Detective

by Arthur Hailey

  After Karen had left a dress for cleaning, she found Ainslie waiting at the doorway. “Just wanted to say thanks for your help.”

  “Why are you through with traveling?” she asked.

  “Not the best place to tell you. How about over lunch?”

  Karen paused for only a moment, then answered cheerfully, “Sure. Why not?”

  Thus their romance began, and they quickly fell in love, leading to Ainslie’s proposal of marriage two weeks later.

  At about the same time, Malcolm read in the Miami Herald that the city police force was recruiting. Spurred by the memory of Russell’s father, Detective Kermit Sheldon, who had befriended the Ainslie family, Malcolm applied. He was accepted, and enrolled in the Police Department Academy’s ten-week course, emerging with distinction.

  Karen not only had no objection to living in Florida instead of Toronto, but loved the idea. And having by now learned about his past, she was perceptive concerning Malcolm’s work choice. “In a way you’ll be doing the kind of thing you did before—keeping humanity on the straight and narrow.”

  He had laughed. “It will be a lot more gritty, but a hell of a lot more practical.”

  In the end, it turned out to be both.

  After a gap of several months, Malcolm learned that Russell Sheldon, too, had left the official Catholic Church. Russell’s first objective was simple: he wanted to marry and have children. He wrote in a letter to Malcolm:

  Did you know there are seventeen thousand of us, more or less, in the United States—priests who left the Church by their own decision, and most in their thirties? That’s a Catholic figure, by the way.

  Russell, however, neither lost his beliefs nor abandoned religion, and joined an independent Catholic group in Chicago, where he was accepted as a priest, his unfrocking ignored. In the same letter Russell wrote:

  We worship God and Jesus, but regard the Vatican and Curia as power-obsessed, inward-looking pachyderms which eventually will self-destruct.

  And we are not alone. All over America are about three hundred parishes of Catholics who’ve cut their ties to Rome. There are more here in Illinois, five we know of in South Florida, others in California. Don’t have a full list because there’s no central authority and may never be. Our feeling is that some “infallible” HQ, staffed by deputy-gods, is the last thing we need.

  Oh yes, we do certain things Rome wouldn’t like. We let all who wish take Communion, believing we don’t have to protect God from anyone. We’ll marry divorced Catholics, and those of the same sex if that’s their choice. We do our utmost to persuade against abortion; on the other hand, we believe in a woman’s right to choose.

  We’ve no elaborate church, no fancy robes, statuary, stained glass, or gold ornaments, and won’t be buying any. Whatever spare money there is we use to feed the homeless.

  From time to time we’re attacked by the Roman Catholic Church, and as our numbers grow, it happens more often. They’re increasingly nervous, we think. An RC archbishop told a newspaper reporter that nothing whatever that we do has God’s blessing. Can you believe that! Rome has the holy ointment; no one else.

  Malcolm still heard from Russell occasionally. He continued to be an independent priest, happily married to a former Catholic nun; at last report they had two children.

  The Delta flight touched down smoothly at Atlanta and taxied in. All that remained now was the two-hour flight to Toronto.

  Gratefully, Malcolm turned his mind from the past to pleasant thoughts of the next few days ahead.

  5

  Outside immigration and customs at Toronto airport Malcolm was confronted by a raised card reading AINSLIE, held by a uniformed limousine driver.

  “Mr. Ainslie from Miami?” the young man inquired pleasantly as Malcolm stopped.

  “Yes, but I wasn’t expecting—”

  “I have a car here with the compliments of General Grundy. It’s right outside. May I take your bag, sir?”

  Karen’s parents, George and Violet Grundy, lived in Scarborough Township, near the eastern limits of Metro-Toronto. The journey there took an hour and a quarter—longer than usual because of a heavy snowfall the previous night, only partially cleared from the transprovince Highway 401. The sky was gloomily gray and the temperature near freezing. Like many Floridians heading north during the winter months, Malcolm realized he was dressed far too lightly, and if Karen had not brought him some warm clothes, he would have to buy or borrow some.

