Detective

by Arthur Hailey

  Thurston waited silently, then was suddenly alert. “No shit! Hey, give me that again.” He wrote swiftly in a notebook. “Yeah, I got it all. Thanks a lot.”

  He made another call, this time to Miami Homicide; it lasted ten minutes. Throughout, Thurston’s voice was low but excited. Afterward, he signaled Ainslie and Andrews. The trio huddled in a corner of the apartment living room.

  “You won’t believe this,” Thurston said. “Remember an old case—the Isham murder? Year and a half ago?”

  Ainslie said thoughtfully, “Yes, I do. Victim was killed with a bullet from his own gun, but the gun was missing. It was Dion Jacobo’s case. Dion had a suspect but, without a weapon, no proof. It’s still unsolved.”

  “Not anymore. We just found the missing weapon.”

  “Hers?” Andrews gestured to Dulce Gomez.

  Thurston nodded, looking pleased. “Communications identified the gun, its original owner, everything. And guess the name of Dion’s suspect in the Isham case.”

  It was Andrews who offered, “Ortega?”

  “You got it—one Justo Ortega, the idiot who gave a hot gun to his girlfriend, Dulce. Anyway, I just talked with Dion Jacobo. He knows where Ortega is, and he’s getting a warrant to bring him in. With the gun, Dion says, that case is now solid.”

  “Win some, lose some,” Ainslie said. “Nice going, Charlie.” He pointed to the body of Quiñones, now covered with a sheet, still lying on the apartment floor. “How do you guys feel about bringing in the girl?”

  “Personally I’d hate to tangle with her,” Thurston said. “She’s as tough as old boots. Just the same, I wouldn’t want to see her charged with killing Quiñones. In my opinion the creep asked for what he got.”

  Andrews added, “I go with that.”

  “I mostly agree with you,” Ainslie told them, “though we have to remember that a karate expert’s hands and feet are considered deadly weapons. That’s why some black belts—which Gomez says she is—are registered with police. So prosecutors might want to go for manslaughter, proving negligence. Anyway, we’ll soon know.” He nodded toward the outer doorway, where a short, doughty woman in her mid-fifties had just come in and was surveying the scene.

  The newcomer, dressed casually in a blue linen skirt and bright yellow blouse, was Mattie Beason, an assistant state attorney and a favorite of Ainslie’s. He respected her consistent toughness in court in support of good police work and testimony, though she could be cruelly severe with detectives prior to trial if their preparation and evidence were incomplete or sloppy.

  Beason asked, “So what do we have?”

  It was Thurston who laid out the details: his and Andrews’s surveillance of Quiñones, their quarry’s pursuit of Dulce Gomez, the detectives’ chase through the apartments, and the death scene discovered in apartment 421.

  “Pretty slow in getting after him, weren’t you?” Typically, the attorney put her finger on the crucial flaw in Thurston’s statement.

  He grimaced. “What else can I say except yes?”

  “That’s honest, anyway. And, fortunately for you, you won’t be on trial.”

  Andrews asked, “Will anybody?”

  Ignoring the question, the attorney glanced at Dulce Gomez, still seated by herself, apparently waiting for whatever would happen next. Beason turned to Ainslie. “I suppose you’ve weighed the karate deadly weapon postulate.”

  “We were discussing it when you came in.”

  “Always so thorough, Malcolm.” She turned, confronting Andrews. “Before I answer your question, Detective, answer this one. If we charge this young woman with manslaughter in view of her karate skills, what do you see as being in her favor?”

  “Okay, counselor.” Andrews touched off points on his fingers. “She has a full-time job and attends night school to get ahead—good-citizen stuff. She was minding her own business when that scumbag with an assault and rape record stealthily tailed her. He trespassed in the apartment building and broke down the door to her place when she was alone. Then he came at her with his cock hanging out and a lethal knife in his hand. So what happened? She panicked and, in defending herself, went—maybe legally—too far. But tell all that to a jury and not only will they never convict, they’ll fall over themselves to acquit her.”

