The Boardwalk Bomber

By Michael Jesse

Chapter 8

I took the groceries upstairs, popped one of the frozen pizzas into the oven and checked my watch. I had decided to go to Barbara Brinckman's funeral. Having seen her dead and sprawled there on the deck it just seemed appropriate to see her in a more dignified setting too.

I called Andy's house. His mother answered.

"Hi Mrs. Hall, It's Jack Durham. From the bookstore?"

"Yes, of course, Mr. Durham. Andy has spoken of you many times. Would you like to speak with him? I think he's downstairs."

"Sure, but I'd like to clear it with you first. I understand he knew Barbara Brinckman, the woman who was killed."

"Oh yes, he was devastated. I haven't seen him like that since his grandmother died. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I thought I'd go to the service tonight, down in Brayton. He's welcome to come along, if that'd be okay with you?"

"I think he'd like that." She put me on hold and I held the phone under my ear while I fished the pizza out of the oven and sliced it with a knife while holding the hot cookie sheet with a wad of paper towel. One of these days I need to get potholders and stuff. I was famished and took a quick bite, burning my mouth.

"Mr. Durham?" she was back on the line.

My mouth was full but I pushed it into one cheek with my tongue like a chaw of tobacco. "Call me Jack," I said.

"Andy says he would love to come. Can you pick him up, or should I drop him off at your store?"

I chewed while she was talking, holding the mouthpiece away from my mouth and swallowed quickly. "I can pick him up in about 45 minutes."

We hung up and I scarfed down some more pizza, took a quick shower and changed into the only suit I still owned -- a conservative black one which I'd kept for funerals, weddings, court appearances or any other ceremonial events for which it might be required in my new life.

The motorcycle was no good for a funeral so I took the van I acquired when I bought the shop. It has "Apocryphal Books" painted on the side in some approximation of monastic calligraphy. That, by the way, was the name of the bookstore when I bought it. I thought it was a little pretentious and not technically accurate, but since I was, after all, trying not to attract attention I decided to keep it unchanged.

I parked in front of Andy's house and rang the bell. Andy's mother let me in and told me he was still upstairs getting dressed. She made some motherly cooing sounds over my own suit and pulled a stray thread from one lapel. Ellen Hall is a sweet, energetic woman in her late 40s. Andy is her oldest child and she had two more, who have no disabilities, other than being teenagers.

Andy came downstairs in a navy blue suit and she sent him right back upstairs to change his shoes, which were brown. I instinctively glanced down at my own shoes.

I was about to say something polite and conversational when we both heard a loud belch and from around the corner came Andy's brother Scott.

"Scotty!," his mother scolded.

"Sorry, I didn't know we had company," he said, flashing a grin that was only marginally apologetic. His face was otherwise dominated by pimples and orthodontia.

"Mr. Durham is taking Andy to Mrs. Brinckman's funeral, Scotty."

"Cool," he replied with a shrug that meant it wasn't remotely cool really and that he hoped he wouldn't have his time wasted by hearing any more about it. He whipped a soda out of the fridge and left the room.

Mrs. Hall watched him disapprovingly and Andy was down the stairs again with the correct shoes and she fussed over him before finally releasing him to my moderately reliable care.

Twenty minutes later we were in front of St. Paul's in Brayton, but the parking lot was full and I circled around the block and finally found a place at a meter. Andy and I walked back toward the church, joining a growing crowd of mourners. St. Paul's, though pretty large, was packed. We sat in a pew next to two women in their 50s who were already crying.

It was an open-casket service, which I guess shouldn't have surprised me. I remembered -- vividly -- how she'd looked lying there dead on the deck at Jockamo's and her upper body had been relatively undamaged and, of course, that's all that could be seen in the open half of the casket. But I also knew there wasn't much else of her to fill the rest of the box. I used to be pretty thick skinned about the blood and guts of police work, but this case bothered me and I couldn't help but wonder if they'd gathered up her legs and put them in there too. I forced myself to look away to stop thinking about it. A few years earlier I would never have been bothered by something like that. But lately I had been taking some of my armor off and I guess I was relieved to know I could still be upset about the death of a stranger.

