The Boardwalk Bomber

By Michael Jesse

Chapter 10

The next day was dark and wet. When I woke up the first thing I did was go downstairs and put a bucket under the skylight where it was already dripping onto the carpet. I'd been on the roof twice already that summer squirting roof cement from a caulk gun into every crack and crevasse I could find but it still leaked in the same place every time there was a hard rain. I'm reasonably competent at fixing things, but having spent most of my life in New York City apartments I'd never had to deal with roof repairs.

The rain continued all morning as the bucket sat in the middle of the room catching the drops that fell from the skylight 25 feet up. I didn't have a lot of customers that morning, but Andy showed up as planned to help me reshelve books. His brother Scotty dropped him off and then sped off before Andy was two steps from the car.

I had rearranged the sections and just needed to do a lot of shifting. Andy is not great at putting books in any sensible order, but he's fine at just shifting a whole section a handful at a time. We worked together for about two hours, saying little. He whistled the jingle from a TV commercial over and over again.

We finished around noon and I made tuna and cheese sandwiches for us and paid him for his time. It was still raining heavily and we waited a while for Scotty to show up, which he didn't.

"Tell you what," I said. "I'll drive you home in the van."

"I'm not going right home," he said. "I'm gonna visit Dr. Brinckman."

"Really? Well then you definitely need a ride, son. Can't have you calling on people dripping wet."

The Brinckman's house was in a neighborhood of Port Marin known locally as Tenure Town because so many faculty lived there. It's probably the prettiest neighborhood in the town and wraps around a hill overlooking the college. The most prestigious street in Tenure Town is Ridge Road which arcs along the top of a moraine left by the glaciers. The houses along Ridge Road were built in the 1920s and have graceful front porches from which one can look down on the college and across its rooftops to the bay.

The Brinckman house was at 122 Ridge Road. It was brick, long ago painted white and now peeling elegantly, showing just the right amount of red among the ivy. The driveway was also made of red brick, through the cracks of which grew even lines of rich grass kept neatly trimmed by Andy.

I pulled the van up to where a brick path branched off from the driveway and meandered up to the sprawling porch.

Andy and I got out and walked up to the porch. The rain had stopped but the sky was still dark and heavy. I rang the bell.

The door was opened by the young woman I'd seen at the funeral. She was blonde and suntanned but it was clear she came by both features naturally. She was short but looked pretty solid -- like a farm girl or the catcher of a fast-pitch softball team.

"Hiya, Andy!" she cried cheerfully, pushing open the screen door and giving him a casual hug.

"Hi," she said putting out her hand. "I remember you from the service. I'm Brandi Greene, Dr. Brinckman's assistant."

I shook her hand and introduced myself. She had a disarmingly perky smile.

"Oh Andy has mentioned you several times," she exclaimed. "I'm very happy to finally meet you Mr. Durham."

She struck me as someone who'd be happy about just about anything. "Call me Jack," I said.

"Okay, Jack." She smiled at me in a way that was intimate, but not in a flirtatious way. It was more like being accepted as an instant friend.

Turning back to Andy, she exclaimed, "C'mon in you guys. Dr. B will be so happy to see you!"

She led the way into a spacious great room with hardwood floors and not much furniture. Clinton Brinckman emerged from around a corner, his electric wheelchair virtually silent. He wore a khaki blazer with a light blue pin-striped shirt and a stylish red tie. He made no eye contact with me but wheeled straight to Andy.

"Andrew," he said, smiling genuinely. "How nice of you to drop by. Thank you. Brandi, did it occur to you to offer our guests anything?"

The shift in tone was abrupt. The kindness he showed to Andy turned into condescending sarcasm when he addressed his assistant.

And yet she seemed not to mind. "Would y'all like anything?" she immediately asked, making it almost a joke. "We have various sodas, coffee, beer, etc for the grownups. Andy, you want a Coke I bet."

Andy blushed at her knowledge of his preferred beverage and I said I'd have one too.

"Dr. B, you ready for a refreshment too?" Brandi asked sweetly.

"Beyond ready," he sighed. "And see if you can find a verb while you're at it." She gave a little laugh and sauntered down the hall humming to herself.

When she was gone there was a silence and after a moment I filled it by saying, "Andy was very fond of Mrs. Brinckman."

Brinckman looked at me as if I'd said the sky is blue. "And she of him," he said coldly. And then to Andy he said, "you're coming up in the world, Andrew. You have your very own chauffeur today. " Andy looked up, not knowing the word. "That's a servant who's job it is to drive you around, Andrew. I had a chauffeur once during a lecture tour several years ago. He was very professional. When not driving he stood quietly in a corner and didn't say a word." Brinckman looked at me as he said the last sentence.

