the Bible; about vengeance and repaying.”
Ainslie nodded. “Yeah, it’s from Romans: ‘Give place unto wrath; for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’”
“That’s it. Then Doil called you ‘God’s avenging angel,’ and the message I got was that you meant more to him than a priest. Did the Father tell you all that when he phoned?”
Ainslie shook his head; already depressed by these surroundings, he wished he were at home, having breakfast with Karen and Jason. Well, at least what he had just learned explained Ray Uxbridge’s antagonism on the phone and the priest’s tirade about a “blasphemous charade.”
They had reached the Death Facility, or “Death House,” as it was usually called. It occupied all three floors of a cellblock building and contained Death Row, where condemned prisoners lived while exercising their appeal rights and later awaited their turn for execution. Ainslie knew of the other areas—an ultra-Spartan “ready cell” where a prisoner spent the final sixty-five hours of life continuously under observation; a preparation room, its centerpiece a decrepit barber chair where a condemned’s head and right leg were shaved before execution in order to provide good electrical contacts; and finally the execution chamber containing the electric chair—“Ol’ Sparky,” as prisoners called it—where there were seats for witnesses and, shielded from view, the executioner’s booth.
Within the execution chamber, Ainslie knew, preparations would have been going on for the past several hours. The chief electrician would have been first on the scene, to connect the electric chair with the power source and to check voltages, a fail-safe bar, and the ultimate control with which the black-robed, hooded executioner sent two thousand volts into a condemned prisoner’s skull in automatic eight-cycle bursts. The massive electric charge brought death within two minutes, though unconsciousness was supposedly instant and painless. There were doubts about the painlessness, but they were unresolvable because no one ever survived to report on the experience.
Also inside the execution chamber, within sight of the electric chair, was a red telephone. Immediately before an execution, the prison warden spoke with the state governor on that phone, seeking final permission to proceed. Similarly, the governor could call the warden, even seconds before the death control was thrown, ordering a stay of execution, perhaps on the basis of last-minute evidence, a ruling from the U.S. Supreme Court, or some other judicial cause. It had happened, and could even happen today.
Though unwritten and unofficial, there was a rule that every execution was delayed by one minute—a precaution in case the red phone rang a few seconds late. Thus Doil’s execution, though scheduled for 7:00 A.M., would not take place until 7:01.
“This is it,” Hambrick announced. They had come to a sturdy wooden door that he opened with a key. Then, inside, he turned a switch, illuminating a windowless, boxlike room about twenty-four feet square. It was furnished with a plain wooden desk and tilt-back chair, a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor in front of the desk, and a small table to one side. Nothing else.
“The super doesn’t use this much,” Hambrick said. “Only when we have executions.” He motioned to the chair behind the desk. “That’s where you sit, Sergeant. I’ll be back soon.”
During the lieutenant’s absence, Ainslie switched on the recorder concealed beneath his clothing.
In less than five minutes Hambrick was back, accompanied by two prison guards who were leading and partially supporting a figure whom Ainslie recognized. Doil was wearing leg irons and handcuffs, the latter secured to a tightly strapped waist belt. Behind the trio was Father Ray Uxbridge.
It was more than a year since Ainslie had seen Elroy Doil; the last occasion had been at the sentencing following his trial. In the meantime, the change had been dramatic. At his trial and sentencing he had been physically robust, tall and powerful, with matching aggressiveness; now he seemed pitifully the reverse. He was stooped, with sagging shoulders, his body thin, his face wan and gaunt. In place of aggression, his eyes showed nervous uncertainty. His head had been shaved for the execution, and the unnatural pink baldness added to his desolate appearance. At the last minute, conductive gel would be applied to his scalp, ready for the electric chair’s metal death cap.
Father Uxbridge stepped forward; he was in clerical garb, a breviary in hand. A large, broad-shouldered man with patrician features, he projected a presence that Ainslie remembered from previous encounters. Ignoring Ainslie, he addressed Doil.
“Mr. Doil, I am willing to stay with you to provide God’s comfort for as long as these circumstances allow, and I remind you again that you are not required to make any statement or answer questions.”
“Just a moment,” Ain
slie said, springing up from the desk chair and moving closer to the others. “Doil, I’ve driven eight hours from Miami because you asked to see me. Father Uxbridge told me you had something to say.”