The choir above us on a balcony sang two hymns and I looked around the church, spotting a familiar face here and there. As I craned my neck to look behind I caught a flash of orange-red hair and saw Detective McCain in the very last pew.

When the choir finished, the church minister gave a pretty standard funeral sermon, though it was clear that Mrs. Brinckman had been a regular member of the congregation and he told several stories of how she had been involved in the church and its charitable efforts, sprinkling in a little humor here and there to keep his audience from being too grim.

When he was finished, he introduced Mrs. Brinckman's husband, Dr. Clinton Brinckman. The congregation went totally quiet as Brinckman's motorized wheelchair maneuvered swiftly across the stage to a microphone stand which had been set up at the correct height for him. He had a surprisingly strong voice and instantly commanded the attention of everyone in the room.

"Barbara and I went through a lot together," he began. "She was tough. As am I. After my accident she would not permit any of you to get away with pitying me. And I will not permit you to pity her."

I looked around the room and every face seemed transfixed. "Barbara lived well," he went on. "She lived deliberately every minute she had on this beautiful but rather harsh and indifferent planet. She never took it for granted that she'd live much beyond the present moment. Barbara's time ran out two days ago. I've already accepted that. As she would have had it been me.

"So, thank you all for coming and when I see you all again at the university or wherever don't you dare look at me with pathetic expressions. Or I assure you I will ram this chair into your shins."

As a chuckle rippled through the crowd, Brinckman turned his chair sharply like a Marine in formation and quickly left the stage.

The choir sang one more hymn and then the service was over and the crowd slowly trickled past the casket and then the family, which in addition to Clinton Brinckman included an elderly couple which I assumed to be Mrs. Brinckman's parents. There was also a woman in her 20s who stood a little to one side and kept her attention on Dr. Brinckman. She didn't seem to be family and I guessed she was probably his nurse or personal assistant.

Clint Brinckman was a tall man, probably 6'4", and based on the picture I'd seen in the newspaper he'd been about 200 pounds and athletic before his accident. Even now he was thin but not gaunt or wasted. I'd read about his intensive physical therapy and his determination to keep his body in good shape just in case a cure happens in his lifetime.

Having no connection to the family I just nodded to them as I passed. Dr. Brinckman caught my eye as he did everyone's and held my glance a moment almost against my will. I had the impression he was cataloguing me in his brain, knowing he had never seen me before, but that he would now remember me precisely should we ever meet again.

Andy was behind me and as Dr. Brinckman's attention shifted from me I felt a distinct release of tension as if he had lifted me up on my toes and then let me go. When he saw Andy, Brinckman's face softened and his voice was gentle and personal. "Andrew," he said, with clear affection. "Thank you so much for coming."

Andy started to say something. "I wish ... I wish she--" But that was all he got out before he sobbed and hung his head, eyes pinched shut. I stepped back towards Andy and put a hand on his shoulder, as did the young woman standing behind Brinckman, whom Andy seemed to know also.

"Thank you Andrew," Brinckman whispered. "Come visit me this week, will you? I could use your company." Andy nodded, still unable to speak, and allowed me to lead him away.

Outside, as the crowd dispersed I glanced around and saw McCain standing by a car parked across the street in front of some shops. She was inconspicuously watching the faces in the crowd -- at least to the extent a six-foot redhead can be inconspicuous. She said hello as we passed and I introduced Andy.

"We've met," she said. "Nice to see you again, Andy."

"Why don't you have a police car," Andy asked, forgetting to say hello. He was a big fan of police cars.

"This is a police car," she said. "It's just made to look like a regular car."

"So you can sneak up on people."

"Something like that." Then to me she said, "I'm surprised to see you here."

"Uh-oh," I said. "Am I back on your list?"

