When Ruby and Ainslie were clear of the police compound, he said, “Okay, let’s hear.”
“What’s important,” Ruby said, “is that Cynthia may be expecting us. Because of what I discovered late last night.”
“We don’t have much time. Better talk fast.”
As Ruby told it …
Ever since learning from Eleanor Ernst’s diaries that Cynthia had given birth to her father’s child, Ruby had tried to find out what had happened to the baby—a child whom no one cared about, except to dispose of, its sex not even mentioned in Eleanor’s notes.
“It was a girl,” Ruby said. “I found that out early, at the adoption center.” But the center had not been helpful beyond that, denying access to old records, claiming that confidentiality barred the way. Ruby had not persisted, she explained, because the information was not crucial. The child’s existence was already known, and finding out more would not aid the investigation into the Ernsts’ deaths.
“I wanted to know, though,” Ruby said. “A couple of times I dropped in at the center, and there was an older social worker who I thought might bend the rules and help, but she was scared. Two days ago she phoned. She’s retiring in a week. I went to her home last night and she gave me a paper.”
The paper, as described by Ruby, showed that the adoption of Cynthia’s child had lasted less than two years. The adoptive parents were convicted of abuse and neglect, and the child was taken away. There followed a long series of foster homes until the girl was thirteen, when the record stopped. “It’s a sad story of indifference and cruelty,” Ruby said, adding, “I was going to check with the last home listed, then didn’t need to, when I saw the name the baby was given. And still uses.”
“Which is?”
“Maggie Thorne.”
It was familiar, Ainslie thought. He just couldn’t place it.
Ruby prompted, “It was Jorge Rodriguez’s case—the German tourist, Niehaus, shot and killed. I think you were …”
“Yes … I was.”
It sprang back in memory: the wanton, needless killing … an international furor and the hapless guilty pair—a young black male, Kermit Kaprum; a white female, Maggie Thorne … tests showed shots were fired by both accused, two fatal shots by Thorne … under questioning, both confessed.
At the time, Ainslie recalled, there had been something familiar about the young woman’s face. He had tried using flash recognition, but it hadn’t worked. Now he knew why. It wasn’t the accused girl whom he had seen before, but her mother, Cynthia. Even now, in memory, Thorne’s resemblance to her was uncanny.
“There’s something else,” Ruby said as she turned the car onto Bayshore Drive. “The woman from the adoption center who gave me the report tried to cover herself. If they break confidentiality for any reason, they’re supposed to notify the child’s original parent, and my woman did. She sent a form letter addressed to Cynthia about her daughter, Maggie Thorne—Cynthia probably never knew that name before—saying the police had asked for the information and been given it. The letter was mailed on Friday and went to the Ernsts’ old home address in Bay Point. Cynthia may have it now.”
“The Niehaus case.” Ainslie’s mind was swirling, his voice barely under control. “In the end, what happened?” There were so many cases. He half remembered, but wanted to be sure.
“Kaprum and Thorne both got death sentences. They’re on death row, going through appeals.”
Everything else left Ainslie’s mind. He could think only of Cynthia, receiving a form letter … Cynthia was sharp, she followed cases, would connect the name at once and put everything else in place, including the current interest of the police … A form letter—to let her know that her only child, the child she never knew, would soon be executed. He thought despairingly, Was there no end to the unfair, dreadful hand that life had dealt to Cynthia? Compassion and the profoundest pity for her overwhelmed him, momentarily eclipsing all else. In the front seat Malcolm leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. His body shook convulsively. He wept.
“I’m sorry,” Ainslie said to Ruby. “There are times when you lose a sense of proportion.” He was remembering the protesters outside Raiford Prison, who appeared to have forgotten a murderer’s victims. “It all got to me at once.”
“I cried last night. This job sometimes …” Ruby’s voice trailed off.
“When we go in,” he told her, “I’d like to go to Cynthia first—alone.”
