Detective (23 page)

"It's Sylvia Walden. I've compared
the print from Sergeant Dannelly's
van a good full palm print, by the
way with the partial palm we have
from the Royal Colonial scene. There
is no resemblance whatsoever.
Sorry."

186 Arthur Halley

"Don't be," Ainslie said. "It
means we have one less suspect,
which helps."

He telephoned Dannelly and
reported the result, adding, "Good
observation. So we'll stop the
surveillance of Alec Polite. He was
never a strong candidate anyway.
Take a rest, Terry; we'll advise you
and Jose of your next target later
today."

Proving the belief held by
detectives that surveillance duty
was invariably a gamble, capable of
producing results ranging from high
drama to slapstick comedy, across
town Detectives Hector Fleites and
Ogden Jolly had an experience like
no other.

Both were on loan from Robbery.
Fleites, young and energetic, had
ambitions to start a private
security business after a few years
of learning police work firsthand.
On hearing of the special
surveillance detail, he had immedi-
ately volunteered. Jolly was
competent, but more laid-back and
with a better sense of humor than
Fleites.

The pair's surveillance subject
was James Calhoun, known as "Little
Jesus" because of a tattooed cross
on his chest and his claim to be the
second coming Christ, who would soon
be heading back to heaven.

"Meanwhile he's been busy,"
Detective Jolly had joked. Calhoun
had accumulated a criminal record
for manslaughter, assault, and armed
burglary, and had served two terms
in prison. Now on parole, he lived
in the Brownsville Projects one more
unofficial name, for a mostly black
and Hispanic community adjacent to
the Northside Shopping Center. The
area was outside the City of Miami
and thus beyond the jurisdiction of
Miami police. For undercover work,
however, official niceties such as
informing local police were ignored,
which was why De

DETECTIVE 187

tectives Fleites and Jolly were
seated in a Southern Bell
phone-repair truck outside a popular
disco called the Kampala
Stereophonic.

This was the third night they had
trailed Calhoun to the same bar,
where he apparently joined cronies
and drank steadily through the
evening. By 9:00 P.M. the detectives
had finished their store-bought
sandwiches and gulped down several
cups of coffee, and were weary and
bored, Fleites regretting having
volunteered for what he now labeled
"a fat-nothing waste of time."

Then they spotted several
prostitutes sauntering up the street
and looking provocatively around
before entering the Kampala. Both
detectives recognized the women from
their days in uniformed patrol. At
the same time a Cadillac quietly
pulled into a dimly lit parking lot
nearby; it was almost certainly
occupied by a pimp who would keep an
eye on his girls while farming them
out for business. Prostitution rings
changed locales and bars from night
to night to avoid police
interference. The pattern was
familiar to detectives.

Evidently word had been sent out to
would-be clients, since a series of
cars soon arrived. The drivers would
enter the Kampala, then reappear
with one of the prostitutes, each
pair moving to the nearest dark
corner, where their shadows
merged though not for long. Clearly
this was no high-class boudoir
operation.

"Shit!" Fleites said. "If those
broads see us they'll go back in and
blow our cover."

"Sit way back," Jolly advised. "They
won't see us."

"I got to take a leak. Too much
coffee, can't wait." Picking a
moment when none of the couples was
in sight, Fleites left the Southern
Bell truck and went down an alley to
the rear. When he was finished, he
zipped up his trousers and headed
out. At the same moment, approaching
him in

188 Arthur Halley

the alley, was a prostitute he had
recognized, accompanied by her
"trick." Fleites quickly turned
back, but the alley dead-ended at a
brick wall a few yards away.

Though there was little light, he
spotted a Dumpster in the corner.
Instinctively Fleites headed for it,
pulled himself up, and dropped down
inside. A second later, to his
disgust, he discovered the Dumpster
was filled with some kind of soggy,
putrid mess. While he listened for
the couple, who had stopped beside
the Dumpster, he tried to scrape off
what felt like wet potato peelings,
fried chicken bones, banana skins,
rotten tomatoes, and a soft, rancid-
smelling, slimy substance he
preferred not to attempt iden-
tifying.

