Detective (60 page)

"This is Commissioner Ernst. Captain
Iacone, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

A moment later, "Good afternoon,
Commissioner. It's Wade Iacone; what
can I do for you?"

"I'd like to come to see you,
Wade." Each knew the other well from
Cynthia's time in Homicide. "When
would be convenient?"

"For you, any time."

She arranged to be at Property in an
hour.

The Property Department, within the
main Police building, was, as
always, bustling, noisy, with active
staff sworn and civilian all
cataloging, arranging, and
safeguarding a jam-packed depository
of countless miscellaneous items,
ranging from huge to minuscule and,
in value, from precious to
worthless. The only common
denominator was the fact that
everything was connected with a
crime and might be required as
evidence. Within the department a
series of large storerooms seemingly
were filled to capacity, yet a

DETECTIVE 505

relentless stream of new objects was
somehow squeezed in each day.

Captain Iacone met Cynthia and
escorted her to his tiny office.
Space in Property was at a premium,
even for its commander.

When they were seated, Cynthia
began, "When my parents were
killed..." then paused as Iacone, a
longtime veteran, shook his head
sadly.

"I could hardly believe it at the
time. I was so sorry."

"It's still hard to come to terms
with.'' Cynthia sighed. "But with
the case closed now, and Doll being
executed soon . . . Well, there are
some things I have to do, and one of
them is recover a lot of my parents'
papers that were taken from our
house over a year ago, and some may
be stored here."

"There was something. I don't
remember exactly, but I'll check."
Iacone swung around, facing a
computer terminal on his desk, and
typed a name and instruction. In-
stantly a column of figures appeared
on the monitor.

The Property chief nodded. "Yes, we
do have some things from your
parents quite a lot. It's coming
back to me now."

"I know how much flows through
here. I'm surprised you remember at
all."

"Well, it was an important case; we
were all concerned about it. It was
all boxes, and the detectives said
they'd take them out when they could
and search through them." Iacone
glanced back at the computer. "I
guess they never did. "

Curiosity made Cynthia ask, "Any
idea why?"

"The way I heard, there were a lot
of pressures at the time. A
twenty-four-hour surveillance was on
for the serial killer; there was a
shortage of working bodies, so no
one

506 Arthur Bailey

had time to search through boxes.
Then the serial guy was caught."

"Yes."

"Which meant the case was wound
up, and no one bothered with the
boxes."

Cynthia smiled warmly. "Does it
mean I can have them back? There
were some personal papers of my
parents'."

"I should think so. In fact I'd
like to clear the space." Iacone
glanced at the numbers on the
computer, then rose. "Let's go take
a look."

"If anyone gets lost in here,"
Iacone said, grinning, "we send out
search parties."

They were in one of the warehouse
areas, where boxes and packages were
piled from the floor to a ceiling
high above. Aisles between piles
were narrow and meandered like a
maze. But everything in sight was
numbered. "Whatever we're looking
for," Iacone explained, "we can find
it in minutes." He stopped and
pointed. "Here are the boxes from
your parents."

There were two piles, Cynthia saw,
a dozen or more stout containers,
all sealed with tape bearing the
printed words CRIME SCENE EVIDENCE. Then,
near the top of the second pile, she
caught a glimpse of a box with some
blue sealing tape protruding from
beneath the official layer. Found
it! she thought, recognizing the
tape.

Now, how to get that box out.

"So, can I take all this away?"
She motioned to the pile. "I'll sign
whatever's needed."

"Sorry!" Iacone shook his head.
"I'm afraid it isn't that simple,
though not so difficult, either.
What I need, to let you have
everything, is a signed release from
whoever brought the evidence in."

DETECTIVE 507

"Who was that?"

"On the computer it showed Sergeant
Brewmaster. But Malcolm Ainslie
could sign; he was in charge of the
task force. Or Lieutenant Newbold.
You know all three, so any one of
them."

Cynthia considered carefully; she
had hoped her own authority as a
commissioner would suffice. As for
asking any of the trio named, she
would have to think about it.