“You can’t. It’s against—”
“I know, I know! It’s against regulations, but Cynthia would never pull sexual harassment stuff; she’s too proud for that. Look, you said the letter to her was mailed Friday to the old Bay Point address; she may not have it yet. If she doesn’t, I can break the news more gently, and even if she does—”
“Malcolm, I have to remind you of something.” Ruby’s voice was low and caring. “You’re not a priest anymore.”
“But I’m a human being. And I’m the one who’ll be going against orders, though I need your okay.”
She protested, “I have a duty, too.” Both of them knew that if something went wrong, Ruby could pay a penalty with her career.
“Look, I’ll cover you whatever happens, say I made it an order. Please.”
They were at the Dinner Key waterfront and had arrived at City Hall. Ruby stopped their car at the main doorway. The blue-and-white was immediately behind.
She hesitated, still uncertain. “I don’t know, Malcolm.” Then, “Will you tell Sergeant Braynen?”
“No. The uniforms’ll remain outside anyway. You come inside with me, but wait in the auditorium while I go to Cynthia’s office. Give me fifteen minutes.”
Ruby shook her head. “Ten. Max.”
“Agreed.”
They entered the main door of Miami’s unique and anachronistic City Hall.
In an age when government opulence was the norm and cathedral-style official buildings proclaimed politicians’ self-importance, the City Hall of Miami—one of America’s major cities—expressed the reverse. Located on a promontory and with Biscayne Bay on two sides, it was a relatively small two-story building painted white, with its name and some minor art deco relief in bright blue. People were often surprised at the overall simplicity, even though the building housed Miami’s elected mayor, vice-mayor, three commissioners, and an appointed city manager. Others, usually old-timers, often said the building looked more like a seaplane base—not surprisingly, since it had been a Pan American Airways base from 1934 through 1951, built to serve Clipper flying boats that carried passengers from Miami to thirty-two countries. Then, when flying boats went the way of dinosaurs, Pan Am closed the base and it became Miami City Hall in 1954.
History had been made here. Perhaps more history, Ainslie thought, would be made today.
In the main lobby, Ainslie and Bowe walked to a desk where they showed their police badges to an elderly security guard. The man waved them past. Knowing the location of Cynthia’s office on the main floor, Ainslie turned left and gestured to Ruby to take an interior corridor to the right, which led to the auditorium where she would wait. Reluctantly, Ruby left him, pointedly checking her watch.
Before entering the building, Ainslie had instructed Braynen and his partner to hold their present position outside, listen to their radios, and respond immediately if called.
Ainslie continued down the hall until a door confronted him:
OFFICE OF THE
COMMISSIONER
CYNTHIA ERNST
A young male aide sat at a desk in a windowless room immediately inside. In a separate small office a woman secretary was working at a computer. Between the two was a substantial door, dark green, and closed.
Again, Ainslie showed his badge. “I’m here to see the commissioner on police business. Don’t announce me.”
“Wouldn’t anyway.” The young man gestured to the green door. “Go right in.” Ainslie opened the door and entered, closing it behind him.
Cynthia faced him. She was seated at an ornate desk, her face expressionless. The office was spacious and pleasantly functional, though not luxurious. A window in the rear wall provided a view of the harbor and moored pleasure boats. A plain door to the right probably opened to a cupboard or a small powder room.
A silence hung between them. After several seconds he began, “I wanted to say—”
“Save it!” Cynthia’s lips scarcely moved. Her eyes were cold.
She knew. No explanations, he realized, were required on either side. Cynthia would have many contacts; a city commissioner could bestow favors and was owed them in return. Undoubtedly someone in her debt—perhaps in the grand jury office, even, or the Police Department—had quietly picked up a phone and made a call.
“You may not believe this, Cynthia,” Ainslie said, “but I wish there were something, anything, I could do.”
“Well, let’s think about that.” Her face and voice were icy, devoid of all empathy. “I know you like executions, so maybe you could attend my daughter’s—make sure everything goes off the way it should. Mine, too, perhaps. Now, wouldn’t you enjoy that.”
He pleaded, “I beg of you, don’t do this.”
“What would you prefer—remorse and tears, some sleazy piety from your old game?”
