Detective (3 page)

"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

DETECTIVE 19

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 down-
town 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

20 Arthur Halley

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?"

DETECTIVE 21

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, Er

22 Arthur Halley

nestine 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."

DETECTIVE 23

"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

24 Arthur Halley

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

DETECTIVE 25

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 Mir-
anda 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 1. 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

26 Arthur Halley

'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 pre-
interview 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. . .