Detective (67 page)

The paper, as described by Ruby,
showed that the adoption of Cynthia's
child had lasted less than two years.
The adoptive parents were convicted
of abuse and neglect, and the child
was taken away. There followed a long
series of foster homes until the girl
was thirteen, when the record
stopped. "It's a sad story of
indifference and cruelty," Ruby said,
adding, "I was going to check with
the last home listed, then didn't
need to, when I saw the name the baby
was given. And still uses."

"Which is?"

"Maggie Thorne."

It was familiar, Ainslie thought.
He just couldn't place it.

Ruby prompted, "It was Jorge
Rodriguez's case the German tourist,
Nichaus, shot and killed. I think you
were . . ."

"Yes . . . I was."

It sprang back in memory: the
wanton, needless killing . . . an
international furor and the hapless
guilty pair a young black male,
Kermit Kaprum; a white female, Maggie
Thorne . . . tests showed shots were
fired by both accused, two fatal
shots by Thorne . . . under
questioning, both confessed.

At the time, Ainslie recalled,
there had been something familiar
about the young woman's face. He had
tried using flash recognition, but it
hadn't worked. Now he knew why. It
wasn't the accused girl whom he had
seen before, but

566 Arthur Halley

her mother, Cynthia. Even now, in
memory, Thorne's resemblance to her
was uncanny.

"There's something else," Ruby
said as she turned the car onto
Bayshore Drive. "The woman from the
adoption center who gave me the
report tried to cover herself. If
they break confidentiality for any
reason, they're supposed to notify
the child's original parent, and my
woman did. She sent a form letter
addressed to Cynthia about her
daughter, Maggie Thorne Cynthia
probably never knew that name
before saying the police had asked
for the information and been given
it. The letter was mailed on Friday
and went to the Ernsts' old home
address in Bay Point. Cynthia may
have it now."

"The Niehaus case." Ainslie's mind
was swirling, his voice barely under
control. "In the end, what
happened?" There were so many cases.
He half remembered, but wanted to be
sure.

"Kaprum and Thorne both got death
sentences. They're on death row,
going through appeals."

Everything else left Ainslie's
mind. He could think only of
Cynthia, receiving a form letter . .
. Cynthia was sharp, she followed
cases, would connect the name at
once and put everything else in
place, including the current
interest of the police . . . A form
letter to let her know that her only
child, the child she never knew,
would soon be executed. He thought
despairingly, Was there no end to
the unfair, dreadful hand that life
had dealt to Cynthia? Compassion and
the profoundest pity for her
overwhelmed him, momentarily
eclipsing all else. In the front
seat Malcolm leaned forward, putting
his head in his hands. His body
shook convulsively. He wept.

DETECTIVE 567

"I'm sorry," Ainslie said to Ruby.
"There are times when you lose a
sense of proportion." He was
remembering the protesters outside
Raiford Prison, who appeared to have
forgotten a murderer's victims. "It
all got to me at once."

"I cried last night. This job
sometimes..." Ruby's voice trailed
off.

"When we go in," he told her, "I'd
like to go to Cynthia first alone."

"You can't. It's against "

"I know, I know! It's against
regulations, but Cynthia would never
pull sexual harassment stuff; she's
too proud for that. Look, you said
the letter to her was mailed Friday
to the old Bay Point address; she
may not have it yet. If she doesn't,
I can break the news more gently,
and even if she does "

"Malcolm, I have to remind you of
something." Ruby's voice was low and
caring. "You're not a priest
anymore."

"But I'm a human being. And I'm the
one who'll be going against orders,
though I need your okay."

She protested, "I have a duty;
too." Both of them knew that if
something went wrong, Ruby could pay
a penalty with her career.

"Look, I'll cover you whatever
happens, say I made it an order.
Please."

They were at the Dinner Key
waterfront and had arrived at City
Hall. Ruby stopped their car at the
main doorway. The blue-and-white was
immediately behind.

She hesitated, still uncertain. "I
don't know, Malcolm." Then, "Will
you tell Sergeant Braynen?"

