Detective (33 page)

On the execution floor, all that
remained was the connection of two
heavy electric feed lines, one to
the top of the death cap, the other
to the lead-lined ground pad around
Doil's right leg. Both were attached
quickly and locked down with heavy
wing nuts.

At once the guards and electrician
stepped back, well clear of the
chair, though making sure not to
block the warden's view.

In the witness booth, some of the
media people were

DETECTIVE 273

scribbling notes. One woman witness
had grown pale and held a hand to
her mouth as if she might be sick. A
man was shaking his head, clearly
dismayed by what he saw. Knowing the
intense competition for seats,
Ainslie wondered what motivated
people to come. He supposed it was a
universal fascination with death in
all its forms.

Ainslie returned his attention to
the warden, who had rolled up the
death warrant and now held it,
poised like a baton, in his right
hand. He looked toward the execu-
tioner's booth, from where, through
the rectangular eye slit, a pair of
eyes peered out. In a single gesture
the warden lowered the rolled
warrant and nodded his head.

The eyes disappeared. An instant
later a heavy thank reverberated
throughout the execution chamber as
the red death switch was turned on
and heavy circuit breakers engaged.
Even in the witness booth, where
microphones and speakers were again
cut off, a softer thud was audible.
Simultaneously the lights all
dimmed.

Doil's body convulsed, though the
initial effect of two thousand volts
surging through him was largely
suppressed because, as a reporter
wrote for the next day's edition,
Doll was "strapped in tighter than a
fighter pilot." The same effect,
however, was repeated during a
two-minute automatic killing cycle,
the voltage falling to five hundred,
then rising back again to two
thousand, eight times in all. At
some executions the warden would
signal the executioner to override
the automatic control and switch off
if he believed the first cycle had
done the job. This time he let the
full cycle run, and Ainslie suddenly
smelled the rancid odor of burning
flesh, which had seeped into the
witness booth through the air
conditioning. Others nearby wrinkled
their faces in disgust.

When safety clearance had been
given, the doctor moved to the
chair, opened Doil's shirt, applied
a stetho

274 Arthur Halley

scope, and listened for a heartbeat.
After about a minute he nodded to
the warden. Doil was dead.

The rest was routine. Electric
lines, belts, and other fastenings
were quickly undone. Doil's released
body slumped forward into the arms
of the waiting guards, who swiftly
transferred it to a black rubber
body bag. The bag was zipped up so
quickly that it was impossible to
see from the witness booth if the
body was burned. Then, on a gurney,
the remains of Elroy Doil
disappeared through the same doorway
that only minutes earlier he had
entered alive.

By this time most witnesses were
on their feet, preparing to leave.
Without waiting, Ainslie turned
toward Cynthia and said quietly,
"Commissioner, I feel I should tell
you that shortly before his
execution, I talked to Doil about
your parents. He claimed "

Instantly she swung toward him,
her expression blank. "Please, there
is nothing I want to hear. I came to
watch him suffer. I hope he did."

"He did," Ainslie said.

"Then I'm satisfied, Sergeant."

"I hear you, Commissioner."

But what did he hear? Following
the others, Ainslie left the witness
booth wondering.

Immediately outside, where
witnesses were gathered, waiting to
be escorted from the prison, Jensen
broke away and approached Ainslie.

"Just thought I'd introduce myself.
I'm "

"I know who you are," Ainslie said
coolly. "I wondered why you were
here."

The novelist smiled. "I have a
scene in a new novel about an
execution and wanted to see one
firsthand. Commissioner Ernst
arranged to get me in."

DETECTIVE 275

At that moment Hambrick appeared.
"You don't have to wait here," the
lieutenant told Ainslie. "If you'll
follow me, we'll get your gun, then
I'll take you to your car." With a
cursory nod to Jensen, Ainslie
left.

3

"I saw the lights dim," Jorge said.
"I figured Animal was getting the
juice."

Ainslie said quietly, "He was."

