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I said “yes” and pointed out the cleaned-up sack of shit sitting next to Mickey Sherman.
In truth, Alfred Brinkley looked very different than he had when I’d seen him last. His face had filled out, his darting eyes were still. Shaved and sheared, he looked six years younger than when he’d confessed to the Del Norte killings.
Scarily, he looked harmless now, like everyone’s cousin Freddy, just an average joe.
Yuki spun toward me, pivoting on her pointy heels, asking, “Were you surprised when the defendant rang your doorbell?”
“I was kind of stunned, actually, but when he called up to
my window and asked me to come downstairs and arrest him, I was ready to go.”
“And what did you do?”
“I disarmed him, cuffed him, then called for backup. Lieutenant Warren Jacobi and I brought him to the police station, where Mr. Brinkley was booked and interrogated.”
“Did you read Mr. Brinkley his rights?”
“Yes, outside my doorway and again at the station.”
“Did he seem to comprehend what you were saying?”
“Yes. I gave him a mental-status test to make sure he knew his name, where he was, and what he had done. He waived his rights in writing and told me again that he’d shot and killed those people on the Del Norte.”
“Did he seem sane to you, Sergeant?”
“He did. He was agitated. He was unkempt. But Lieutenant Jacobi and I found him to be lucid and aware, which is what I call sane.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Boxer,” Yuki said. “Your witness.”
The eyes of the jurors swung toward the dapper man sitting beside Alfred Brinkley. Mickey Sherman stood, fastened the middle button of his smart charcoal-gray suit jacket, gave me a dazzling smile.
“Hi, Lindsay,” he said.
Chapter 78
I’D LEANED ON MICKEY some months ago when I was accused of police brutality and wrongful death, took his advice on how to testify, even what to wear on the stand and what tone of voice to use. And he hadn’t let me down.
If it hadn’t been for Mickey, I don’t know what I’d be doing now, but it wouldn’t be police work, of that I was sure.
I felt a wave of affection for the man who’d once been my champion, but I put up a mental shield against his wicked charm and focused on the pictures that had never left my mind: Alfred Brinkley’s victims. The little boy who had died in the hospital. Claire, gripping my hand, thinking she was dying as she asked after her son.
And Sherman’s client was guilty of all of it.
“Sergeant Boxer,” Sherman said, “it’s rare for a killer to turn himself in to a police officer at home, isn’t it?”
“I’d say so.”
“And Fred Brinkley specifically wanted to turn himself in to you, isn’t that true?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Did you know Mr. Brinkley?”
“No, I did not.”
“So why did Mr. Brinkley ask you to arrest him?”
“He told me that he’d seen me on TV, asking for information about the ferry shooter. He said he took that to mean that he should come to my home.”