Andy looked back and forth between us and smiled, assuming it was some joke he did not quite get.

"Oh, I'm really just an amateur chauffeur," I said to Brinckman, and then to Andy I explained, "an amateur is someone who does what he chooses."

Brandi returned just then with a tray of drinks. She put Brinckman's glass onto a cup holder attached to his chair, suspending it near his face with a bent straw close enough for him to reach. He moved his head and took a long drink from the straw, and then exhaled like a smoker taking his first puff in hours. It looked like a cola but I could smell bourbon in there too.

"Andrew," he said "Let's have a look at the garden. I could use your expert assistance." Brinckman led the way through a set of double glass doors which opened at his approach. He operated the chair with a toggle switch strapped to his right hand, which moved only slightly but with apparent precision since he seemed in complete control. Andy walked at his side and Brandi and I followed at a distance.

"He's quite a ... dynamic person," I said diplomatically.

She snorted a laugh. "That's one way to put it."

"How is he holding up? It's hard to believe anyone could be as tough as he sounded at the funeral."

She nodded. "Well he's at least three quarters that tough, believe you me. I've been his physical therapist since his accident and I can see all his real emotions, even the ones he thinks he's hiding from everybody."

Brandi and I sat in white patio chairs a dozen yards or so from Brinckman and Andy. I could hear Brinckman's booming voice giving Andy weeding instructions.

"So what's he feeling now?" I asked.

"Well he's mourning Mrs. B, certainly, and I don't think he's trying too hard to hide that. It's just that ... I don't know how to say this without it sounding bad but ... they weren't all that close the past several years."

"You mean since his accident?"

"Not so much that. I'm sure they cared about each other, but my impression is they hadn't been in love for a long time. But really, I shouldn't speculate. All I'm saying is he's mourning for her in his own way and as much as it saddens him I don't think he's truly devastated by it."

We sat in silence for a moment and then I said, "he looks pretty fit for a man in a wheelchair six years."

"Thank you," she said. "I spend most of my day keeping him that way. He's very disciplined and wants to keep his body in working shape just in case."

"In case there's a cure someday?"

She nodded. "He's not counting on that by any means but if it happens he'll be ready."

Just then the doorbell rang in the kitchen and Brandi trotted back inside. I stood up and approached Brinckman and Andy, hovering like a proper servant. They were talking about pruning the rose bushes. I heard the glass doors whoosh open again and looked over my shoulder to see Brandi returning -- with Molly McCain following behind her.

When she saw me she raised her eyebrows in surprise and I nodded.

Brinckman affected not to notice that anyone had arrived and seemed to wait for Brandi to make the introductions. She cleared her throat as he was talking about aphids. "Excuse me, Dr. B," she said. "Detective McCain is here to see you."

Brinckman whirled his chair around as if interrupted from performing brain surgery. "Good afternoon, Detective," he said with labored politeness. "At least it started out that way. What can I do for you -- once again?

"I apologize for intruding, Dr. Brinckman," McCain said. "I just have a few follow-up questions regarding the investigation. Could we speak privately?"

"This is private enough, I'm sure,"Brinckman said. "Andrew here is a good friend of mine and these (here he gestured with his head to indicate Brandi and me) are our personal assistants."

"Very well," McCain said. "Although our investigation continues to focus on the probability of a random bombing, we are also routinely exploring other possibilities."

"Such as whether Barbara may have been intentionally murdered instead of randomly murdered," Brinckman said. "You did mention that in our last conversation, Detective. Don't you recall?"

"Yes I do. But it was just after her death and you didn't seem to feel like discussing it at the time."

"I don't feel much like discussing it now."

He wasn't bothering to face her and she glanced at me with an annoyed expression.

"Dr. Brinckman," she said. "Wouldn't you want to know if your wife was intentionally targeted? Wouldn't you want us to find whoever did it?"

The wheelchair spun suddenly around as he turned to face her. "Of course I would," he said. "IF that is what occurred. Now, of course, I am not a trained police investigator -- though perhaps the prerequisites are not quite so stringent as I had supposed -- but even as an amateur--" here he glanced at me -- "which, by the way, is not properly defined as 'one who does what he wants' -- even a lumbering, monosyllabic amateur would have to recognize that there is no basis for that hypothesis."

"Dr. Brinckman--"

"However," he went on, ignoring her, "if it will contribute to the progress of this plodding investigation I will assist you as follows: No, Barbara did not have any enemies. No, she was not threatened in any way. No, she had no recent arguments with anyone. No, she did not owe anyone money. No, she did not appear worried or nervous or otherwise behave in an unusual manner. Have I covered everything?"