  The state attorney permitted herself a smile. “Not bad, Detective. Maybe you should study law.” She turned to Ainslie. “You concur?”

  He nodded. “Makes sense to me.”

  “Sure does. So I have two words for you, Malcolm. Forget it! For the record—excusable homicide.”

  One postscript followed the drama of Carlos Quiñones’s death.

  A search of his tenement apartment by police revealed he could not have been the serial killer, since he had been out of town when three of the killings occurred and there was nothing to connect him with the others.

  Thus, Quiñones was the first to be eliminated from the surveillance suspect list.

  Detective-Sergeant Teresa Dannelly and Detective José Garcia did not have murder to contend with during their surveillance. It was the second duty week, and they were observing Alec Polite, a Haitian male living on Northeast 65th Street in Miami’s Little Haiti.

  Sergeant Dannelly, one of the Robbery detectives assigned temporarily to Homicide, was a tall, thirty-five-year-old brunette with ten years of service and considered a resourceful supervisor. She was sometimes known as “Big Mamma” because of her large bosom, a sobriquet she herself used good-naturedly. Dannelly and José Garcia of Homicide, usually called “Pop,” had known each other for eight years and had worked together before.

  As for Alec Polite, his FIVO card described him as a fervent Bible-quoter who claimed to talk with God. He was considered aggressive and sometimes violent, though he had no criminal record. His home, a two-story concrete-block house, was shared with four families, including six or seven children.

  This was the first time during the surveillance duty that Dannelly and Garcia had been assigned to cover Polite. Until now they had been watching Edelberto Montoya, who had made no suspicious moves.

  Their vehicle was parked close to the Northeast 65th Street house, and to the frustration of both detectives, it had already attracted the attention of people on the street as well as curiosity from several children gathered alongside.

  As their supposedly “undercover” transport, Dannelly and Garcia had drawn a fancy, bright blue GM Lumina Minivan. The interior was crammed with technical gear, including cameras, telephones, sound recorders, and state-of-the-art transmitters and receivers, their antennae hidden in the van’s paneling. The windows were tinted black, so it was impossible for anyone outside to see if the vehicle was occupied. The minivan was experimental and intended for specialized missions, but no other vehicles were available.

  “For Christ’s sake!” Garcia had groaned when he first saw the sparkling new Lumina and its high-tech contents. “I love the toys, but in Little Haiti we’ll stick out like shit on a wedding cake.”

  Teresa Dannelly had laughed. “More likely the other way around, Pop. When I saw what we’d drawn, I tried to get it changed, but today there’s nothing else. We take this or walk.”

  Now, at the surveillance site, even more attention was being directed at the Lumina as several people emerged from the two-story house and approached the bright blue vehicle.

  “We’re gonna have to take off,” Garcia said. “This damn thing’s like a beacon.”

  “Let’s try something first.” On her portable police radio Dannelly selected a secure channel set up for the surveillance operation, and called, “Thirteen-twenty-one to station.”

  At police headquarters a special dispatcher took the call. “QSK.”

  “Send a zone car to 265 Northeast Sixty-fifth Street. Instruct unit to stay low-key, no lights or siren, but disperse the small crowd assembled near the building. Ignore blue Lumina van parked nearby.”

  “QSL.” And a moment later, “I am dispatching unit three-two-four to you
r location.”

  Two men who had come from the brick house peered in the van windows but obviously could see nothing.

  Inside, Garcia whispered, “This is crazy!”

  Outside, a third man, gaunt and balding, had joined the others. Dannelly checked an identification photo and announced, “That bald guy is our suspect.”

  Garcia muttered, “Trouble is, he’s surveying us.”

  The first man who had reached the van tried the door handle. When it wouldn’t open he reached into a pocket and produced a heavy screwdriver. His voice, muffled but audible inside, said, “Ain’t nobody in there.” All three men outside were grouped around the door; the children had moved back.

  “I don’t believe this,” Garcia said. “They’re gonna break in.”

  “If they do, they’re in for a surprise.” Dannelly had a hand on her service revolver.

