Detective (25 page)

"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
exsan

DETECTIVE 203

guination 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 in-
terrogated 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anachronism, absurdly out of date,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

DETECTIVE 205

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,
"Doll 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

206 Arthur Halley

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."

DETECTIVE 207

"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 car behind them.

As Ainslie and Deane moved closer,
momentarily blocking the lights,
Wanda emitted a resigned, "Oh luck!''
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!"

208 Arthur Halley

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

DETECTIVE 209

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 mis-
sion. 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

210 Arthur Halley

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."

DETECTIVE 211

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!"