Detective

1

At 10:35 P.M. on January 27, Malcolm Ainslie was halfway to the outer door of Homicide when a phone rang behind him. Instinctively he paused to look back. Later, he wished he hadn't.

Detective Jorge Rodriguez moved swiftly to an empty desk, where he picked up a phone, listened briefly, then called to Ainslie. "For you, Sergeant."

Ainslie set down a book he had been carrying and returned to his own desk to take the call. His movements were ordered and easy. At forty-one, Detective-Sergeant Ainslie was solidly built, a half-inch short of six feet and not too different in appearance from his days as a high school fullback. Only a slight belly bespoke the junk food he often ate a staple for many detectives, obliged to eat on the run.

Tonight, on the fifth floor of the main Miami Police Department building, the Homicide offices were quiet. In all, seven investigative teams worked here, each team consisting of a sergeant supervisor and three detectives. But the members of tonight's duty team were now all out, probing into a trio of separate murders reported in the past few hours. In Miami, Florida, the pace of human mayhem seldom slackened.

Officially, a Homicide duty shift lasted ten hours, but was often longer because of continuing investigations. Malcolm Ainslie and Jorge Rodriguez, whose own duty shift had ended several hours ago, had continued working until moments earlier.

Almost certainly the phone call was from his wife, Karen, Ainslie thought. Wondering when he was coming home, and eager to begin their long-planned vacation. Well, for once he'd be able to tell her he was on his way, the paperwork completed, loose ends tied, and the lights now green for Karen and Jason and himself to board tomorrow's early-bird Air Canada flight from Miami to Toronto.

Ainslie was ready for a break. While physically fit, he lacked the limitless energy he'd had when he joined the force a decade earlier. Yesterday as he was shaving, he'd noticed the ever-increasing gray in his brown, thinning hair. Some extra wrinkles, too; for sure, the stresses of Homicide caused those. And his eyes vigilant and probing betrayed skepticism and disillusionment from witnessing, across the years, the human condition at its worst.

It was then that Karen had appeared behind him and, reading his thoughts as she so often did, run her fingers through his hair, pronouncing, "I still like what I see."

He'd pulled Karen toward him then and held her tightly. The top of Karen's head came only to his shoulders, and he savored the softness of her silky chestnut hair against his cheek, the closeness of their bodies exciting them both as it always had. Putting a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face upward as they kissed.

"I come in a small package," Karen had said soon after they became engaged. "But there's lots of love in it along with everything else you'll need." And so it had been.

Expecting to hear Karen's voice now, Ainslie smiled and took the phone from Jorge.

A deep, resonant voice announced, "This is Father Ray Uxbridge. I'm the chaplain at Florida State Prison."

"Yes, I know." Ainslie had met Uxbridge a couple of times and didn't like him. But he answered politely, "What can I do for you, Father?"

"There's a prisoner here who's going to be executed at seven o'clock tomorrow morning. His name is Elroy Doil. He says he knows you."

Ainslie said tersely, "Of course he knows me. I helped send Animal to Raiford."

The voice came back stiffly. "The person we're speaking of is a human being, Sergeant. I prefer not to use your description."

The response reminded Ainslie why he disliked Ray Uxbridge. The man was a pompous ass.

"Everybody calls him Animal," Ainslie answered. "He uses the name himself. Besides, the way he killed makes him worse than an animal."

In fact, it had been a Dade County assistant medical examiner, Dr. Sandra Sanchez, who, on viewing the mutilated bodies of the first two victims in the twelve murders attributed to Elroy Doil, exclaimed, "Oh dear God! I've seen horrible things, but this is the work of a human animal! "

Her remark was repeated widely.

On the telephone Uxbridge's voice continued. "Mr. Doil has asked me to tell you that he wishes to see you before he dies." A pause, and Ainslie visualized the priest checking his watch. "That's slightly more than eight hours from now."

"Has Doil said why he wants to see me?"

"He is aware that you, more than anyone else, were the cause of his arrest and conviction."

Ainslie asked impatiently, ''So what are you saying? He wants to spit in my eye before he dies?"

A momentary hesitation. "The prisoner and I have had a discussion. But I remind you that what passes between a priest and a condemned man is privileged and -"

Ainslie cut in. "I'm aware of that, Father, but I remind you that I'm in Miami, four hundred miles away, and I'm not driving all night because that wacko suddenly decides it would be fun to see me."

Ainslie waited. Then clearly the priest made a decision. "He says he wishes to confess."

The answer jolted Ainslie; it was the last thing he'd expected. He felt his pulse quicken. "Confess what? You mean to all the killings?''

The question was natural. Throughout Elroy Doil's trial for a ghastly double murder, of which he had been found guilty and sentenced to death, Doil had maintained his innocence despite strong evidence against him. He had been equally emphatic about his innocence of ten other murders clearly serial killings with which he was not charged, but which investigators were convinced he had committed.

The merciless savagery of all twelve murders had aroused a nationwide sensation and horror. After the trial a syndicated columnist had written, "Elroy Doil is the most compelling argument for capital punishment. Pity is, from electrocution he'll die too easily, not suffering as his victims did."

"I have no idea what he plans to confess. That is something you would have to find out for yourself."

"Oh shit!''

"I beg your pardon!"

"I said 'shit,' Father. Surely you've used the word a time or two."

"There is no need for rudeness."

Ainslie groaned aloud at the sudden dilemma he faced.

If, at this late stage, Animal was ready to concede that the charges at his trial were true and that he was guilty of other serial killings, it had to go on record. One reason: A few vocal persons, including an anti-capital-punishment group, even now supported Doil's claims of innocence, arguing he had been railroaded through the courts because an aroused public demanded the arrest of someone, anyone and fast. A confession by Doil would crush those arguments.

What was in doubt, of course, was what Doil intended by the word "confession." Would it be a simple legal one, or something convoluted and religious? At Doil's trial he was described by a witness as a religious fanatic mouthing "crazy, garbled mumbo jumbo."

But whatever Doil had to say, there would be questions that Ainslie, with his intimate knowledge of events, was the most qualified to ask. Therefore he must, simply must, go to Raiford.

He leaned back wearily in his desk chair. This could not have come at a worse time. Karen, he knew, would be furious. Only last week she had met him at one o'clock in the morning just inside the front door of their home with a firm pronouncement. Ainslie had just returned from a grisly gang-related homicide for which he had had to miss their anniversary dinner. Karen, dressed in a pink nightshirt, blocked his entrance and said forcefully, "Malcolm, our life simply cannot go on like this. We hardly ever see you. We can't rely on you. And when you are here, you're so damn tired from sixteen-hour workdays, all you do is sleep. I'm telling you, things have got to change. You have to decide what you care about most." Karen looked away. Then she said quietly, "I mean it, Malcolm. This is not a bluff."

He understood exactly what Karen meant. And he sympathized. But nothing was ever as simple as it seemed.

"Sergeant, are you still there?" Uxbridge's voice was demanding.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Well, are you coming or not?"

Ainslie hesitated. "Father, this confession by Doil would it be a confession in a general sense?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"I'm looking for a compromise not to have to come to Raiford. Would you agree to have Doil confess to you in the presence of a prison officer? That way it would be official, on the record."

A long shot, Ainslie knew, and the explosive reply didn't surprise him. "In God's name, no! The suggestion is outrageous! Our confession is sacred and private. You, especially, should know that."

"I suppose so. I apologize." At least he owed Uxbridge that. It had simply been a last-ditch attempt to avoid the journey. Now it seemed there was no alternative.

The fastest way to the State Prison was by air to Jacksonville or Gainesville, with the prison a short drive from either one. But the commercial flights all left during the day. Now the only way to reach Raiford before Doil's execution was to drive. Ainslie glanced at his watch. Eight hours. Allowing for time he'd need there, it was barely enough.

He beckoned to Rodriguez, who had been listening intently. Covering the receiver with his hand, Ainslie said quietly, "I need you to drive me to Raiford now. Check out a marked car. Make sure it has a full tank, then wait for me at the motor pool. And get a cell phone."

"Right, Sergeant." Briskly, Jorge disappeared through the outer door.

The priest continued, his anger sharper now, "I'll make this clear, Ainslie. I find communicating with you distasteful. I am doing it, against my conscience, because I was asked by this pathetic man, who is about to die. The fact is, Doil knows you were once a priest. He will not confess to me; he has told me so. In his warped, misguided mind he wishes to confess to you. The thought is thoroughly repugnant to me, but I must respect the man's wishes."

Well, there it was, out in the open.

From the moment he heard Ray Uxbridge's voice on the phone, Ainslie had expected it. Experience had taught him two things. One, that his own past had a habit of surfacing unexpectedly, and clearly Uxbridge knew of it. Also, no one was more bitter or prejudiced toward an ex-Catholic priest than an incumbent priest. Most others were tolerant, even Catholic laity, and clergy of other denominations. But never priests. In his jaded moments, Ainslie attributed it to envy the fourth deadly sin.

It had been ten years since Ainslie quit the priesthood. Now he said into the phone, "Look, Father, as a police officer the only kind of confession I'm interested in concerns the crime or crimes Animal committed. If he wants to tell me the truth about that before he dies, I'll listen, and of course I'll have some questions."

"An interrogation?" Uxbridge asked. "Why, at this stage, is that needed?"

Ainslie could not contain himself. "Don't you ever watch TV? Haven't you seen those little windowless rooms where we sit with suspects and ask a lot of questions?"

"Mr. Doil is not a suspect anymore."