  It could have become the ultimate paradox if the man with the screwdriver had not looked around to make sure there were no witnesses. What he saw was an approaching police car.

  Dannelly said triumphantly, “There’s my zone car.”

  Simultaneously, all three men jumped back and moved away. The newcomer whom Dannelly had identified as their suspect, Alec Polite, slipped while leaving, but managed to support himself briefly on the minivan’s hood. Then he, too, disappeared.

  The police car stopped and two officers got out and walked around. As usual in Little Haiti when police appeared, everyone scrambled in different directions. One officer glanced at the blue Lumina, then looked away. Moments later the police car left.

  “Are we staying or going?” Garcia asked.

  “Tell you in a minute.” Dannelly used her radio to reach an emergency number for direct contact with the head of the special task force. When Sergeant Malcolm Ainslie answered, she told him, “It’s Teresa Dannelly. I have a question.”

  “Okay, Terry. Shoot.”

  “At the first serial scene—the Royal Colonial—didn’t you have a partial palm print, unidentified?” Typically, Dannelly had taken the trouble to read reports of the serial cases ahead of her surveillance duty.

  “Yeah, and it still isn’t matched.”

  “Well, we’ve got a palm print of Alec Polite, I think. It’s on the outside of our van, and it may rain here soon. If we drive somewhere fast, can you arrange to have it checked?”

  “Sure can,” Ainslie answered. “Drive to the Impound Area and get your van under cover. I’ll have someone from ID meet you.”

  “QSL. Thanks, Malcolm.” Then, to José Garcia, who was now seated behind the Lumina’s wheel, “Let’s get out of here!”

  “Hooray for that.”

  The Miami Police Impound Area, located under the 1–95 Freeway near Police Headquarters and protected by a high steel fence, was where vehicles seized by police in raids—especially drug raids—were impounded as evidence. On the way, Garcia said, “That was smart of you to think of the palm print. I didn’t see it happen. Was it a good one?”

  “I’m pretty sure.” Dannelly pointed forward. “It’s right about there.”

  At the Impound Area the detectives were joined by Sylvia Walden. “I took the partial palm print at the Royal Colonial scene,” she said. “I understand you may have a match.”

  “Either that or we’ll eliminate a suspect.” Dannelly led the way to the parked Lumina and indicated the area she had seen Alec Polite touch. Walden produced her brushes and powders and began work.

  An hour later Malcolm Ainslie received a phone call at Homicide headquarters.

  “It’s Sylvia Walden. I’ve compared the print from Sergeant Dannelly’s van—a good full palm print, by the way—with the partial palm we have from the Royal Colonial scene. There is no resemblance whatever. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Ainslie said. “It means we have one less suspect, which helps.”

  He telephoned Dannelly and reported the result, adding, “Good observation. So we’ll stop the surveillance of Alec Polite. He was never a strong candidate anyway. Take a rest, Terry; we’ll advise you and José of your next target later today.”

  Proving the belief held by detectives that surveillance duty was invariably a gamble, capable of producing results ranging from high drama to slapstick comedy, across town Detectives Hector Fleites and Ogden Jolly had an experience like no other.

  Both were on loan from Robbery. Fleites, young and energetic, had ambitions to start a private security business after a few years of learning police work firsthand. On hearing of the special surveillance detail, he had immediately volunteered. Jolly was competent, but more laid-back and with a better sense of humor than Fleites.

  The pair’s surveillance subject was James Calhoun, known as “Little Jesus” because of a tattooed cross on his chest and his claim to be the second-coming Christ, who would soon be heading back to heaven.

  “Meanwhile he’s been busy,” Detective Jolly had joked. Calhoun had accumulated a criminal record for manslaughter, assault, and armed burglary, and had served two terms in prison. Now on parole, he lived in the Brownsville Projects—one more unofficial name, for a mostly black and Hispanic community adjacent to the Northside Shopping Center. The area was outside the City of Miami and thus beyond the jurisdiction of Miami police. For undercover work, however, official niceties such as informing local police were ignored, which was why Detectives Fleites and Jolly were seated in a Southern Bell phone-repair truck outside a popular disco called the Kampala Stereophonic.

