Arthur Hailey: Detective

He remembered having seen Doil's name for the first time a year and a half ago when it appeared on a computergenerated list of potential suspects. Then, later, when Doil became a prime suspect, Homicide had made extensive inquiries going all the way back to Doil's early childhood.

Elroy Doil was thirty-two when the killings began. He had been born and raised in Miami's "poor white" neighborhood, known as Wynwood. Though the name does not appear on published maps, Wynwood comprises a sixtyblock, half-square-mile area in mid-Miami with a mainly underprivileged white populace, plus a grim record of high crime, riots, looting, and police brutality.

Immediately southwest of Wynwood is Overtown, also not named on maps, with a mainly underprivileged black occupancy, plus a similarly dreary record of high crime, riots, looting, and police brutality.

Elroy Doil's mother, Beulah, was a prostitute, drug addict, and alcoholic. She told friends that her son's father "coulda been any one of a hundred fuckers," though she later advised Elroy that his most probable father was serving a life term in Florida's Belle Glade prison. Even so, Elroy encountered a long succession of other men who lived with his mother for varying periods, and remembered many of them from the drunken beatings and sexual abuse he received.

Why Beulah Doil had a child at all was unclear, having had several previous abortions. Her explanation: she "just never got around to getting rid of the kid."

Eventually Beulah, a shrewdly practical person, instructed her son in petty crime and how to avoid "getting your ass busted." Elroy learned fast. At ten he was stealing food for himself and Beulah, as well as filching anything else in sight. He robbed other boys at school. It helped that he was big for his age, and a savage fighter.

Under Beulah's tutelage, Elroy grew up learning to take advantage of the lenient laws affecting juvenile crime. Even though he was apprehended several times for assaults, thefts, and petty larcenies, he was always released back to his mother's custody with a virtual slap on the wrist.

At seventeen, as Malcolm Ainslie learned long afterward, Elroy Doil was first suspected of murder. He was caught running from the area where the crime had occurred, and detained for questioning. Because of his juvenile status, his mother was brought to the police station where he had been taken, and in her presence, Doil was questioned by detectives.

Had there been clear evidence against him, Elroy would have been charged with murder as an adult. As it was, Beulah knew enough to refuse to cooperate, and would not allow voluntary fingerprinting of her son, which might have linked him to a knife found near the murder scene. In the end, lacking sufficient evidence to hold him, the police released Doil and the crime remained unsolved.

Years later, when he became a suspect in a series of killings, his juvenile record remained closed and his fingerprints were not on file.

As it was, after Doil became an of ficial adult at eighteen, he used his street smarts acquired as a juvenile to continue his criminal ways. He was never caught, and thus no adult criminal record existed. Only much later, when the Police Department delved into Doil's background, was crucial information produced that had been forgotten or hidden.

* * *

Jorge's voice broke in abruptly: "We need gas, Sergeant. Why don't we stop at Wildwood, just ahead." It was almost 3:00 A.M.

"Okay, but get this car filled like we're making a pit stop in a race. I'll run in and get some coffee."

"And potato chips. NO, make it cookies. We need cookies."

Ainslie peered over fondly and realized why he sometimes looked upon Jorge as a son.

As they took the exit ramp, both men could see the beacons of several gas stations. Wildwood was a traditional highway interchange in daytime an untidy conglomeration of junk-laden tourist stores, at night a refueling stopover for long-distance truckers.

Jorge chose the nearest gas station, a Shell. Beyond it was an all-night WaMe House with cars parked nearby. A half-dozen shadowy figures were huddled together around two of the cars. As the blue-and-white drove in, heads shot up and faces turned toward the new approaching headlights.

Then, with incredible speed, everything changed. The figures separated, some thrust aside, others running, the former close-knit scene a sudden melee of gyrating legs and arms. Doors of parked cars were flung open, figures hurled themselves in, and while doors were still closing the cars started up and drove away. Taking local roads, avoiding the main highway, they were quickly out of sight.

Jorge and Ainslie laughed.

"If we do nothing else tonight," Ainslie pronounced, "we just broke up a drug deal."

Both knew that I-75 was a dangerous route this late at night. As well as drug traffickers, there were thieves, prostitutes, and muggers, all looking for action.

But the sight of a police car had preempted everything.

Ainslie gave Jorge money for the gas, then, in the Waffle House, bought coffee and cookies, saving receipts for expense vouchers. As well as expenses, both men would receive overtime pay for this trip tonight.

They sipped their coffee through holes in the plastic tops of cardboard cups as Jorge pulled back onto I-75.

Ainslie and Jorge were 270 miles north of Miami now, with about a hundred miles to go. They were still moving quickly amid mostly commercial traffic. It was 3:30 A.M.

Jorge volunteered, "We'll make it, Sergeant. No problem."

For the first time since leaving Miami, Ainslie felt himself relax. He stared through the windshield into the darkness and muttered, "I just want to hear him say it."

He was speaking of Doil, and in some ways, he acknowledged, Karen was right. His interest in Doil had moved beyond the professional. After observing the carnage left behind at each murder scene, after hunting the killer down for months, after observing Doil's total lack of remorse, Ainslie honestly felt that the world needed to be rid of this man. He wanted to hear Doil confess to the murders, and then despite what he had told Jorge earlier he wanted to see him die. Now it looked as if he would.

At that moment Jorge's voice broke in. "Oh no! Looks like big trouble up ahead."

The I-75 northbound traffic had suddenly thickened and slowed. Ahead of them, trucks were rolling to a stop, as were lines of cars between them. Across the divider, on the southbound lanes going the opposite way, not a single vehicle was on the road.

"Damn! Damn!" Ainslie slammed a hand on the dashboard. The blue-and-white had slowed to a crawl, with a bright chain of red taillights up ahead. Flashing lights of emergency vehicles were visible in the distance.

"Take the shoulder," he commanded. "Use our lights."

Jorge turned on their blue, red, and white flashers and eased across traffic onto the right-hand shoulder. They moved steadily but cautiously, passing other vehicles now at a standstill. Doors of trucks and cars were opening, people leaning out, trying to see the cause of the blockage.

"Go faster!" Ainslie ordered. "Don't waste a minute."

Within seconds, several Florida Highway Patrol cars loomed ahead, their roof lights flashing, blocking all traffic lanes, including the shoulder on which the Miami Police car now approached.

A Highway Patrol lieutenant put up a hand, signaling them to stop, and walked toward the car. Ainslie stepped out.

The lieutenant said, "You guys are really off your turf. You lost?"

"No, sir.'' Ainslie held out his identification badge, which the other inspected. "We're on our way to Raiford, and we don't have much time."

"Then I have bad news, Sergeant. This road is closed. Big accident up ahead. A tanker tractor-trailer jackknifed and flipped."