First things first.
Her discovery had raised two vital questions, the first already answered: the box had not been opened. The second: Was it likely to remain unopened? Of course, she could sit back and hope the answer would be yes. But sitting back was not Cynthia’s style.
She consulted a phone list and dialed the number of the Miami Police Property Department. An operator answered.
“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 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 Doil 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. Instantly 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 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.”
“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 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, including 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 Jensen, and the Colombian. That was all; just three.
Well … strictly speaking, four, if you included Doil 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 everyth
ing—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. Doil 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 cliché, 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 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 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 well-dressed 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 fortress-like 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 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 Doil about your parents. He claimed—”
The shock at having the news she had dreaded so suddenly confirmed was too much. Barely aware of her words, Cynthia shot back, “Please, there is nothing I want to hear.” Then, remembering Doil was supposedly guilty of her parents’ deaths, “I came to watch him suffer. I hope he did.”
“He did.” Ainslie’s voice was still quiet.
She groped for some authority. “Then I’m satisfied, Sergeant.”
“I hear you, Commissioner.” His tone was noncommittal.
They moved outside the witness enclosure, and it was then that Patrick made a clumsy effort to introduce himself, which Ainslie acknowledged coolly, clearly knowing who Patrick was and implying that he did not care to know him better.
The exchange ended when Ainslie’s prison officer escort appeared and showed him out.
On the bus conveying the witnesses back to Starke, Cynthia sat beside Patrick but did not speak. She found herself wishing she had not interrupted when Malcolm began, I spoke to Doil about your parents. He claimed …
What was it Doil had claimed? Most probably his innocence. And if so, did Ainslie believe him? Would he probe still more?
A new and sudden thought occurred to her. When, long ago, she used her superior rank to abort Malcolm Ainslie’s promotion to lieutenant, had she made the gravest error of her life? The irony was glaring: If she had not done so, Ainslie would probably not be a Homicide detective now.
The procedure following promotion from sergeant to lieutenant was automatic—the person promoted was moved to some other department in the force. If it had occurred that way, Ainslie would have been busy elsewhere and not involved with the serial murders. Therefore others in Homicide—lacking his specialized knowledge—were unlikely to have perceived the link between the killings and the Book of Revelation, and thus so many other things would not have happened as they had. Even more specifically, Ainslie would not be prolonging the investigation of the Ernst murders as he might be doing now.
Involuntarily, Cynthia shuddered. Was it possible that Malcolm Ainslie—who had remained in Homicide because of what now seemed her long-ago misjudgment—would, at some unknown time ahead, become her nemesis?
Whether that was possible, or even likely, she wasn’t sure. But because it just might happen, and for what he had done to her and hadn’t … and for everything he was and represented … and for so much else—logical or not—she knew now that
she hated, hated, hated him!
Part Five
1
Since Malcolm Ainslie’s decision to summon an ID crew to the small temporary room in Police Headquarters, momentous discoveries had transpired. It was, as a state attorney would describe it later, “like honest daylight lighting up black evil.”
The objects in the box unsealed by Ruby Bowe appeared to show convincingly that six and a half years earlier Patrick Jensen had killed his ex-wife, Naomi, and her friend Kilburn Holmes. It was a crime for which Jensen had been a strong suspect, though detectives were unable to prove his guilt.
It was also apparent from the box that Cynthia Ernst, who at that time was a Homicide detective, had conspired to conceal the evidence of Jensen’s crime. Ainslie, though stunned and depressed by what he saw, brushed aside his personal feelings and waited impatiently for ID assistance to arrive.
The ID chief, Julio Verona, who responded personally to Ainslie’s call, made a fast inspection of the box and contents, then declared, “We won’t touch any of this here. Everything must go to our labs.”
Lieutenant Newbold, who had also been called and briefed by Ainslie, told Verona, “Okay, but do everything as fast as you can, and tell your people this is ultra-secret; there must be no leaks.”
“No leaks. I guarantee it.”
Two days later, at 9:00 A.M. on a Thursday, Verona returned to the same small room with the box of evidence and his report. Ainslie was waiting for him along with Newbold, Bowe, and Assistant State Attorney Curzon Knowles, chief of the state attorney’s Homicide division.
Newbold had offered to move the proceedings to Knowles’s office in another building, several miles away—state attorneys were notorious for insisting that the police come to them, rather than the other way around—but Knowles, a former New York cop himself, always liked coming to what he called “the heat.” Thus the five were standing in the small, crowded space.
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