Women's Murder Club [06] The 6th Target Read online

  Chapter 121

  MICKEY SHERMAN STOOD IMMEDIATELY. He faced the jury and told them a simple and tragic story as if he were speaking to his mother or his girlfriend.

  “I’ve gotta tell you, folks,” he said, “Fred Brinkley meant to fire his gun on those people, and he did it. We never denied it and we never will.

  “So what was his motive?

  “Did he have a gripe with any of the victims? Was this a stickup or drug deal gone bad? Did he shoot people in self-defense?

  “No, no, no, and no.

  “The police failed to find any rational reason why Fred Brinkley would have shot those people because there was no motive. And when there’s zero motive for a crime, you’re still left with the question — why?

  “Fred Brinkley has schizoaffective disorder, which is an illness, like leukemia or multiple sclerosis. He didn’t do anything wrong in order to get this illness. He didn’t even know he had it.

  “When Fred shot those people, he didn’t know that shooting them was wrong or even that those people were real. He told you. All he knew was that a loud, punishing voice inside his head was telling him to kill. And the only way he could get the voice to stop was to obey.

  “But you don’t have to take our word for it that Fred Brinkley is legally insane.

  “Fred Brinkley has a history of mental illness going back fifteen years to when he was a patient in a mental institution.

  “Dozens of witnesses have testified that they’ve heard Mr. Brinkley talking to television sets and singing to himself and slapping his forehead so hard that his handprint remained visible long afterward — that’s how much he wanted to knock the voices out of his head.

  “You’ve also heard from Dr. Sandy Friedman, a highly regarded clinical and forensic psychiatrist who examined Mr. Brinkley three times and diagnosed him with schizoaffective disorder,” Sherman said, pacing now as he talked.

  “Dr. Friedman told us that at the time of the crime, Fred Brinkley was in a psychotic, delusional state. He was suffering from a mental disease or defect that prevented him from conforming his conduct to the laws of society. That’s the definition of legal insanity.

  “This is not a lawyer-created illness,” Sherman said. He walked two paces to the defense table and picked up a heavy hardcover book.

  “This is the DSM-IV, the diagnostic bible of the psychiatric profession. You’ll have it with you in the deliberation room so that you can read that schizoaffective disorder is a psychosis — a severe mental illness that drives the actions of the person who has it.

  “My client is not admirable,” he said. “We’re not trying to pin a medal on him. But Fred Brinkley is not a criminal, and nothing in his past suggests otherwise. His conduct yesterday demonstrated his illness. What sane man asks the jury to have him put to death?”

  Sherman went back to the defense table, put down the book, and sipped from his water glass before returning to the lectern.

  “The evidence of insanity is overwhelming in this case. Fred Brinkley did not kill for love or hate or money or thrills. He is not evil. He’s sick. And I’m asking you today to do the only fair thing.

  “Find Fred Brinkley ‘not guilty’ by reason of insanity.

  “And trust the system to keep the citizens safe from this man.”

  Chapter 122

  “IT’S TOO BAD you guys didn’t catch Yuki’s close,” Cindy said, putting an affectionate arm around Yuki, beaming across the table at Claire and myself. “It was killer.”

  “This would be your impartial journalistic point of view?” Yuki asked, coloring a little but smiling as she tucked her hair behind her ears.

  “Hell, no.” Cindy laughed. “This is me speaking. Off the record.”

  We were at MacBain’s, across from the Hall, all four of us with our cell phones on the table. Sydney MacBain, our waitress and the owner’s daughter, brought four glasses and two tall bottles of mineral water.

  “Water, water, everywhere,” Syd said. “What’s up, ladies? This is a bar, ya know what I mean?”

  I answered by pointing at each of us. “It’s like this, Syd. Working. Working. Working.” I pointed to Claire and said, “Pregnant and working.”

  Sydney laughed, congratulated Claire, took our orders, and headed to the kitchen.

  “So does he hear voices?” I asked Yuki.