Unlike the other couples, the two
outside took their time, their sex
accompanied by heavy breathing,
theatrical "yes, yes"-es, some
satisfied sounds, and finally soft
conversation. Neither partner seemed
in a hurry to move away, and knowing
the ways of the business, Fleites
guessed that whatever money had been
paid by the man was more than usual.
Seething with impatience, Fleites
wondered if they would ever leave.
Finally, after about twenty endless
minutes, they did.

When Hector Fleites opened the
phone truck door and climbed back
in, Jolly looked up, then clapped a
hand over his nose and mouth.
"Jesus, man you stink! " Then,
peering more closely and seeing the
garbage clinging to his colleague
from head to foot, Jolly broke into
peals of laughter.

Fleites nodded unhappily about his
condition, and knowing there were
two things he could not change.
First, there were still six hours of
surveillance to be endured. Second,
Ogden Jolly would forever recount to
fellow detectives the story of
Fleites going undercover.

DETECTIVE 189

. . .

At the beginning of the third week
of surveillance, Detectives Ruby
Bowe and Bernard Quinn met with
Malcolm Ainslie at Homicide
headquarters. Bowe and Quinn had
shared, with two detectives from
Robbery, the surveillance of Earl
Robinson.

From the beginning Robinson had
been a major suspect; everything
about his record appeared to fit the
nature of the serial killings. His
FIVO card described him as "very
aggressive." He was a former
heavyweight boxer; he preached on
streets always from Revelation and
claimed to be God's judgment angel.
His a.k.a. was "Avenger." Robinson's
record included armed robbery,
second-degree murder, and assaults
with a knife.

It was therefore a surprise to
Ainslie when Ruby Bowe announced,
"All four of us think you should
drop Robinson. We're convinced he's
harmless. He spends all his free
time helping out at a homeless
shelter, the Camillus House."

"It's true," Bernard Quinn echoed.

As Bowe described it, all of
Robinson's criminality occurred
before his adoption of religion a
year earlier. From then on he had
become a peaceful citizen, holding a
regular job and volunteering for
civic and charitable causes.

Quinn continued, "In my experience
most religious 'conversions' are
phony. But I'm convinced this one is
genuine."

"We talked to the director of the
homeless shelter, David Daxman,"
Ruby Bowe reported.

"I know him," Ainslie said. "Good
man."

"Daxman says he's known Robinson
for years and that nowadays he's
totally changed." Ruby glanced at
her notes. " 'A gentle person who
wants to help people' is

190 Arthur Halley

how Daxman described him. He said
Robinson is loved by all the guys
at the shelter."

"Okay, cancel Robinson's
surveillance," Ainslie instructed.
"Scratch him from our list." He
leaned back in his chair and
sighed.

9

Looking back long afterward, Malcolm
Ainslie remembered those three weeks
of surveillance as a kaleidoscopic
time when circumstances, most of
them unforeseen, conspired to
disrupt and complicate the work of
everyone involved, especially
Ainslie himself.

During the first day of group
surveillance Ainslie learned that,
as a member of the Miami Police
Honor Guard, he was required to
spend the next two days on duty at
the wake and funeral of City
Commissioner Gustav Ernst and his
wife, Eleanor. The honor guard,
commanded by Captain Warren
Underhill, a twenty-year Police De-
partment veteran and former U.S.
Army major, comprised a roster of
sixty handpicked officers men and
women chosen for their exemplary
police records, physical fitness,
and outstanding deportment.

There was seldom a need to
activate the honor guard, and the
duty normally was not a burden. But
for Ainslie it could not have come
at a worse time. However, there was
no escaping the obligation, as
Captain Underhill told him on the
phone. "I haven't called on you in
quite a while, Malcolm, and I need
a senior sergeant as my number two.
Also I know you're in charge of the
Ernst murder

192 Arthur Halley

investigation, so it's appropriate
for you to be there. Now, I'm sure
you're busy as hell, but so is
everyone else, and you won't waste
your time or mine by offering a
bunch of excuses, will you,
Sergeant?"

