The 6th Target - James Patterson [17]
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.
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