  His reception at the Grundys’ modest suburban home, however, was exceedingly warm. The moment the limousine stopped outside, the front door flew open and a flock of family members streamed out to greet him—Karen in front, Jason close behind. Karen kissed and hugged him tightly, whispering, “It’s so good to have you,” which was unexpected and reassuring. Jason was tugging at his coat, shouting, “Daddy! Daddy!” Ainslie lifted him with a joyous “Happy birthday!” and the three were locked together in each other’s arms.

  But not for long. Karen’s younger sister, Sofia, tall, slim, and sexy, eased herself in to give Malcolm an affectionate kiss, followed by her husband, Gary Moxie, a Winnipeg stockbroker who gripped Malcolm’s hand, assuring him, “The whole family’s proud of what you do, Malc. Want to hear a lot about it while you’re with us.” The Moxies’ two daughters, Myra, twelve, and Susan, ten, joined the noisy, fond welcome.

  Violet Grundy, elegant and motherly, with large eyes and a sweet smile, was next, embracing her son-in-law. “We’re all so happy you could come. A little delay doesn’t matter; what’s important is you’re here.”

  As the others turned back toward the house, George Grundy, white-haired, erect, and not an ounce overweight at seventy-five, put an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders. “Gary’s right, we’re proud of you. Sometimes people forget how important it is to put duty first; nowadays so many don’t.” George lowered his voice. “I gave them all—especially Karen—a little lecture on the subject.”

  Ainslie smiled; the brief confidence explained a lot. Karen adored her father, and whatever he had said clearly had a strong effect. “Thank you,” he said appreciatively. “And a very happy birthday.”

  Brigadier General George Grundy, an active-duty soldier for most of his life, had served in the Canadian Army in Europe through World War II, where he was commissioned from the ranks, survived some of the heaviest fighting, and received the Military Cross. Later he’d fought in the Korean War. Since retiring at age fifty-five he had been a college lecturer, specializing in international affairs.

  “Let’s get inside before you turn into a pillar of ice,” George Grundy said. “They’ve planned a full program for both of us.”

  The welcoming continued through the day. The double-birthday dinner for George and Jason included an additional twelve people, a total of twenty, crammed into the Grundys’ modest house. The newcomers included Karen’s older brother, Lindsay, from Montreal, who, like Malcolm, had been delayed by his work. With him was his wife, Isabel, their grown son, Owen, and Owen’s wife, Yvonne. The other seven guests were longtime friends, mainly ex-military, of George and Violet.

  Amid it all, Malcolm found himself the center of attention. “It’s like having a real detective from TV,” twelve-year-old Myra said after plying him with questions.

  Jason sat up, suddenly alert. “My dad’s a lot neater than those guys on TV.”

  Others wanted to hear a description of the execution Malcolm had just attended, of the murders that preceded it, and how they were unraveled. Malcolm answered as honestly as he could, though he left out his final confrontation with Elroy Doil.

  “One reason for our interest,” George Grundy said, “is the big increase of violent crime in Canada. Time was when you could walk out of your house and feel safe, but not anymore. Now we’re almost as gun-crazy here as you are in the States.” There were murmurs of agreement.

  During a discussion about homicides, Malcolm explained that most murderers were caught either because they did stupid things or fail
ed to realize the forces they were up against.

  “You’d think,” Sofia Moxie said, “that with so much information—in newspapers and novels, and on TV—about crime and punishment, they’d know the odds are against them.”

  “You would,” Malcolm acknowledged. “But the murderers out there are often young and not well informed.”

  “Maybe they’re not informed because they don’t read much,” Owen Grundy said. He was thin and wiry, an architect with a passion for oil painting.

  Malcolm nodded. “Lots of them don’t read at all. Some probably can’t read.”

  “But they must watch television,” Myra said. “And TV criminals get caught.”

  “Sure they do,” Malcolm agreed. “But the crooks on TV seem like big shots. They get noticed, and that’s what kids—especially deprived kids—want. The consequences come later, when it’s usually too late.”