  “Maybe. But a lot of people hear voices. Five to ten thousand in San Francisco alone. Probably a couple of them here in this bar. Don’t see any of them shooting the place up. Fred Brinkley might very well hear voices. But that day? He knew what he was doing was wrong.”

  “The bastard,” said Claire. “That’s me, speaking on the record as a very biased eyewitness and victim.”

  That day flooded back to me with sickening clarity —the blood-slicked deck and the screaming passengers and how scared I was that Claire might die. I remembered hugging Willie and thanking God that Brinkley’s last shot had missed him.

  I asked Yuki, “You think the jury will vote to convict?”

  “I dunno. They damn well should. If anyone deserves the needle, it’s him,” Yuki said as she vigorously salted her french fries, her hair swinging freely in front of her face so that none of us could read her eyes.

  Chapter 123

  IT WAS AFTER TWO IN THE AFTERNOON, day three since the jury had begun their deliberation, when Yuki got the call. A shock went through her.

  This was it.

  She sat rigid in her seat for a moment, just blinking. Then she snapped out of it.

  She paged Leonard and speed-dialed Claire, Cindy, and Lindsay, all of whom were within minutes of the courtroom. She got up from her desk, crossed the hall, and leaned into David’s cubicle.

  “They’re back!”

  David put down his tuna sandwich and followed Yuki to the elevator, which they then rode to the ground floor.

  They crossed the main lobby, went through the leather-studded double doors to the second lobby, cleared security outside the courtroom, and after going through the glassed-in vestibule, took their places behind the table.

  The courtroom had filled up as word spread. Court TV set up their cameras. Reporters from the local papers and stringers from the tabloids, wire services and national news, filled the back row. Cindy was on the aisle.

  Yuki saw Claire and Lindsay sitting in the midsection, but she didn’t see the defendant’s mother, Elena Brinkley, anywhere.

  Mickey Sherman came through the gate wearing a flattering dark-blue suit. He put his metallic briefcase down in front of him, nodded to Yuki, and made a phone call.

  Yuki’s phone rang. “Len,” she said, reading his name off the caller ID, there’s a verdict.”

  “I’m at my fucking cardiologist,” Len told her. “Keep me posted.”

  The side door to the left of the bench opened, and the bailiff entered with Alfred Brinkley.

  Chapter 124

  BRINKLEY’S BANDAGE HAD BEEN REMOVED, exposing a line of stitches running vertically from the middle of his forehead up through his hairline. The bruises around his eyes had faded to an overboiled egg-yolk color, yellowish-green.

  The bailiff unlocked Brinkley’s waist chains and handcuffs, and the defendant sat down beside his lawyer.

  The door to the right of the jury box opened, and the twelve jurors and two alternates walked into the courtroom, dressed up, hair sprayed and styled, a sprinkling of jewelry on the women’s hands and around their necks. They didn’t look at Yuki and they didn’t look at the defendant. In fact, they looked tense, as though they may have been fighting over the verdict until an hour ago.

  The door behind the bench opened, and Judge Moore entered his courtroom. He cleaned his glasses as court was called into session, then said, “Mr. Foreman, I understand that the jury has a verdict?”

  “We do, Your Honor.”

  “Would you please hand your verdict to the bailiff.”

  The foreman was a carpenter, with shoulder-length blond hair and nicotine-stained finge
rs. He looked keyed up as he gave a folded form to the bailiff, who brought it to the bench.

  Judge Moore unfolded the form and looked at it. He asked the people in the gallery to please respect the protocol of the court and to not react outwardly when the verdict was read.

  Yuki clasped her hands on the table before her. She could hear David Hale’s breathing beside her, and for a fraction of a moment, she loved him.

  Judge Moore began to read. “In the charge of murder in the first degree of Andrea Canello, the jury finds the defendant, Alfred Brinkley, ‘not guilty’ by reason of mental disease or defect.”

  A wave of nausea hit Yuki.

  She sat back hard in her chair, barely hearing the judge’s voice as each name was read, each charge a finding of “not guilty” by reason of insanity.