She smiled, watching the dwindling crowd over my shoulder as she spoke. "Not so far. But you said you didn't know the Brinckmans. So, are you just here as a favor to Andy or what?"

"Mostly that. I was a little curious too, I guess."

Her eyes shifted back to mine. "About what?"

Andy had drifted away from the car and was standing on the sidewalk looking in the window of an ice cream parlor. I gestured towards him and said to her, "want some ice cream?"

A few minutes later the three of us were in a yellow formica booth and Andy was rapidly devouring a banana split. I just had a scoop of butter pecan and a cup of coffee. McCain had some kind of double fudge mocha chocolate chip thing and I could tell it took all of her professional training to suppress her sighs as she took the first bite. She didn't guard her expression quite so well and I covered a smile with my hand.

She noticed and stiffened a little. "So, you said you came here today because you're curious. What about?"

"Just about who Barbara Brinckman was and why she's ... where she is."

"She's in the cemetery," Andy put in matter-of-factly, speaking through a final mouthful of ice cream. "That's where they take dead people to bury them right after the funeral. I have quarters - can I play that game?" He pointed to an electronic space war game in the corner of the shop.

"Sure, go ahead," I said. "Just for a few minutes and then I have to get you home."

In a moment he was making beeping noises and McCain was savoring her last glob of high-octane chocolate.

"Got your daily fix?" I asked, indicating the empty bowl.

"I'm afraid my addiction is much more advanced than that," she said. "I'll need a candy bar within the next six hours or I'll get the shakes."

We smiled at each other and then suddenly ran out of things to say. "So, how's the case going?" I finally asked.

She shrugged. "We have four detectives on it now, plus county (for what that's worth) and we're reviewing all the evidence and doing the interviews. Looking at anybody who did time or even got arrested for blowing stuff up. Looking at where the bomb parts came from, any connection between the victims and so on. No jackpots yet, but it's early and as you know this type of investigation can take a while. Unless he hits again and we get lucky with a witness or something."

"Let me ask you something," I said. "I know this is most likely a random terror kind of thing, but do you have any reason to suspect the targets might have been intentionally chosen?"

"No, do you?"

I paused. "No, it's just one of those things you get curious about."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. But on this particular case I'd say random would certainly be the most likely bet. For one thing we can find no connection whatsoever between the two people or the two locations or any combination thereof. And since the apparent motive, like you say, is simple terror then the targets would probably be random, or at most symbolic."

"Well they were both bars," I said. "Could be the Ladies Temperance Terrorist Society."

"I'll be sure to check that out," she said, pretending to scribble the name in her notebook. Then she used her plastic spoon to scrape out the last possible drop of melted chocolate from the wax paper cup. She caught me watching and pushed it aside deliberately. "So what's your hunch Mr. Big City Detective?"

"I don't have one."

"Bullshit. Don't quiz me about the case and then button up. This is the part where you tell me what you think."

I held up my hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. But honestly I have nothing much to suggest at this point. The only thing I can say is there's something about this whole thing that strikes me as ... staged."

"Staged? Those were real bombs and real dead people. How can that be staged?"

"Well, like if it's set up to make you think it was a certain type of crime when maybe it's really a different type of crime."

"Meaning targeted victims instead of random?"

"Well, yeah. I'm not saying the evidence points to that or anything, or even that it's what I think is most likely. It's just something I've been wondering about."

She shook her head. "We did take a close look at the two victims, of course, and we were certainly open to any suggestion that either or both of them might have been killed on purpose. But so far I haven't seen a single thing to suggest that. And there is zilch linking them together. Same goes for the two establishments. Other than both being bars, as you noted, there don't seem to be any links. I think you're off the mark on that idea."

I shrugged. "Well, you asked what I was thinking."

"Well yeah, but I thought it might be ... worth something. You being a big-shot New York detective and all."

"I guess we're over-rated. All those TV shows."

"I guess."

"So you don't want to hear my alien pod-people theory?"

She took a final lick of the little plastic spoon and glanced at her watch. "Maybe next time."