"Those are some of the usual questions," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Thank you for answering them so ... concisely. How about her being at Jockamo's on that particular afternoon? Was that a habit of hers? Could anyone have anticipated that she would be there at that time?"

Brinckman whirled a bit in his chair, as someone else might pace. "I really don't know," he finally said. "I know she'd been there before. We'd been there together once or twice. I don't know how regularly she went there alone, but my guess is not regularly enough to have been targeted there."

"One last question and then I'll be going. Can you suggest anyone else I might talk to who would have been familiar with Mrs. Brinckman's routines, acquaintances and so on?"

Brinckman whirled in a circle, paced a few yards up the brick pathway and returned to face her. "Well," he said at last, a tight smile on his face, "I suppose you might as well interrogate her little boyfriend while you're at it. Not that I believe he'd have had the testicular fortitude to hurt anyone, but he might know something else of her habits and so on."

McCain blinked and said, "her ... 'boyfriend'? And who would that be?"

Brinckman laughed acidly. "My what a poor detective you must be. I thought everyone knew that. How much are we paying you?"

I could see McCain's pale ears redden slightly , but her expression didn't change and her voice was even as she said, "Dr. Brinckman, I am a state police homicide detective, not your local constable. I am not acquainted with Goober down at the filling station nor am I up on the local faculty gossip."

"Very well," Brinckman sighed, as if explaining some elementary physics principle to a poor student. "As everyone except you seems to know, Barbara and I separated for a time two years ago and she took up with an invertebrate little fellow named Raymond Hulman."

When he said the name I recognized it from the paper. It was Ray -- the guy with the abdominal wound at the Jockamo's bombing.

"Pardon me, 'Doctor' Hulman I should say," Brinckman went on. He made a sour face and mock-whispered, "English Lit."

McCain pressed on. "So after you and your wife reconciled did she end her association with Prof. Hulman?"

"Now that's a lovely euphemism, Detective. Do you mean to ask if she continued to 'associate' with Professor Hulman's presumably healthy genitalia in lieu of my own -- which are still down here somewhere if I recall." He nodded his head toward his lap.

McCain sighed. "I have to ask unpleasant questions sometimes."

Brinckman laughed. "And you do a fine job of it, Detective. Actually, I rather doubt they did much 'associating' even during our separation. You'll see what I mean when you meet him. Try not to speak too loudly; he's a skittish little fellow.

When we reached the driveway and were out of earshot from the house McCain said, "what do you think you're doing?"

"Uhhh ... driving Andy home?"

"You know what I mean. This is the second time I've found you around Brinckman, and I happen to know you were at Bigfoot's the other night. Have you interviewed this Ray Hulman guy too?"

"Not yet, but that's a good idea -- want to come along?"

I thought she was going to slug me, right there in Brinckman's driveway. "Look," she said. "I went out of my way to avoid telling County your colorful life story because you wanted so very badly to keep a low profile --and now you're dropping in to say hi to everyone involved. Which way do you want this to go?"

I glanced at the Brinckman house and caught some movement at one of the curtains. "Let's talk someplace else," I said. "I have to drop Andy home, about eight blocks from here over by the park. Meet me there, okay?"

She said nothing but turned and got in her car.

Ten minutes later I parked next to her car by the basketball court. She was sitting at a bench near one of the baskets and glanced over as I got out of the car. I had a ball in the van so I brought it with me and dribbled it up to her to have something to do while getting yelled at.

"I'm not trying to get in your way," I said. "I went to the funerals of the two people who got killed. And I drove Andy over to Brinckman's house because it was raining. That's all."

"Bull shit," she said slowly, stretching it into two separate words.

I took a shot at the basket, banking an easy shot. I picked up my own rebound, dribbled it a couple of times and then bounced it over to her. She caught it easily as I'd guessed she would. "Take a shot while you tell me off," I said.

"I'm not dressed for it, and don't try to change the subject."

"Who's changing the subject? You can scold me and shoot at the same time, can't you?" I was guessing she could pretty easily. She carried herself like an athlete and with her height I had no doubt she'd played plenty of basketball.

She stood up and kicked off her shoes, revealing long white feet with red painted nails. She had left her jacket in the car and was just wearing a sleeveless shirt and khakis. "Okay," she said, dribbling the ball effortlessly at her side, not needing to look at it. "Here's how I see it: you went to those funerals because you're curious. You told me that yourself. And you orchestrated opportunities to get near the principals of the investigation so you could conduct your own little interviews." Here she took a shot, swooshing a three-pointer.

