Detective (6 page)

"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

DETECTIVE 45

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."

46 Arthur Bailey

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 Doll, 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

DETECTIVE 47

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 des

48 Arthur Halley

perately 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 pros-
ecution."

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

DETECTIVE 49

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

50 Arthur Halley

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 Doll 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

DETECTIVE 51

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.