The 6th Target Read online

  “Mr. Boyd, were you here all day?”

  “Since eight this morning.”

  “You have surveillance cameras?” I asked.

  “The tenants have a picture phone for when someone buzzes the bell, and that’s it.”

  “What’s downstairs?”

  “Laundry room, garbage, bathroom, and a door that leads out to the courtyard.”

  “A locked door?” Conklin asked. “Is it alarmed?”

  “Used to be alarmed,” Boyd told us. “But when they did the renovation, it was made into a common space, so the tenants got keys.”

  “Right. So there’s no real security from downstairs,” I said. “Did you see anyone or anything suspicious in the building today?”

  Boyd’s laugh was tinged with hysteria. “Did I see anyone suspicious? In this building? This is the first day in a month that I didn’t.”

  Chapter 69

  THE UNIFORMED OFFICER standing at the door to apartment 5J was a rookie — Officer Matt Hartnett, tall guy, looked a little like Jimmy Smits. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and his face was pallid under his dark eyes.

  “The vic is Mrs. Irene Wolkowski,” Hartnett said, handing the log to me. “Last seen alive this morning in the laundry room around eleven. The husband isn’t home from work, and we still haven’t been able to reach him. My partner and another team are interviewing the tenants on the street.”

  I nodded, signed my name and Conklin’s into the log. We ducked under the tape that was stretched across the doorway, walked into a scene already crawling with the CSU and the current ME, who was snapping pictures of the victim.

  The room stunk of gas.

  Windows on two sides were wide open to vent the room, making it seem colder inside the apartment than it was on the street.

  The deceased was on her back in the middle of the floor, arms and legs akimbo, a pose that made her defenseless against both the original attack and now the poking and prodding of strangers. The woman appeared to be in her early sixties.

  There was blood coming from the back of her head. I saw that it had soaked into the pale gray carpet, the stain parting around a leg of the piano.

  And the piano was wrecked!

  What was left of the keyboard was blood-smeared and smashed. Keys were dislocated and broken, and many were scattered on the floor as though someone had hammered at the keys repeatedly.

  Dr. Germaniuk had set up portable lights to illuminate every corner of the room. It was both well-lived-in and recently furnished. I saw a scrap of plastic wrap still clinging to one of the sofa legs.

  Dr. G. said hello to me, pushed his glasses up on his nose with the back of his hand, and put his camera away.

  “What have we got?” I asked him.

  “Very interesting,” Germaniuk said. “Except for the piano and every gas jet on the stove being turned on, nothing else looks disturbed.”

  The crime scene was organized — that is to say, neat — which nearly always meant that the crime was planned and the killer was smart.

  “The victim suffered trauma to her head, front and back,” said Dr. G. “Looks to me like two different implements were used. The piano was one of them.

  “I’ll give you more after I get Mrs. Wolkowski on my table, but I’ll tell you this much right now: She’s got no rigor — she’s warm to the touch, and blanching lividity is just starting. This lady’s been dead only a couple of hours, probably less. We just missed the killer.”

  Chapter 70

  I HEARD CINDY’S VOICE at the doorway and broke away from the murder scene long enough to throw my arms around her in the hallway.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” she murmured. “I just got your messages.”

  “Did you know the victim?”

  “I don’t think so. Not by name anyway. Let me see her.”

  The crime scene was off-limits and she knew it, but it was a battle I’d fought and lost with Cindy before. She had that look in her eyes now. Stubborn. Intractable. Canny.

  “Stand to the side. Don’t touch.”

  “I know. I won’t.”

  “If anyone objects, you have to leave. And I want your word you will not write anything about the cause of death.”

  “My word,” she said, giving me lip.

  I pointed to an empty corner of the room, and Cindy went there. She blanched at the sight of the dead woman on the floor, but as one of the swarm of people in 5J, she went unquestioned.

  “That’s Cindy?” Conklin asked, tipping his chin toward where she stood on the fringes.

  “Yeah. She’s trustworthy.”

