Sandra Sanchez said, "When we last met, Malcolm, I promised to look among old autopsy records for any unresolved deaths with similar wound patterns. Well, I have, and I'm sorry it took so long, but what I've been searching through is old stuff, papers that aren't computerized "
"Don't apologize," Ainslie said. "The point is, have you found anything?"
"Yes, I think so. It's in a file with a lot of other material, and I've sent the whole lot over to you by messenger. The case is an old, unsolved killing seventeen years ago, with two elderly victims named Esperanza Clarence and Florentina."
"Are any suspects named?"
"There's one. But look, I don't want to tell you any more because you must read through the file. Call me when you're finished."
The file arrived a short time later. As Sanchez had indicated, it contained a lot of paper. Without expecting too much, Ainslie opened the now-faded cover and began to read.
The Esperanzas were both in their early seventies and lived in the Happy Haven Trailer Park in West Dade. Their bodies, discovered by a neighbor, were gagged and bound and in seated positions, facing each other. Both the man and woman had been brutally beaten and had suffered deep knife cuts. The official cause of both deaths was exsanguination loss of blood resulting from wounds.
Ainslie skipped through the remaining medical papers, then found a copy of a police report that revealed the Esperanzas were comfortably off, though not wealthy. They had three thousand Dollars in a bank account and, according to a nephew who lived nearby, the couple usually had several hundred Dollars in cash on hand for their immediate needs. After the murders, no cash whatever was found.
At the back of the file, as Ainslie flipped more pages, he saw a familiar Form 301 a Homicide investigation report. It concerned a juvenile suspect who had been interrogated concerning the Esperanzas' deaths, then released for lack of evidence.
A name on the 301 leaped out at him. Elroy Doil.
10
In conformity with Florida law, Elroy Doil's juvenile crime record had been sealed when he reached the age of eighteen. At that point it became inaccessible to investigators except with a judicial order, which was rarely granted. Similar laws existed in most other states.
In Malcolm Ainslie's opinion, shared by many in law enforcement, the procedure was a legal anachronism, absurdly out of date, and a brazen disservice to law-abiding citizens. During a meeting with Lieutenant Newbold the morning after the discovery of Elroy Doil's name on the old Form 301, Ainslie spread out papers on the lieutenant's desk, his anger barely contained.
"This is insane! There are things here we should have known a year ago."
An hour earlier he had unearthed a file on the unsolved Esperanza killings from a storeroom containing old records. It was not a complete accounting because the crime occurred outside Miami, in Metro-Dade territory. But inquiries had extended across borders, and Miami Homicide opened its own Esperanza file, which included some Metro-Dade memos about the crime. It was among the latter that Ainslie found reference to the interrogation of Doil, which Sandra Sanchez had reported. But without the Sanchez tip there would have been no reason to disinter the long-ago file.
"Of course," Newbold pointed out, "Doil was never arrested or charged."
"Because his mother was smart enough not to let Elroy be fingerprinted. A knife was found near the murder scene with fingerprints on it, and both victims' blood. A bowie knife. Metro-Dade Homicide wanted to compare those prints with Doil's, and they were pretty sure they'd match. But because there wasn't enough evidence for an arrest, plus Elroy being a juvenile, it never happened."
Newbold agreed, "That's sure a lot of coincidence."
"Coincidence? The Esperanza MO at that trailer camp was the same as we're seeing now. The way the bodies have been found gagged, facing each other then the beatings, knife cuts, stolen money. If we'd had Doil's early records, those MO's would have been matched and we'd have been all over him long ago." Ainslie leaned forward staring fiercely. "Do you know how many lives we might have saved?"
Newbold stood up and glared back. "Hey, Sergeant, they're not my laws! Now back off!"
Ainslie slumped into the chair behind him and sighed. "Sorry. But, Leo, our whole juvenile system is crazy, not just in Florida but everywhere. There isn't just juvenile crime anymore; at whatever age, it's plain, simple crime you know it as well as I do. Every day we see murders committed by kids fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, for God's sake! Or younger. Of all weapons arrests, more than half involve teenagers. In Detroit a woman was murdered by boys of eleven and fourteen. Two twelve-year-olds in Chicago threw a kid of five from a high-rise. In England two ten-year-old boys killed a two-year-old. It's the same with robberies, assaults, rapes, carjackings, you name it. Yet here we are, policemen, law enforcers, handcuffed by this ridiculous, archaic system that should have been thrown out years ago."
"You're suggesting that juvenile records shouldn't be sealed at all?"
"Damn right I am! Every crime should go on record, stay there, and be available to investigators from that point on. If parents and the ACLU don't like it, screw 'em! You break the law, it goes on your record. That's the price to be paid that should be paid no matter what your age."
"There's been talk in the Department about petitioning state government along those lines," Newbold said. "Send me a memo with the details about Doil, plus your opinions, and I'll pass it on. Then, if there's a public hearing, I'll recommend you as a witness, and you can sound off all you want."
"I'll write the memo," Ainslie said. "But I doubt they'd want me to appear."
Newbold said sharply, "Don't write that off, or yourself, either." His eyes met Ainslie's directly. "My influence isn't as great as that of some other people we know. But I have friends, upstairs and upstate, who listen to me."
So, Ainslie thought, Newbold knew about Cynthia Ernst blocking his promotion, and had probably guessed the rest. None of it surprised Ainslie. The Police Department could be a small place, where rumors and gossip ran rampant, leaping departmental barriers and every rank.
"So what do you plan next?" Newbold asked. "You'll seek an order to have Doil's record opened, I presume."
"I'm working on that now. I've phoned Curzon Knowles; he's drafting the affidavit. I'll take it to Judge Powell. We don't want this talked about yet, and he won't ask too many questions."
"Your buddy Phelan Powell?" Newbold smiled. "As I recall, His Honor has obliged you often. If I asked what you've got on him, you wouldn't tell me, of course."
"I'm his illegitimate son," Ainslie deadpanned.
Newbold laughed. "That would mean he knocked up your mother when he was what? Twelve? So it's something else, but never mind. In this game we all accumulate our debits and credits."
On that score, of course, Newbold was right.
* * *
Many years before, when Detective Ainslie was new on plainclothes duty, he and his partner, Ian Deane, drove into an alley one night and saw a light blue Cadillac ahead. As they drew closer, a partially naked white male emerged from the driver's side, hurriedly pulling on trousers, and from the other side appeared a scantily dressed young black girl. The detectives recognized both. The girl was a prostitute named Wanda, the man a circuit court judge, Phelan Powell, before whom both detectives had appeared as witnesses on numerous occasions. Powell was tall and athletically built and normally had a commanding personality. This moment was an exception.
He and Wanda shielded their eyes from the headlights, trying desperately to recognize the figures emerging from the car behind them.