The Boardwalk Bomber

By Michael Jesse

Chapter 11

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."