It was their first exchange since
leaving the prison ten minutes
earlier. Jorge was driving the Miami
Police blueand-white and handled
outward clearance through the prison
checkpoints. They passed the
inevitable demonstrators on the way;
a few still held lighted candles,
but most were dispersing. Ainslie
had been silent.

He had been deeply affected by the
grim process by which Doil had died.
On the other hand, there was no
denying Doil got what he deserved,
though of course that took into
account Ainslie's knowledge that
Doil was guilty not only of the two
killings for which he had been
charged and sentenced, but for at
least twelve others.

He touched his suit jacket pocket,
where he had put the crucial
recording of Doil's confession. When
and how the taped information would
be released, or if it would be made
public at all, would be someone
else's decision. Ainslie would turn
over the tape to Lieutenant Newbold,
and the Police Department and the
state attorney's of lice would
handle it from there.

DETECTIVE 277
Jorge began, "Was Animal "

Ainslie interrupted. "I'm not sure
we should call him Animal anymore.
Animals only kill when they have to.
Doil did it for " Ainslie stopped.
Why did Doil kill? For pleasure, a
religious mania, uncontrollable
compulsion? He said aloud, "For
reasons we'll never know."

Jorge glanced sideways. "Anyway,
did you find out anything, Sergeant?
Something you can tell me?''

Ainslie shook his head. "I have to
talk with the lieutenant first."

He checked his watch: 7:50 A.M. Leo
Newbold was probably still at home.
Ainslie picked up the phone from the
seat beside him and tapped out the
number. Newbold answered on the
second ring.

"I thought it was you," he said
moments later. "I presume it's all
over."

"Well, Doil's dead. But I doubt very
much if it's over."

"Did he tell you anything?"

"Enough to know the execution was
justified."

"We were certain anyway, but it's
a relief to know for sure. So you
got a confession?"

Ainslie hesitated. "I've quite a
bit to report, sir. But we don't
want this going out over the wire
services."

"You're right," the lieutenant
acknowledged. "We should all be so
careful. Okay, not on a cell phone."

"If there's time," Ainslie told
him, "I'll call you from
Jacksonville."

"Can hardly wait. Take it easy,
Malcolm."

Ainslie switched off the cellular.

"You'll have plenty of time; the
airport's only sixty miles," Jorge
volunteered. "Maybe enough for
breakfast."

Ainslie grimaced. "The last thing I
feel like is eating."

"I know you can't tell me
everything. But I gather Doil

278 Arthur Halley

must have confessed to at least
one murder."

"Yes."

"Did he treat you like a priest?"

"He wanted to. And I guess, to a
degree, I let him."

Jorge asked quietly, "Do you
believe Doll is in heaven now? Or is
there some other fiery spot called
hell that's run by Satan?"

Ainslie chuckled and asked, "Why,
are you worried?"

"No. Just wanted your opinion is
there a heaven and a hell?"

You never leave your past behind
totally, Ainslie thought. He
remembered parishioners asking him
much the same question, and he was
never certain how to answer
honestly. Now, turning toward Jorge,
he said, "No, I don't believe in
heaven anymore, and I never did
believe in hell."

"How about Satan?"

"Satan's as fictional as Mickey
Mouse invented as an Old Testament
character. He's fairly harmless in
Job, then in the second century B.C.
he was demonized by an extremist
Jewish sect called the Essenes.
Forget it."

For years after leaving the
church, Malcolm Ainslie had been
reluctant to discuss his beliefs,
disbeliefs, and religion's
sophistry, even though he was
sometimes sought out as an expert
because of his book on comparative
religions. Civilization's Evolving
Beliefs, he learned from time to
time, was still widely read. Lately,
though, he had become more up front
and honest about religion, and now
here was Jorge, who so clearly
wanted guidance.

They were well clear of Raiford by
this time and in open countryside,
the grimness of the prison and its
dormitory towns behind. The sun was
shining brightly, the beginning of
a beautiful day. Directly ahead was
a four-lane highway, Interstate 10,
which they would take into
Jacksonville,

DETECTIVE 279

where Ainslie would catch his-
flight. He was already happily
anticipating his reunion with Karen
and Jason and the family
celebration.