Ainslie sighed. Unsure of what he had hoped for, he knew whatever it was had failed. He knew, too, that Ruby should be with him. He had made a mistake in persuading her to stay behind.
“There’s no easy way to do this,” he said, placing the arrest warrant on the desk. “I’m afraid you’re under arrest. I have to caution you—”
Cynthia smiled sardonically. “I’ll accept Miranda as read.”
“I need your gun. Where is it?” Ainslie’s right hand had moved and was holding his own Glock 9mm automatic, though he did not produce it. Cynthia, he knew, had a Glock also; like all sworn personnel who retired, she had received her gun on leaving as a gift from the city.
“In the desk.” She had risen and pointed to a drawer.
Not taking his eyes from her, he reached down with his left hand, opened the drawer, and felt inside. The gun was under a cloth. Lifting it out, he put it in a pocket.
“Turn around, please.” He had handcuffs ready.
“Not yet.” Her voice had become near normal. “I have to go to the toilet first. There are certain functions you can’t do with your hands fixed behind your back.”
“No. Stand where you are.”
Unheeding, Cynthia turned and walked toward the interior door he had noted. Over her shoulder she taunted, “If you don’t like it, go ahead—shoot me.”
Two fleeting thoughts crossed Ainslie’s mind, but he banished them.
As the door opened, he saw it was a toilet inside. Equally obvious, there was no other way out. The door closed swiftly. Removing his right hand from his gun, he strode forward, intending to open it—by force if needed. For whatever reason, he suddenly knew he had moved too slowly.
Before he could reach the door, and only seconds after it had closed, it was flung open from inside. Cynthia stood in the doorway, eyes blazing, face tightly set—a mask of hate. Her voice was a snarl as she commanded, “Freeze!” In her hand was a tiny gun.
Knowing he had been outwitted, that the gun had probably been stored inside, he began, “Cyn, look … we can …”
“Shut up.” Her face was working. “You knew I had this. Didn’t you?”
Ainslie nodded slowly. He hadn’t known, but barely a minute earlier the possibility had occurred to him; it was one of the thoughts he had dismissed. The gun Cynthia held was the tiny, chrome-plated Smith & Wesson five-shot pistol—the “throw-down”—she had used so effectively during the bank holdup into which she and Ainslie once walked together.
“And you thought maybe I’d use it on myself! To save me and everybody else a lot of trouble. Answer me!”
It was a moment for truth. Ainslie admitted, “Yes, I did.” That had been his second thought.
“Well, I will use it. But I’ll take you with me, you bastard!” She was bracing herself, he could tell, for a marksman’s shot.
Possibilities, like summer lightning, flashed through his mind. Reaching for his Glock was one; but Cynthia would fire the instant he moved, and he had seen the bank robber with a hole precisely central in his forehead. As for Ruby, barely five minutes had passed. With Cynthia there was no more reasoning. Was there anything he could do? No, nothing. And so … the end came to everyone in time. Accept it. One final thought: He had sometimes wondered—would he, in the last seconds of his life, return to a belief, even a hope, in God and some future life? He knew the answer now. And it was no.
Cynthia was ready to fire. He closed his eyes and then heard the shot … Oddly, he felt nothing … He opened them.
Cynthia had fallen to the floor; her eyes closed, the tiny gun clutched in her hand. On the left side of her chest, blood was oozing from an open wound.
Against the outside door, rising from the half-crouched stance from which she had fired her 9mm automatic, was Ruby Bowe.
5
News of Cynthia Ernst’s violent death swept through Miami like a tidal wave.
And the news media exploded.
So did surviving city commission members, infused with white-hot anger at what they saw as the wanton slaying of one of their own.
Even before the body of Cynthia Ernst could be removed, her death having been certified by paramedics, two mobile television crews were at City Hall, filming and posing questions to which no one had coherent answers. They had been alerted by police radio exchanges, as had other reporters and photographers who quickly joined them.
Sergeant Braynen and his partner, aided by hastily summoned reinforcements, attempted to maintain order.
