The 6th Target (6 page)

Brinkley had confessed to being the ferry shooter, and he’d refused counsel. But the written statement he’d given me was a rambling screed of nonsense about white light, and rat people, and a gun named “Bucky.”

We had to get Brinkley’s confession on the record, show that while Alfred Brinkley might be mentally disturbed, he was rational
now
.

After I called Tracchio, I phoned Cindy, who was not only my good friend but top dog on the
Chronicle
’s crime desk, to give her a heads-up on Brinkley’s capture. Then I paced around the squad room, watching the hands of the clock crawl around the dial as we waited for Tracchio to arrive.

By 9:15 Alfred Brinkley had been printed and photographed, his clothes swapped out for a prison jumpsuit so that his garments could be tested for blood spatter and gunshot residue.

I asked Brinkley to let a medical tech take his blood, and I told him why: “I want to make sure you’re not under the influence of alcohol or drugs when we take your confession.”

“I’m clean,” Brinkley told me, rolling up his sleeve.

Now Brinkley waited for us in Interview Room Number Two, the box with the overhead video camera that worked most of the time.

Jacobi and I joined Brinkley in the gray-tiled room, pulling out the chairs around the scratched metal table, taking our seats across from the killer.

My skin still crawled when I looked at his pale and scruffy face.

Remembered what he’d said.

“I’m the one who did it.”

BRINKLEY WAS JUMPY. His knees were thumping the underside of the table, and he had crossed his cuffed wrists so that he could pluck at the hairs on his forearm.

“Mr. Brinkley, you understand that you have the right to remain silent?” I asked him. He nodded as I took him through Miranda once more. And he said ‘yes’ when I asked, “Do you understand your rights?”

I put a waiver in front of him, and he signed it. I heard a chair scraping in the observation room behind the glass, and the faint whir of the camera overhead. This interview was on.

“Do you know what day of the week this is?”

“It’s Monday,” he told me.

“Where do you live?”

“BART stations. Computer stores. The library sometimes.”

“You know where you are right now?”

“The Hall of Justice, 850 Bryant Street.”

“Very good, Mr. Brinkley. Now, can you tell me this: did you travel on the
Del Norte
ferry on Saturday, the day before yesterday?”

“Yep, I did. It was a really nice day. I found the ticket when I was at the farmer’s market,” he said. “I don’t think it was a crime to use that ticket, was it?” he asked.

“Did you take it from someone?”

“No, I found it on the ground.”

“We’ll just let it slide, then,” Jacobi told Brinkley.

Brinkley looked calmer now and much younger than his years. It was starting to irk me that he seemed childish, even harmless. Like some kind of victim himself.

I had a thought about how he would come across to a jury.
Would they find him sympathetic
?

“Not guilty” by reason of the likability factor as well as being freaking insane?

“On the return trip, Mr. Brinkley —” I said.

“You can call me Fred.”

“Okay, Fred. As the
Del Norte
was docking in San Francisco, did you pull a gun and fire on some of the passengers?”

“I had to do it,” he said, his voice breaking, suddenly strained. “The mother was . . . listen,
I did a bad thing
. I know that, and I want to be punished.”

“Did you shoot those people?” I insisted.

“Yes, I did it! I shot that mother and her son. And those two men. And that other woman who was looking at me like she knew everything inside my head. I’m really sorry. I was having a very nice time until it all went wrong.”

“But you planned this shooting, didn’t you?” I asked, keeping my voice level, even giving Brinkley an encouraging smile. “Isn’t it true that you were carrying a loaded gun?”

“I always carry Bucky,” Brinkley said. “But I didn’t want to hurt those people. I didn’t
know
them. I didn’t even think they were
real
until I saw the video on TV.”

“Is that right? So why’d you shoot them?” Jacobi asked.

Brinkley stared over my head into the glass of the two-way mirror. “The voices told me to do it.”

Was that the truth? Or was Brinkley staging his insanity defense right now?

Jacobi asked him what kind of voices he was talking about, but Brinkley had stopped answering. He dropped his chin toward his chest, mumbling, “I want you to lock me up. Will you do that? I really need some sleep.”

