Arthur Hailey: Detective

All right, let's move on. Now, mixed in with those Dollars found on you were some deutschemarks. Where did you get those?. . . Deutschemarks, Maggie German money. You been to Germany lately?. .. Oh, come on, Maggie! How could you forget something like that? Did you get it from Mr. Niehaus? . . . He's the gentleman who was killed. Did you shoot him with that pistol of yours, Maggie? Tests are being done on the gun. They'll tell us if you did.

Maggie, I'm talking to you as a friend. You're in trouble, big trouble, and I think you know it. I'd like to help you, but before I can, you'll have to start telling the truth. . . Here, have more coffee. . . Think about it, Maggie. The truth will make everything easy especially for you. Because when I know the truth I can start advising you about what to do. . .

And later, with the other, younger suspect, Kaprum whose eyes did bulge like a frog's, Ainslie realized the questioning was tougher: Okay, Kermit, for the past half hour I've listened to you answer all my questions and we both know that everything you've told me is total bullshit. Now let's pack it in and have some facts. You and your girlfriend Maggie hijacked that car, robbed that old man, then killed him. Now, I may as well tell you that Maggie Thorne has confessed. I have her written confession in which she says the whole idea was yours, and that you fired the shot that killed Mr. Niehaus. . .

The nineteen-year-old Kaprum leapt to his feet and shouted wildly, "That lying bitch! It was her who done it, her idea, not mine! I just went for "

Hey, hold it! Stop right there, Kaprum! You hear me! Settle down!

It was like winning the lottery, Jorge thought. Kaprum, reacting to what he saw as Maggie Thorne's betrayal, was now eager to relate his own version of events. Ainslie might have smiled, but he remembered the poor dead German.

A Miranda warning had been given Kaprum earlier. No need to repeat it.

So are you ready to tell me, Kermit, what really happened and this time the truth? If you are, you'll be helping yourself. . . Okay, let's begin when you and Thorne held up that car and took it over. . . All right, we'll put Thorne's name first if that's the way you want it. . . So where were you both when . . .

Jorge was scribbling on a pad as Kaprum spoke quickly, blurting out facts, heedless of consequences, failing to realize it made little difference, if any, who had done what, and what counted most was that the pair of them had killed in collusion. When asked by Jorge why any shot was fired at all, Kaprum answered, "The old bastard badmouthed us. Shouted a lot of crap we didn't understand. He wouldn't shut his goddam mouth, man."

When it was done, using a ballpoint pen that Jorge handed him, Kaprum initialed each page as having read it, then signed what had become a full confession.

A few hours later the ballistics report revealed that three bullets were found in the dead German's body. One had been fired from Kaprum's gun, two from Maggie Thorne's. The medical examiner's conclusion was that Kaprum's bullet would have wounded the victim. Either one of the two from Thorne would have caused immediate death.

Ainslie was called away, then returned in time to hear part of a second session between Jorge and Thorne. At the end the young girl asked a question, her expression serious. "What's gonna happen? Will we get probation?"

Jorge made no attempt to answer, and Ainslie knew why.

What could you say to someone who was so strangely ignorant about the gravity of what had transpired, and the inevitable consequences soon to come? How could Jorge tell a young girl, No, there is not the slightest chance of your receiving probation, or even going temporarily free on bail, or for that matter ever getting out of jail again. What is a near certainty is that after the two of you have been tried before a judge and jury, you will be found guilty of murder and sentenced to die in the electric chair.

* * *

In court, defense lawyers going through the motions would rant and rave, complaining that Thorne's and Kaprum's confessions had been obtained under duress. The word "trickery" might be used not without some truth, Ainslie conceded.

But a judge, armed with testimony that proper Miranda warnings had been given and that the accused had knowingly signed their rights away, would dismiss the objections and the confessions would stand.

As to the "trickery," Ainslie had come to believe it was justified. With any capital crime, total, conclusive proof was hard to come by and because of guileful lawyers sometimes the guilty walked away. The O.J. Simpson case came inevitably to mind. But the Thorne and Kaprum confessions, however extracted, represented truth that would lead to justice, and from society's point of view and Ainslie's that was what mattered most.

* * *

The thought of confessions brought Ainslie's mind back to Elroy Doil and the reason for this interminable drive. He wondered, as he had since the phone call from Raiford earlier tonight: What kind of confession was he going to hear?

He peered out at lighted signs on the roadway. They had left I-95 and were on Florida's Turnpike, with Orlando their first objective two hundred miles away.

Malcolm Ainslie, who had dozed off soon after passing Fort Lauderdale, was awakened by a thump perhaps a road bump or more likely a raccoon; their carcasses littered the highway. He stretched and sat up, then checked the time: ten minutes after midnight. Up ahead he could see an exit ramp to West Palm Beach, which meant they were a third of the way to Orlando. Jorge, he noted, was driving in the far left lane amid fairly heavy turnpike traffic.

Ainslie reached for the phone and punched in Lieutenant Newbold's number. When he answered, Ainslie announced, "Evening, sir. Miami's finest here."

"Hey, Malcolm. Everything okay?"

Ainslie glanced to his left. "The mad Cuban hasn't killed me yet."

Newbold chuckled, then said, "Listen, I checked some flights for you, and made reservations. I think we can get you up to Toronto by tomorrow afternoon."

"That's good news, Lieutenant. Thanks!" He jotted down the details: a 10:05 Delta flight from Jacksonville to Atlanta, connecting with Air Canada to Toronto.

He would be in Toronto only slightly more than two hours later than originally planned, and was relieved. The arrangement was not ideal because he knew that Karen's parents, who lived more than an hour's drive from Toronto's Pearson Airport, had some kind of party planned for lunchtime, which he would miss. But he would be at the family dinner in the evening.

Newbold continued, "Have Rodriguez drive you to Jacksonville. It's only sixty miles; you'll make it easily. And when you get back, we'll look at your extra expenses and work something out."

"That might appease Karen."

"Was she upset?" Newbold asked.

"You could say that."

Newbold sighed. "Devina's that way when I get lousy duty, and mostly I can't blame her. Oh, I called the State Prison. They've promised to waive formalities going in, so you'll get to Animal fast."

"Great."

"One thing they asked. When you're about twenty minutes from Raiford, phone Lieutenant Neil Hambrick. Here's the direct-line number."

Ainslie wrote it down. "Nice going, Lieutenant. Thanks again."

"Hey, have a good trip and enjoy Toronto."

Switching off the phone, Ainslie reflected on the excellent relations between Newbold and his white subordinates. Like most others in Homicide, Ainslie liked and respected Newbold, a twenty-four-year veteran of the force who had come to the United States with his immigrant Jamaican parents thirty years ago, at age fifteen. Young Leo had attended the University of Miami, where he majored in criminology, afterward joining the Police Department at twenty-two. Because he was black, affirmative action of the 1980s speeded his promotion to lieutenant, but unlike some other such promotions, because of Newbold's obvious ability, it was not resented by his white colleagues. Now he was in his eighth year as head of Homicide.