  “If you say so.”

  I introduced Rich to Cindy as Irene Wolkowski’s body was wrapped in sheets, zipped into a body bag. We talked over our theories of the crime as the cold wind blew through the apartment.

  I said to Conklin, “So let’s say the killer is someone she knows. Guy who lives in the building. He rings the bell. Says, ‘Hi, Irene. Don’t let me interrupt you. That sounds really nice.’ ”

  “Okay. Or maybe it was her husband,” Conklin said. “Came home early, killed her, and split. Or maybe a friend. Or a romantic interest. Or a stranger.”

  “A stranger? I don’t see that,” Cindy said. “I wouldn’t let a stranger into my apartment, would you?”

  “Okay, I get that,” Conklin said. “But anyway, she’s sitting at the piano. The music covers the sound of the door opening, and this nice, thick carpet absorbs the sound of footsteps.”

  “Right,” I agreed.

  “Is that her handbag?” Cindy asked.

  A woman’s shiny black purse rested on a slipper chair. I opened it, took out the wallet, showed Conklin the wad of twenties and a full deck of credit cards.

  “So there goes the robbery theory,” I said.

  “I was there when one of those dogs was found,” Cindy said, sketching in the story.

  Rich shook his head, hair swinging in front of his eyes. “Sign of a potential psycho killer escalating to . . . this? Talk about overkill. So on the one hand we have the beating and the trashing of the piano. But why bother with the gas?”

  “He either wanted to make sure she was discovered,” I said, “or he wanted to make sure she was dead.” I looked at Cindy. “Not one word of this in the Chronicle.”

  Chapter 71

  YUKI COULDN’T STOP THINKING about Len’s face, twisting with pain as his heart attack tried to kill him. She’d left him in the hospital last night, stabilized but incapacitated, and called David Hale’s answering machine at home. “There’s been an emergency. Meet me at the office at six a.m. and be ready to go to court.”

  Now Yuki sat across from David in the grungy, pine--paneled conference room, her notes and instant coffee in front of her, bringing her fellow ADA up to speed.

  “Why aren’t we getting a continuance?” he asked her. David was presentable today, in a tan herringbone jacket, blue pants, striped tie. Needed a haircut, but that couldn’t be helped. Of all the people available to her at short notice, she’d get the best work from Hale.

  “Three reasons,” Yuki said, tapping the table with a plastic spoon.

  “One, Leonard doesn’t want to lose Jack Rooney as a witness. Rooney is frail. He was on vacation when the shooting occurred. We might not be able to get him back when we need him, which means his tape might be excluded.”

  “Okay.”

  “Two, Len doesn’t want to chance losing Judge Moore.”

  “Yeah, I get that, too.”

  “Len says he’ll be in court in time to do the summation.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yep, when they were prepping him for surgery. He was lucid and adamant.”

  “What did his doctor say?”

  “His doctor said, and I quote, ‘There’s a reasonable possibility that the damage to Leonard’s heart is reversible.’ ”

  “Did they have to crack open his chest?”

  “Yes. I checked with Len’s wife. He came through the surgery fine.”
r />   “And so he’ll be doing a summation in a little more than a week?”

  “Probably not. And he won’t be doing the tarantella, either,” Yuki said. “So that brings me to number three. Len said that I’m as prepared as he is, that he’s confident in us. And we’re not to let him down.”

  David Hale stared at her, openmouthed, before finally saying, “Yuki, I don’t have any trial experience.”

  “I do. Several years.”

  “Your experience is in civil cases, not criminal.”

  “Shut up, David. I was a litigator. That counts. So we’re gonna give Red Dog our best. We’re gonna spend the next three hours going over what we both already know.

  “We’ve got credible eyewitnesses, the Rooney tape, and a jury that is going to be rolling its eyes at the insanity defense.

  “It’s what Len said at the prep meeting: The more random the crime, the less motive for the killings, the more afraid the jury is going to be that Brinkley will get forty-five minutes in a nuthouse and then go free —”

  Yuki stopped to take in the grin spreading across David Hale’s face.