“I’m pretty sure we can find you an empty cell on the tenth floor,” I said.

I knocked on the door, and Sergeant Steve Hall came into the interrogation room. He stood behind the prisoner.

“Mr. Brinkley,” I said as we all came to our feet, “you’ve been charged with the murders of four people, attempted murder of another, and about fourteen lesser crimes. Make sure you get a good lawyer.”

“Thank you,” Brinkley said, looking me in the eyes for the first time. “You’re an honorable person. I really appreciate all you’ve done.”

THE NEWSPAPER WAS WAITING outside my front door the next morning, the headline huge over Cindy’s byline:
FERRY SHOOTER IN DRY DOCK.

When I arrived at the Hall of Justice, a knot of reporters was waiting for me.

“How do you feel, Lieutenant?”

“Fantastic,” I said, grinning. “Doesn’t get any better than this.”

I answered questions, praised my team, and smiled for a few pictures before going into the building, taking the elevator to the third floor.

When I walked through the gate to the squad room, Brenda struck a little gong she kept at her station and then stood up and hugged me. I could see the flowers on my desk from across the room.

I gathered everyone together and thanked them for all they’d done, and when Inspector Lemke asked if I could give lessons in how to conjure up murderers, we all cracked up.

“I’ve got the nose-twitching part down pat,” he said, “but nothing happens.”

“You gotta twitch your nose, cross your arms, and blink at the same
time
!” Rodriguez shouted.

I was pouring coffee for myself in the lunchroom before diving into the thick pile of paperwork taking up half my desktop when Brenda peeked around the doorway, saying, “The chief is on line one.”

I went to my office, moved a huge basket of flowers from my desk. Glanced at the small card sticking up between the roses. There were a whole lot of X’s and O’s on the note from Joe, my wonderful guy.

I was still smiling when I pressed the blinking button on my phone, the chief’s voice all mellow, asking me to come upstairs to his office.

“Let me get the team,” I said, but he told me, “No, just come by yourself.”

I let Brenda know I’d be back in a few minutes and took the stairs to Tracchio’s walnut-paneled office on the fifth floor.

The chief stood up when I entered, reached his meaty hand across his desk, grasping mine, saying, “Boxer, bringing down that wackjob makes this a good day for the SFPD. I want to thank you again for your excellent work.”

I said, “Thanks, Chief. And thanks for backing me up.” I was readying to leave — but an embarrassed look came over the chief’s face, a look I hadn’t seen him wear before.

He gestured for me to sit down and he did the same, rolling his chair back and forth on the acrylic rug-protector a couple of times before locking his hands across his midsection.

“Lindsay, I’ve come to a conclusion that I’ve been fighting tooth and nail.”

He was going to give me more manpower?

A bigger overtime budget?

“I’ve watched firsthand how you worked this case, and I’m impressed at how much tenacity and determination you showed in the investigation.”

“Thanks —”

“And so I have to admit that you were right and I was wrong.”

Right about what?

My mind raced ahead of his words, trying to gain a half second on him — and failing.

“As you’ve told me,” Tracchio continued, “you belong on the street, not chained to a desk. And I get it now. I finally understand. Simply put, administrative work is a waste of your talent.”

I stared at the chief as he put a badge down on the desktop in front of me.

“Congratulations, Boxer, on your well-earned
demotion
to sergeant.”

SUDDENLY I WAS DIZZY with disbelief.

I heard Tracchio speaking, but it was as if his desk had shot back through the wall and he was talking to me from somewhere over the freeway.

“You’ll have a dotted-line reporting relationship to me. Keep your current pay grade, of course . . .”

Inside my head, I was screaming,
Demotion? You’re demoting me? Today
?

I made a grab for the edge of his desk, needing to hold on. I saw Tracchio fall back into his chair, the expression on his face telling me that he was as stunned by my reaction as I was by his announcement.

