Malcolm Ainslie had arrived in time to hear the later stages of the questions. Now he said carefully, "Let's be clear about this, Ms. Gomez. You had the man down because you do karate, and he was still on the ground when you got back and put six bullets in him?"
"I already told you that."
"May I see your gun permit, please?"
For the first time the young woman seemed uneasy. "I don't have one. My boyfriend gave me the gun last Christmas. It was under my tree, gift-wrapped. I didn't think "
Thurston said softly as an aside, "Guy's gotta be in the NRA. Only that kind of mind would put a gun under a Christmas tree."
Among police officers, who saw so many deadly shootings and frequently faced death themselves from easily purchased assault weapons, the National Rifle Association did not rate highly.
Andrews asked, "What's your boyfriend's name, Dulce?"
"Justo Ortega. Except he isn't my boyfriend anymore."
Ainslie touched Brad Andrews's arm. "This is getting complicated. I think you should advise the lady of her rights."
"I was thinking that, too, Sergeant." Andrews faced the young woman. "Dulce, there's a Miranda law. Under it I have to advise you that you do not have to talk to me or answer questions. If you do talk from this point on, it's possible something you say might be taken down and used as evidence "
Gomez said testily, "I know all about my rights. None of it applies, because I didn't ask that shithead to break in, and what I did was self-defense."
"All the same, I'm required to finish telling you, so please listen."
When Andrews had concluded, Ainslie added, "We don't usually do this, Ms. Gomez, but I strongly recommend you call your lawyer now."
"Why?"
"I'm not saying it will happen, but someone might argue you didn't have to shoot this man, that you'd already protected yourself enough "
"That's bullshit!" Gomez shouted, then abruptly stopped. "Well, I guess I see what you're saying, even though ''
"We're simply advising you to get a lawyer."
"Look, I'm a working girl; I don't need a lot of big lawyer bills. Leave me alone for a while. I'll sit here and think about it."
Ainslie asked Thurston quietly, "Did you call for a state attorney?"
"Not yet."
"Get one here soon. We need a decision on this."
Thurston nodded and reached for his radio.
The ID crew had arrived and was working quickly. The .22 Cal Rohn pistol retrieved from Dulce Gomez had been sealed in a plastic bag after Thurston had noted the weapon's serial number. He used the apartment telephone, now cleared for use, to talk with Police Headquarters Communications. "I would like a gun check, please." He described the weapon and serial number, then, responding to a question, "Start with Dade County, then go wider if you have to." Communications had computer access to gun registrations locally, nationally, and, if need be, worldwide.
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 Quinones, 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 Quinones. 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 Quinones, 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 scumbagwith 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 Quifiones'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.