  “What are you thinking, David? No, I take it back. Please don’t say it,” Yuki said, trying not to laugh.

  “Open-and-shut case,” said her new teammate. “Slam dunk.”

  Chapter 72

  YUKI STOOD IN THE WELL OF THE COURTROOM, feeling as green as if she were trying her first case. She clutched the edges of the lectern, thought how when Len stood behind this thing, it appeared to be the size of a music stand. She was peering over the top of it like a grade-schooler.

  The jury looked at her expectantly.

  Could she actually convince them that Alfred Brinkley was guilty of capital murder?

  Yuki called her first witness, Officer Bobby Cohen, a fifteen-year veteran of the SFPD, his just-the-facts-ma’am demeanor setting a good solid tone for the People’s case.

  She took him through what he had seen when he arrived at the Del Norte, what he had done, and when she finished her direct, Mickey Sherman had only one question for Officer Cohen.

  “Did you witness the incident on the ferry?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Thank you. That’s all I have.”

  Yuki checked off Cohen in her mind, thinking that although Cohen didn’t see the shootings, he’d set the stage for the jurors, putting the picture of human destruction in their minds — an image she would now build upon.

  She called Bernard Stringer, the fireman who’d seen Brinkley shoot Andrea and Tony Canello. Stringer lumbered to the stand and was sworn in before taking his seat. He was in his late twenties, with the open-faced, all-American looks of a baseball player.

  Yuki said, “Mr. Stringer, what kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m a firefighter out of Station 14 at Twenty-sixth and Geary.”

  “And why were you on the Del Norte on November first?”

  “I’m a weekend dad,” he said, smiling. “My kids just love the ferry.”

  “And did anything unusual happen on the day in question?”

  “Yes. I saw the shooting on the top deck.”

  “Is the shooter in court today?” Yuki asked.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Can you point him out to us?”

  “He’s sitting right there. The man in the blue suit.”

  “Will the court reporter please note that Mr. Stringer indicated the defendant, Alfred Brinkley. Mr. Stringer, how far were you standing from Andrea Canello and her son, Anthony, when Mr. Brinkley shot them?”

  “About as far as I am from you. Five or six feet.”

  “Can you tell us what you saw?”

  Stringer’s face seemed to contract as he sent his mind back to that horrific and bloody day. “Mrs. Canello was straightening the kid out, being kind of rough on him, I thought.

  “Don’t get me wrong. She wasn’t abusive. It was just that the kid was taking it hard, and I was thinking about butting in. But I never said anything because the defendant shot her. And then he shot the little boy. And then everything on the boat went crazy.”

  “Did Mr. Brinkley say anything to either of those victims before firing his gun?”

  “Nope. He just lined up his shots. Bang. Bang. Really cold.”

  Yuki let Bernard Stringer’s words hang for a moment in the courtroom, then said, “To be clear, when you say it was ‘really cold,’ you’re not talking about the temperature?”

  “No, it’s the way he killed those people. His face was like ice.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stringer. Your witness,” Yuki said to the defense counsel.

  Chapter 73

  YUKI WATCHED MICKEY SHERMAN put his hands in his pockets, walk toward the witness in the reflected golden glow of the oak-paneled walls of the courtroom. His smile was real enough, but the amble, the common-man language, the whole low-key act, was also a cunning cover for Mickey’s talent for launching surprise attacks.

  Yuki had worked with Sherman at close range before, and she’d learned to recognize his “tell.” Sherman would touch his right forefinger to the divot in his upper lip just before he sprang for the witness’s throat.

  “Mr. Stringer, did Mrs. Canello or Anthony Canello do anything to provoke my client?” Sherman asked.

  “No. As far as I could see, they were unaware of him.”

  “And you say my client looked calm when he shot them?”

  “He had a wild look about him generally, but when he pulled the trigger, his expression was like I said — cold. Blank. And his hand was steady.”