On the way out, as if chatting
casually, she asked, "Does most of
this stuff here stay around a long
time?"

"Too damn long," Iacone complained.
"That's my biggest problem."

"What's the oldest evidence stored?"

"I honestly don't know. But plenty
has been around for twenty years,
some of it for more."

Even as Iacone was speaking,
Cynthia made her decision about
asking for a signed release. She
wouldn't. Brewmaster would have been
the easiest to approach, but still
might ask questions. Newbold would
almost certainly check with the
other two. As for Ainslie . . . he
was the creative thinker; he could
see through veneers.

On the other hand, if she did
nothing the boxes might stay here
undisturbed for twenty years or
more. So, for the time being, she
would leave everything, including
the critical evidence box, well
enough alone and take her chances.

For the longer future though not
all that distant when she thought
about it Cynthia had something else
in mind.

She planned to become Miami's next
mayor.

The incumbent mayor, Karlsson, had
let it be known that when his
present term expired in two more
years he would not seek reelection.
When she heard this, Cynthia made
her decision to succeed him. One,
possibly two, of the other
commissioners might be mayoral
candidates, but she believed she
could take on anyone and win. The
time

508 Arthur Halley

was right for women to be elected to
almost anything; nowadays even men
were dissatisfied with other men in
public office. Looking at males in
the highest places, including the
United States Oval Office, the
question was increasingly being
asked: Is that really the best the
system can produce?

As mayor, Cynthia would have
exceptional influence in the Police
Department. Among other major
matters, the mayor could sway
decisions about who would be the
next chief of police, and who else
would move up in the topmost ranks.
The role created automatic
deference, and with that kind of
authority she foresaw a time when
she could get those
packages including the one out of
Property without the slightest
difficulty.

So let it ride for now.

"Thanks for everything, Wade," she
told Iacone as he escorted her out.

During the three and a half months
between that time and the scheduled
execution of Elroy Doil, Cynthia
felt herself grow increasingly more
anxious. The fact was, she realized
as the weeks and days moved by with
excruciating slowness, that only
with Doil's death in the electric
chair would there be assurance that
the twelve serial killings
attributed to him would become
permanently closed cases. It was
true that Doil had been tried and
convicted only for the Tempones'
murder, but it seemed certain that
no one who mattered doubted he was
guilty also of all the others, in-
cluding the slayings of Gustav and
Eleanor Ernst.

So, who did know that Doil did not
commit one pair of murders?

Cynthia asked herself that
question while alone in her
apartment late one night. The
answer: she herself, Patrick

DETECTIVE 509
Jensen, and the Colombian. That was
all; just three.

Well . . . strictly speaking, four,
if you included Doll himself, she
reasoned. Though it made no
difference, really, because whatever
he said, no one would believe him.
At Doil's trial he'd denied
absolutely everything small things
that didn't matter, and even his
well-established presence at the
Tempones' house, where he was
actually caught and apprehended.

And something else: As far as
Doil's execution was concerned, she
was not allowing an innocent man to
go to his death by keeping quiet and
doing nothing. Doll was as guilty as
hell of all those other murders and
deserved the electric chair. It was
simply that since he was chair-
destined anyway, he might just as
well do Cynthia and Patrick a favor
by carrying their load, too. Too bad
they couldn't say thank you!

"But there's many a slip . . ."
Impatiently, Cynthia kept reminding
herself of the cliche, wanting to
get the execution over and move
forward to a new time.

For some while now Cynthia had been
meeting Patrick Jensen at intervals
again, socially and for sex, and in
these final weeks she had been
seeing him even more frequently.
Instinct told her that it wasn't
entirely wise, but there were times
when she felt the need of company,
and there was no one else with whom
she could relax so completely. They
were two of a kind, she knew, both
being aware that the survival of
each depended on the other.