"He was a suspect in some other crimes; anyway, it's in the public interest to find out all we can."

Uxbridge asked skeptically, "The public interest, or to satisfy your own personal ambition, Sergeant?"

"As far as Animal Doil is concerned, my ambition was satisfied when he was found guilty and sentenced. But I have an official duty to learn all the facts I can."

"And I am more concerned with this man's soul."

Ainslie smiled slightly. ''Fair enough. Facts are my business, souls are yours. Why don't you work on Doil's soul while I'm on my way, and I'll take over when I get there?"

Uxbridge's voice deepened. "I insist on a commitment from you right now, Ainslie, that in any exchange you have with Doil, there will be no pretense that you possess any pastoral authority whatever. Furthermore "

"Father, you have no authority over me."

"I have the authority of God!" Uxbridge boomed.

Ainslie ignored the theatrics. "Look, we're wasting time. Just tell Animal I'll be at the prison before he checks out. And I assure you there will be no pretenses about my role there."

"Do I have your word on that?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, of course you have my word. If I wanted to parade as a priest, I wouldn't have left the priesthood, would I?"

Ainslie hung up.

* * *

Quickly picking up the phone again, he punched out the number of Lieutenant Leo Newbold, commander of Homicide, who was off duty and at home. A pleasant woman's voice, tinged with a Jamaican accent, answered, "Newbold residence."

"Hello, Devina. This is Malcolm. May I speak to the boss?"

"He's sleeping, Malcolm. Do you want me to wake him?"

" 'Fraid so, Devina. Sorry."

Ainslie waited impatiently, checking his watch, calculating the distance, the drive, and the time. If nothing got in their way they could make it. But with no time to spare.

He heard a click as an extension phone was lifted, then a sleepy voice. "Hi, Malcolm. What the hell is this? Aren't you supposed to be on vacation?" Leo Newbold had the same distinctive Jamaican accent as his wife.

"I thought so, too, sir. But something's come up."

"Doesn't it always? Tell me."

Ainslie summarized his conversation with Father Uxbridge, and the urgency to leave at once. "I called for your okay."

"You have it. Who's driving you?"

"I'm taking Rodriguez."

"That's good. But watch him, Malcolm. The guy drives like a mad Cuban."

Ainslie smiled. "Right now that's exactly what I need."

"Will this mess up your family vacation?"

"Probably. I haven't called Karen yet. I'll do it on the way."

"Oh shit! I'm really sorry."

Ainslie had told Newbold of their special plans for tomorrow, which would mark both the eighth birthday of their son, Jason, and the seventy-fifth birthday of Jason's maternal grandfather, Brigadier-General George Grundy, ax-Canadian Army. The Grundys lived in a suburb of Toronto. For the dual celebration an elaborate family reunion was planned.

Newbold queried, "What time does that Toronto flight leave here?"

"Five after nine."

"And what time are they burning Animal?"

"Seven."

"Which means you'll be away by eight. Too late to get back to Miami. Have you checked Toronto flights from Jacksonville or Gainesville?"

"Not yet." "Let me work on that, Malcolm. Call me from the car in about an hour."

"Thanks. Will do."

On the way out of Homicide, Ainslie gathered up a tape recorder and the equipment to conceal it under his clothing. Whatever Doil's last statement, his words would live beyond him.

* * *

On the Police Building main floor, Jorge Rodriguez was waiting at the Patrol Office.

"Car's signed out. Slot thirty-six. And I got the cell phone." Jorge was the youngest Homicide detective, in many ways a protege of Ainslie's, and his eagerness was an asset now.

"Let's move it."

They exited the building at a jog, feeling at once the oppressive humidity that had blanketed Miami for days. Ainslie glanced at the sky, which, apart from a few small cumulus clouds, was clear, with stars and a half moon.

Minutes later, with Jorge at the wheel, they left the Police Department parking lot, making a fast turn onto Northwest Third Avenue. Two blocks later they were on the Interstate 95 northbound ramp, from where they would continue north for ten miles, then switch to Florida's Turnpike, with three hundred miles ahead.

It was 11:10 P.M,

The marked car for which Ainslie had asked was a fully equipped, air-conditioned Miami Police blue-and-white Chevrolet Impala, unmistakably official.

"You want lights and siren?" Jorge asked.

"Not yet. Let's see how it goes, but put your foot down and keep it there."

Traffic was light and they were already doing seventyfive, knowing that a marked police car, even out of Miami jurisdiction, would not be stopped for speeding.

Malcolm settled into his seat and gazed out the window. Then he reached for the cellular phone and entered his home number.

2

"I cannot believe this, Malcolm! I absolutely cannot believe it."

He told Karen unhappily, "I'm afraid it's true."

"You're afraid! Afraid of what?"

A moment earlier, on receiving Malcolm's call, Karen's first question had been, "Darling, when are you coming home?"

When he told her he wouldn't be home that night, the temper that she seldom showed exploded.

He tried to explain and justify what he was doing, but unsuccessfully.

Now she continued, "So you're afraid of offending that piece of human garbage who's about to be electrocuted, as he goddam well should be! Afraid of missing a juicy tidbit to one of your stupid cases? But not afraid, oh no! not afraid at all of disappointing your own son on his birthday. Your son, Malcolm, in case you've forgotten your son who's been looking forward to tomorrow, counting the days, counting on you . . ."

Ainslie thought miserably: everything Karen was saying was true. And yet . . . How could he make Karen understand? Understand that a cop, especially a Homicide detective, was always on duty. That he was obligated to go. That there was no way he could not respond to the call he'd received, no matter what was happening in his personal life.

He said flatly, "I feel terrible about Jason. You must know that."

"Must I? Well, I damn well don't know. Because if you cared at all, you'd be here with us now instead of on the way to that murderer the man you've put ahead of everything, especially your own family."

Ainslie's voice sharpened. "Karen, I have to go. I simply have no choice. None!"

When she didn't answer, he continued, "Look, I'll try to catch a flight out of Jacksonville and Gainesville, so I can join you in Toronto. You can take my suitcase."

"You're supposed to be traveling with us the three of us together! You, Jason, me your family! Or have you totally forgotten?"

"Karen, that's enough!"

"And of course there's the little matter of my father's birthday, the only seventy-fifth birthday he'll ever have, and who knows how many more there'll be. But clearly none of us count not in comparison to that creature 'Animal.' That's what you call him, isn't it? An animal who comes ahead of all of us."

He protested, "That isn't true!"

"Then prove it! Where are you now?"

Ainslie looked out at road signs on I-95. "Karen, I cannot turn around. I'm sorry you don't understand, but the decision's been made."

Briefly his wife was silent. When she resumed, her voice was choked and he knew she was close to tears. "Do you realize what you're doing to us, Malcolm?"

When he didn't answer, he heard a click as she hung up.

Dispirited, he switched off the cellular phone. He remembered guiltily the number of times he had disappointed Karen by putting official duty ahead of his family life. Karen's words of a week ago came back to him: Malcolm, our life simply cannot go on like this. He hoped desperately she didn't mean it.

Within the car a silence followed that Jorge had the good sense not to break. At length Ainslie said glumly, "My wife just loves being married to a cop."

Jorge rejoined warily, "Pretty mad, eh?"

"Can't think why." Ainslie added sourly, "All I did was screw up our vacation, all for the sake of having a chat with a killer who'll be dead by morning. Wouldn't any good husband do the same?"

Jorge shrugged. "You're a Homicide cop. Some things you just gotta do. Can't always explain them to outsiders." He added, "I'm never getting married."

Suddenly Jorge floored the accelerator, pulling out sharply to pass one car and cutting in ahead of another coming up behind. The second car's driver blasted his horn in protest.

Ainslie roared, "For Christ's sake! Cool it!" Then, turning in his seat, he waved to the car behind, hoping the driver would take it as an apology. He fumed, "It's Doil who's supposed to die tonight, not us."

"Sorry, Sergeant." Jorge grinned. "Got carried away with the need for speed."

Ainslie realized Leo Newbold was right. At times Jorge did drive like a madman, but his Cuban charm remained intact. His appeal clearly worked wonders on women as well a series of beautiful, sophisticated women who accompanied Jorge everywhere, seemed to adore him, then, for reasons never explained, were periodically replaced.

"With the kind of arrangements you have, why would you get married?" Ainslie said.

"At my age I need to keep my options open."

"Well, you're certainly doing that. You're a regular prime-time Romeo. You remember yesterday even Ernestine couldn't resist your charms."

"Sergeant, Ernestine's a hooker. Any guy with a wallet in his back pocket could charm her."

"I had forty-five Dollars in my pocket, and she didn't come on to me."

"No. Well, it's just that . . . I don't know . . . people respect you. Those girls would feel like they were propositioning their uncle."

Ainslie smiled and said quietly, "You did well yesterday, Jorge. I was proud of you."

And he leaned back in his seat. . .

* * *

An elderly tourist, Werner Niehaus, was driving a Cadillac rental car when he got lost in Miami's maze of numbered streets many of which had names as well, sometimes even two names. Getting lost happened often, even to locals. Unluckily, the bewildered German strayed into the notorious Overtown area, where he was attacked, robbed, and shot dead, his body then thrown from the rental car, which his attackers subsequently stole. It was a wanton, needless killing. Robbery presumably the objective could have been achieved easily without it.

A statewide BOLO "be on the lookout" was immediately issued for the missing car.

