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“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said, his crazy eyes still darting, his face crumpling as he broke into tears. “I knew you would help me.”
Chapter 21
JACOBI FOLLOWED ME into my office, our nerves strung so tight we could have played them like guitars. As we waited for Brinkley to be processed, we hunched over my desk, drinking coffee, talking over what we needed to do next.
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.”
Chapter 22
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.
