BRINKLEY WAS JUMPY. His knees were thumping the underside of the table, and he had crossed his cuffed wrists so that he could pluck at the hairs on his forearm.

"Mr. Brinkley, you understand that you have the right to remain silent?" I asked him. He nodded as I took him through Miranda once more. And he said 'yes' when I asked, "Do you understand your rights?"

I put a waiver in front of him, and he signed it. I heard a chair scraping in the observation room behind the glass, and the faint whir of the camera overhead. This interview was on.

"Do you know what day of the week this is?"

"It's Monday," he told me.

"Where do you live?"

"BART stations. Computer stores. The library sometimes."

"You know where you are right now?"

"The Hall of Justice, 850 Bryant Street."

"Very good, Mr. Brinkley. Now, can you tell me this: did you travel on the Del Norte ferry on Saturday, the day before yesterday?"

"Yep, I did. It was a really nice day. I found the ticket when I was at the farmer's market," he said. "I don't think it was a crime to use that ticket, was it?" he asked.

"Did you take it from someone?"

"No, I found it on the ground."

"We'll just let it slide, then," Jacobi told Brinkley.

Brinkley looked calmer now and much younger than his years. It was starting to irk me that he seemed childish, even harmless. Like some kind of victim himself.

I had a thought about how he would come across to a jury. Would they find him sympathetic?

"Not guilty" by reason of the likability factor as well as being freaking insane?

"On the return trip, Mr. Brinkley -" I said.

"You can call me Fred."

"Okay, Fred. As the Del Norte was docking in San Francisco, did you pull a gun and fire on some of the passengers?"

"I had to do it," he said, his voice breaking, suddenly strained. "The mother was… listen, I did a bad thing. I know that, and I want to be punished."

"Did you shoot those people?" I insisted.

"Yes, I did it! I shot that mother and her son. And those two men. And that other woman who was looking at me like she knew everything inside my head. I'm really sorry. I was having a very nice time until it all went wrong."

"But you planned this shooting, didn't you?" I asked, keeping my voice level, even giving Brinkley an encouraging smile. "Isn't it true that you were carrying a loaded gun?"

"I always carry Bucky," Brinkley said. "But I didn't want to hurt those people. I didn't know them. I didn't even think they were real until I saw the video on TV."

"Is that right? So why'd you shoot them?" Jacobi asked.

Brinkley stared over my head into the glass of the two-way mirror. "The voices told me to do it."

Was that the truth? Or was Brinkley staging his insanity defense right now?

Jacobi asked him what kind of voices he was talking about, but Brinkley had stopped answering. He dropped his chin toward his chest, mumbling, "I want you to lock me up. Will you do that? I really need some sleep."

"I'm pretty sure we can find you an empty cell on the tenth floor," I said.

I knocked on the door, and Sergeant Steve Hall came into the interrogation room. He stood behind the prisoner.

"Mr. Brinkley," I said as we all came to our feet, "you've been charged with the murders of four people, attempted murder of another, and about fourteen lesser crimes. Make sure you get a good lawyer."

"Thank you," Brinkley said, looking me in the eyes for the first time. "You're an honorable person. I really appreciate all you've done."

THE NEWSPAPER WAS WAITING outside my front door the next morning, the headline huge over Cindy's byline: FERRY SHOOTER IN DRY DOCK.

When I arrived at the Hall of Justice, a knot of reporters was waiting for me.

"How do you feel, Lieutenant?"

"Fantastic," I said, grinning. "Doesn't get any better than this."

I answered questions, praised my team, and smiled for a few pictures before going into the building, taking the elevator to the third floor.

When I walked through the gate to the squad room, Brenda struck a little gong she kept at her station and then stood up and hugged me. I could see the flowers on my desk from across the room.

I gathered everyone together and thanked them for all they'd done, and when Inspector Lemke asked if I could give lessons in how to conjure up murderers, we all cracked up.

"I've got the nose-twitching part down pat," he said, "but nothing happens."

"You gotta twitch your nose, cross your arms, and blink at the same time!" Rodriguez shouted.

I was pouring coffee for myself in the lunchroom before diving into the thick pile of paperwork taking up half my desktop when Brenda peeked around the doorway, saying, "The chief is on line one."

I went to my office, moved a huge basket of flowers from my desk. Glanced at the small card sticking up between the roses. There were a whole lot of X's and O's on the note from Joe, my wonderful guy.

I was still smiling when I pressed the blinking button on my phone, the chief's voice all mellow, asking me to come upstairs to his office.

"Let me get the team," I said, but he told me, "No, just come by yourself."

I let Brenda know I'd be back in a few minutes and took the stairs to Tracchio's walnut-paneled office on the fifth floor.

The chief stood up when I entered, reached his meaty hand across his desk, grasping mine, saying, "Boxer, bringing down that wackjob makes this a good day for the SFPD. I want to thank you again for your excellent work."

I said, "Thanks, Chief. And thanks for backing me up." I was readying to leave – but an embarrassed look came over the chief's face, a look I hadn't seen him wear before.

He gestured for me to sit down and he did the same, rolling his chair back and forth on the acrylic rug-protector a couple of times before locking his hands across his midsection.

"Lindsay, I've come to a conclusion that I've been fighting tooth and nail."

He was going to give me more manpower?

A bigger overtime budget?

"I've watched firsthand how you worked this case, and I'm impressed at how much tenacity and determination you showed in the investigation."

"Thanks -"

"And so I have to admit that you were right and I was wrong."

Right about what?

My mind raced ahead of his words, trying to gain a half second on him – and failing.

"As you've told me," Tracchio continued, "you belong on the street, not chained to a desk. And I get it now. I finally understand. Simply put, administrative work is a waste of your talent."

I stared at the chief as he put a badge down on the desktop in front of me.

"Congratulations, Boxer, on your well-earned demotion to sergeant."