It was that kind of thinking that
made Cynthia decide she wanted
Patrick with her at Florida State
Prison for the execution, which she
had arranged to attend with approval
from the prison governor. There were
two reasons for her presence: she
was the closest relative of two of
Doil's presumed victims, and her
status as a Miami city commissioner
gave her preference. When she
broached the idea to

510 Arthur Halley

Patrick, he immediately agreed. "We
have a vested interest in seeing the
guy snuffed out. Besides, I can use
the scene in a book."

So she had called the governor a
second time, and despite the
difficulty of witnessing an
execution there was a three-year
waiting list because of Cynthia's
influence, Jensen was included.

There were moments when Cynthia
worried about Patrick's deepening
depression. Over the years she had
known him, he had always been a
thinker, which went with being a
writer, she supposed, but nowadays
he brooded more than ever. Once when
they were talking he quoted Robert
Frost gloomily:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I I took the one less
traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

"Frost was right about a
difference," Patrick pronounced.
"Except for him it meant the right
road. Me, I took the wrong one, and
from that road you don't ever get
back."

Cynthia asked, "You're not getting
religion, are you?"

For a change, Patrick laughed.
"Not likely! Anyway, that's a last
resort after getting caught."

"Don't talk about getting caught!"
she snapped. "You won't be,
especially after..." Though she
stopped, they both knew she was
referring to Doil's execution, now
only days away.

It was a paradox, Cynthia thought,
to feel relief on entering the
grimness of a prison, but she did,
knowing that the

DETECTIVE 511

moment she had waited for was
approaching fast, and at 6:12 A.M. she
checked her watch less than an hour
away. Earlier the twenty execution
witnesses, mostly welldressed
strangers, had assembled at the
nearby town of Starke and been driven
by bus to the State Prison. On the
way, there had been little
conversation, and now the group was
filing through heavy steel gates and
past a fortresslike control room.
Patrick was beside her when Cynthia
saw two figures off to one side; they
had halted to allow the line of
witnesses to pass.

One of the figures was a prison
officer, the other... Malcolm!

The shock was like a sudden, ice-cold
shower.

Questions raced through Cynthia's
mind. What is he doing here? There
could be only one answer: He had come
to see Doil before he died! Why?

She caught Patrick's eye; he had
seen Ainslie, too, and she guessed he
had reached the same conclusion. But
there was no time to talk; escorts
were hurrying the witness group on.

Cynthia was sure that Malcolm had
seen her as well, but their eyes had
not met. She continued onward with
the others, her thoughts tumultuous.
Assuming there was a deathwatch
meeting between Malcolm Ainslie and
Doil, what would be its substance?
Could Ainslie still have doubts about
Doil committing the Ernst murders?
Was that why he was here to find out
in these final minutes of Doil's life
whatever else he could? He definitely
had that kind of mind and
persistence. Or were her racing
thoughts just hysteria, and Ainslie's
purpose whatever it was quite
different? He might be in the prison
for something unrelated to DoiL But
she didn't believe it.

The witnesses had entered their
glass-fronted booth, which faced the
execution chamber, and a prison guard

512 Arthur Halley

who was checking a list directed
them to metal chairs. Cynthia and
Patrick's seats were central in the
front row. As everyone settled down,
one seat was empty on Cynthia's
right.

An additional shock: Just as
activity in the execution chamber
was beginning, the same guard
brought Malcolm Ainslie to the seat
beside her. As he looked sideways,
she sensed he was inclined to speak,
but she averted her gaze and
continued looking forward. Patrick,
though, glanced across at Ainslie
and gave a small smile. Cynthia
didn't think it was returned.

As the execution proceeded, only
part of her mind was on it, the
other part still dazed and racing
with nervous thoughts. But as Doil's
body convulsed while successive
cycles of two thousand volts surged
through him, she felt slightly sick.
Patrick seemed fascinated by it all.
Then, almost before she realized,
everything was over. Doil's corpse
was in a body bag, and all the
witnesses were standing, prepared to
leave. At that point Malcolm turned
toward her and said quietly,
"Commissioner, I feel I should tell
you that shortly before his
execution, I talked to Doll about
your parents. He claimed "