Glancing down, Ainslie saw that Doil’s hands were clenched tightly together, and that his wrists were raw where the handcuffs had chafed. He glanced at Hambrick and gestured. “Can you take those off while we’re talking?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Sorry, Sergeant, can’t do it. Doil has beat up three of our people since he’s been here. One had to be hospitalized.”
Ainslie nodded. “Scratch that idea.”
As Ainslie spoke, Doil lifted his head. Perhaps it had been the preceding humane thought about the handcuffs, or perhaps Ainslie’s voice, but for whatever reason, Doil fell to his knees and would have tumbled face forward if the guards had not supported him. As it was, he brought his face close to one of Ainslie’s hands and attempted, unsuccessfully, to kiss it.
His voice blurred, he mumbled, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned …”
Father Uxbridge leapt forward, his face flushed with anger. “No, no, no!” he shouted to Ainslie. “This is blasphemy!” Turning toward Doil, he insisted, “This man is not—”
“Shut up!” Ainslie snapped. Then, to Doil, more quietly, “I am not a priest anymore. You know that. But if you want to confess anything to me, I will listen as a human being.”
Uxbridge shouted again, “You can’t take a confession. You have no right!”
Doil began speaking to Ainslie. “Father, it has been …”
Uxbridge shouted, “I have told you he is not a Father!”
Doil mumbled, and Ainslie caught the words, “He is God’s avenging angel …”
“This is desecration!” Uxbridge roared. “I will not allow it!”
Suddenly Doil turned his head. He snarled at Uxbridge, “Fuck off!” Then, facing the others, he cried, “Get that asshole out of here!”
Hambrick advised Uxbridge, “I’m afraid you’ll have to go, Father. If he doesn’t want you here, that’s his privilege.”
“I will not go!”
Hambrick’s voice sharpened. “Please, Father. I don’t want to have to remove you by force.”
At a signal from the lieutenant, one of the guards left Doil and seized Uxbridge’s arm.
The priest jerked his arm away. “Do not dare! I am a priest, a man of God!” As the guard stood hesitantly, Uxbridge faced Hambrick. “You will hear more of this. I shall personally bring your behavior to the attention of the governor.” He snapped at Ainslie, “The church was well rid of you.” Then, with a final, all-encompassing glare, Uxbridge left.
Elroy Doil, who was still on his knees before Ainslie, began again, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was … I don’t fuckin’ remember.”
In other circumstances Ainslie might have smiled, but he was torn. His conscience troubled him. He wanted to hear what Doil had to say, but not as an impostor.
It was Hambrick who, glancing at his watch, added words of common sense. “If you want to hear it at all, better let him do it his way.”
Ainslie still hesitated, wishing this moment could have happened in some other way.
But he wanted to know—to have answers and insights to so many events that had begun so long ago.
It was two years earlier, in Miami’s Coconut Grove—a fresh January morning, shortly after 7:00 A.M.
Part Two
THE PAST
1
Orlando Cobo, a middle-aged security guard at Coconut Grove’s Royal Colonial Hotel, was tired. He was ready to go home when he entered the eighth floor a few minutes before 7:00 A.M. on routine patrol. It had been an uneventful night, with only three minor incidents during his eight-hour shift.
Security problems relating to youth, sex, or drugs rarely occurred at the “Royal Colostomy,” as it was sometimes called. The clientele comprised mainly middle-aged, staid, well-to-do people who liked the hotel’s old-fashioned quiet lobby, its indoor profusion of tropical plants, and an architectural style once described as “brick wedding cake.”
In a way the hotel matched its Coconut Grove locale—a sometimes jarring mix of past and present. Within the Grove, decrepit frame houses nudged once-exclusive, stylish homes; mom-and-pop trivia shops stood cheek-by-jowl with upscale galleries and boutiques; fast-food takeouts abutted gourmet restaurants; everywhere, poverty and wealth rubbed shoulders. Florida’s oldest settlement—a historic village established twenty years before Miami—Coconut Grove seemed to have not one character but many, all untidily competing.
None of this troubled Cobo as he left an elevator and walked along the eighth-floor corridor. He was neither a philosopher nor a Coconut Grove resident, but drove to work each day from North Miami. At the moment nothing seemed amiss, and he began to anticipate the relaxing journey home.
