"Meanwhile he's been busy," Detective Jolly had joked. Calhoun had accumulated a criminal record for manslaughter, assault, and armed burglary, and had served two terms in prison. Now on parole, he lived in the Brownsville Projects one more unofficial name, for a mostly black and Hispanic community adjacent to the Northside Shopping Center. The area was outside the City of Miami and thus beyond the jurisdiction of Miami police. For undercover work, however, official niceties such as informing local police were ignored, which was why Detectives Fleites and Jolly were seated in a Southern Bell phone-repair truck outside a popular disco called the Kampala Stereophonic.
This was the third night they had trailed Calhoun to the same bar, where he apparently joined cronies and drank steadily through the evening. By 9:00 P.M. the detectives had finished their store-bought sandwiches and gulped down several cups of coffee, and were weary and bored, Fleites regretting having volunteered for what he now labeled "a fat-nothing waste of time."
Then they spotted several prostitutes sauntering up the street and looking provocatively around before entering the Kampala. Both detectives recognized the women from their days in uniformed patrol. At the same time a Cadillac quietly pulled into a dimly lit parking lot nearby; it was almost certainly occupied by a pimp who would keep an eye on his girls while farming them out for business. Prostitution rings changed locales and bars from night to night to avoid police interference. The pattern was familiar to detectives.
Evidently word had been sent out to would-be clients, since a series of cars soon arrived. The drivers would enter the Kampala, then reappear with one of the prostitutes, each pair moving to the nearest dark corner, where their shadows merged though not for long. Clearly this was no high-class boudoir operation.
"Shit!" Fleites said. "If those broads see us they'll go back in and blow our cover."
"Sit way back," Jolly advised. "They won't see us."
"I got to take a leak. Too much coffee, can't wait." Picking a moment when none of the couples was in sight, Fleites left the Southern Bell truck and went down an alley to the rear. When he was finished, he zipped up his trousers and headed out. At the same moment, approaching him in the alley, was a prostitute he had recognized, accompanied by her "trick." Fleites quickly turned back, but the alley dead-ended at a brick wall a few yards away.
Though there was little light, he spotted a Dumpster in the corner. Instinctively Fleites headed for it, pulled himself up, and dropped down inside. A second later, to his disgust, he discovered the Dumpster was filled with some kind of soggy, putrid mess. While he listened for the couple, who had stopped beside the Dumpster, he tried to scrape off what felt like wet potato peelings, fried chicken bones, banana skins, rotten tomatoes, and a soft, rancidsmelling, slimy substance he preferred not to attempt identifying.
Unlike the other couples, the two outside took their time, their sex accompanied by heavy breathing, theatrical "yes, yes"-es, some satisfied sounds, and finally soft conversation. Neither partner seemed in a hurry to move away, and knowing the ways of the business, Fleites guessed that whatever money had been paid by the man was more than usual. Seething with impatience, Fleites wondered if they would ever leave. Finally, after about twenty endless minutes, they did.
When Hector Fleites opened the phone truck door and climbed back in, Jolly looked up, then clapped a hand over his nose and mouth. "Jesus, man you stink! " Then, peering more closely and seeing the garbage clinging to his colleague from head to foot, Jolly broke into peals of laughter.
Fleites nodded unhappily about his condition, and knowing there were two things he could not change. First, there were still six hours of surveillance to be endured. Second, Ogden Jolly would forever recount to fellow detectives the story of Fleites going undercover.
* * *
At the beginning of the third week of surveillance, Detectives Ruby Bowe and Bernard Quinn met with Malcolm Ainslie at Homicide headquarters. Bowe and Quinn had shared, with two detectives from Robbery, the surveillance of Earl Robinson.
From the beginning Robinson had been a major suspect; everything about his record appeared to fit the nature of the serial killings. His FIVO card described him as "very aggressive." He was a former heavyweight boxer; he preached on streets always from Revelation and claimed to be God's judgment angel. His a.k.a. was "Avenger." Robinson's record included armed robbery, second-degree murder, and assaults with a knife.
It was therefore a surprise to Ainslie when Ruby Bowe announced, "All four of us think you should drop Robinson. We're convinced he's harmless. He spends all his free time helping out at a homeless shelter, the Camillus House."
"It's true," Bernard Quinn echoed.
As Bowe described it, all of Robinson's criminality occurred before his adoption of religion a year earlier. From then on he had become a peaceful citizen, holding a regular job and volunteering for civic and charitable causes.
Quinn continued, "In my experience most religious 'conversions' are phony. But I'm convinced this one is genuine."
"We talked to the director of the homeless shelter, David Daxman," Ruby Bowe reported.
"I know him," Ainslie said. "Good man."
"Daxman says he's known Robinson for years and that nowadays he's totally changed." Ruby glanced at her notes. " 'A gentle person who wants to help people' is how Daxman described him. He said Robinson is loved by all the guys at the shelter."
"Okay, cancel Robinson's surveillance," Ainslie instructed. "Scratch him from our list." He leaned back in his chair and sighed.
9
Looking back long afterward, Malcolm Ainslie remembered those three weeks of surveillance as a kaleidoscopic time when circumstances, most of them unforeseen, conspired to disrupt and complicate the work of everyone involved, especially Ainslie himself.
During the first day of group surveillance Ainslie learned that, as a member of the Miami Police Honor Guard, he was required to spend the next two days on duty at the wake and funeral of City Commissioner Gustav Ernst and his wife, Eleanor. The honor guard, commanded by Captain Warren Underhill, a twenty-year Police Department veteran and former U.S. Army major, comprised a roster of sixty handpicked officers men and women chosen for their exemplary police records, physical fitness, and outstanding deportment.
There was seldom a need to activate the honor guard, and the duty normally was not a burden. But for Ainslie it could not have come at a worse time. However, there was no escaping the obligation, as Captain Underhill told him on the phone. "I haven't called on you in quite a while, Malcolm, and I need a senior sergeant as my number two. Also I know you're in charge of the Ernst murder investigation, so it's appropriate for you to be there. Now, I'm sure you're busy as hell, but so is everyone else, and you won't waste your time or mine by offering a bunch of excuses, will you, Sergeant?"
Ainslie chuckled. "If you'd give me a clue, sir, as to which one would work, I'd sure give it a try."
"So you'll be there," Underhill answered crisply.
Ainslie said resignedly, "You know I will."
"Thank you, Sergeant; I appreciate your attitude. There will, of course, be overtime pay."
The Ernst wake, with both bodies in closed coffins, was held at the Klamerus Funeral Home in downtown Miami from noon until 8:00 P.M. Throughout that time six honor guard police in ceremonial uniforms stood at parade rest around the coffins; there were two shifts of guards, each relieved after two hours. Ainslie, who stood every other shift himself, was responsible for the changeovers. It was therefore impossible for him to leave the funeral home, but he kept in touch with surveillance developments as best he could by phone and police radio.