"Mind if I ask another question?"
Jorge said.

"Ask away."

"I always wondered how you got to
be a priest to begin with."

"I never expected to be a priest,"
he said. "It was something my older
brother wanted. Then he was shot and
killed."

"I'm sorry." Jorge was startled.
"Do you mean murdered?"

"The law saw it that way. Though
the bullet that killed him was
intended for someone else."

"What happened?"

"It was in a small town just north
of Philadelphia. That's where
Gregory and I grew up. . ."

New Berlinville was a small borough
incorporated near the end of the
nineteenth century. It had several
steel mills and ironwork factories,
as well as producing ore mines. The
combination provided work for most
local residents, including Idris
Ainslie, the father of Gregory and
Malcolm, who was a miner. He died,
however, when the boys were babies.

Gregory was only a year older than
Malcolm, and they were always close.
Gregory, big for his age, took pride
in protecting his younger brother.
Victoria, their mother, never
remarried after the death of Idris,
but brought up her sons alone. She
worked at unskilled jobs, her income
aided by a small annuity inherited
from her parents, and spent all the
time she could with Gregory and
Malcolm. They were her life and
they, in turn, loved her.

280 Arthur Halley

Victoria Ainslie was a good
mother, a virtuous woman, and a
devout Catholic. As time went by, it
became her greatest wish that one of
her sons become a priest, and, by
precedence and his own willingness,
Gregory was chosen.

At eight, Gregory was an altar boy
at the community's St. Columkill
Church, and so was his close friend,
Russell Sheldon. In some ways
Gregory and Russell were an un-
likely, contrasting combination.
Gregory, as he grew, was tall and
well built with blond good looks,
his nature warm and outgoing; he was
also devoted to the church,
especially its rituals and
theatrics. Russell was a short,
tough bulldozer of a boy with a
flair for mischief and practical
jokes. On one occasion he put hair
dye in Gregory's shampoo bottle,
turning him temporarily into a
brunette. On another he placed an ad
in the local paper offering
Malcolm's new and beloved bicycle
for sale. He also placed Playboy
pinups in both Gregory's and
Malcolm's bedrooms for their mother
to find.

Russell's father was a police
detective in the Berks County
sheriff's department, his mother a
teacher.

A year after Gregory and Russell
became altar boys, Malcolm was
recruited, too, and, through
succeeding years, the trio were
inseparable. And just as Gregory and
Russell had differing natures, so
did Malcolm. He was an unusually
thoughtful boy who took nothing for
granted. "You're always asking
questions," Gregory once said
irritably, then conceded, "But you
sure get answers." Malcolm's
questioning, combined with
decisiveness, sometimes put
him though younger than the other
two in a leadership role.

Within the Church the three were
obedient Catholics, their minor sins
confessed weekly and consisting
mainly of Indecent Sexual Thoughts.

The trio were all good athletes and
played for South

DETECTIVE 281

Webster High's football team, where
Russell's father, Kermit Sheldon,
was a part-time coach.

Then, toward the end of the trio's
second football year, there
arose expressed in biblical terms,
as Malcolm Ainslie would remember
it "a little cloud out of the sea,
like a man's hand." Unbeknownst to
school authorities, Cannabis saliva
was procured and used by a few
senior members of the football team.
Before long, other team members
learned of marijuana's pleasurable,
exciting highs, and soon,
inevitably, almost the entire
football team was smoking pot. In
some ways it was a preview of how
cocaine use would expand, more
seriously, in the 1980s and 1990s.

The Ainslie brothers and Russell
Sheldon were latecomers to cannabis,
and tried the "weed," as the players
called it, only after being harassed
by their peers. Malcolm tried it
once, then asked innumerable
questions where the substance came
from, what it was, its lasting
effect. The answers convinced him
cannabis was not for him, and he
never used it again. Russell,
though, continued using it
occasionally, and Gregory more
intensively, having convinced
himself it was not a religious sin.