For Malcolm Ainslie and Ruby Bowe, the post-confrontation events became a mercurial montage. After hasty calls to and from Assistant Chief Serrano’s office, they were ordered to remain in place and talk to no one until a “shoot team” from Internal Affairs arrived—standard procedure when death or serious injury was caused by an officer on duty. The team, appearing moments later, comprised a sergeant and detective who questioned Ainslie and Bowe carefully, though without hostility, it becoming quickly evident that Internal Affairs had been informed, before the officers’ departure, of the grand jury indictments and arrest warrant for Cynthia Ernst.
The Police Department, itself scrambling for information, declined immediate comment on the shooting death of City Commissioner Ernst, but promised total disclosure at a news conference at 6:00 P.M. that day, which the chief of police would attend.
Meanwhile the chief sent messages to the mayor and city commissioners that he would telephone each of them personally during the hour before the news conference, to report the latest information. It would have been more convenient to have a special briefing in his office, but under Florida’s “sunshine law,” commission members could not meet together in any place without the media or public being informed and admitted.
From the “shoot team” interrogation, Ainslie and Bowe moved onward to a private accounting in Assistant Chief Serrano’s office—behind closed doors, and before Serrano and Majors Figueras and Yanes. During all the questioning, Ainslie and Bowe told no lies, but nor, it seemed, were overly probing questions asked—in particular, how did Ainslie and Ruby become briefly separated at City Hall? Instinct told Ainslie that, justly or otherwise, ranks were closing, with the Police Department maneuvering to protect its own. He wondered, too: Was there, among the five, an uneasy memory of Yanes’s covert words concerning Cynthia, spoken in this same room barely an hour before: She could do the decent thing and swallow a bullet. Save everyone a potful of trouble. Did they now share a feeling of guilt that no one had protested? And was there an instinct that if probing became too intensive and specific, something they would prefer not to hear would be divulged?
Those were questions, Ainslie knew, that would never be answered.
In th
e end, what would become the essential police retelling was summarized in a handwritten note by Serrano, to be rewritten and enlarged on as an official statement:
Acting with authority derived from three grand jury indictments, two officers—Sergeant Malcolm Ainslie and Detective Ruby Bowe—attempted to arrest Commissioner Cynthia Ernst. After the prisoner was apparently disarmed, with the gun she was known to own taken from her, and before being handcuffed, she suddenly produced a small concealed pistol—which she was about to fire at Sergeant Ainslie when Detective Bowe, using her own police weapon, shot and killed the prisoner.
Those facts were upheld, soon after, by the uniformed officers, Braynen and his partner, who, immediately after the shooting, responded to a radio summons from Ainslie and were on the scene in seconds.
Only in a quiet moment later did Ainslie and Ruby talk about what had happened.
“After a few minutes of waiting, I got antsy,” Ruby explained. “Just as well, wasn’t it?”
Ainslie grasped her shoulders with both hands and met Ruby’s eyes. “I owe you my life,” he told her. “Whatever you need from me, you only have to ask.”
“If I think of something,” she said with a half-smile, “I’ll tell you. But a lot of it was self-interest. Working in Homicide wouldn’t be the same without you. You’ve taught all of us so much, set great examples. I hope I’m not embarrassing you.”
Ainslie shrugged self-consciously. “A little, I guess.” Then he added carefully, “Working with you, Ruby, has been a privilege for me.” This was not the moment, he decided, to reveal his decision to leave Homicide and perhaps the Police Department. For the time being he would keep that knowledge between Karen and himself.
Preparations for the news conference were made at breakneck speed as lengthy phone calls flew between the Police Department and the state attorney’s office. Together they decided that all relevant facts concerning Cynthia Ernst would be disclosed: the three grand jury indictments; Eleanor Ernst’s diaries; Cynthia’s early abuse at the hands of her father; the pregnancy; Cynthia’s plot to have her parents killed; even the fact that crucial evidence concerning another double murder that Cynthia concealed had sat unexamined for a year and a half in the police Property Department. Finally there would be Cynthia’s failure to divulge her knowledge of the wheelchair murderer.
Detective Page 48