Ainslie chuckled. "If you'd give
me a clue, sir, as to which one
would work, I'd sure give it a try."

"So you'll be there," Underhill
answered crisply.

Ainslie said resignedly, "You know
I will."

"Thank you, Sergeant; I appreciate
your attitude. There will, of
course, be overtime pay."

The Ernst wake, with both bodies
in closed coffins, was held at the
Klamerus Funeral Home in downtown
Miami from noon until 8:00 P.M.
Throughout that time six honor guard
police in ceremonial uniforms stood
at parade rest around the coffins;
there were two shifts of guards,
each relieved after two hours.
Ainslie, who stood every other shift
himself, was responsible for the
changeovers. It was therefore
impossible for him to leave the
funeral home, but he kept in touch
with surveillance developments as
best he could by phone and police
radio.

During the wake Ainslie
periodically watched Cynthia Ernst
as she moved among the flow of some
nine hundred viewers throughout the
day. She exchanged words with many
people and accepted sympathy
graciously. Cynthia, too, was in
uniform, and must have seen Ainslie,
but chose to ignore him.

When the wake finally ended,
Ainslie changed out of uniform, then
drove to Homicide, where he studied
reports of that day's surveillance.

Through most of the next day he
had even less time for the
investigation.

At 9:00 A.M. the honor guard
assembled at Klamerus Funeral Home,
where, with military precision,
guard members loaded the two coffins
into motorized hearses. A pro

DETECTIVE 193

cession led by two dozen police
motorcycle units and accompanied by
thirty patrol cars, all using
flashing lights, wended its way to
St. Mary's Church, where a funeral
service was scheduled for 10:00 A.M.

The enormous church, at North Miami
Avenue and 75th Street, was filled
to capacity by 9:30 A.M., SO that
latecomers were obliged to sit on
chairs outside, where, through a PA
system, they listened to eulogies
from the mayor, the governor,
Florida's senior U.S. senator, and
the church's own archbishop.

Inside, Ainslie watched and
listened with waning patience. Yes,
he thought, traditionally a city
commissioner received an opulent
send-off, but surely enough was
enough.

Following the service the
procession re-formed and headed to
Woodlawn Cemetery. By now the train
of vehicles included innumerable
mourners in limousines, plus
additional escorts from other police
departments in the county and the
Florida Highway Patrol. The
procession's total length was an
estimated three miles.

At the cemetery the honor guard
lowered the coffins into a common
grave, to the accompaniment of
Myers. Near the ceremony's
conclusion, Cynthia Ernst was
presented with the two American
flags that had draped the coffins.

From beginning to end the funeral
proceedings lasted seven hours.

Any Miami city commissioner who
died while in office would, as a
matter of course, be given an
elaborate funeral. But in the case
of Commissioner and Mrs. Ernst the
occasion was, as a skeptic expressed
it later, as if Hollywood, Disney
World, and the Miami Police
Department had combined to produce
an extravaganza. And as for the
largescale police involvement that
created most of the spectacle,
perhaps as a Miami Herald columnist
theorized the next

194 Arthur Halley

day the force had a consciousness of
guilt for not having better
protected Commissioner Ernst and his
wife, plus a further culpability
because the Ernsts' killer was still
at large and apparently unknown.

The columnist echoed a query that
was circulating widely: What are the
police doing to solve what they now
acknowledge to be serial killings,
and why is it taking so long?

That last question was on Malcolm
Ainslie's mind throughout the long
hours of the wake and funeral. Each
time his gaze drifted over the pair
of coffins, he remembered the bodies
inside, so cruelly mutilated, and
asked himself somberly, Who? Why?
Where next?

Two days after the Ernst funeral an
announcement was made on behalf of
the Miami City Commission, which,
bereft of Gustav Ernst, now
consisted of the mayor, the
vice-mayor, and two commissioners.
Under the city's charter, the
announcement pointed out, in the
event of the death of a city
commissioner, the remaining
commissioners would, within ten days
and by majority vote, appoint a
successor to serve out the
ax-commissioner's remaining time. In
the case of Gustav Ernst this was
two years, half the full term.