With the killing of foreign tourists already receiving international attention, pressure was building from the mayor, the city commissioners, and the chief of police downward for a speedy resolution. While nothing would undo the adverse publicity for Miami, a swift arrest might soften the negative edge.

The following morning, Jorge, accompanied by Malcolm Ainslie, cruised the Overtown area in an unmarked car in search of evidence or witnesses. Ainslie let Jorge take the lead, and near the corner of Northwest Third Avenue and Fourteenth Street he spotted two drug dealers, known to him by their street names, Big Nick and Shorty Spudman. There was an arrest warrant out for Shorty on an aggravated assault charge, a felony.

Jorge was quickly out of the car, followed by Ainslie. As the detectives approached from either side, cutting off any escape, Nick was stuffing something into his pants. He looked up casually. Jorge set the tone. "Hey, Nick, how's it going?"

The response was wary. "Okay, what it is, man."

The druggies and detectives eyed each other. They all knew that if the police of fleers exercised their right to stop and frisk, they would find drugs, perhaps weapons, in which case the dealers, both with lengthy records, could face long prison terms.

Jorge asked Shorty Spudman, who was five feet two and pockmarked "You hear about that German tourist murdered yesterday?"

"Heard on TV. Them punks doing shit to tourists people, they some real bad dudes."

"So there's talk on the street?"

"Some."

Ainslie picked up the exchange. "You guys can help yourself out if you give us names."

The invitation was clear: Let's make a deal. As Homicide detectives saw it, solving a murder took priority over most everything else. In return for information, lesser crimes would be ignored even an arrest warrant.

But Big Nick insisted, "Ain't knowin' no fuckin' names."

Jorge motioned to the car. "Then we'd all better take a ride to the station." At Police Headquarters, as Nick and Shorty knew, a full-body search would be obligatory, and the arrest warrant could not be overlooked.

"Hold it!" Shorty offered. "Heard a couple whores say last night there was a honky shot an' two dudes took his car."

Jorge: "Did the girls see it happen?"

Shorty shrugged. "Maybe."

"Give with their names."

"Ernestine Smart and one they call Flame."

"Where can we find them?"

"Ernestine's sleepin' at River an' Three. Dunno 'bout Flame."

Jorge said, "You're talking the homeless camp at Third and North River?"

"Yeah."

"If you've given us shit," Jorge told the pair, "we'll come back and find you. If it turns out okay, we owe you."

Jorge and Ainslie returned to their car. Locating one of the prostitutes took another hour.

The Third Street homeless camp was under I-95 and alongside the Miami River. Originally it had been a downtown parking area, and dozens of parking meters, unused, stood incongruously among countless cardboard packing cases and other flimsy shelters assembled from discarded junk the whole crude, filthy mess resembling a hellhole in some fifth-rate country. Amid it all, human beings lived desperate, degraded lives. In and around the encampment, garbage was everywhere. Jorge and Ainslie left their car cautiously, knowing that at any moment they could step in a pile of excrement.

Ernestine Smart and Flame, they learned, jointly occupied a plywood box that, according to stencil marks, once had contained truck tires. It was now located on the river side of the former parking lot. A door had been cut in the box. It was padlocked on the outside.

Jorge and Ainslie moved on. Driving to "whore country" Biscayne Boulevard and Northeast Eighth Street, Biscayne and Eleventh, East Flagler and Third Avenue they questioned a few daytime prostitutes, asking about Ernestine and Flame. Neither had been seen that day, and eventually the detectives returned to the homeless shelters.

This time they found the roughly cut door of Ernestine and Flame's plywood box unlocked and open. Jorge put his head into the dark interior.

"Hey, Ernestine. It's your friendly neighborhood cop. How's tricks?"

A husky voice came back. "If I had more I wouldn't be livin' in this pigpen. You wanna fuck, copper? For you it's bargain day."

"Damn! Just can't take the time; got a murder to solve. Word on the street is you and Flame saw it."

From the interior gloom, Ernestine peered out. Jorge guessed she was about twenty, despite the jaded attitude of a woman twice her age. She was black and once beautiful, but now her face was puffy and etched with lines. Her figure was good, though. A white jumpsuit showed a slim body and firm breasts. Ernestine saw Jorge's eyes and seemed amused.

"We all see things," she told him. "roan' always remember."

"But you'll remember if I help you?"

Ernestine smiled enigmatically. He knew the answer was yes.

That's the way it was with prostitutes, and it was why detectives cultivated them as friends and allies. Prostitutes were full of information and would reveal it if they liked the cop or liked the deal. But they never volunteered anything; you had to ask the right questions.

Jorge began tentatively. "Were you by any chance working Northwest Third and Twelfth Street last night?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

"Well, I was wondering if you saw two jitterbugs jump into a car driven by an older white guy, then shoot him and dump him out of the car."

"No, but I did see a brother an' this cheap-lookin' 'fey chick make some old guy stop his car, then do what you said."

Jorge glanced at Ainslie, who nodded, sensing pay dirt. "Let's get this clear," Jorge said. "It was a black male and a white woman?"

"Yeah." Ernestine eyed him directly. "Before I say any more, you gonna hit my skin, man?''

"If what you tell us isn't bullshit, it'll be worth a hundred."

"That's cool." She looked pleased.

"Do you know the names?"

"The black dude is Kermit the Frog. Looks like a frog; has funny bulgin' eyes. He's a bad one, always pullin' his piece."

"And the woman?"

"Heard her called Maggie, she's always with Kermit. They hang at the diner over on Eighth Street, an' I saw them both get picked up for havin' smack."

"If I brought some photos, would you identify them?"

"Sure, sweetie, anything for you." Reaching out, Ernestine touched Jorge's cheek. "You're kinda cute."

He smiled, then pressed on. "What about Flame? Will she help us, too?"

"You'll have to ask him."

Jorge was startled. "Him?"

"Flame's a he-she," Ernestine said. "Name's Jimmy McRae."

Ainslie groaned audibly. "Not as a witness. No way!"

Jorge nodded. A he-she, a male who wanted to undergo a sex change and meanwhile dressed and lived as a woman, was common in the libidinous underworld. On top of that, it seemed, Flame paraded as a female prostitute. There was no way such a kink could be produced in court; the jury would be turned off, so forget Flame. Ernestine would be a good witness, and they might find others.

Jorge told Ernestine, "If what you've told us checks out, we'll stop by with your money in the next couple of days."

That kind of payoff an informer's fee was available from an expense account to which detectives had access.

At that moment Ainslie's portable police radio announced his unit number, 1910.

He responded, "QSK," meaning "Proceed with transmission."

"Call your lieutenant."

Using the same portable, which doubled as a phone, Ainslie gave Leo Newbold's number.

"We have a break in the Niehaus case," Newbold said. "State Police found the missing car with two suspects. They're being brought here now."

"Don't tell me, sir," Ainslie said, checking notes. "One black guy named Kermit, and a white girl, Maggie?"

"Right on! That's them. How'd you know?"

"Jorge Rodriguez has a witness. A prostitute. Said she'll make an ID."

"Tell Jorge, nice going. Better get over here. Let's wrap this up fast."

The facts slowly emerged. A sharp-eyed Florida state trooper, who had memorized the previous day's Miami Police BOLO, had spotted and stopped the wanted car and arrested its occupants a black male, Kermit Kaprum, age nineteen, and Maggie Thorne, white female, twenty-three. They were carrying .38-caliber revolvers, which were sent for ballistics analysis.

They told uniformed police that an hour or so earlier they had found the car abandoned, with the keys in the ignition, and had taken it for a joyride. It was a patently false story, though not contested by the uniforms, who knew that Homicide detectives would do the important questioning.

When Ainslie and Jorge reached Homicide, Kaprum and Thorne had already arrived and were being detained in separate interview rooms. A computer check revealed that both had criminal records, beginning at age eighteen. The young woman, Thorne, had served prison time for thefts and had misdemeanor convictions for prostitution. Kaprum had two convictions, for larceny and disorderly conduct. It was likely that both had records also as juvenile offenders.

* * *

Miami's Homicide department was totally unlike the noisy, frenetic detective divisions seen on TY, with their easy public access and anything-goes behavior. Located on the fifth floor of the fortresslike downtown Miami Police Headquarters building, Homicide was reached by elevator from the main lobby. However, the fifth-floor doors would open only with a special key-card. No one but Homicide detectives, civilian Homicide staff, and a few senior officers had key-cards. All other police personnel and the occasional visitor needed advance approval, and even then were accompanied by a key-card holder.

Prisoners and suspects brought to Homicide arrived via a guarded basement entrance and a secure elevator running directly up to the Homicide office. The result was a normally quiet, controlled environment.

Jorge Rodriguez and Malcolm Ainslie peered through one-way glass at the suspects seated in separate interview rooms.

"We need at least one confession," Ainslie said.

"Leave it to me," Jorge told him.

"You want to question both?"

"Yeah. I'll take the girl first. Mind if I do it alone?"

Normally, two detectives would interview a murder suspect together, but Jorge's previous successes solo were a persuasive argument, especially now.

Ainslie nodded. "Go ahead."

As the session with the twenty-three-year-old Maggie Thorne began, Ainslie watched and listened through the observation window. The suspect looked pale and younger than her years, wearing stained, torn jeans and a dirty sweatshirt. If she put on a dress and washed her face, Ainslie thought, she'd be pretty. As it was, she seemed hard and edgy, rocking nervously in the metal chair to which she was handcuffed. When Jorge appeared she yanked on the cuffs, clanging them against the chair, and shouted, "Why the fuck do I have to wear these?"