"No. The uniforms'll remain outside
anyway. You come inside with me, but
wait in the auditorium while I go to
Cynthia's office. Give me fifteen
minutes."

Ruby shook her head. "Ten. Max."

"Agreed."

568 Arthur Halley

They entered the main door of
Miami's unique and anachronistic
City Hall.

In an age when government opulence
was the norm and cathedral-style
official buildings proclaimed
politicians' self-importance, the
City Hall of Miami one of America's
major cities expressed the reverse.
Located on a promontory and with
Biscayne Bay on two sides, it was a
relatively small two-story building
painted white, with its name and
some minor art deco relief in bright
blue. People were often surprised at
the overall simplicity, even though
the building housed Miami's elected
mayor, vicemayor, three
commissioners, and an appointed city
manager. Others, usually old-timers,
often said the building looked more
like a seaplane base not
surprisingly, since it had been a
Pan American Airways base from 1934
through 1951, built to serve Clipper
flying boats that carried passengers
from Miami to thirty-two countries.
Then, when flying boats went the way
of dinosaurs, Pan Am closed the base
and it became Miami City Hall in
1954.

History had been made here.
Perhaps more history, Ainslie
thought, would be made today.

In the main lobby, Ainslie and
Bowe walked to a desk where they
showed their police badges to an
elderly security guard. The man
waved them past. Knowing the lo-
cation of Cynthia's office on the
main floor, Ainslie turned left and
gestured to Ruby to take an interior
corridor to the right, which led to
the auditorium where she would wait.
Reluctantly, Ruby left him,
pointedly checking her watch.

Before entering the building,
Ainslie had instructed Braynen and
his partner to hold their present
position out

DETECTIVE 569

side, listen to their radios, and
respond immediately if called.

Ainslie continued down the hall
until a door confronted him:

OFFICE OF THE

COMMISSIONER
CYNTHIA ERNST

A young male aide sat at a desk in
a windowless room immediately
inside. In a separate small office a
woman secretary was working at a
computer. Between the two was a
substantial door, dark green, and
closed.

Again, Ainslie showed his badge.
"I'm here to see the commissioner on
police business. Don't announce me."

"Wouldn't anyway." The young man
gestured to the green door. "Go
right in." Ainslie opened the door
and entered, closing it behind him.

Cynthia faced him. She was seated
at an ornate desk, her face
expressionless. The of lice was
spacious and pleasantly functional,
though not luxurious. A window in
the rear wall provided a view of the
harbor and moored pleasure boats. A
plain door to the right probably
opened to a cupboard or a small
powder room.

A silence hung between them. After
several seconds he began, "I wanted
to say "

"Save it!" Cynthia's lips scarcely
moved. Her eyes were cold.

She knew. No explanations, he
realized, were required on either
side. Cynthia would have many
contacts; a city commissioner could
bestow favors and was owed them in
return. Undoubtedly someone in her
debt perhaps in the grand jury
office, even, or the Police
Department had quietly picked up a
phone and made a call.

570 Arthur Halley

"You may not believe this,
Cynthia," Ainslie said, "but I wish
there were something, anything, I
could do."

"Well, let's think about that."
Her face and voice were icy, devoid
of all empathy. "I know you like
executions, so maybe you could
attend my daughter's make sure
everything goes off the way it
should. Mine, too, perhaps. Now,
wouldn't you enjoy that."

He pleaded, "I beg of you, don't do
this."

"What would you prefer remorse and
tears, some sleazy piety from your
old game?"

Ainslie sighed. Unsure of what he
had hoped for, he knew whatever it
was had failed. He knew, too, that
Ruby should be with him. He had made
a mistake in persuading her to stay
behind.

"There's no easy way to do this,"
he said, placing the arrest warrant
on the desk. "I'm afraid you're
under arrest. I have to caution
you "

Cynthia smiled sardonically. "I'll
accept Miranda as read."

"I need your gun. Where is it?"
Ainslie's right hand had moved and
was holding his own Glock 9mrn auto-
matic, though he did not produce it.
Cynthia, he knew, had a Glock also;
like all sworn personnel who
retired, she had received her gun on
leaving as a gift from the city.