  To Malcolm’s surprise, most of the group favored the death penalty for murder, even crimes of passion. It was an opinion-swing evident in the United States, and now perhaps in Canada, where capital punishment had been abolished nationally in 1976. Isabel Grundy, a homemaker and physics teacher, with a brusque no-nonsense manner, was vehement. “We should bring back capital punishment. Some people say it isn’t a deterrent, but common sense says it has to be. Besides, those who get executed are usually the scum of the earth. I know that’s not fashionable to say, but it’s true!”

  Out of curiosity, Malcolm asked, “What kind of death penalty would you favor?”

  “Hanging, electrocution, injection—I don’t care which, as long as we’re rid of those people.”

  There was an awkward silence, because Isabel had spoken heatedly. Just the same, Malcolm noted, no one contradicted her.

  For the birthday dinner, a partition between the living and dining rooms had been opened to accommodate a fifteen-foot table with colorful streamers and party hats. While caterers prepared to serve a four-course meal, George and Jason took their places of honor, side by side.

  George looked around and commented, “I have a feeling something should be said …”

  Karen told her father, “Let Malcolm!”

  Heads turned toward him. Gary Moxie said, “Ball’s in your court, Malc.”

  Raising his head, Malcolm said, smiling, “A few unrehearsed thoughts for this historic occasion …”

  He continued, looking around and speaking clearly, “At this table, where we join for food and fellowship, we reaffirm our belief in ethics, truth, love, and—especially today—the best ideals of family life. We celebrate this family’s unity, its achievements, good fortune, and—for our youngest clan here—their promise, dreams, and hopes. On this sunny occasion for George and Jason we pledge our mutual loyalty, promising to support each other in difficult times, however and wherever these occur. And as well as family, we welcome those treasured friends who share our celebration and affections.”

  Malcolm concluded, aware of bilingual Canada, with a robust “Salut!”

  Amid appreciative murmurs, the toast was echoed. One of the guests said, “I’m a churchgoer, but I like that better than a lot of conventional graces that I’ve listened to.”

  The meal proceeded—roast turkey as its centerpiece—followed by more toasts and responses, including a simple but heartfelt “Thanks a lot!” from Jason.

  The following morning Malcolm, Karen, and Jason walked together through the residential lakeside streets of Scarborough. From high bluffs they could see clearly across Lake Ontario, though neighboring New York State, some ninety miles away, was beyond their sight. It had snowed again during the night, and the trio threw snowballs at each other. After three tries, Jason finally found his target: Malcolm’s head. “Wish we had snow in Miami!” he shouted happily.

  He was a sturdy boy, square-shouldered, with long, well-shaped legs. His eyes were wide and brown and often looked serious and questioning, as if aware that there was much to discover, though the means of doing so was at times unclear. But now and then his face would light up with a radiant smile—as if to remind the world that life was sunny after all.

  Brushing the powdery snow from each other, they resumed walking. These moments were all too few, Malcolm realized, draping his arms around his wife and son.

  After a while, as Jason skipped ahead, Karen said, “I guess this is as good a time as any to break some news. I’m pregnant.”

  Malcolm stopped, his eyes wide. “I thought …”

  “So did I. It shows sometimes doctors can be wrong. I’ve had two examinations, the second yesterday; didn’t want to tell you sooner and raise both our hopes. But, Malcolm, think about it—we’re going to have a baby!”

  For the past four years they had wanted another child, but Karen’s gynecologist had told her it was unlikely to happen.

  Karen went on, “I’d planned to tell you on the airplane coming here …”

  Malcolm clapped a hand to his head. “Now I understand how you felt yesterday. Darling, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I know you did the right thing. Anyway, here we are, and now we know. Are you happy?”

  Instead of answering, Malcolm swept Karen into his arms and kissed her.

  “Hey!” Jason said, and laughed. “Look out!” Then, as they turned, a snowball hit them, perfectly aimed.

  “We gotta do this more often,” Gary Moxie said early on the fourth day when the family rendezvous was breaking up with affectionate farewells. They had risen before dawn for a quick breakfast, then departed in several cars, all heading for the Toronto airport and early flights.