  Yuki stood up as Claire and Lindsay came forward to be with her. They were standing around her as Brinkley was shackled, and they all saw how he looked at Yuki.

  It was an odd look, part stare, part secret smile. Yuki didn’t know what Brinkley intended by it, but she felt a prickling of hairs rising at the nape of her neck.

  And then Brinkley spoke to her. “Good try, Ms. Castellano. Very good try. But don’t you know? Someone’s got to pay.”

  One of the guards gave Brinkley a shove, and after a last look at Yuki, he shuffled up the aisle between his keepers.

  Sick or sane, Alfred Brinkley was going to be off the streets for a long time. Yuki knew that.

  And still — she felt afraid.

  Chapter 125

  A MONTH LATER, Conklin and I were back in Alta Plaza Park, where it all began.

  This time, we watched Henry Tyler come down the path toward us, his coat whipping around him in the wind. He reached out a hand to Conklin, gripping it hard, and then stretched his hand out to me.

  “You’ve given us back our lives. I can’t find words to thank you enough.”

  Tyler called out to his wife and to the little girl playing on a hexagonal construction, some new kind of jungle gym. Face brightening in surprise, Madison dropped down from the bars and ran toward us.

  Henry Tyler swung his daughter up into his arms. Madison leaned over her father’s shoulder and put an arm around my neck and Rich’s, gathering us into a three-way hug.

  “You’re my favorite people,” she said.

  I was still smiling when Henry Tyler put Madison down and said to us, his face radiant, “We’re all so grateful. Me, Liz, Maddy — we’re your friends for life.”

  My eyes watered up a bit.

  It was an excellent day to be a cop.

  As Richie and I took the path back toward the car, we talked about the hell we have to go through to solve a case — the drudgery, the up close contact with killers and druggies, the false leads.

  “And then,” I said, “a case turns out like this and it’s such a high.”

  Rich stopped walking, put his hand on my arm. “Let’s stop here for a minute,” he said.

  I sat on one of the broad steps that had been warmed by the sun, and Rich got down beside me. I could see that there was something on his mind.

  “Lindsay, I know you think I have a crush on you,” he said, “but it’s more than that. Believe me.”

  For the first time it hurt to look into Rich Conklin’s handsome face. Thoughts of our grappling in a hotel in LA still made me squirm with embarrassment.

  “Will you give us a chance?” he said. “Let me take you out to dinner. I’m not going to put any moves on you, Lindsay. I just want us to . . . ah . . .”

  Rich read the feelings on my face and stopped talking. He shook his head, finally saying, “I’m going to shut up now.”

  I reached out and covered his hand with mine.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be. . . . Forget it, Lindsay. Forget I said anything, okay?” He tried to smile, almost pulled it off. “I’ll deal with this in therapy for a few years.”

  “You’re in therapy?”

  “Would that help? No.” He laughed. “I’m just, look, you know how I feel about you. That’s almost enough.”

  It was a tough ride back to the Hall. Conversation was strained until we got a call to respond to a report of a dead body in the Tenderloin. We worked the case together past quitting time and into the next shift. And it was good, as if we’d been partners for years.

  At just after nine p.m., I told Rich I’d see him in the morning. I’d just unlocked my car door when my cell phone rang.

  “What now?” I muttered.

  There was a crackle of static, then a deep, resonant voice came out of that phone, turning night back into day.

  “I know not to surprise an armed police officer on her doorstep, Blondie. So . . . fair warning. I’m going to be in town this weekend. I have news. And I really want to see you.”

  Chapter 126

  MY DOORBELL RANG AT HOME.

  I stabbed the intercom button, said, “I’m coming,” and jogged down my stairs. Martha’s dog sitter, Karen Triebel, was outside the front door. I gave her a hug and bent to enfold Sweet Martha in my arms.

  “She really missed you, Lindsay,” Karen said.

  “Ya think?” I said, laughing as Martha whimpered and barked and knocked me completely off my feet. I just sat there on the threshold as Martha pinned down my shoulders and soaked my face with kisses.