Jorge smiled easily and moved to take them off. "How ye' coin', anyway? I'm Detective Rodriguez. Would you like some coffee or a cigarette?"

Thorne rubbed her wrists and muttered something about milk and sugar. She seemed a shade more relaxed, though her wariness persisted. A hard nut, Ainslie thought.

As usual, Jorge had brought a thermos, two Styrofoam cups, and cigarettes. He poured coffee for them both, talking at the same time. So you don't smoke, eh? Me neither. Dangerous stuff tobacco . . . (Not as dangerous as the girl's .38, Ainslie thought.) . . . Sorry, you'll have to drink it black. . . Hey, mind if I call you Maggie? I'm Jorge. . . See, I want to help you if I can. In fact, I think we can help each other. . . No, it's not a load of horseshit. The truth is, Maggie, you're in a lot of trouble and I'm trying to make things as easy for you as I can . . .

Ainslie stood behind the one-way glass, tapping his foot. Get the Miranda over with, Jorge, he thought impatiently, knowing that Jorge could not move forward until he had advised Thorne of her rights, including the right to an attorney. Of course, the last thing an investigator wanted at this critical stage was the restrictive presence of a lawyer a reason why Homicide detectives tried to present the Miranda caution in such a way that the answer came back, "No."

Jorge's skill in obtaining that answer had become legendary.

He started with a pre-interview entirely legal during which he gathered basics: the suspect's name, address, birth date, occupation, social security number. . . But Jorge proceeded with deliberate slowness, taking time for comments. So you were born in August, Maggie? Hey, so was I. That makes us Leos, but I don't really believe in that zodiac crap. Do you?

Despite the low-key approach, the girl was still wary, so Jorge let the pre-interview run on, though he had not yet mentioned the crime being investigated.

Maggie, just a few more personal details. Are you married?. . . No? Me neither. Maybe someday. Well, how 'bout a boyfriend? Kermit? Well, I'm afraid Kermit's in trouble, too, and not a lot of help to you right now. Maybe he's the one who got you here. . . How about your mother?... Wow! You never saw her?... Well, how about your father?... Okay, okay, no more questions about them.

Jorge sat close to Thorne, occasionally touching her arm or shoulder. With some suspects, he might hold their hand, even perhaps induce tears. But Thorne was tough, so Jorge held back. There were limits, though, to how long a preinterview could last.

Is there anyone at all you'd like me to contact for you, Maggie?. . . Well, if you change your mind, be sure to tell me.

From outside, Ainslie waited tensely to witness the Miranda declaration. Meanwhile he watched the girl. There was something familiar about her face, but despite a facility for "flash recognition" an identification system in which police were trained he couldn't place her. The elusiveness puzzled him.

Okay, Maggie, there's a lot more to talk about, but I do have to ask you this: Are you willing to keep talking to me just like we're doing now without an attorney present?

Jorge was walking a hairline, though still within legal bounds.

Almost imperceptibly, Thorne nodded. Good, 'cause I'd like to keep talking too. But there's something we need to get out of the way you know how regulations are. So I have to tell you this, Maggie, for the record. You have the right to remain silent. . .

The official formula continued, the wording more or less: You need not talk to me or answer any questions. . . Should you talk to me, anything you say can be used as evidence against you . . . You have the right to an attorney at any time. . . If you cannot afford an attorney one will be supplied free of charge . . .

Ainslie listened carefully. Although police interview rooms were mainly soundproof, voices could penetrate the one-way glass in front of him, so later he could testify, if needed, that the Miranda warning had been given. Never mind that Jorge's voice had become offhand and casual; the right words were what mattered, though Thorne seemed scarcely to be paying attention.

It was time for Jorge's second calculated gamble.

Now, we can either keep talking, Maggie, or I go back to work and you won't see me anymore. . .

On the girl's face a look of doubt: What happens next if this guy disappears?

Jorge recognized the signs. He was close to success.

Maggie, do you understand what I've just said?... You're sure? . . . Okay, so that's out of the way . . . Oh, just one thing! I need you to sign this piece of paper. It confirms what we've been saying.

Thorne signed the of ficial release form, her handwriting scrawly but certifying that after having been informed of her rights she had chosen to talk to Detective Rodriguez without a lawyer present.

Ainslie put away the notes he'd made. Jorge was in the clear, and Ainslie, already convinced of the pair's guilt, believed there would be at least one full confession within the hour.

As it turned out, there were two.

* * *

As Jorge's questioning continued first of Thorne, then, in the other room, of Kaprum it became evident they had had no coherent plan to begin with, a fact that caused a capital crime to be committed instead of simple robbery. Then, afterward, they had seriously believed they could get away with it by concocting a stew of lies, all of which seemed ingenious to them but ludicrous to anyone with crime-solving experience.

Jorge to Thorne: About that car you and Kermit were in, Maggie. You told the trooper you'd found it just a few minutes earlier, with the keys in it, and took it for a ride . . . Well, what if I tell you we have a witness who saw both of you in that car last night, saw the whole thing happen ? Also, there were a dozen or more empty drink cans in the car, food wrappers, too. It's all been sent for fingerprinting. What if your prints, and Kermit's, are on that stuff ? . . . Actually, it will prove something, Maggie, because it will show you were both in that car a whole lot longer than just the ' few minutes" you say.

Jorge sipped coffee and waited. Thorne drank some of hers.

Something else, Maggie. When you were picked up and searched, you had a lot of money on you more than seven hundred Dollars. Mind telling me where you got that?. . . Working for whom and doing what? . . . Really! Must have been a lot of odd jobs for all that cash. What were the names of the people who employed you?... Well, then, give me the names of one or two and we'll check with them... You can't name anyone? Maggie, you're not helping yourself here.

All right, let's move on. Now, mixed in with those Dollars found on you were some deutschemarks. Where did you get those?. . . Deutschemarks, Maggie German money. You been to Germany lately?. .. Oh, come on, Maggie! How could you forget something like that? Did you get it from Mr. Niehaus? . . . He's the gentleman who was killed. Did you shoot him with that pistol of yours, Maggie? Tests are being done on the gun. They'll tell us if you did.

Maggie, I'm talking to you as a friend. You're in trouble, big trouble, and I think you know it. I'd like to help you, but before I can, you'll have to start telling the truth. . . Here, have more coffee. . . Think about it, Maggie. The truth will make everything easy especially for you. Because when I know the truth I can start advising you about what to do. . .

And later, with the other, younger suspect, Kaprum whose eyes did bulge like a frog's, Ainslie realized the questioning was tougher: Okay, Kermit, for the past half hour I've listened to you answer all my questions and we both know that everything you've told me is total bullshit. Now let's pack it in and have some facts. You and your girlfriend Maggie hijacked that car, robbed that old man, then killed him. Now, I may as well tell you that Maggie Thorne has confessed. I have her written confession in which she says the whole idea was yours, and that you fired the shot that killed Mr. Niehaus. . .

The nineteen-year-old Kaprum leapt to his feet and shouted wildly, "That lying bitch! It was her who done it, her idea, not mine! I just went for "

Hey, hold it! Stop right there, Kaprum! You hear me! Settle down!

It was like winning the lottery, Jorge thought. Kaprum, reacting to what he saw as Maggie Thorne's betrayal, was now eager to relate his own version of events. Ainslie might have smiled, but he remembered the poor dead German.

A Miranda warning had been given Kaprum earlier. No need to repeat it.

So are you ready to tell me, Kermit, what really happened and this time the truth? If you are, you'll be helping yourself. . . Okay, let's begin when you and Thorne held up that car and took it over. . . All right, we'll put Thorne's name first if that's the way you want it. . . So where were you both when . . .

Jorge was scribbling on a pad as Kaprum spoke quickly, blurting out facts, heedless of consequences, failing to realize it made little difference, if any, who had done what, and what counted most was that the pair of them had killed in collusion. When asked by Jorge why any shot was fired at all, Kaprum answered, "The old bastard badmouthed us. Shouted a lot of crap we didn't understand. He wouldn't shut his goddam mouth, man."

When it was done, using a ballpoint pen that Jorge handed him, Kaprum initialed each page as having read it, then signed what had become a full confession.

A few hours later the ballistics report revealed that three bullets were found in the dead German's body. One had been fired from Kaprum's gun, two from Maggie Thorne's. The medical examiner's conclusion was that Kaprum's bullet would have wounded the victim. Either one of the two from Thorne would have caused immediate death.

Ainslie was called away, then returned in time to hear part of a second session between Jorge and Thorne. At the end the young girl asked a question, her expression serious. "What's gonna happen? Will we get probation?"

Jorge made no attempt to answer, and Ainslie knew why.

What could you say to someone who was so strangely ignorant about the gravity of what had transpired, and the inevitable consequences soon to come? How could Jorge tell a young girl, No, there is not the slightest chance of your receiving probation, or even going temporarily free on bail, or for that matter ever getting out of jail again. What is a near certainty is that after the two of you have been tried before a judge and jury, you will be found guilty of murder and sentenced to die in the electric chair.

* * *

In court, defense lawyers going through the motions would rant and rave, complaining that Thorne's and Kaprum's confessions had been obtained under duress. The word "trickery" might be used not without some truth, Ainslie conceded.

But a judge, armed with testimony that proper Miranda warnings had been given and that the accused had knowingly signed their rights away, would dismiss the objections and the confessions would stand.

