Though unwritten and unofficial, there was a rule that every execution was delayed by one minute a precaution in case the red phone rang a few seconds late. Thus Doil's execution, though scheduled for 7:00 A.M., would not take place until 7:01.
"This is it," Hambrick announced. They had come to a sturdy wooden door that he opened with a key. Then, inside, he turned a switch, illuminating a windowless, boxlike room about twenty-four-feet square. It was furnished with a plain wooden desk and tilt-back chair, a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor in front of the desk, and a small table to one side. Nothing else.
"The super doesn't use this much," Hambrick said. "Only when we have executions." He motioned to the chair behind the desk. "That's where you sit, Sergeant. I'll be back soon."
During the lieutenant's absence, Ainslie switched on the recorder concealed beneath his clothing.
In less than five minutes Hambrick was back, accompanied by two prison guards who were leading and partially supporting a figure whom Ainslie recognized. Doil was wearing leg irons and handcuffs, the latter secured to a tightly strapped waist belt. Behind the trio was Father Ray Uxbridge.
It was more than a year since Ainslie had seen Elroy Doil; the last occasion had been at the sentencing following his trial. In the meantime, the change had been dramatic. At his trial and sentencing he had been physically robust, tall and powerful, with matching aggressiveness; now he seemed pitifully the reverse. He was stooped, with sagging shoulders, his body thin, his face wan and gaunt. In place of aggression, his eyes showed nervous uncertainty. His head had been shaved for the execution, and the unnatural pink baldness added to his desolate appearance. At the last minute, conductive gel would be applied to his scalp, ready for the electric chair's metal death cap.
Father Uxbridge stepped forward; he was in clerical garb, a breviary in hand. A large, broad-shouldered man with patrician features, he projected a presence that Ainslie remembered from previous encounters. Ignoring Ainslie, he addressed Doil.
"Mr. Doil, I am willing to stay with you to provide God's comfort for as long as these circumstances allow, and I remind you again that you are not required to make any statement or answer questions."
"Just a moment," Ainslie said, springing up from the desk chair and moving closer to the others. "Doil, I've driven eight hours from Miami because you asked to see me. Father Uxbridge told me you had something to say."
Glancing down, Ainslie saw that Doil's hands were clenched tightly together, and that his wrists were raw where the handcuffs had chafed. He glanced at Hambrick and gestured. "Can you take those off while we're talking?"
The lieutenant shook his head. "Sorry, Sergeant, can't do it. Doil has beat up three of our people since he's been here. One had to be hospitalized."
Ainslie nodded. "Scratch that idea."
As Ainslie spoke, Doil lifted his head. Perhaps it had been the preceding humane thought about the handcuffs, or perhaps Ainslie's voice, but for whatever reason, Doil fell to his knees and would have tumbled face forward if the guards had not supported him. As it was, he brough this face close to one of Ainslie's hands and attempted, unsuccessfully, to kiss it.
His voice blurred, he mumbled, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. . ."
Father Uxbridge leapt forward, his face flushed with anger. "No, no, no!" he shouted to Ainslie. "This is blasphemy!" Turning toward Doil, he insisted, "This man is not "
"Shut up!" Ainslie snapped. Then, to Doil, more quietly, "I am not a priest anymore. You know that. But if you want to confess anything to me, I will listen as a human being."
Uxbridge shouted again, "You can't take a confession. You have no right!"
Doil began speaking to Ainslie. "Father, it has been . . ."
Uxbridge shouted, "I have told you he is not a Father!"
Doil mumbled, and Ainslie caught the words, "He is God's avenging angel . . ."
"This is desecration!" Uxbridge roared. "I will not allow it!"
Suddenly Doil turned his head. He snarled at Uxbridge, "Fuck off!" Then, facing the others, he cried, "Get that asshole out of here!"
Hambrick advised Uxbridge, "I'm afraid you'll have to go, Father. If he doesn't want you here, that's his privilege."
"I will not go!"
Hambrick's voice sharpened. "Please, Father. I don't want to have to remove you by force."
At a signal from the lieutenant, one of the guards left Doil and seized Uxbridge's arm.
The priest jerked his arm away. "Do not dare! I am ? priest, a man of God!" As the guard stood hesitantly, Uxbridge faced Hambrick. "You will hear more of this. I shall personally bring your behavior to the attention of the governor." He snapped at Ainslie, "The church was well rid of you." Then, with a final, all-encompassing glare, Uxbridge left.
Elroy Doil, who was still on his knees before Ainslie, began again, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was . . . I don't fuckin' remember."
In other circumstances Ainslie might have smiled, but he was torn. His conscience troubled him. He wanted to hear what Doil had to say, but not as an impostor.
It was Hambrick who, glancing at his watch, added words of common sense. "If you want to hear it at all, better let him do it his way."
Ainslie still hesitated, wishing this moment could have happened in some other way.
But he wanted to know to have answers and insights to so many events that had begun so long ago.
* * *
It was two years earlier, in Miami's Coconut Grove a fresh January morning, shortly after 7:00 A.M.
PART TWO
The Past
1
Orlando Cobo, a middle-aged security guard at Coconut Grove's Royal Colonial Hotel, was tired. He was ready to go home when he entered the eighth floor a few minutes before 7:00 A.M. on routine patrol. It had been an uneventful night, with only three minor incidents during his eight-hour shift.
Security problems relating to youth, sex, or drugs rarely occurred at the "Royal Colostomy," as it was sometimes called. The clientele comprised mainly middle-aged, staid, well-to-do people who liked the hotel's old-fashioned quiet lobby, its indoor profusion of tropical plants, and an architectural style once described as "brick wedding cake."
In a way the hotel matched its Coconut Grove locale a sometimes jarring mix of past and present. Within the Grove, decrepit frame houses nudged once-exclusive, stylish homes; mom-and-pop trivia shops stood cheek-by-jowl with upscale galleries and boutiques; fast-food takeouts abutted gourmet restaurants; everywhere, poverty and wealth rubbed shoulders. Florida's oldest settlement a historic village established twenty years before Miami Coconut Grove seemed to have not one character but many, all untidily competing.
None of this troubled Cobo as he left an elevator and walked along the eighth-floor corridor. He was neither a philosopher nor a Coconut Grove resident, but drove to work each day from North Miami. At the moment nothing seemed amiss, and he began to anticipate the relaxing journey home.
Then, nearing a fire-exit stairway at the corridor's end, he noticed that the door of room 805 was slightly ajar. From inside he could hear the loud sound of a radio or TV. He knocked, and when there was no response, he inched open the door. leaned inside, then gagged in disgust at an overwhelming odor. Holding a hand over his mouth, Cobo moved forward into the room, and at the sight of what faced him, his legs weakened. Directly ahead, in a pool of blood, were the bodies of a man and a woman with dismembered parts of their bodies around them.