I trotted over to the get the ball and came back dribbling. I turned toward the basket and took a pretty jump shot, but missed badly. She laughed and I looked at her indignantly. "How 'bout a little one-on-one?" I suggested.

She dribbled in silence a moment. "On two conditions," she said.

"Conditions? You want me to spot you some points or what?"

She laughed darkly. "No that won't be necessary. I just want you to take off those size 13 shoes so you don't step on my toes."

"Size eleven."

"And I want you to keep talking. You CAN talk and play at the same time can't you?"

I was just wearing blue canvas boat shoes without socks. I kicked them off and tossed them over to the bench. As I turned back to her she tossed me the ball -- hard enough that I had to be quick -- and I dribbled barefoot on the asphalt. "Okay," I said. "You're right: I'm curious. And like I told you I have some doubts about the crazed serial bomber theory." Here I began a layup, but she guarded me well and I had to double back and shoot a hook. The ball rattled around inside the rim but bounced out and McCain snagged it and dribbled out to the foul line.

"So," she said, dribbling backwards towards me as I guarded her, "you didn't just go to those funerals to mourn two people you'd never met. You went because it was an opportunity to observe those close to the victims, and perhaps to engage them in casual conversation." Here she faked to my right and then doubled back and drove around me, smoking a layup past me before I could cut her off.

"Nice shot," I said, taking the ball out of bounds and working my way back in. "Okay, I confess," I said, and then leaped up for a three-point shot. She saw the move coming and leaped with me but I overshot her outstretched fingers just barely and the shot wobbled in.

"That was ugly," she said, taking her turn with the ball.

"It counts just as much as the pretty ones."

"So am I going to stumble over you every step of this investigation, Mr. Durham?"

"Jack," I corrected.

She blasted by me again, knocking off a beautiful jump shot that I was nowhere near contesting. "Jack," she repeated, tossing the ball back to me.

"Not necessarily," I said. "Does your little drop-in at Brinckman's mean you're focusing on my theory that one of the victims was intentionally targeted?"

"Your theory? I already had that theory. I just didn't think it was very likely."

I made a fake, but she'd seen that move once already and anticipated it. She stripped the ball from me in mid dribble and caught up with it on the run, turning it into another uncontested layup.

"You're good," I said, buying time to catch my breath.

"Not really," she said. "It only seems that way because you suck." And then she doubled over in convulsive laughter. I sat down on the asphalt, surrendering. "I'm sorry," she said, still giggling. "I didn't mean that."

"Yes you did." She laughed more and I enjoyed seeing her that way. It was the first time she'd been so unreserved. "You played in college I assume."

She nodded and held out a hand to help me up. "And you didn't -- I assume."

We sat on the park bench; the ball between us.

"So," I said. "This theory of yours about the victims maybe being intentionally targeted -- brilliant idea by the way -- how's it going on that?"

"I still don't think that's the most likely explanation, but nothing else is leading anywhere. But since you like this theory so much, you got a suspect?"

I shrugged. "Not yet. But in either case it makes sense to look at the personal and business relationships. Chad Taylor was a business partner with Bigfoot Demphle, and he might have been putting the moves on Bigfoot's daughter. Barbara Brinckman had marriage trouble and an affair that apparently the whole school knows about. That's three or four candidates right there."

"Well Clint Brinckman couldn't have planted those bombs."

"He could with an accomplice. His perky assistant perhaps?"

She grinned. "You watch too much TV."

I knocked the ball into her lap. "None of those are ridiculous possibilities. We just don't know enough yet to speculate."

"We?"

"Well ... "

"I suppose when I get out to Ray Hulman's house I'll find you've already talked to him."

"Um, actually ..."

She sat bolt upright. "You've talked to him? I thought you never heard of him until today?"

˜ "Wait. Wait," I said. "It's not what you think. He was one of the people injured in the Jockamo's bombing. I treated him at the scene. I didn't know until today that he had anything to do with Barbara Brinckman -- they weren't sitting together. He was hurt pretty bad and I was glad to read in the paper that he made it. Truth is, I've been meaning to drop by to see how he's doing ..."

McCain looked at me dubiously. Then she sniffed the air and looked around curiously. "Do you smell that?" she asked.

"What?"

She sniffed again, making a face. "Smells like ... bullshit."

"Hey, that happens to be true. I'm not sure I actually would have gotten around to it, but I thought about it."

She stood up, tossing the ball to me. "You coming?"

"Where?"

"To visit Ray Hulman. I figure you'll show up on his doorstep anyway so you might as well come with me."