As to the "trickery," Ainslie had come to believe it was justified. With any capital crime, total, conclusive proof was hard to come by and because of guileful lawyers sometimes the guilty walked away. The O.J. Simpson case came inevitably to mind. But the Thorne and Kaprum confessions, however extracted, represented truth that would lead to justice, and from society's point of view and Ainslie's that was what mattered most.

* * *

The thought of confessions brought Ainslie's mind back to Elroy Doil and the reason for this interminable drive. He wondered, as he had since the phone call from Raiford earlier tonight: What kind of confession was he going to hear?

He peered out at lighted signs on the roadway. They had left I-95 and were on Florida's Turnpike, with Orlando their first objective two hundred miles away.

3

Malcolm Ainslie, who had dozed off soon after passing Fort Lauderdale, was awakened by a thump perhaps a road bump or more likely a raccoon; their carcasses littered the highway. He stretched and sat up, then checked the time: ten minutes after midnight. Up ahead he could see an exit ramp to West Palm Beach, which meant they were a third of the way to Orlando. Jorge, he noted, was driving in the far left lane amid fairly heavy turnpike traffic.

Ainslie reached for the phone and punched in Lieutenant Newbold's number. When he answered, Ainslie announced, "Evening, sir. Miami's finest here."

"Hey, Malcolm. Everything okay?"

Ainslie glanced to his left. "The mad Cuban hasn't killed me yet."

Newbold chuckled, then said, "Listen, I checked some flights for you, and made reservations. I think we can get you up to Toronto by tomorrow afternoon."

"That's good news, Lieutenant. Thanks!" He jotted down the details: a 10:05 Delta flight from Jacksonville to Atlanta, connecting with Air Canada to Toronto.

He would be in Toronto only slightly more than two hours later than originally planned, and was relieved. The arrangement was not ideal because he knew that Karen's parents, who lived more than an hour's drive from Toronto's Pearson Airport, had some kind of party planned for lunchtime, which he would miss. But he would be at the family dinner in the evening.

Newbold continued, "Have Rodriguez drive you to Jacksonville. It's only sixty miles; you'll make it easily. And when you get back, we'll look at your extra expenses and work something out."

"That might appease Karen."

"Was she upset?" Newbold asked.

"You could say that."

Newbold sighed. "Devina's that way when I get lousy duty, and mostly I can't blame her. Oh, I called the State Prison. They've promised to waive formalities going in, so you'll get to Animal fast."

"Great."

"One thing they asked. When you're about twenty minutes from Raiford, phone Lieutenant Neil Hambrick. Here's the direct-line number."

Ainslie wrote it down. "Nice going, Lieutenant. Thanks again."

"Hey, have a good trip and enjoy Toronto."

Switching off the phone, Ainslie reflected on the excellent relations between Newbold and his white subordinates. Like most others in Homicide, Ainslie liked and respected Newbold, a twenty-four-year veteran of the force who had come to the United States with his immigrant Jamaican parents thirty years ago, at age fifteen. Young Leo had attended the University of Miami, where he majored in criminology, afterward joining the Police Department at twenty-two. Because he was black, affirmative action of the 1980s speeded his promotion to lieutenant, but unlike some other such promotions, because of Newbold's obvious ability, it was not resented by his white colleagues. Now he was in his eighth year as head of Homicide.

A great deal was being written nationally about racial disharmony in big-city police forces, notably the Los Angeles Police Department, where ugly discrimination against blacks, both on and off the force, had had semiofficial approval from the top over many years. Only now was some attempted balance and fairness taking shape in L.A., amid bitterness on all sides. By contrast, the Miami PD had gone through the same traumatic change more than a decade earlier, so that integration, with only minor hangovers from the past, was now a fail accompli. It worked, and the public was better served.

* * *

To Malcolm's surprise, Karen was sleeping when he phoned with the new flight information, which he gave her, then urged her to return to sleep. "I'll see you tomorrow about four," he finished.

She mumbled sleepily, but with some affection, "I'll believe it when I see it."

When Ainslie ended the connection and settled back, Jorge's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Sergeant, are you still Catholic?"

The question was unexpected. "Excuse me?"

Jorge eased the blue-and-white past one of the many tractor-trailers traveling the highway. When they were safely clear he continued, "Well, you used to be a priest, and now you're not. So I was curious are you still a Catholic?"

"No."

"Well, I was wondering, as a Catholic, or ex, how you really feel about this trip capital punishment, going to see Animal Doil before they strap him in the chair, knowing it was mainly you who put him there?"

"That's a heavy question this late at night."

Jorge shrugged. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, I understand."

Ainslie hesitated. When he'd quit the priesthood at thirty, after a seminary education and a Ph.D. degree, followed by five years as a parish priest, he simply walked away, abandoning religion entirely. As to motives, apart from confiding in a few close friends, he had stayed mainly silent, having no wish to influence others. As time passed, though, he grew more willing to answer questions.

"In some ways," he told Jorge, "there's not a huge difference between cops and priests. A priest tries to help people, strives for fairness and justice or so he should. A Homicide cop wants to see murderers caught and, if found guilty, pay the penalty."

"Sometimes," Jorge said, "I wish I could talk about stuff, saying it perfectly, the way you do."

"You mean capital punishment?"

"Yeah, exactly. On the one hand I'm a cop. How many cops in this country are truly against capital punishment? Two? Maybe three? But then I'm also Catholic. And the Church opposes capital punishment."

"Don't be so sure, Jorge. Underneath, most religions are full of hypocrisy because they accept killing when it suits them. Oh, I know the beautiful theory. I was taught it. 'Life is a gift from God and no human being has the right to terminate life.' But that's only when it's convenient."

"When isn't it convenient?"

"During wars, when men, not God, take lives. And every country that goes to war, from the Old Testament Israelites through to modern America they all assume God's on their side."

Jorge laughed. "Well, I sure as hell hope he's on my side."

"With some of your shenanigans, there's not much chance of that."

"Me?" Jorge said. "You're the one who turned in your dog collar. Can't imagine you're on the Pope's top-ten list."

Ainslie smiled. "Well, lately there haven't been too many popes on my list, either."

"How come?"

"Some of them have different rules for themselves than they do for others. Like Pope Pius XII you've heard of him. He's the one who ignored Hitler's slaughter of Jews, making no protest when it could have saved Jewish lives? That's how religions condone murder without actually taking a stand."

"My parents were ashamed when that all came out," Jorge said. "Wasn't there talk a while back about the Church admitting guilt?"

"Yes, in 1994, and it lasted one day. A draft of a Vatican document surfaced in Israel; it described Catholic 'shame and repentance' over the Holocaust. But the next day the Vatican said, 'No way, not us. Maybe someday, not now.' They did a Galileo."

"Give me that again."

"In 1633," Ainslie explained, "Galileo was condemned for heresy and held under house arrest for the last eight years of his life all because he showed that the earth revolves around the sun. That, of course, was contrary to Catholic doctrine, which said that the earth was the center of the universe and didn't move. Only in 1992, after what the Vatican called 'thirteen years of study,' did Pope John Paul II admit the Church was wrong something science had confirmed centuries before."

"The Church did nothing? Between 1633 and almost now?"

"Three and a half centuries. Rome doesn't hurry its own confessions."

Jorge laughed. "But if I use a condom on Friday, I'd better confess on Saturday. Or else!"

Ainslie smiled. "I know; it's a crazy world. Getting back to your question I didn't like any kind of killing when I was a priest, and still don't. But I believe in the law, so while capital punishment is part of the law, I'll go along."

Even as he spoke, Ainslie was reminded of the few dissidents labeled by prosecutors as a lunatic fringe who argued that Elroy Doil, because of his adamant denials, had not been proven guilty. Ainslie disagreed. He was convinced guilt had been proven, but wondered again about Doil's proposed confession.

"Will you stay to see Animal executed?" Jorge asked.

"I hope not. We'll see what happens when we get there."

Jorge was briefly silent, then he said, ''Rumor around the station is that you wrote a book, some important religious thing. Sold millions of copies, I'm told. Hope you made millions, too."

Ainslie laughed. "You don't get rich co-authoring a book about comparative religions. I've no idea how many copies were sold, though it went into a lot of languages and you can still pick it up in a library."

* * *

The dashboard clock read 2:15 A.M. "Where are we?" Ainslie asked, realizing he'd dozed off again.

"Just passed Orlando, Sergeant."

Ainslie nodded, remembering other, more leisurely journeys along this way. On either side of them, he knew, was some of the more glorious countryside in Florida. From Orlando to Wildwood, fifty miles ahead, the turnpike was officially a scenic byway. Out there, hidden by darkness, were rolling hills adorned with wildflowers, stands of tall pines, tranquil lakes and flowering trees with multicolored blossoms, cows grazing on vast fields of farmland, orange groves, loaded with fruit this time of year. . .

Florida, Ainslie reflected, had become one of the chosen, coveted places of the world. It seemed that whatever was innovative, sophisticated, artistic, and exciting was to be found there, especially in greater Miami a sprawling, bubbling, international cauldron of much that was best in modern living. It was also, he was somberly reminded, a hodgepodge of the worst.

He had read once how the explorer Ponce de Ledn had named Florida in 1513, invoking the Spanish phrase pascua florida "season of flowers." Still, that much was still as true now as then in the aptly named Sunshine State.

Ainslie asked, "Are you tired? Would you like me to drive?"

"No, I'm fine."

They had been on the road slightly more than three hours, Ainslie calculated, and were better than halfway. Allowing for inferior roads after Interstate 75, which they would shortly join, they could reach Raiford at about 5:30 A.M.