"In the desk." She had risen and
pointed to a drawer.

Not taking his eyes from her, he
reached down with his left hand,
opened the drawer, and felt inside.
The gun was under a cloth. Lifting
it out, he put it in a pocket.

"Turn around, please." He had
handcuffs ready.

"Not yet." Her voice had become
near normal. "I have to go to the
toilet first. There are certain
functions you can't do with your
hands fixed behind your back."

"No. Stand where you are."

Unheeding, Cynthia turned and walked
toward the in

DETECTIVE 571

terior door he had noted. Over her
shoulder she taunted, "If you don't
like it, go ahead shoot me."

Two fleeting thoughts crossed
Ainslie's mind, but he banished
them.

As the door opened, he saw it was a
toilet inside. Equally obvious,
there was no other way out. The door
closed swiftly. Removing his right
hand from his gun, he strode
forward, intending to open it by
force if needed. For whatever
reason, he suddenly knew he had
moved too slowly.

Before he could reach the door, and
only seconds after it had closed, it
was flung open from inside. Cynthia
stood in the doorway, eyes blazing,
face tightly set a mask of hate. Her
voice was a snarl as she commanded,

"Freeze!" In her hand was a tiny
gun.

Knowing he had been outwitted, that
the gun had probably been stored
inside, he began, "Cyn, look . . .
we can . . .',

"Shut up." Her face was working.
"You knew I had this. Didn't you?"

Ainslie nodded slowly. He hadn't
known, but barely a minute earlier
the possibility had occurred to him;
it was one of the thoughts he had
dismissed. The gun Cynthia held was
the tiny, chrome-plated Smith &
Wesson fiveshot pistol the
"throw-down" she had used so effec-
tively during the bank holdup into
which she and Ainslie once walked
together.

"And you thought maybe I'd use it
on myself! To save me and everybody
else a lot of trouble. Answer me!"

It was a moment for truth. Ainslie
admitted, "Yes, I did." That had
been his second thought.

"Well, I will use it. But I'll take
you with me, you bastard!" She was
bracing herself, he could tell, for
a marksman's shot.

572 Arthur Halley

Possibilities, like summer
lightning, flashed through his mind.
Reaching for his Glock was one; but
Cynthia would fire the instant he
moved, and he had seen the bank
robber with a hole precisely central
in his forehead. As for Ruby, barely
five minutes had passed. With
Cynthia there was no more reasoning.
Was there anything he could do? No,
nothing. And so . . . the end came
to everyone in time. Accept it. One
final thought: He had sometimes
wondered would he, in the last
seconds of his life, return to a
belief, even a hope, in God and some
future life? He knew the answer now.
And it was no.

Cynthia was ready to fire. He
closed his eyes and then heard the
shot . . . Oddly, he felt nothing .
. . He opened them.

Cynthia had fallen to the floor;
her eyes closed, the tiny gun
clutched in her hand. On the left
side of her chest, blood was oozing
from an open wound.

Against the outside door, rising
from the half-crouched stance from
which she had fired her 9mm
automatic, was Ruby Bowel

5

News of Cynthia Ernst's violent
death swept through Miami like a
tidal wave.

And the news media exploded.

So did surviving city commission
members, infused with white-hot
anger at what they saw as the wanton
slaying of one of their own.

Even before the body of Cynthia
Ernst could be removed, her death
having been certified by paramedics,
two mobile television crews were at
City Hall, filming and posing
questions to which no one had
coherent answers. They had been
alerted by police radio exchanges,
as had other reporters and
photographers who quickly joined
them.

Sergeant Braynen and his partner,
aided by hastily summoned
reinforcements, attempted to
maintain order.

For Malcolm Ainslie and Ruby Bowe,
the postconf~ntation events became
a mercurial montage. After hasty
calls to and from Assistant Chief
Serrano's office, they were ordered
to remain in place and talk to no
one until a "shoot team" from
Internal Affairs arrived standard
procedure when death or serious
injury was caused by an officer on
duty. The team, appearing moments
later, comprised a sergeant and
detective who questioned Ainslie