The 6th Target

Chapter 90

BEN WYATT'S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR Virginia Howsam was a woman in her late twenties who worked nights at a club downtown. She told us that Wyatt was a day trader and a really nice guy whom no one in his right mind would want to hurt.

We thanked Ms. Howsam for her help and took to the fire stairs, thinking maybe the people under Wyatt's apartment might have heard sounds that could help us pinpoint the time of the attack.

Conklin was right behind me on the stairs when the phone at my hip rang. I reached for it, saw Dave Stanford's name on the caller ID.

"This is Boxer."

"I've got good news for you."

I signaled to Conklin to put his ear next to the phone so we could both hear.

"You've got news on Erica Whitten?"

"No, but I thought you'd like to know that Charlie Ray has had his hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and is now sleeping in his own bed." Stanford chuckled.

"Fantastic, Dave! What happened?"

Stanford told me that the husband of a depressed woman had come forward. Their child had died of crib death weeks before.

"This woman who took Charlie was strung out on grief," Stanford said. "She was driving down the street, saw Charlie peeking over the fence. She stopped and grabbed him."

"She's in custody?"

"Yeah, but she's not the person we're looking for, Lindsay. She has nothing to do with Erica Whitten or Madison Tyler. She's on antidepressants, under a doctor's care, and yesterday was the first time she left home since her baby died."

I thanked Stanford and closed the cell phone. Conklin was right there. I was looking into his eyes, feeling the heat.

"So we've got nothing," Rich said.

"We've got something," I said, starting down the stairs again. "We've got a killer at large in this goddamned building. As for Madison Tyler, we've got another dead end."

Chapter 91

MICKEY SHERMAN SAT BESIDE ALFRED BRINKLEY at the defense table, trying to get his client to understand him through the haze of whatever meds he was on. The poor sap had all the energy of a parsnip.

"Fred. Fred." Sherman shook his client's shoulder. "Fred, we start your defense today, you understand? So I'll be putting people on the stand to vouch for your character."

Brinkley nodded his head. "You're putting my doctor on the stand."

"Right. Dr. Friedman is going to talk about your mental condition, so don't get upset. He's on our side."

"I want a chance to tell my side of the story."

"We'll see. I don't know yet if we need to put you on the stand."

Mickey's assistant passed him a note saying that his witnesses were all accounted for. Then the bailiff called out, "All rise," and the judge entered the courtroom through the door behind the bench. The jurors filed in and were seated.

It was day four of Alfred Brinkley's trial, and court was in session.

"Mr. Sherman," Judge Moore said, "are you ready with your first witness?"

"The defense calls Mr. Isaac Quintana."

Quintana was wearing several layers of odd clothing, but his eyes were clear, and he smiled as he took the stand.

"Mr. Quintana," Sherman began.

"Call me Ike," the witness said. "Everyone does."

"I'll call you Ike, then," Mickey said good-naturedly. "How do you know Mr. Brinkley?"

"We were at Napa State together."

"That's not a college, is it?" Sherman said, smiling at his witness, jingling the coins in his pocket.

"Naw, it's a nuthouse," Ike said, gri

"It's a state mental institution, isn't that right?"

"Sure."

"Do you know why Fred was at Napa State?"

"Sure. He was depressed. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't get out of bed. Had very bad dreams. His sister had died, you know, and when he checked into Napa, it was because he didn't want to live."

"Ike, how did you know that Fred was depressed and suicidal?"

"He told me. And I knew he was on antidepressants."

"And how long did you know Fred?"

"For about two years."

"Did you get along with him pretty well?"

"Oh, sure. He was a very sweet guy. That's why I know he didn't mean to kill those people on the ferry -"

"Objection! Your Honor, unresponsive," Yuki barked. "I move that the witness's last statement be stricken from the record."

"Sustained. So ordered."

"Ike," Sherman asked reassuringly, "was Fred Brinkley ever violent when you knew him?"

"Gosh, no. Who told you that? He was very laid-back. Drugs'll do that to a person. Take a pill and you're not really crazy anymore."

Chapter 92

YUKI STOOD UP FROM THE PROSECUTION TABLE and smoothed out the creases in her pin-striped skirt, thinking that Quintana was like a Muppet, with his wacky smile and outfit that made him appear to be wearing an entire tag sale.

It all seemed to work for him. The jurors were smiling, loving him, loving Brinkley by association.

She said, "Mr. Quintana, why were you at Napa State?"

"I have OCD. It's not dangerous or anything. It just takes up all my time, 'cause I'm always collecting things and checking all the time -"

"Thank you, Mr. Quintana. And are you also a psychiatrist?"

"No. But I know a few, that's for sure."

Yuki smiled as the jury tittered. It would be tricky to dismantle Quintana's testimony without turning the jury against her.

"What kind of work do you do, Mr. Quintana?"

"I'm a dishwasher at the Jade Café on Bryant. If you want clean, you can't do better than having someone with OCD doing the dishes."

"I see your point," Yuki said as laughter rolled up from the gallery. "Do you have any medical training?"

"No."

"And apart from today, when did you last see Mr. Brinkley?"

"About fifteen years ago. He was checked out of Napa, like, in 1988 or so."

"You've had no contact with him between now and then?"

"No."

"So you wouldn't know if he's had two lobotomies and a heart transplant since you saw him last?"

"Ha-ha, that's fu

"My point, Mr. Quintana, is that the sixteen-year-old you called 'a very sweet guy' may have changed. Are you the same person you were fifteen years ago?"

"Well, I have a lot more stuff."

Guffaws sprang up from the gallery; even the jurors were chortling. Yuki smiled to show she didn't, God forbid, lack a sense of humor.

When quiet resumed, she said, "Ike, when you said that Mr. Brinkley was crazy, that was your opinion as a friend, wasn't it? You weren't trying to say that he met the legal definition of insanity? That he didn't know right from wrong?"

"No. I don't know anything about that."

"Thank you, Mr. Quintana. I have no further questions."

Chapter 93

SHERMAN'S NEXT WITNESS, Dr. Sandy Friedman, walked up the aisle toward the witness stand. He was a good shrink, educated at Harvard, even looked the part of a psychiatrist, with his designer glasses and Brooks Brothers bow tie, a hint of Liam Neeson in his facial features.

"Dr. Friedman," Sherman said after the witness was sworn in and had cited his credentials, "have you had a chance to interview Mr. Brinkley?"

"Yes, three times since he's been incarcerated, pending trial."

"Have you diagnosed his illness?"

"Yes. In my opinion, Mr. Brinkley has schizoaffective disorder."

"Could you tell us what that means?"

Friedman leaned back in his chair as he organized his response. Then he said, "Schizoaffective disorder is a thought, mood, and behavioral disorder that involves elements of paranoid schizophrenia. One can think of it as a kind of bipolar disorder."

" 'Bipolar' meaning 'manic-depressive'?" Sherman asked.

" 'Bipolar' in the sense that people with schizoaffective disorder have ups and downs, despair and depression – and hyperactivity or mania, but they can often manage their illness for a long time and more or less fit in on the fringes of society."