With the execution set for 7:00 A.M., that left almost no time to spare. Except for a last-minute reprieve unlikely in Doil's case there was no way a scheduled execution would be postponed.

* * *

Ainslie leaned back in the car in an effort to organize his thoughts. His memories of Elroy Doil and all that had occurred were like a file folder of jumbled notes and pages.

He remembered having seen Doil's name for the first time a year and a half ago when it appeared on a computergenerated list of potential suspects. Then, later, when Doil became a prime suspect, Homicide had made extensive inquiries going all the way back to Doil's early childhood.

Elroy Doil was thirty-two when the killings began. He had been born and raised in Miami's "poor white" neighborhood, known as Wynwood. Though the name does not appear on published maps, Wynwood comprises a sixtyblock, half-square-mile area in mid-Miami with a mainly underprivileged white populace, plus a grim record of high crime, riots, looting, and police brutality.

Immediately southwest of Wynwood is Overtown, also not named on maps, with a mainly underprivileged black occupancy, plus a similarly dreary record of high crime, riots, looting, and police brutality.

Elroy Doil's mother, Beulah, was a prostitute, drug addict, and alcoholic. She told friends that her son's father "coulda been any one of a hundred fuckers," though she later advised Elroy that his most probable father was serving a life term in Florida's Belle Glade prison. Even so, Elroy encountered a long succession of other men who lived with his mother for varying periods, and remembered many of them from the drunken beatings and sexual abuse he received.

Why Beulah Doil had a child at all was unclear, having had several previous abortions. Her explanation: she "just never got around to getting rid of the kid."

Eventually Beulah, a shrewdly practical person, instructed her son in petty crime and how to avoid "getting your ass busted." Elroy learned fast. At ten he was stealing food for himself and Beulah, as well as filching anything else in sight. He robbed other boys at school. It helped that he was big for his age, and a savage fighter.

Under Beulah's tutelage, Elroy grew up learning to take advantage of the lenient laws affecting juvenile crime. Even though he was apprehended several times for assaults, thefts, and petty larcenies, he was always released back to his mother's custody with a virtual slap on the wrist.

At seventeen, as Malcolm Ainslie learned long afterward, Elroy Doil was first suspected of murder. He was caught running from the area where the crime had occurred, and detained for questioning. Because of his juvenile status, his mother was brought to the police station where he had been taken, and in her presence, Doil was questioned by detectives.

Had there been clear evidence against him, Elroy would have been charged with murder as an adult. As it was, Beulah knew enough to refuse to cooperate, and would not allow voluntary fingerprinting of her son, which might have linked him to a knife found near the murder scene. In the end, lacking sufficient evidence to hold him, the police released Doil and the crime remained unsolved.

Years later, when he became a suspect in a series of killings, his juvenile record remained closed and his fingerprints were not on file.

As it was, after Doil became an of ficial adult at eighteen, he used his street smarts acquired as a juvenile to continue his criminal ways. He was never caught, and thus no adult criminal record existed. Only much later, when the Police Department delved into Doil's background, was crucial information produced that had been forgotten or hidden.

* * *

Jorge's voice broke in abruptly: "We need gas, Sergeant. Why don't we stop at Wildwood, just ahead." It was almost 3:00 A.M.

"Okay, but get this car filled like we're making a pit stop in a race. I'll run in and get some coffee."

"And potato chips. NO, make it cookies. We need cookies."

Ainslie peered over fondly and realized why he sometimes looked upon Jorge as a son.

As they took the exit ramp, both men could see the beacons of several gas stations. Wildwood was a traditional highway interchange in daytime an untidy conglomeration of junk-laden tourist stores, at night a refueling stopover for long-distance truckers.

Jorge chose the nearest gas station, a Shell. Beyond it was an all-night WaMe House with cars parked nearby. A half-dozen shadowy figures were huddled together around two of the cars. As the blue-and-white drove in, heads shot up and faces turned toward the new approaching headlights.

Then, with incredible speed, everything changed. The figures separated, some thrust aside, others running, the former close-knit scene a sudden melee of gyrating legs and arms. Doors of parked cars were flung open, figures hurled themselves in, and while doors were still closing the cars started up and drove away. Taking local roads, avoiding the main highway, they were quickly out of sight.

Jorge and Ainslie laughed.

"If we do nothing else tonight," Ainslie pronounced, "we just broke up a drug deal."

Both knew that I-75 was a dangerous route this late at night. As well as drug traffickers, there were thieves, prostitutes, and muggers, all looking for action.

But the sight of a police car had preempted everything.

Ainslie gave Jorge money for the gas, then, in the Waffle House, bought coffee and cookies, saving receipts for expense vouchers. As well as expenses, both men would receive overtime pay for this trip tonight.

They sipped their coffee through holes in the plastic tops of cardboard cups as Jorge pulled back onto I-75.

4

Ainslie and Jorge were 270 miles north of Miami now, with about a hundred miles to go. They were still moving quickly amid mostly commercial traffic. It was 3:30 A.M.

Jorge volunteered, "We'll make it, Sergeant. No problem."

For the first time since leaving Miami, Ainslie felt himself relax. He stared through the windshield into the darkness and muttered, "I just want to hear him say it."

He was speaking of Doil, and in some ways, he acknowledged, Karen was right. His interest in Doil had moved beyond the professional. After observing the carnage left behind at each murder scene, after hunting the killer down for months, after observing Doil's total lack of remorse, Ainslie honestly felt that the world needed to be rid of this man. He wanted to hear Doil confess to the murders, and then despite what he had told Jorge earlier he wanted to see him die. Now it looked as if he would.

At that moment Jorge's voice broke in. "Oh no! Looks like big trouble up ahead."

The I-75 northbound traffic had suddenly thickened and slowed. Ahead of them, trucks were rolling to a stop, as were lines of cars between them. Across the divider, on the southbound lanes going the opposite way, not a single vehicle was on the road.

"Damn! Damn!" Ainslie slammed a hand on the dashboard. The blue-and-white had slowed to a crawl, with a bright chain of red taillights up ahead. Flashing lights of emergency vehicles were visible in the distance.

"Take the shoulder," he commanded. "Use our lights."

Jorge turned on their blue, red, and white flashers and eased across traffic onto the right-hand shoulder. They moved steadily but cautiously, passing other vehicles now at a standstill. Doors of trucks and cars were opening, people leaning out, trying to see the cause of the blockage.

"Go faster!" Ainslie ordered. "Don't waste a minute."

Within seconds, several Florida Highway Patrol cars loomed ahead, their roof lights flashing, blocking all traffic lanes, including the shoulder on which the Miami Police car now approached.

A Highway Patrol lieutenant put up a hand, signaling them to stop, and walked toward the car. Ainslie stepped out.

The lieutenant said, "You guys are really off your turf. You lost?"

"No, sir.'' Ainslie held out his identification badge, which the other inspected. "We're on our way to Raiford, and we don't have much time."

"Then I have bad news, Sergeant. This road is closed. Big accident up ahead. A tanker tractor-trailer jackknifed and flipped."

"Lieutenant, we have to get around!"

The other of ficer's voice sharpened. "Listen! It's a mess up there. The driver's dead; so, we believe, are two people trapped in a car the tractor rolled onto. The tanker ruptured, and twenty thousand gallons of high-octane gas are pouring onto the highway. We're trying to clear traffic before some idiot lights a match. We've got fire trucks with foam on the way, but they aren't here yet. So no! There is no way you can get around. Excuse me."

Responding to a call from another officer, the lieutenant turned away.

Ainslie seethed. "We need another route."

Jorge already had a Florida road map spread out on the hood of the car, and shook his head doubtfully. "There's no time, Sergeant. We'd have to go back on I-75, then take side roads. We could easily get lost. Can't we ride over the foam?"

"No way. Triple-F foam is mostly liquid soap, and slippery as hell. Besides, there'd be gasoline underneath; a car as hot as ours could start an inferno. So there's no choice we turn around. No time to waste. Let's go!"

As they climbed in the blue-and-white, the Highway Patrol lieutenant ran back. "We'll do our best to help you," he said quickly. "I just talked with Control. They know about you, and why you're going to Raiford, so here's the plan: From here, go back south to Micanopy; that's exit 73. Take that exit, go west to Highway 441." Jorge was scribbling notes as the lieutenant continued. "You'll reach 441 almost at once. When you get there, turn left, go north toward Gainesville; it's not a bad road, you should make good time. Just before Gainesville you'll intersect with Highway 331. There's a traffic light; when you reach it, turn right. On 331, one of our patrol cars will be waiting. Trooper Sequiera is in charge. Follow him. He'll escort you all the way to Raiford."

Ainslie nodded. "Thanks, Lieutenant. Okay to use our lights and siren?"

"Use everything you've got. And hey, all of us here know about Doil. Make sure that bastard fries."

Jorge already had the car in drive. He eased across a grass-and-shrubbery divider, swung sharply left, and headed south emergency lights flashing, siren wailing, and the accelerator to the floor.

* * *

They were now critically short of time. Ainslie knew it. So did Jorge.

Their delay and rerouting would cost them the better part of an hour, possibly more.

The clock on the dashboard showed 5:34 A.M. Animal was to be executed in less than an hour and a half. What remained of the journey, assuming all went perfectly, would take roughly forty minutes, which meant they'd arrive at Raiford at 6:14. Allowing time for Ainslie to enter the prison and reach Doil, plus time at the end when the prisoner would be taken to the electric chair and strapped in, the longest time Ainslie could hope for with him was a half hour.

