The Boardwalk Bomber

By Michael Jesse

Chapter 21

He was driving about 90 miles an hour with the siren wailing, but he seemed intent on hitting every pothole and curb that could reasonably be interpreted as being in his way.

"What exactly is the situation?" I asked as Arkin hit another bump, which I was sure he could have avoided. "It's your friend Hulman," he said. "He's at Brinckman's house with a gun, and he's holding Brinckman and his girl Friday. We've got personnel on the scene, but he only wants to talk to his good buddy Jack." Arkin puckered his lips as he said the last few words. "I'll tell you something, Durham. You may have snowed McCain, but you don't fool me. What's your connection to Raymond Hulman?"

"I have no connection," I said. "Other than giving him first-aid at the bombing scene and talking to him once afterwards. He thinks I saved his life, so he feels a connection just now. It's human nature. Did you miss that day in police training?"

He gave me an evil look. "There's something shady about you, Durham, and when this is over, I'm going to find out what."

He sounded like he was auditioning for a TV show, and I laughed at him. "Just watch the road, okay? See, the principle is to keep the vehicle's wheels between those dashed white lines on your left and the solid yellow line on your right. It's really pretty simple."

I half expected him to drive into a tree just to annoy me, but fortunately, we were approaching the scene. After jumping one last curb, Arkin skidded the car to a stop outside the Brinckman house. There were several sheriff's cruisers, a couple of unmarked cars and two ambulances. I hurried up to McCain, who was hunched behind her car with a megaphone.

"Keep your head down," she said as I approached. "He fired a couple of shots out the door a few minutes ago. "He's armed with a large caliber handgun, probably a 45 by the sound of it. Unknown if he's carrying any other weapons or if he brought ammunition to reload."

"Who's he got in there? Brinckman and Brandi Greene?"

"Apparently. He hasn't let us talk with either, so we don't know their condition."

"How's Hulman acting? Have you talked to him?"

"I've been trying to. He's agitated and probably drunk or speeding. Very wound up. Just the way you could picture a guy like him might get."

"Great. Well, I'll try talking to him if you want."

She handed me a cellphone. "The redial is set for Brinckman's number. He hasn't picked up the last couple times I tried. Use the bullhorn to let him know it's you, then try to get him on the phone."

I turned on the bullhorn. "Ray," I said into it and hit the redial button on the phone. "Ray, it's Jack Durham. Pick up the phone and let's talk about this."

The phone rang a couple more times, and then he picked it up. "Good afternoon, Jack," he said in a strong and cheerful voice, not at all the way he sounded the day we visited.

"Ray, how are you?"

"I'm great, Jack. Never been better."

"Really? That's good. How are Brinckman and Brandi?"

"They're great too. We've been having a nice chat."

"Let me talk to one of them, Ray."

"What for? I told you they're fine."

"I need to confirm that, if you don't mind. That's how we do these things."

"We?"

"Just let me talk to one of them for a few seconds, and then you and I can get down to business."

There was no response for a moment, and then I heard Brandi's voice. "We're okay, Mr. Durham. He hit Dr. B with--"

That's all I heard, and then Hulman was back on the phone. "See, they're fine."

"How's Brinckman?"

"He's ... annoying. And arrogant, and talkative, and pretty soon I'm going to kill him."

"Don't do that, Ray. Even though I agree, he's very annoying. Ray, for your own good, you need to step back from this. Nobody's been hurt. Come on out and let's fix this."

"Oh gosh, sorry. Not possible."

"Sure it is. And it beats going to prison for the rest of your life, which is what will happen if one of those people gets killed. If you stop it now and--"

"You're starting to bore me, Jack. I'm going to hang up now and kill someone."

"Ray, wait!"

"What?"

"Let's make a trade. I'll come in and you let them out in exchange."

Hulman laughed. "What would be the point in doing that? I have nothing against you, Jack. Bad Ass Brinckman, here is the one I need to smite from this planet."

"How about Brandi? You've got nothing against her. Let her walk out."

"I'll take you up on your trade offer, Jack. But just her, not Big Shot Brinckman."

"Okay, Ray. I'm going to walk up to the porch. I'm not armed. Let Brandi come out, and I'll take her place, and we can keep talking."

"Agreed," he said and hung up.

McCain and I exchanged a glance. "Don't do anything stupid," she said.

"Thanks for that vote of confidence."

"Just stick with talking, okay? Tell him he can practically walk away from this compared to how it'll be if someone gets hurt."

"I know the drill." I walked deliberately up the brick path to the porch, holding my hands out where he could see them. I knocked on the door and called out, "Ray, it's Jack. I'm alone and unarmed."

"It's unlocked," I heard him say. I pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside. I could see Brinckman in his wheelchair and Brandi sitting in a dining room chair next to him. Hulman stood about ten feet in front of them, next to the fireplace. He had a gun in his right hand.