  “When you look at him today, does Mr. Brinkley look the way he did on the Del Norte?”

  “Not really.”

  “In what way does he look different?”

  Stringer sighed, gazed down at his hands before answering. “He looked mangy. I mean, his hair was long. He had a messy beard. His clothes were dirty, and he smelled funky.”

  “So he looked mangy. His face was blank, and he stank to high heaven. And you saw him shoot two people who didn’t provoke him. They didn’t even know he was there.”

  “That’s right.”

  Forefinger to the upper lip.

  “So what you’re saying is, Fred Brinkley looked and acted like a madman.”

  Yuki shot to her feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Leading the witness.”

  “Sustained.”

  Sherman’s quiet charm returned.

  “Mr. Stringer, did Mr. Brinkley look sane to you?”

  “No. He looked as crazy as hell.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stringer,” Sherman said.

  Yuki tried to summon up a question for redirect that could cancel out the words “madman” and “crazy,” but what came out of her mouth was “The People call Mr. Jack Rooney.”

  Chapter 74

  JACK ROONEY MADE HIS WAY up the aisle, leaning on his three-legged cane, putting his weight on his left leg, then swinging out his right hip, repeating the awkward yet mesmerizing gait all the way to the witness stand.

  Rooney accepted assistance from the bailiff, who put a hand under the man’s elbow and helped him up into the chair. Yuki thought that this witness was surely Mickey-proof.

  Or was he?

  “Thanks for coming all this way, Mr. Rooney,” Yuki said when the elderly man was finally seated. Rooney was wearing a red cardigan over a white shirt, red bow tie. His glasses were big and square, perched on a knobby nose, white hair parted and slicked down like that of a little boy on the first day of school.

  “My pleasure.” Rooney beamed.

  “Mr. Rooney, were you on the Del Norte ferry on November first?”

  “Yes, dear. I was with my wife, Betty, and our two friends, Leslie and Joe Waters. We all live near Albany, you know. That was our first trip to San Francisco.”

  “And did anything unusual happen on that ferry ride?”

  “Oh, I’ll say. That fellow over there killed a lot of people,” he said, pointing to Brinkley. “I was so scared I almost shit myse
lf.”

  Yuki allowed herself a smile as laughter rippled out over the gallery. She said, “Will the court reporter please note that the witness has identified the defendant, Alfred Brinkley. Mr. Rooney, did you make a video recording of the shooting?”

  “Well, it was supposed to be a movie of the ferry ride — the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz and so forth — but it turned out to be a movie of the shooting. Nice little camera my grandson gave me,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger about three inches apart.

  “It’s only the size of a Snickers bar, but it takes pictures and movies. I just take the pictures, and my grandson puts it on the computer for me. Oh, and I sold the movie to a TV station, and that pretty much paid for the whole darned San Francisco trip.”

  “Your Honor?” Mickey Sherman said wearily from the counsel table.

  Judge Moore leaned across the bench and said, “Mr. Rooney, please answer the questions ‘yes’ or ‘no’ unless you’re asked for a fuller explanation, all right?”

  “Certainly, Your Honor. I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Yuki interlaced her fingers in front of her, asked, “You gave me a copy of the video, didn’t you, sir?”

  “Yep, I did.”

  “Judge, permission to show a copy of this video and enter it into evidence.”

  “Go right ahead, Ms. Castellano.”

  David Hale slipped a disk into a computer, and as faces turned toward two large TVs in the front of the courtroom, the amateur film began.

  The first of two segments showed a happy afternoon on the bay — the long pan of the landmarks, the camera eye coming to rest on a grinning Jack Rooney and his wife, just by happenstance catching an out-of-focus Alfred Brinkley sitting behind them, staring out over the water, plucking at the hairs on his arm.

  The second segment was a scene of bloody horror.

  Yuki watched the faces of the jurors as the gunshots and the terrified screams ricocheted around the small courtroom.