  This was the third night they had trailed Calhoun to the same bar, where he apparently joined cronies and drank steadily through the evening. By 9:00 P.M. the detectives had finished their store-bought sandwiches and gulped down several cups of coffee, and were weary and bored, Fleites regretting having volunteered for what he now labeled “a fat-nothing waste of time.”

  Then they spotted several prostitutes sauntering up the street and looking provocatively around before entering the Kampala. Both detectives recognized the women from their days in uniformed patrol. At the same time a Cadillac quietly pulled into a dimly lit parking lot nearby; it was almost certainly occupied by a pimp who would keep an eye on his girls while farming them out for business. Prostitution rings changed locales and bars from night to night to avoid police interference. The pattern was familiar to detectives.

  Evidently word had been sent out to would-be clients, since a series of cars soon arrived. The drivers would enter the Kampala, then reappear with one of the prostitutes, each pair moving to the nearest dark corner, where their shadows merged—though not for long. Clearly this was no high-class boudoir operation.

  “Shit!” Fleites said. “If those broads see us they’ll go back in and blow our cover.”

  “Sit way back,” Jolly advised. “They won’t see us.”

  “I got to take a leak. Too much coffee, can’t wait.” Picking a moment when none of the couples was in sight, Fleites left the Southern Bell truck and went down an alley to the rear. When he was finished, he zipped up his trousers and headed out. At the same moment, approaching him in the alley, was a prostitute he had recognized, accompanied by her “trick.” Fleites quickly turned back, but the alley dead-ended at a brick wall a few yards away.

  Though there was little light, he spotted a Dumpster in the corner. Instinctively Fleites headed for it, pulled himself up, and dropped down inside. A second later, to his disgust, he discovered the Dumpster was filled with some kind of soggy, putrid mess. While he listened for the couple, who had stopped beside the Dumpster, he tried to scrape off what felt like wet potato peelings, fried chicken bones, banana skins, rotten tomatoes, and a soft, rancid-smelling, slimy substance he preferred not to attempt identifying.

  Unlike the other couples, the two outside took their time, their sex accompanied by heavy breathing, theatrical “yes, yes”-es, some satisfied sounds, and finally soft conversation. Neither partner seemed in a hurry to move away, and knowing the ways of the business, Fleites guessed that whatever money had been paid by t
he man was more than usual. Seething with impatience, Fleites wondered if they would ever leave. Finally, after about twenty endless minutes, they did.

  When Hector Fleites opened the phone truck door and climbed back in, Jolly looked up, then clapped a hand over his nose and mouth. “Jesus, man—you stink!” Then, peering more closely and seeing the garbage clinging to his colleague from head to foot, Jolly broke into peals of laughter.

  Fleites nodded unhappily—about his condition, and knowing there were two things he could not change. First, there were still six hours of surveillance to be endured. Second, Ogden Jolly would forever recount to fellow detectives the story of Fleites going undercover.

  At the beginning of the third week of surveillance, Detectives Ruby Bowe and Bernard Quinn met with Malcolm Ainslie at Homicide headquarters. Bowe and Quinn had shared, with two detectives from Robbery, the surveillance of Earl Robinson.

  From the beginning Robinson had been a major suspect; everything about his record appeared to fit the nature of the serial killings. His FIVO card described him as “very aggressive.” He was a former heavyweight boxer; he preached on streets—always from Revelation—and claimed to be God’s judgment angel. His a.k.a. was “Avenger.” Robinson’s record included armed robbery, second-degree murder, and assaults with a knife.

  It was therefore a surprise to Ainslie when Ruby Bowe announced, “All four of us think you should drop Robinson. We’re convinced he’s harmless. He spends all his free time helping out at a homeless shelter, the Camillus House.”

  “It’s true,” Bernard Quinn echoed.

  As Bowe described it, all of Robinson’s criminality occurred before his adoption of religion a year earlier. From then on he had become a peaceful citizen, holding a regular job and volunteering for civic and charitable causes.