"Come in, Jack," he called. "Join the group."

I walked close enough to see through the interior doorway, but kept back far enough to take cover if things went south. Brinckman had a bloody mouth but otherwise looked steely and calm. Brandi's cheeks were wet and her eyes were red, but she seemed okay too. "Actually, Ray," I said. "Rather than joining the group, I was planning to take the place of one of them. That's what we agreed, you know."

"True enough, my friend," he said, smiling confidently. He seemed nothing like the man I met in his apartment. "Brandi, dear," he said. "Please stand slowly and step to your right a few feet, and then don't move." She did exactly as she was told. "Now, Jack, you may sit." I did.

"She can leave now, right?" I said.

"Not just yet," he replied, wagging the gun left and right. He picked up a coil of rope that I assumed he'd brought with him and tossed it at Brandi's feet. "I'm afraid we need to tie your hands as a precaution, Jack."

"It's not really necessary, Ray. I just came to talk. You know this could just end right now without anyone getting hurt."

"No, it can't!" he shouted, pointing the gun at me. "Brandi, pick up that rope and tie my friend's hands behind his back."

Brandi did as she was told. Hulman held his position, pointing the 45 at my face from ten feet away. But by standing in front of me, he couldn't see exactly how Brandi tied my hands. I grabbed a loop of the rope in one fist and held it as she wrapped the rest of it around my wrists and began tying knots. When she was done, he stepped behind me and held the gun against my head as he felt the ropes. They seemed tight, and he motioned for Brandi to go out the front door. She didn't wait for a second invitation.

The door slammed behind me, and I heard Hulman's footsteps coming back. I held the rope tight in my fist, and he stepped in front of us again, going back to his position in front of the fireplace. On the mantle was a half-empty bottle of expensive vodka, from which he took a slug. "Now then," he said. "Where were we?"

"You were droning on about your pathetic life," Brinckman said without a hint of fear. "Do continue."

"You are the one who is pathetic, Brinckman," Hulman said, his voice becoming momentarily shrill.

"What is this all about, Ray?" I asked in a calm, conversational tone. I realize you guys don't like each other, but what are you trying to accomplish by doing this?" While I spoke, I started testing the ropes to see how much I had gained by grabbing a loop as Brandi tied it. My plan hadn't worked as well as I had hoped -- the remaining rope she'd used was wrapped around my wrists fairly tight, but I had built in enough slack to start loosening it. If Hulman had left the room, I probably could have freed myself pretty quickly, but with him standing a few feet away, I had to move my hands minimally.

Hulman took a deep breath as if he'd already tried to explain it several times. "What I hope to accomplish, Jack, is revenge."

"Over what?"

"I think you know what. This man is responsible for the death of his wife, and he is also responsible for making her unhappy in her last years. And I am going to execute him for these crimes."

"You forgot the part about my upcoming confession," Brinckman put in. And then to me he explained, "he wants me to confess first, which I haven't done -- primarily because I am NOT GUILTY!" He yelled the last words at Hulman and then immediately returned to a conversational tone with me. "And even if I were, of course, Mr. Hulman here -- I mean Doctor Hulman (I keep forgetting) -- Doctor Hulman has said he plans to blow my head off after I confess, which seems rather a disincentive, don't you agree?"

"Uh, well, Ray, he's got a point there, you know. Maybe the best thing would be to get a jury to decide. Then if he's guilty, he'd get a life sentence or maybe even the death penalty, and you wouldn't have to go to jail over it."

"I don't care. I'm going to kill myself after I kill him."

"Except he won't have the nerve," Brinckman put in. "Oh, he may get agitated enough to shoot me, confession or no, but I guarantee you, Mr. Durham, this man is far too much of a coward to take his own life."

"I will SO!"

"Then DO it! Show me you're not a coward!"

Hulman put the gun to his own head as if on a schoolyard dare.

"Ray!" I shouted, still working on the ropes around my hands.

Ray smiled and put the gun down. "Just playing along," he said. And yet I didn't quite believe him. I had the distinct impression that if these two men were left in a room together, it would be the quadriplegic who came out alive.

A few minutes later, I finally had my hands free and could drop the rope and lunge at Hulman whenever the right opportunity arose. He still held the gun in his right hand, and since he was ten feet away, I couldn't just stand up and jump at him. Even a poor marksman could shoot you dead under those circumstances.

Hulman was still drinking, and he occasionally paced. Once, while I was still struggling with the rope, he'd even set the gun down on the mantle. I decided if he did that again, I'd be on him, or if he turned his back for any reason, even if he had the gun in his hand.

I wanted to let Brinckman know what I had in mind. My chair was situated a couple of feet closer to Hulman, and Brinckman could see my hands. I was pretty sure he had already seen me fiddling with the knots, but now I pulled one hand out to show him and then put it back in.