  George Grundy drove Karen, Malcolm, and Jason. On the way, Jason chatted happily. He said, “Gramps, I’m sure glad we have the same birthday.”

  “Me too, son,” the general told him. “I hope when I’m not around anymore, you’ll celebrate for both of us. Think you can do that?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “He’ll do it,” Karen said. “But you’re talking a long way off, Dad. How about having next year’s birthdays in Miami? We’ll invite the family.”

  “A done deal!” Her father turned to Malcolm, who was seated behind. “If that’s okay with you?”

  Malcolm looked startled. “Sorry! What was that?”

  Karen sighed. “Hello! Anyone home?”

  George Grundy laughed. “Never mind. Used to be that way myself; I know the signs. Were you sorting out tomorrow’s problems?”

  “To tell the truth, I was,” Malcolm acknowledged. He had been wondering: What was the best way to deal with the still unanswered questions arising from the final dialogue with Elroy Doil? And how quickly could it be done?

  6

  As it turned out, Malcolm Ainslie had no chance whatever to think about Doil during most of his first day back at work. Upon reaching his desk in Homicide, he found the entire surface covered with files and paper accumulated during the four days he was away.

  The first priority was a pile of detectives’ overtime slips. Ainslie pulled them toward him. At the next desk, Detective José Garcia greeted him with, “Nice to have you back, Sergeant,” then, seeing the overtime slips, “Glad to see you’re getting to the important stuff first.”

  “I know how you guys operate,” Ainslie said. “Always out to make an extra buck.”

  Garcia feigned outrage. “Hey, we got to make sure our kids get fed.”

  In truth, overtime pay was critical to detectives’ livelihood. Paradoxically, while a promotion to detective was coveted and went only to the best and brightest, on the Miami police force no extra pay accompanied the advancement.

  Until 1978 Miami detectives received an extra hundred dollars a month in recognition of their specialized duties, skills, and risks. But that year the Fraternal Order of Police union, in which detectives were an oft-ignored minority, needed a bargaining chip and gave away the bonus—a sellout, as detectives saw it, making overtime earnings a necessity. Now, on average, a detective working a regular forty-hour week earned $880, from which taxes took
a hefty bite. An additional twenty hours’ overtime produced another $660. However, there was a price: any hours left for the detective’s normal home life were virtually nil.

  Every hour of overtime, though, was reported in detail, then certified by a sergeant in charge of a detective team—a time-consuming chore that Ainslie impatiently completed.

  After that came semiannual personnel evaluations—one was now due for each detective on his team, handwritten for a secretary to type. Then still more paper—a review of detectives’ reports on investigations in progress, including new homicides—all for memorizing, signature, and action where needed.

  “Sometimes,” Ainslie complained to Sergeant Pablo Greene, “I feel like a clerk in a Dickens novel.”

  Greene replied, “That’s because we’re all busting our butts for Scrooge.”

  Thus, it was not until late afternoon of his initial day back that Ainslie had time for the Doil matter. Carrying the tape recording, he headed for Newbold’s office.

  “What kept you?” Leo Newbold asked. “On second thought, don’t tell me.”

  While Ainslie set up a tape recorder, Newbold told his secretary, “No calls unless it’s urgent,” and closed his office door. “I’ve been looking forward to hearing this.”

  Ainslie let the tape run from the beginning—when he had switched it on in the small, austere office near the execution chamber. There was a short silence, then the sound of a door opening as the young prison officer, Hambrick, returned with Elroy Doil, manacled, his head shaved, along with two prison guards, the grim procession trailed by the chaplain, Father Ray Uxbridge. Ainslie murmured an explanation of the sounds.

  Newbold listened intently to the exchanges that followed: the chaplain’s oleaginous voice … Doil’s blurred tones addressing Ainslie, “Bless me Father …” Uxbridge shouting, “Blasphemy!” … Doil shouting, “Get that asshole out …”

  Newbold shook his head, his face incredulous. “I can’t believe this.”