James Patterson: The 6th Target

I rang the doorbell, and a buzzer sounded. I pulled at the dull metal door handle, and Jacobi and I entered a dark foyer. We climbed creaking stairs into a carpeted hallway smelling of mildew.

There was a single door on each side of the hallway.

I rapped on the one marked 2R, and a long half minute later, it squeaked open.

Ike Quintana was a white male, midthirties. He had black hair sticking up at angles and he was oddly dressed in layers. An undershirt showed in the V of his flannel shirt, a knitted vest was buttoned over that, and an open, rust-colored cardigan hung down to his hips.

He wore blue-striped pajama bottoms and brown felt slippers, and he had a kind of sweet, gappy smile. He stuck out his hand, shook each of ours, and asked us to come in.

Jacobi stepped forward, and I followed both men into a teetering tunnel of newspapers and clear plastic garbage bags filled with soda bottles that lined the hallway from floor to ceiling. In the parlor, cardboard boxes spilled over with coins and empty detergent boxes and ballpoint pens.

"I guess you're prepared for anything," Jacobi muttered.

"That's the idea," said Quintana.

When we reached the kitchen, I saw pots and pans on every surface, and the table was a layered archive of news-paper clippings covered by a tablecloth, then more newspaper layers and a tablecloth over that, again and again making an archeological mound a foot high.

"I've been following the Giants for most of my life," Quintana said shyly. He offered us coffee, which Jacobi and I declined.

Still, Quintana lit a flame on the gas stove and put a pot of water on to boil.

"You have a picture to show us?" I asked.

Quintana lifted an old wooden soapbox from the floor and put it on the pillowy table. He pawed through piles of photographs and menus and assorted memorabilia that I couldn't make out, his hands flying over the papers.

"Here," he said, lifting out a faded five-by-seven photo. "I think this was taken around '88."

Five teenagers – two girls and three boys – were watching television in an institutional-looking common room.

"That's me," said Quintana, pointing to a younger version of himself slouched in an orange armchair. Even then, he had layered his clothing.

"And see this guy sitting on the window seat?"

I peered at the picture. The boy was thin, had long hair and an attempt at a beard. His face was in profile. It could be the shooter. It could be anyone.

"See how he's pulling at the hairs on his arm?" Quintana said.

I nodded.

"That's why I think it could be him. He used to do that for hours. I loved that guy. Called him Fred-a-lito-lindo . After a song he used to sing."

"What's his real name?" I asked.

"He was very depressed," Quintana said. "That's why he checked into Napa. Committed, you know. There was an accident. His little sister died. Something with a sailboat, I think."

Quintana turned off the stove, walked away. I had a fleeting thought: What miracle has prevented this building from burning to the ground ?

"Mr. Quintana, don't make us ask you again, okay?" Jacobi growled. "What's the man's name?"

Quintana returned to the table with his chipped coffee cup in hand, wearing his hoarder's garb and the confidence of a rich man to the manor born.

"His name is Fred. Alfred Brinkley. But I really don't see how he could have killed those people," Quintana said. "Fred is the sweetest guy in the world."

I CALLED RICH CONKLIN from the car, gave him Brinkley's name to run through NCIC as Jacobi drove back to Bryant Street.

Chi and McNeil were waiting for us inside MacBain's Beers O' the World Pub, a dark saloon sandwiched between two bail-bond shacks across from the Hall.

Jacobi and I joined them and ordered Foster's on tap, and I asked Chi and McNeil for an update.

"We interviewed a guy at the Smoke Shop on Polk at Vallejo," said Chi, getting right into it. "Old geezer who owns the place says, 'Yeah, I sell Turkish Specials. About two packs a month to a regular customer.' He takes the carton off the shelf to show us – it's down two packs."

Conklin came in, took a seat, and ordered a Dos Equis and an Angus burger, rare.

Looked like he had something on his mind.

"My partner gets excited," said Cappy, "by a carton of cigarettes."

"So who's the fool?" Chi asked McNeil.

"Get to it, okay?" Jacobi grumbled.

The beer came, and Jacobi, Conklin, and I lifted our glasses to Don MacBain, the bar's owner, a maverick former SFPD captain whose portrait hung in a frame over the bar.

Chi continued, "So the geezer says this customer is a Greek guy, about eighty years old – but 'hold on a minute,' he says. 'Let me see that picture again.' "

Cappy picked up where Chi left off. "So I push the photo of the shooter up to his snoot, and he says, ' This guy? I used to see this guy every morning when he bought his paper. He's the guy who did the shootings?' "

Jacobi called the waitress over again, said, "Syd, I'll have a burger, too, medium rare with fries."

Chi talked over him.

"So the Smoke Shop geezer says he doesn't know our suspect's name but thinks he used to live across the street, 1513 Vallejo."

"So we go over there -" Cappy said.

"Please put me out of my misery," Jacobi said. His elbows were on the table, and he was pressing his palms into his eye sockets, waiting for this story to pay out or be over.

"And we got a name," Cappy finished. "The apartment manager at 1513 Vallejo positively IDed the photo. Told us that the suspect was evicted about two months ago, right after he lost his job."

"Drumroll please," said Chi. "The shooter's name is Alfred Brinkley."

It was sad to see the disappointment on the faces of McNeil and Chi, but I had to break it to them.

"Thanks, Paul. We know his name. Did you find out where he used to work?"

"Right, Lieu. That bookstore, uh, Sam's Book Emporium on Mason Street."

I turned to Conklin. "Richie, you look like the Cheshire cat. Whatcha got?"

Conklin had been leaning back in his chair, balancing it on its rear legs, clearly enjoying the banter. Now the front legs of his chair came down, and he leaned over the table. "Brinkley doesn't have a sheet. But… he served at the Presidio for two years. Medical discharge in '94."

"He got into the army after being in a nuthouse?" Jacobi asked.

"He was a kid when he was at Napa State," said Conklin. "His medical records are sealed. Anyway, the army recruiters wouldn't have been too picky."

The fuzzy image of the shooter was starting to come clear. Scary as it was, I knew the answer to what had been messing with my mind since the shooting.

Brinkley was a sure-shot marksman because he'd been trained by the army.

AT NINE THE NEXT MORNING, Jacobi, Conklin, and I parked our unmarked cars on Mason near North Point. We were two blocks from Fisherman's Wharf, a tourist area crammed with huge hotels, restaurants, bike rentals, and souvenir shops, where sidewalk vendors were setting up their curbside tag sales.

I was feeling keyed up when we entered the cool expanse of the huge bookstore. Jacobi badged the closest desk clerk, asking if she knew Alfred Brinkley.

The clerk paged the floor manager, who walked us to the elevator and down to the basement, where he introduced us to the stockroom manager, a dark-skinned man in his thirties, name of Edison Jones, wearing a threadbare Duran Duran T-shirt and a nose stud.

We arrayed ourselves around the stockroom – concrete walls lined with adjustable shelves, corrugated metal doors opening to the loading dock, guys rolling carts of books all around us.

"Fred and I were buddies," Jones said. "Not like we hung out after work or anything, but he was a bright bulb and I liked him. Then he started getting weird." Jones dialed down the volume on a TV resting atop a metal table crowded with invoices and office supplies.