  “I’ll be going now. I see that you two need to be alone,” Karen called out, walking down the steps toward her old Volvo.

  “Wait, Karen, come upstairs. I have a check for you.”

  “It’s okay! I’ll catch you next time,” she said, disappearing into her car, tying the door closed with a piece of clothesline, cranking up the engine.

  “Thank you!” I called out as she drove past me and waved. I returned my attention to my best girl.

  “Do you know how much I love you?” I said into one of Martha’s silky ears.

  Apparently, she did.

  I ran upstairs with her, put on my hat and coat, and changed into running shoes. We took to the streets we love so much, running down Nineteenth toward the Rec Center Park, where I flopped onto a bench and watched Martha doing her border-collie thing. She ran great joyous circles, herding other dogs and having a heck of a good time.

  After a while, she came back to the bench and sat beside me, rested her head on my thigh, and looked up at me with her big brown eyes.

  “Glad to be home, Boo? All vacationed out?”

  We jogged at a slower pace back to my apartment, climbed the stairs. I fed Martha a big bowl of chow with gravy and got into the shower. By the time I’d toweled off and dried my hair, Martha was asleep on my bed.

  She was completely out — eyelids flickering, jowls fluttering, paws moving in some great doggy dream.

  She didn’t even cock an eyelid open as I got all dressed up for my date with Joe.

  Chapter 127

  THE BIG 4 RESTAURANT is at the top of Nob Hill, across from Grace Cathedral. It was named for the four Central Pacific Railroad barons, is elegantly paneled in dark wood, staged with sumptuous lighting and flowers. And according to a dozen of the glossiest upmarket magazines, the Big 4 has one of the best chefs in town.

  Our starters had been served — Joe was having apple-glazed foie gras, and I’d been seduced by the French butter pears with prosciutto. But I wasn’t so taken with the setting and the view that I didn’t see the shyness in Joe’s eyes and also that he couldn’t stop looking at me.

  “I had a bunch of corny ideas,” he said. “And don’t ask me what they were, okay, Linds?”

  “No, of course not.” I grinned. “Not me.” I pushed a morsel of hazelnut-encrusted goat cheese onto a forkful of pear, let it melt in my mouth.

  “And after a lot of deep thought — no, really, Blondie, really deep thought — I figured something out, and I’m going to tell you about it.”

  I put my fork down and let the waiter take my plate away. “I want to hear.”

  “Okay,” said
Joe. “You know about my six sibs and all of us growing up in a row house in Queens. And how my dad was always away.”

  “Traveling salesman.”

  “Right. Fabrics and notions. He traveled up and down the East Coast and was away six days out of seven. Sometimes more. We all missed him a lot. But my mother missed him the most.

  “He was her real happiness, and then one time he went missing,” Joe told me. “He always called at night before we went to bed, but this time he didn’t. So my mother called the state troopers, who located him the next day sleeping in his car up on a rack in an auto-repair shop outside of some small town in Tennessee.”

  “His car had broken down?”

  “Yeah, and they didn’t have cell phones back then, of course, and Christ, until we heard from him, you can’t imagine what we went through. Thinking that his car was in a ditch underwater. Thinking he’d been shot in a gas-station holdup. Thinking that maybe he had another life.”

  I nodded. “Ah, Joe. I understand.”

  Joe paused, fiddled with his silverware, then started again. “My dad saw how much my mom was suffering, all of us, and he said he was going to quit his job. But he couldn’t do that and still provide for us the way he wanted to. And then one day, when I was a sophomore in high school, he did quit. He was home for good.”

  Joe refilled our wineglasses, and we each took a sip while the waiter placed our entrées in front of us, but from the catch in Joe’s throat and a feeling that was growing in me, I’d lost all desire to eat.

  “What happened, Joe?”

  “He stayed home. We left, one by one. My parents got by on less, and they were happier for it. They’re still happy now. And I saw that and I promised myself I would never do to my family what my dad had done to us by being away.

  “And then I looked at your face when I showed up last time and told you that I had a plane to catch. And everything you’ve been saying finally got to me.