Not enough! Not nearly enough.

But it would have to do.

"Oh shit!" Ainslie muttered, tempted to urge Jorge to go faster. But there was no way they could. Jorge was driving superbly, his eyes riveted on the road ahead, his mouth set tightly, hands firmly on the wheel. He had passed the instructions to Ainslie, who used a flashlight to read them out when needed. Highway 441, which they were on now, was rougher than I-75, with frequent intersecting side roads and some cumbersome truck traffic. Still, Jorge was maneuvering around it, making every second count. The emergency lights and siren helped. Some of the truck drivers, observing them in rearview mirrors, moved over, giving way. But a light rain had begun and there were occasional patches of mist, both slowing them down.

"Damn!" Ainslie griped. "We're not going to make it."

"We have a chance." Jorge was sitting forward, his eyes glued on the road; he increased their speed a little. "Trust me!"

That's all I can do, Ainslie thought. This is Jorge's moment; mine is coming maybe! Anyway, he told himself, try to unwind, think of something else. Think about Doil. Will he spring any surprises? Will he f nally tell the truth, the way he didn't at his trial?. . .

* * *

The sensational murder trial of Elroy Doil prompted headlines in almost every newspaper in the country and was featured daily on network TV. Outside the courthouse some demonstrators paraded, their placards urging the death penalty. Journalists competed many unsuccessfully for the limited courtroom space allotted to the media.

Public outrage was compounded by the state attorney's decision to try Doil for the most recent crime only namely the first-degree murders of Kingsley and Nellie Tempone, an elderly, wealthy, and respected black couple who were savagely tortured, then killed, in their home in Miami's exclusive Bay Heights.

As for the additional ten murders Doil was believed to have committed, if he was found guilty and executed for the Tempone killings, they would remain forever unresolved.

The controversial decision by State Attorney Adele Montesino, acting on advice of her senior prosecutors, produced an outcry from families of other victims who desperately wanted to see justice done in the names of loved ones they had lost. The media reported their indignation, providing an opportunity to link Doil's name publicly with the earlier killings. Newspapers and TV seldom worried about liability in such matters. As an editor expressed it, "When did you last hear of a serial killer suing for libel?"

Thus awareness and criticism grew.

Miami's chief of police was also known to have urged the state attorney to include at least one other double murder in the charges against Doil.

But Adele Montesino, a short, heavyset fifty-four-yearold, sometimes referred to as "the pit bull," remained adamant. She was serving her third four-year term, had already announced her intention not to seek another, and could afford to exercise her independence.

Sergeant Malcolm Ainslie had been among those attending a pretrial strategy meeting at which Ms. Montesino said, "With the Tempone case we'll have a cast-iron prosecution."

She used her fingers to tick off crucial points. "Doil was arrested at the scene with both victims' blood on him. We have the knife found in Doil's possession, identified by the medical examiner as the murder weapon, and also with both victims' blood. And we have a strong eyewitness to the murders, whom the jury will sympathize with. No twelve people in the world would let Doil off on this one."

The witness to whom she referred was the Tempones' twelve-year-old grandson, Ivan. The boy had been visiting his grandparents and was the only other person in the house when Doil broke in and attacked the elderly couple.

Young Ivan was in the next room, where he remained transfixed, watching with silent horror through a partially open door while his grandparents were continually cut and stabbed. Though terrified, knowing he would be killed if discovered, the boy had the sense and courage to go silently to a phone and call 911.

Although police arrived too late to save Kingsley and Nellie Tempone, they were in time to catch Elroy Doil, who was still on the victims' property, his gloved hands and clothing covered in their blood. Ivan, after being treated for shock, described the attack with such clarity and composure that Adele Montesino knew he would be convincing on the witness stand.

"But if we prosecute those other cases as well," the state attorney continued, "we do not, in any one, have the same positive, incontestable proof. Yes, there's circumstantial evidence. We can prove opportunity, and that Doil was close by when the killings happened, and that he has no alibis. From the first serial killing there's a partial palm print that is almost certainly Doil's, though our fingerprint technicians caution there are only seven matching points, instead of the nine or ten needed for a positive ID. Also, Dr. Sanchez said a bowie knife, which killed the Tempones, is not the same knife used on other victims. Oh, I know he could have had several knives, and probably did, but the police haven't found another.

"So you can be sure any defense lawyer would make the most of those weaknesses. And if the defense infused enough doubt into those other murders, a jury could begin wondering if our one airtight, certain case the Tempones is also questionable.

"Look, we're going to get a guilty verdict for the Tempones, which will send Doil to the chair. We can only kill the man once. Right?"

Despite the protests, the state attorney declined to alter her tactic. In the end, though, what Montesino had not foreseen was that her failure to charge Doil with at least one other double murder out of a presumed total of twelve serial killings would create a post-trial impression especially among anti-capital-punishment crusaders that some doubt existed overall, even extending to the one case where Doil was found guilty and sentenced to death.

Doil's eventual trial for the Tempone killings as Malcolm Ainslie remembered abounded with confrontations, stormy polemics, and even violence.

Since the defendant had no financial resources, the presiding judge, Rudy Olivadotti, appointed an experienced criminal trial attorney, Willard Steltzer, to represent Doil.

Steltzer was well known in Miami's legal community, in part for brilliance in court, but also for his eccentric appearance and manner. At forty he still refused to conform to the traditional lawyer's dress code, opting for antique suits and ties, generally from the fifties and bought at specialty shops. He also wore his long, coal-black hair in a braid.

True to form, Steltzer's first action as Doil's attorney rankled both the prosecution and Judge Olivadotti. Arguing that it would be impossible to find an impartial jury in Dade County, owing to widespread publicity, Steltzer filed a motion for a change of venue.

The judge, despite his irritation, ruled in favor of the motion and the trial was moved to Jacksonville, Florida nearly four hundred miles north of Miami.

As another defense ploy, Steltzer sought to have his client declared insane. He cited Doil's fits of rage, the fact that he had been abused as a child, a ferocious violence demonstrated in prison, and his habitual lying, underscored by Doil's insistence that he was never anywhere near the Tempone home, despite evidence that even defense counsel admitted was conclusive.

They were all valid reasons for possible insanity, Steltzer believed, and again Judge Olivadotti reluctantly agreed. He ordered Doil to be examined by three statecertified psychiatrists, whose study lasted four months.

At the end, the psychiatrists concluded that, yes, all of the assessments of Elroy Doil's nature and habits submitted by his defense attorney were true. However, these did not make Doil insane. The crucial issue was that he knew the difference between right and wrong. The judge thereupon declared Doil to be mentally competent and ordered him to stand trial for first-degree murder.

Doil's presence at his trial was unlikely to be forgotten by anyone who attended it. He was an enormous man, standing six feet four and weighing two hundred and ninety pounds. His facial features were large, his chest broad and muscular, his hands immense. Everything about Elroy Doil was oversized, including his ego. Each day he moved into the courtroom with a superior, menacing swagger and a sneer. The combination made him seem indifferent, at times, to events around him an attitude that persisted throughout his trial and beyond. One reporter wrote in a summation, "Elroy Doil might just as well have asked for his own conviction."

What might have helped him, as it had on past occasions, would have been the presence of his mother, who was wise in the ways of crime and the law. But Beulah Doil had died several years earlier of AIDS.

As it was, Doil remained abusive and hostile. Even during jury selection he blurted out such remarks to his counsel as, "Get that fucking grease monkey out of here!" speaking of a garage mechanic whom Willard Steltzer had been on the verge of approving as a juror. Because a defendant's wishes count, Steltzer was forced to reverse himself, then use a precious peremptory challenge for dismissal.

Again, when a dignified black woman showed some empathy toward Doil, he shouted, "That dumb nigger couldn't see the truth if it ran over her." The woman was excused.

At that point the judge, who until now had refrained from comment, cautioned the accused, "Mr. Doil, you had better settle down and be quiet."

There was a pause while Willard Steltzer, visibly disturbed and clenching his client's arm, spoke seriously into Doil's ear. After that the interruptions ceased during jury selection, but resumed when the main trial proceedings began.

A Dade County medical examiner, Dr. Sandra Sanchez, was on the witness stand. She had testified that a bowie knife, bearing the victims' blood and found in Elroy Doil's possession, was the actual weapon that killed Kingsley and Nellie Tempone.

At that point Doil, his face twisted with rage, rose from the defense table and shouted, "You fucking bitch, why you tell them lies? All lies! It ain't my knife. I wasn't even there."

Judge Olivadotti, a martinet with lawyers but known for giving a defendant all the latitude he could, now warned sternly, "Mr. Doil, if you do not remain silent, I am going to have to take extreme measures to keep you quiet. This is a serious warning."

To which Doil responded, "Screw you, Judge. I'm tired of sitting here, listening to all this bullshit. This ain't no court of justice. You already made up your minds, so execute me, goddammit! Get it over with!"

Flushed with anger, the judge addressed Willard Steltzer: "Counsel, I order you to talk some sense into your client. This is my final warning. Court is adjourned for fifteen minutes."

After the adjournment, Doil was fidgety but silent while two crime-scene specialists testified. Then, when Ainslie took the stand and described the arrest at the Tempone murder scene, Doil exploded. Leaping from his seat, he raced across the court and hurled himself at Ainslie, screaming obscenities. "Crooked conniving cop . . . I wasn't even there . . . fucking priest, disgraced. God hates you! . . . Bastard, liar. . ."