“What is it, Boxer? Isn’t this what you wanted? You’ve been nagging me for months —”

“No, I mean,
yes
. I
have
. But I wasn’t expecting —”

“Come on, Boxer. What are you telling me? I spent all night clearing this up and down the line because you
said
it’s what you wanted.”

I opened my mouth, closed it again. “Give me some time to get my head around this, okay, Tony?” I sputtered.

“I give up,” Tracchio said, picking up his stapler and banging it down on his desk. “I don’t understand you. I never will. I give up, Boxer!”

I don’t remember leaving the chief’s office, but I do remember a long walk to the stairway, a strained smile on my face as people called out their congratulations when I passed their desks.

My mind was cycling on a short loop.

What the hell had I been thinking?

And what did I want?

I found the stairwell and was leaning heavily on the banister, making my way down to the squad room, when I saw Jacobi coming up the other way.

“
Warren
, you’re not going to
believe
this.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

We took the stairs to the ground floor and out onto Bryant, heading toward the Flower Mart.

“Tracchio called me last night,” Jacobi said as we walked. I looked up at him. Jacobi and I have never had any secrets from each other, but I read pain on his face, and that jolted me.

“He offered me the job, Lindsay. Your job. But I told him I wouldn’t take it unless it was okay with you.”

The rumble under my feet was surely the Caltrain coming into the station, but it felt like an earthquake.

I knew what I was supposed to say:
Congratulations. Brilliant choice. You’ll be great, Jacobi
.

But I couldn’t get out the words.

“I need some time to think, Jacobi. I’m taking the day off,” I sputtered.

“Sure, Lindsay. Nobody’s going to do anything unless —”

“Maybe
two
days.”

“Lindsay, stop! Talk to me.”

But I was gone.

I jaywalked across the street. Got my car out of the lot and drove down Bryant to Sixth, and from there got onto 280 South, heading toward Potrero Hill.

I jerked my phone off my belt and autodialed Joe’s cell phone as I drove, listened to the ring tone as I floored my Explorer and took it into the fast lane.

It was one p.m. in Washington.

Pick up, Joe!

The ring went into his voice mail, so I left a message: “
Call me. Please
.”

Then I phoned San Francisco General.

I asked the operator to put me through to Claire.

I WAS HOPING TO HEAR Claire’s voice, but Edmund answered the phone. He sounded as if he’d spent another night sleeping in a chair.

“How is she?” I asked through the crimp in my throat.

“Having another MRI,” he said.

“Tell Claire we got the shooter,” I said. “He confessed, and we’ve got him locked up.”

I told Edmund that I’d check in with Claire later, then I dialed Joe again. This time I got the voice mail at his office, so I tried him at home.

Got his voice mail there, too.

I braked at the light on Eighteenth Street, tapped my fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, stepped on the gas as the light turned green.

An old memory came into my mind — the day I’d been promoted to lieutenant on the heels of bringing down the “bride and groom killer,” a psycho who’d surely earned a top-ten ranking in the Most-Depraved-Criminal Hall of Fame. At the time, I viewed my promotion as pretty much a political appointment. No woman had held the job before. I’d stepped up, let them pin a gold shield on me, without ever knowing if the power and responsibility of the job were what I wanted.

I guess I still didn’t know.

I
had
asked to be put back on the line, so of course Tracchio didn’t understand my reaction.
Shit
. I didn’t understand it myself.

But sometimes you couldn’t know a thing until you were there.

A dotted-line reporting to Tracchio was bullshit.

I’d be going backward in rank.

Could I handle taking orders from Jacobi?

“I told him I wouldn’t take it unless it was okay with you,” he’d said.

I needed to talk to Joe.

I pulled the phone back from the passenger seat and hit redial, the sound of Joe’s voice on his outgoing message calling up so many memories: the storybook trips we’d taken together, our lovemaking, little things about Joe that I adored — every moment savored because I didn’t know when I’d see him again.

What I wouldn’t give to be in his arms tonight, to have him wrap me up in his love, and to feel his ability to see the real me. His touch could make the bad feelings go away. . . .

I clicked off my phone without leaving a message, called Joe’s other two numbers — same thing.