Then, nearing a fire-exit stairway at the corridor’s end, he noticed that the door of room 805 was slightly ajar. From inside he could hear the loud sound of a radio or TV. He knocked, and when there was no response, he inched open the door, leaned inside, then gagged in disgust at an overwhelming odor. Holding a hand over his mouth, Cobo moved forward into the room, and at the sight of what faced him, his legs weakened. Directly ahead, in a pool of blood, were the bodies of a man and a woman—with dismembered parts of their bodies around them.
Cobo hastily closed the door, composed himself with an effort, then reached for a phone clipped to his belt. He tapped out 911.
A woman’s voice answered, “Nine-one-one emergency. Can I help you?” A beep indicated the call was being recorded.
At Miami Police Communication Center, a complaint clerk listened while Orlando Cobo reported an apparent double murder at the Royal Colonial Hotel.
“You say you’re a security guard?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where are you?”
“Right outside the room. It’s 805.” As the complaint clerk spoke, she was typing the information on a computer, to be read moments later by a dispatcher in another section.
“Stay there,” the complaint clerk told the caller. “Secure the room. Let no one in until our officers arrive.”
A mile and a half away, a young uniformed policeman, Tomas Ceballos, in patrol unit 164, was cruising the South Dixie Highway when he received a dispatcher’s urgent call. Immediately he swung his car hard right, tires screaming, and, with flashing lights and siren, headed for the Royal Colonial.
Minutes later, Officer Ceballos joined the security guard outside room 805.
“I just checked with reception,” Cobo told him, consulting a note. “The room’s registered to Mr. and Mrs. Homer Frost from Indiana; the lady’s name is Blanche.” He handed over the note and a room key-card.
Inserting the card, Ceballos cautiously entered 805. Instantly he recoiled, then forced himself to take in the scene, knowing he would need to describe it later.
What he saw were the bodies of an elderly man and woman, gagged and bound and seated facing each other, as if each had been witness to the other’s death. The victims’ faces had been beaten; the man’s eyes and face were burned. Both bodies were a maze of knife cuts. In the background a radio was playing hard rock.
Tomas Ceballos had seen enough. Returning to the corridor, he used a portable radio to call Dispatch; his unit number would appear automatically on the dispatcher’s screen. His voice wavered. “I need a Homicide unit on Tac One.”
Tactical One was a radio channel reserved for Homicide use. Detective-Sergeant Malcolm Ainslie, unit number 1310, was on his way to work in an unmarked police car and had already checked in with Dispatch. Today Ainslie and his team were the on-duty hot unit.
The dispatcher alerted Ainslie, who switched to Tac One. “Thirteen-ten to one-sixty-four. QSK?”
“Two bodies at the Royal Colonial Hotel,” Ceballos responded. “Room 805. Possible thirty-one.” He swallowed, steadying his voice. “Make that a definite thirty-one.
It’s a bad one, real bad.”
A 31 was a homicide, and Ainslie answered, “Okay, on my way. Secure the scene. Don’t allow anyone in that room—including yourself.”
Ainslie spun his car around on a two-way street and pushed hard on the accelerator. At the same time he radioed Detective Bernard Quinn, a member of Ainslie’s team, instructing Quinn to join him at the Royal Colonial.
His remaining detectives were handling other murders and for the time being unavailable. The past few months had been rife with homicides; investigations were piling up. Today, it seemed, the grim reaping was continuing.
Ainslie and Quinn arrived at the hotel within moments of each other, and together headed for a bank of elevators. Quinn, with graying hair and a seamed, weathered face, was impeccably dressed in a navy sports jacket, immaculate gray slacks, and a striped tie. A Britisher by birth and an American by adoption, he was a Homicide veteran, his retirement at age sixty not far away.
Quinn was respected and liked by colleagues, in part because he was never a threat to anyone’s ambitions. After becoming a detective and doing his job well, he had not sought promotion. He simply did not want to be responsible for others, and had never taken the sergeant’s exam, which he could have passed easily. But Quinn was a good man to have as lead investigator at any crime scene.
“This will be your case, Bernie,” Ainslie said. “I’ll stay to help, though. Get you started.”
As they passed through the spacious, foliage-lined hotel lobby, Ainslie saw two women reporters near the registration desk. Media people sometimes cruised the streets, listening to police radio, and got to crime scenes early. One of the two, recognizing the detectives, hurried toward an elevator they had boarded, but the door slid closed before she reached it.
As the elevator rose, Quinn sighed. “There must be better ways to begin a day.”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Ainslie said. “Who knows? You might even miss this in retirement.”