"Not entirely. When I talked with Linares he said he agreed with you that Doil was an unlikely candidate, but he wasn't in favor of ending his surveillance. His words were, 'I wouldn't go that far.' "
Zagaki looked crestfallen. "I was wrong, wasn't I? I guess you're about to tell me that."
Ainslie's voice sharpened. "Yes, very wrong dangerously wrong, in fact. Recommendations by detectives are taken seriously here, though fortunately I didn't act on yours. Now I want you to read these." He handed Zagaki a sheaf of papers. They included the Form 301 from Sandra Sanchez, a report from the seventeen-year-old Homicide file on the Esperanza murders, with Doil named as the principal suspect, and three copied pages from Doil's juvenile file.
At length Zagaki looked up, his expression anguished. "Oh boy, how wrong can you get! What will you do, Sergeant have me thrown out of Homicide?"
Ainslie shook his head. "This is between us; it goes no further. But if you want to stay in Homicide, you'd better learn from what's happened. You've got to take your time making these kind of judgments; you can't come to conclusions solely on appearances. Be a skeptic always. Remember that most of the time, everywhere in life, things are seldom the way they seem."
"I sure will remember, Sergeant. And thanks for not taking this further.''
Ainslie nodded. "One other thing you should know: I've called a meeting this afternoon to revive the surveillance on Elroy Doil. You will probably hear about it, but I've taken you off the list."
Zagaki looked pained. "Sergeant, I may be out of line, because I know I'm getting what I deserve. But is there any way I could persuade you to give me another chance? I won't screw up this time, I promise."
Ainslie hesitated. His judgment told him to stay with his decision. He still had doubts about Zagaki. Then Ainslie remembered his own early days in the force when he had made mistakes, and he supposed there was a forgiveness factor a canon from his past that had never entirely left him.
"All right," he conceded. "Be here at four o'clock."
11
"I take it we all agree on our prime suspect," Ainslie said. There was a murmured chorus of assent from the twelve other members of the special task force crowded into Newbold's office. The lieutenant stood against the back wall, having told Ainslie to take over his desk and chair.
The task force of three sergeants, including Ainslie, and ten detectives sat in chairs or perched on window ledges and tabletops, or simply leaned against the wall. As the meeting progressed, Ainslie sensed the team's excitement, revived by the crucial information revealed through Sandra Sanchez and Elroy Doil's now-exposed juvenile crime record.
On hearing of Doil's criminal past, Sergeant Greene had exploded. "That goddam system! It's insane, a public menace "
Ainslie cut him off. "The lieutenant and I have been over that, Pablo. We agree with you; a lot of people do, and we hope to see some changes. But for the time being, we have to work with the system as it is. In any case, we have Doil's record now."
Greene, though still simmering, muttered, "Okay."
"The first thing," Ainslie informed the group, "is to resume the surveillance of Doil immediately. So I'd like you, Pablo, and Hank to make up a duty schedule. I suggest you work out the next forty-eight hours right here, so you can tell us before we leave. I'll take my turn with the rest of you. Pair me with Zagaki."
Brewmaster nodded. "Got it, Malcolm."
"We need to remember two things about the surveillance," Ainslie continued. "One is to be damn careful Doil doesn't catch on to us. At the same time, we have to stay close enough that we don't lose him. It'll be a balancing act, but we all know what's at stake here.
"Oh, one other thing," Ainslie instructed the sergeants. "Don't put Detective Bowe on the duty schedule. I have some other work for her."
He turned to Ruby Bowe, who was standing near the door. "I want you to check on Elroy Doil's employment record, Ruby. We know he's a truck driver and works for different companies. We want to know which ones. Also, who was employing him, where was he, and what was he doing during the days of each serial killing? You'll have to be low-key because we don't want anyone telling him we're asking questions."
"It will help," Ruby said, "if I can get all the information we have on Doil, including the surveillance reports so far."
"I'll have copies made for you right after this meeting." Ainslie faced the others. "Is there any discussion? Any questions?"
When there was none, he pronounced, "Then let's get on with it."
* * *
The surveillance of Elroy Doil lasted three weeks and two days. Much of the continuous twenty-four-hour vigil by detectives was, as always, uneventful and often boring. At other times it was challenging, particularly when they were trying not to be spotted by the suspect. And throughout that time the weather proved the most miserable of the entire year. Shortly before the watch program began, a cold front moved eastward from Texas into southern Florida and sat in place for two straight weeks. It brought high winds and intermittent, drenching rain that made the task of following Doil, who drove trucks much of the time, unusually difficult. If the surveillance vehicle stayed too close for too long, Doil might notice it in his rearview mirror. On the other hand, in heavy rain with poor visibility, there was an equal danger of losing him if he got too far ahead.
In part the dilemma was solved by using two surveillance vehicles, and occasionally three, each communicating with the others by radio. After staying close to Doil for a while, one vehicle would drop back while another moved forward, taking its place. In police parlance, leapfrogging.
The three-vehicle mix, usually a commercial undercover unit and two innocuous-looking cars, was used for several out-of-town journeys Doil made for trucking companies that employed him as a temporary driver. On a journey to Orlando the six trailing detectives, two in each vehicle, all lost sight of him just after entering that city amid pounding rain. The three vehicles scoured downtown streets, cursing the poor visibility. Finally Detectives Charlie Thurston and Luis Linares, using an undercover Postal Service van, caught up with Doil. They spotted him through the window of a pizza bar, where he was eating alone, his massive shoulders hunched over a plate of food. The truck was parked nearby.
After Thurston had reported to the others by radio, Linares grumbled, "Hell! This caper ain't getting us nowhere. Could go on for years."
"Tell you what, Luis," Thurston told him. "You walk over to old Doil and tell him that. Just say, 'Hey, stupid, we're tired of this shit. Stop fucking around and get on with the next killing.' "
"Funny, funny," Linares said. "You should be on switched-off TV."
Apart from the long journeys, most of the surveillance took place near Doil's home, and that, too, presented problems.
When Elroy Doil's mother, Beulah, was alive, the two of them had lived in a two-room wooden shack alongside the railroad tracks at 23 Northeast 35th Terrace, in the Wynwood area. Elroy still lived alone in the same dilapidated shack, and kept an ancient pickup truck for his own use in the front yard.
Because an unfamiliar vehicle might draw attention if parked for too long, surveillance trucks and cars were switched frequently, though less so after dark or during heavy weather. All the vehicles had tinted windows, so there was never a problem about the detectives being seen.
During some evenings the surveillance teams spent long hours outside Doil's favorite local haunts. One was the Pussycat Theater, a bar and strip joint, another the Harlem Niteclub. Both were well known to police as hangouts for drug dealers and prostitutes.
"Christ!" Dion Jacobo complained after three successive rainy nights parked across the road from the Pussycat. "Couldn't the bastard go to a movie just once? At least one of us could sit a couple rows behind." The detectives never followed Doil into bars or any other lighted place, aware that their faces might be known.