I was watching Hulman, looking for an opportunity, when Brinckman decided to make his own move. Hulman was still mostly facing me with his gun ready, as with his left hand, he reached for the bottle on the mantle. I didn't see this as a good enough opportunity, but apparently Brinckman did. He suddenly put his high-tech chair in top gear and sped toward Hulman without making much noise.

Hulman realized what was happening but was slow to react. Even so, he had plenty of time to shoot, and as he arced his arm around towards Brinckman, I sprang from my chair and ran at him, hoping to keep him undecided about which one of us to shoot.

He got off one round at Brinckman, who kept coming at him, yelling like a warrior as he bashed into Hulman at top speed, knocking him into the fireplace and sending the 45 flying behind them. Brinckman's wheelchair tipped over, and he tumbled out of it like a rag doll, unable to break his own fall.

I had to dodge around Brinckman and his wheelchair to get at the gun, which slid across the waxed hardwood floor like a hockey puck. My backside was stiff from sitting on the wound, and I wasn't as fast as I should have been. I also had bad luck. The gun banked off the woodwork in a corner and skittered straight back to Hulman. I dove for it, but he scooped it up, and two seconds later, it was pointed at my face from point-blank range. He was holding it with both hands, and his face was red and twisted in hatred at all the people who had betrayed or wronged him -- now including me.

I heard footsteps and shouts. McCain and Arkin, and other cops were in the room, their weapons aimed at Hulman. He ignored their shouts and stared only at me, the gun shaking in his two hands. I was convinced it was about to go off, whether he meant it to or not, and I didn't dare take my eyes off of his because I was also convinced that the only thing that made him hesitate was looking me in the eye.

McCain was yelling his name, and I hoped he would look at her. My hands were close enough to the gun that I might rip it a few inches to the side if he shifted his attention.

For a long moment, none of us said a word, and there was no sound but Hulman's panting breath. And then Brinckman yelled out, "I'm not dead yet, you pathetic little shit!"

I couldn't afford to look at him, but I was peripherally aware that Brinckman was lying face down a few feet from me. He probably couldn't see what was going on, but he would know Hulman still had the gun. I could tell he was trying to goad Hulman into shooting him again, so I could make a move as soon as the gun wasn't pointing directly at my face. I only had to slow him down, and he'd be dead before his body hit the ground.

But he didn't take Brinckman's bait. He hesitated, seeming to know what I knew -- that if he tried to shoot Brinckman -- his true nemesis -- he'd fail and die in the effort.

"I'm the only one you can kill, Ray," I said. "And you'll die doing it. "

"I know I hit him the first time," Hulman said determinedly. "He can lie there and bleed to death. And NOBODY CAN HELP HIM," he shouted. "I can wait like this for as long as it takes."

"You missed me, you incompetent!" Brinckman roared, his voice slightly muffled by his position.

"I know I shot you, so shut up and bleed!"

"Ray," I said quietly. "There's something you need to know. Brinckman didn't kill Barbara."

"Yes, he did. He treated her badly, and then he killed her -- or hired someone to do it."

"No, Ray. I know who killed Barbara. It wasn't him."

"Don't try to tell me it was that high school kid," Hulman yelled. The police said he was just a copycat, and they still didn't know who the original bomber was."

"But we know now," McCain said. "A few hours ago, we found the garage where the bombs were made. We have a suspect in custody."

"What? Who?"

"Ervin Demphle," she said. "Also known as Bigfoot. You were right, Jack. We located the garage he rents and in it we found bomb-making materials exactly matching the first four bombings, including the one at Jockamo's, which claimed the life of Barbara Brinckman."

Hulman's resolve began to dissipate. He seemed to suddenly find the gun too heavy to hold.

"Give me the gun," I said, slowly holding my open hands closer.

He was crying now and lowered the gun. With my left hand, I gently took the gun from him, as I put my right hand to his cheek -- and slammed his head against the wall, where it made a bowl-shaped dent in the drywall.

McCain and the other cops swarmed all over us before anything more could happen, which was just as well because I would have done some damage. I'd had a gun pointed at my head one too many times to be tolerant about it.

As Hulman was led away in handcuffs, we turned our attention to Brinckman. The EMTs had been on the scene for some time and hustled into the room as soon as it was safe. They immobilized his neck with a brace to ensure against any additional damage and gently maneuvered him onto a stretcher. It was clear he'd been hit in the chest, but the wound was high and to the right side and didn't look like it would have done any internal damage.

They wheeled him out the front door, and McCain looked at me.

"Your butt's bleeding again," she said.

I felt behind me, and my pants were wet with blood, but it wasn't a lot.

"Guess I popped some stitches."

"C'mon," she said. "I'll drop you off at the hospital while they're booking this nutcase."

Outside in the cool summer air, I stopped and looked up at the sky, thankful for the opportunity to do so. "By the way," I said. "Bigfoot didn't do it."

"I know," she said. "But the real story would have been hard to explain."

"I agree."