* * *
Miami's Homicide department was totally unlike the noisy, frenetic detective divisions seen on TY, with their easy public access and anything-goes behavior. Located on the fifth floor of the fortresslike downtown Miami Police Headquarters building, Homicide was reached by elevator from the main lobby. However, the fifth-floor doors would open only with a special key-card. No one but Homicide detectives, civilian Homicide staff, and a few senior officers had key-cards. All other police personnel and the occasional visitor needed advance approval, and even then were accompanied by a key-card holder.
Prisoners and suspects brought to Homicide arrived via a guarded basement entrance and a secure elevator running directly up to the Homicide office. The result was a normally quiet, controlled environment.
Jorge Rodriguez and Malcolm Ainslie peered through one-way glass at the suspects seated in separate interview rooms.
"We need at least one confession," Ainslie said.
"Leave it to me," Jorge told him.
"You want to question both?"
"Yeah. I'll take the girl first. Mind if I do it alone?"
Normally, two detectives would interview a murder suspect together, but Jorge's previous successes solo were a persuasive argument, especially now.
Ainslie nodded. "Go ahead."
As the session with the twenty-three-year-old Maggie Thorne began, Ainslie watched and listened through the observation window. The suspect looked pale and younger than her years, wearing stained, torn jeans and a dirty sweatshirt. If she put on a dress and washed her face, Ainslie thought, she'd be pretty. As it was, she seemed hard and edgy, rocking nervously in the metal chair to which she was handcuffed. When Jorge appeared she yanked on the cuffs, clanging them against the chair, and shouted, "Why the fuck do I have to wear these?"
Jorge smiled easily and moved to take them off. "How ye' coin', anyway? I'm Detective Rodriguez. Would you like some coffee or a cigarette?"
Thorne rubbed her wrists and muttered something about milk and sugar. She seemed a shade more relaxed, though her wariness persisted. A hard nut, Ainslie thought.
As usual, Jorge had brought a thermos, two Styrofoam cups, and cigarettes. He poured coffee for them both, talking at the same time. So you don't smoke, eh? Me neither. Dangerous stuff tobacco . . . (Not as dangerous as the girl's .38, Ainslie thought.) . . . Sorry, you'll have to drink it black. . . Hey, mind if I call you Maggie? I'm Jorge. . . See, I want to help you if I can. In fact, I think we can help each other. . . No, it's not a load of horseshit. The truth is, Maggie, you're in a lot of trouble and I'm trying to make things as easy for you as I can . . .
Ainslie stood behind the one-way glass, tapping his foot. Get the Miranda over with, Jorge, he thought impatiently, knowing that Jorge could not move forward until he had advised Thorne of her rights, including the right to an attorney. Of course, the last thing an investigator wanted at this critical stage was the restrictive presence of a lawyer a reason why Homicide detectives tried to present the Miranda caution in such a way that the answer came back, "No."
Jorge's skill in obtaining that answer had become legendary.
He started with a pre-interview entirely legal during which he gathered basics: the suspect's name, address, birth date, occupation, social security number. . . But Jorge proceeded with deliberate slowness, taking time for comments. So you were born in August, Maggie? Hey, so was I. That makes us Leos, but I don't really believe in that zodiac crap. Do you?
Despite the low-key approach, the girl was still wary, so Jorge let the pre-interview run on, though he had not yet mentioned the crime being investigated.
Maggie, just a few more personal details. Are you married?. . . No? Me neither. Maybe someday. Well, how 'bout a boyfriend? Kermit? Well, I'm afraid Kermit's in trouble, too, and not a lot of help to you right now. Maybe he's the one who got you here. . . How about your mother?... Wow! You never saw her?... Well, how about your father?... Okay, okay, no more questions about them.
Jorge sat close to Thorne, occasionally touching her arm or shoulder. With some suspects, he might hold their hand, even perhaps induce tears. But Thorne was tough, so Jorge held back. There were limits, though, to how long a preinterview could last.
Is there anyone at all you'd like me to contact for you, Maggie?. . . Well, if you change your mind, be sure to tell me.
From outside, Ainslie waited tensely to witness the Miranda declaration. Meanwhile he watched the girl. There was something familiar about her face, but despite a facility for "flash recognition" an identification system in which police were trained he couldn't place her. The elusiveness puzzled him.
Okay, Maggie, there's a lot more to talk about, but I do have to ask you this: Are you willing to keep talking to me just like we're doing now without an attorney present?
Jorge was walking a hairline, though still within legal bounds.
Almost imperceptibly, Thorne nodded. Good, 'cause I'd like to keep talking too. But there's something we need to get out of the way you know how regulations are. So I have to tell you this, Maggie, for the record. You have the right to remain silent. . .
The official formula continued, the wording more or less: You need not talk to me or answer any questions. . . Should you talk to me, anything you say can be used as evidence against you . . . You have the right to an attorney at any time. . . If you cannot afford an attorney one will be supplied free of charge . . .
Ainslie listened carefully. Although police interview rooms were mainly soundproof, voices could penetrate the one-way glass in front of him, so later he could testify, if needed, that the Miranda warning had been given. Never mind that Jorge's voice had become offhand and casual; the right words were what mattered, though Thorne seemed scarcely to be paying attention.
It was time for Jorge's second calculated gamble.
Now, we can either keep talking, Maggie, or I go back to work and you won't see me anymore. . .
On the girl's face a look of doubt: What happens next if this guy disappears?
Jorge recognized the signs. He was close to success.
Maggie, do you understand what I've just said?... You're sure? . . . Okay, so that's out of the way . . . Oh, just one thing! I need you to sign this piece of paper. It confirms what we've been saying.
Thorne signed the of ficial release form, her handwriting scrawly but certifying that after having been informed of her rights she had chosen to talk to Detective Rodriguez without a lawyer present.
Ainslie put away the notes he'd made. Jorge was in the clear, and Ainslie, already convinced of the pair's guilt, believed there would be at least one full confession within the hour.
As it turned out, there were two.
* * *
As Jorge's questioning continued first of Thorne, then, in the other room, of Kaprum it became evident they had had no coherent plan to begin with, a fact that caused a capital crime to be committed instead of simple robbery. Then, afterward, they had seriously believed they could get away with it by concocting a stew of lies, all of which seemed ingenious to them but ludicrous to anyone with crime-solving experience.
Jorge to Thorne: About that car you and Kermit were in, Maggie. You told the trooper you'd found it just a few minutes earlier, with the keys in it, and took it for a ride . . . Well, what if I tell you we have a witness who saw both of you in that car last night, saw the whole thing happen ? Also, there were a dozen or more empty drink cans in the car, food wrappers, too. It's all been sent for fingerprinting. What if your prints, and Kermit's, are on that stuff ? . . . Actually, it will prove something, Maggie, because it will show you were both in that car a whole lot longer than just the ' few minutes" you say.