As Doil pounded with his fists, Ainslie barely protected himself, raising one arm as a shield, and did not strike back. In seconds, two bailiffs and a prison officer threw themselves on Doil. Pulling him clear, they locked his arms behind him, wrestled handcuffs into place, then slammed him face forward to the ground.

Once more, Judge Olivadotti adjourned the trial.

When it resumed, Elroy Doil was tightly gagged, and handcuffed to a heavy chair. The judge addressed him sternly.

"Never before, Mr. Doil, at any court proceeding, have I ordered a defendant restrained as you are now, and I regret this action greatly. But your disorderly behavior and abusive language leave me no choice. However, if your counsel comes to me tomorrow, before this trial resumes, with your solemn promise of good behavior for however long these proceedings take, I will consider having the restraints removed. But I caution that if your promise is broken, there will be no second chance; the restraints will be reinstated for the remainder of this trial."

The next day, Steltzer did make the promise on behalf of his client, and Doil's gag was removed, though the handcuffs remained. Before the day's proceedings were an hour old, Doil leaped up in his chair and screamed at the judge, "Go fuck your mother, you asshole!" after which the gag was reinstated and remained in place for the duration of the trial.

On both occasions when the restraints were ordered, the judge cautioned the jury, "The restrictions I have placed upon the defendant must have no effect on your verdict. You are concerned here solely with the evidence presented."

Ainslie remembered thinking how impossible it was for the jurors to ignore the image of Doil's courtroom histrionics. But whether that influenced a decision or not, at the conclusion of a six-day trial, and after five hours of deliberation, the jury returned with a unanimous verdict: "Guilty of murder in the first degree."

A sentence of death inevitably followed. Subsequently, while still insisting on his innocence, Doil refused to cooperate in any appeal process and stubbornly denied others the right to appeal on his behalf. Even so, substantial paperwork was needed before the legal machinery ground out an execution date. The law's tedious process between sentencing and execution took a year and seven months.

But now, inexorably, the day had come, and with it the tantalizing question: What did Doil want to say to Ainslie in the closing moments of his life?

If they made it in time. . .

* * *

Jorge was still speeding north on Highway 441 in the mist and rain.

Ainslie checked the time: 5:48.

He reached for his notepad and the cellular phone, then tapped out the number. There was a curt answer on the first ring.

"State Prison."

"Lieutenant Hambrick, please."

"This is Hambrick. Is this Sergeant Ainslie?"

"Yes, sir. I'm about twenty minutes away."

"Well, you've cut it fine, but we'll do our best when you get here. You understand, though nothing can be delayed?"

"I understand that."

"Do you have your escort yet?"

"No . . . Wait! I see a traffic light ahead."

Jorge nodded vigorously as two green lights came into view.

"Turn right at the light," Hambrick instructed. "Your escort is around the corner. We're alerting Trooper Sequiera now. He'll be rolling when you get there."

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

"Okay, listen carefully. Follow Sequiera closely. You're already cleared through our outer gate, the main gate, and two checkpoints after that. The tower will spotlight you, but keep moving. Stop at the front entrance to Administration. I'll be waiting. Got all that?"

"Got it.''

"I presume you're armed, Sergeant."

"Yes, I am."

"We'll immediately enter the control room, where you'll hand over all weapons, ammunition, and police ID. Be ready. Who's driving you?"

"Detective Jorge Rodriguez. Plainclothes."

"We'll give him separate instructions when you get here. Listen, Sergeant. You've got to move fast, okay?"

"I'll be ready, Lieutenant. Thank you."

Ainslie turned to Jorge and asked, "Could you hear all that?"

''Got it all, Sergeant."

The traffic light ahead turned red, but Jorge ignored it. Barely slowing, he entered the four-way intersection and swung right. Directly ahead, a Highway Patrol black-and yellow Mercury Marquis, bristling with roof antennae and flashing emergency lights, was already moving. The Miami blue-and-white fell in behind, and within seconds the two were a single eye-catching coruscation hurtling headlong through the night.

Later, when Ainslie attempted to recall that final portion of the four-hundred-mile journey, he found that all he could remember was a vague flashing montage. As best he could calculate later, they covered the last twenty-two miles of minor, twisting roads in less than fourteen minutes. Once, he noticed, their speed reached ninety-two miles per hour.

Some checkpoints were known to Ainslie from previous journeys. First the small town of Waldo, then Gainesville Airport to the right; they must have passed both so fast that neither registered. Then Starke, the dismal dormitory town of Raiford; he knew there were modest houses, prosaic stores, cheap motels, cluttered gas stations, but he saw none of them. Beyond Starke was an interval of gloom . . . an impression of trees . . . all lost in a miasma of haste.

"We're here," Jorge said. "There's Raiford, up ahead."

5

Florida State Prison looked like a mammoth fortress, and it was. So were two other prisons immediately beyond.

Paradoxically, the State Prison was of ficially in the town of Starke, not Raiford. The other two, which were in Raiford, were Raiford Prison and the Union Correctional Institute. But it was Florida State Prison that contained Death Row, and it was here that all executions took place.

Looming ahead of Ainslie and Jorge was an immense succession of high, grimly austere concrete structures, a mile-long complex punctuated by row after row of narrow and stoutly barred cellblock windows. A functional onestory building, jutting forward, housed the State Prison Administration. Another concrete mass to one side, three stories high and windowless, contained the prison workshops.

Three heavy-duty chain-link fences enclosed it all, each fence thirty feet high and topped with rolls of concertina barbed wire and a series of live electrical wires. At intervals along the fences, tall concrete towers, nine in all, were manned by guards armed with rifles, machine guns, tear gas, and searchlights. From there they could view the entire prison. The three fences created parallel twin enclosures. Within the enclosures, trained attack dogs roamed, among them German shepherds and pit bulls.

Approaching the State Prison, both the Highway Patrol and Miami Police cars slowed, and Jorge, who was seeing the complex for the first time, whistled softly.

"It's hard to believe," Ainslie said, "but a few guys have actually escaped from here. Most of them didn't get very far, though." He glanced at the dashboard clock 6:02 A.M. and was reminded that Elroy Doil would be escaping in less than an hour, in the grimmest way of all.

Jorge shook his head. "If this were my home, I'd sure as hell try to escape."

The State Prison's outer gate and a large parking lot beyond were bathed in lights. The parking area was bustling unusual for this time of day, but public interest in the Doil execution had lured many reporters to the scene, and at least a hundred others now milled around, hoping for a hint of the latest developments. Several TV mobile trucks were parked nearby.

As usual, demonstrators stood in small groups, chanting slogans. Some bore signs denouncing today's execution and capital punishment in general; others held lighted candles.

A new breed of protesters held placards reading YOUR TAXES ARE PAYING FOR THIS SUICIDE and STOP STATESPONSORED SUICIDE. These were mainly young lawyers or their supporters who objected to condemned murderers like Elroy Doil being allowed to decide against the prolonged process of appeal.

After every death sentence, one appeal went automatically to the Florida Supreme Court, but if that was rejected, as most were, further appeals could take ten years or more of legal effort. Now, instead, some prisoners accepted the death penalty for their crimes and let it happen. The state governor had wisely ruled that if a condemned prisoner made that decision, it was part of his or her freedom of choice and not "suicide." As to the objecting lawyers, the governor commented acidly, "They are less concerned about condemned prisoners having another day in court than about having their own day in court."

Ainslie wondered how much thought, if any, the demonstrators gave to the silent: a murderer's victims.

Driving past the parking lot, Ainslie and Jorge neared the main gate, a two-lane entranceway with uniformed figures standing guard. Normally at this point all arrivals were asked for identification documents and questioned about their business at the prison. Instead, uniformed guards in distinctive kelly green pants and white shirts waved both police cars through. At the same time a tower searchlight encompassed the two cars and tracked them toward the prison buildings. Ainslie and Jorge put up hands to shield their eyes.

They were similarly cleared through two other checkpoints and, within seconds, were approaching the Administration building. Ainslie had visited the prison several times before, usually to interview crime suspects, and once to arrest an inmate on new charges, but never had he reached the interior so quickly.

The Highway Patrol car stopped at the Administration entrance, and Jorge maneuvered the Miami blue-and-white alongside.

As Ainslie stepped out, he saw a tall, slender black man, wearing a prison guard's uniform with a lieutenant's rank badges, move forward. Probably in his mid-forties, he had a trim mustache and wore half-glasses over penetrating eyes. On one cheek was a long scar. His speech was brisk and confident as he put out his hand. "Sergeant Ainslie, I'm Hambrick."

"Good morning, Lieutenant. Thanks for the arrangements."

"No problem; let's just keep moving." The lieutenant led the way inside, walking quickly down a brightly lit hallway a tightly controlled linkage between the strict security outside and the formidable cellblocks ahead. The two paused briefly for clearance through two separate sets of electrically operated steel gates, then a thick steel door opening to a main cellblock corridor, as wide as a fourlane highway and running the length of the prison's seven cellblocks.

Hambrick and Ainslie stopped outside a secure control room enclosed by steel and bulletproof glass. Inside were two male guards and a female lieutenant. The lieutenant approached the two men standing outside and slid a metal drawer outward; Ainslie inserted his Glock 9mm automatic pistol, a fifteen-round ammunition clip, and his police ID. The items were drawn inside the control room, where they would be placed in a safe until retrieved. No one had asked him about the recording device under his coat, which he had strapped on in the car. He decided not to volunteer the information.

"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 of lice 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 eightyear-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 "01' 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," Ainslie 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 brough this 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 ? 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.