Tag Archives: Bob Brink

Blood On Their Hands Blitz

Blood On Their Hands banner

Blood On Their Hands cover

Legal Thriller

Published: February 9, 2022

Publisher: Precipice Press

 

photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

 

A lawyer defends a young Black man who was brutally assaulted by two
bigoted police officers and discovers a deeper conspiracy that endangers his
life.

Hiram Garbuncle is a veteran criminal defense attorney—as well as a
racist, miserly alcoholic. His life revolves around hoarding money,
following sports, pursuing sex, drinking—and the prideful practice of
law.

Alec Monceau is a Black man working to support his daughter’s family
in Trinidad. It is 2008, and his car carries an Obama bumper sticker. This
political advertisement leads to a superfluous traffic stop and a brutal
beating by police.

It goes against Garbuncle’s grain to defend a Black man from a charge
of violently resisting arrest, but he is so confident of winning that he is
negligent in the jury selection, and a mistrial occurs. He then discovers
incriminating evidence on the two cops, and his new challenge becomes how to
keep himself and his client alive pending a new trial.

BLOOD ON THEIR HANDS words) is a legal thriller that borrows themes from
the movies Gran Torino and My Cousin Vinnie. It relies on the author’s
experience as a newspaper reporter who once covered a Ku Klux Klan
meeting.

Blood On Their Hands tablet

Excerpt

The overhead lighting bounced off Garbuncle’s face, which glowed with
after-shave lotion. His straight, graying hair was slicked back from a
receding hairline. He wore a bright yellow leisure suit a la the
nineteen-seventies, pressed and neat except for a small red wine stain on a
lapel. A fire-engine-red shirt and royal-blue tied completed his ensemble.
Glistening black patent leather shoes competed with his face for reflection
of the ceiling lighting.

Garbuncle motioned for Alec to rise, and pointed to the witness stand. Alec
walked with a hesitant gait, glancing to his right at the six-member
jury.

“Now, Alec, I want you to tell the court what happened on the evening
of April eighteen that led to your arrest.” Alec wore an anxious look,
and Garbuncle said, “Go ahead, Alec. You may speak.”


“I drive west on Lake Worth
Road, go home from Computer Freak. I work dere.”


“Excuse me, Alec. What time
of day was it?”


“About forty-five minutes
after 7 o’clock.”


“Was it beginning to
get dark?”


“Yes, but not all da
way.”


“So it was about as dark as
you? Never mind, that was a joke.” A broad smirk.


Judge Crabtree jerked his head
back, staring with eyes wide. Alec had a blank look.


“Tell us what happened
next,” said Garbuncle.


“I see red light in back
mirror, den I hear police car.”


“You mean you heard a
siren?”


“Yes, dat it. I forgot what
it called. I know should drive right side of road, but no can move. Cars in
dat lane. I go slow, and when cars past, drive to right lane. Police car
come behind me. I turn onto road at corner, go past water on side, den park.
I get out. Police park car behind. One walk to me. He ask me why I no move
over quick. I say no can, cars dere. He hit me on head wid
stick.”


“Do you mean his billy
club?”


“Dat what it called? Yes,
club—long, narrow.”


“Tell me which of those two
men sitting at that table”—Garbuncle turned back toward the
defense table and pointed—“which one struck you.”


Alec pulled his shoulders in and
hesitated. Garbuncle could see the fear in his client’s face.


“It’s all right. He
can’t hurt you now. You need to tell us which one struck
you.”


“Dat strong man, tall.
Young.”


Garbuncle pointed to him.
“You mean that one? Larry Pickens?”


“Yes.”


The cop’s face
was impassive.


“Did Officer Pickens say
anything to you?


“Yes. He yell at me I
resis’ arres’, and he teach me lesson.”


“What happened
next?”


“Den oder policeman come
from police car, say I need fix back light, no put Obama sticker on bumper.
I try tell him get light fixed tomorrow. He hit me in stomach wid club. I no
can breat’. Oder policeman hit me wid club back of neck.” He
placed his hand just above his shirt collar.


“I fall on ground. Dey put
handcuffs on me, pull me up. Hurt very bad. Dey injure my shoulder. I wear
ting for arm two weeks.”


“Do you mean a
sling?”


“Yes, yes. Doctor call it
sling.”


“Then what
happened?”


“Strong policeman ask where
I from. I say Trinidad. He hit me wid club low on legs. He say I look like
Obama. He say monkeys take over country. I tink he mean Obama and me
monkeys.”


The judge, his dome shiny through
strands of white hair, noticed Garbuncle trying to squelch a laugh, but
allowing a smile to open. “Counselor, do you think that’s
funny?”


Garbuncle saw, peering over the
top of wire-rimmed glasses, a stern face. His grin vanished like a rabbit
disappearing at a magician’s snap of the fingers. “Oh, no, Your
Honor. A joke I heard last night popped into my head for some reason. I
apologize.”

 

About the Author

Bob Brink

Bob Brink is a journalist who worked with several large newspaper
organizations and a group of magazines. His byline has been on thousands of
news stories, features, and entertainment reviews.

He now is embarked on authoring books. His newest book, the legal thriller
Blood on Their Hands, follows Murder in Palm Beach: The Homicide That Never
Died, a roman à clef about a real, sensational 1976 murder that made
headlines for 15 years, and made news again a few years ago with a new
development in the case. The book became an Amazon best seller.

His other books are: Breaking Out, a coming-of-age novel; The Way We Were:
Short Stories and Tall Tales; and A Tale of Two Continents, a ghost-written
memoir. He has completed a work of creative nonfiction about a woman who led
an audacious life of crime and married a death row inmate who later was
beaten to death by guards; a search for a publisher is underway.

Brink has won numerous writing accolades and several awards, including
three for Palm Beach Illustrated, which won the Best Written Magazine award
from the Florida Magazine Association after he became copy chief and
writer.

Besides dabbling in short-story writing over the years, Brink immersed
himself in learning to play the clarinet and tenor saxophone. He performed
many years with an estimable, 65-piece community symphonic band, and played
a few professional big band gigs.

A product of Michigan and Iowa, Brink has a bachelor’s degree in
English and German from Drake University in Des Moines and completed
graduate journalism studies at the University of Iowa.

Contact Links

Website

Twitter

Facebook

LinkedIn

BookBuzz

Purchase Link

Amazon

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

Comments Off on Blood On Their Hands Blitz

Filed under BOOKS

Murder in Palm Beach – Blitz

Murder in Palm Beach banner

 photo Murder in Palm Beach_zpswqvogniy.jpg

Murder Mystery 
Publisher: Precipice Press
 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png
The doorbell rings in the home of a prominent Palm Beach citizen, quickly followed by a shotgun blast that shatters a window, cracking the calm of a cool January night. Rodger Kriger falls to the floor, mortally wounded, leaving a wife and six children.
Murder in Palm Beach: The Homicide That Never Died is closely based on a sensational, real murder that happened in the posh ocean-side town in 1976. In the thin guise of fiction, the book contains shocking new information never before made public. Author Bob Brink, an award-winning journalist, was a newspaper reporter in the locale where the  assassination occurred. It made media headlines for 15 years.
An ambitious prosecutor pins the deed on Mitt Hecher, a hoodlum and karate expert. At Hecher’s trial, fellow jail inmates testify that he confessed. He is convicted and sentenced to the brutal and anarchic state prison at Raiford, where a stabbing a day and a killing a week are the “mean” average.
Judges repeatedly frustrate Hecher and several attorneys working without fees to get a new trial, as investigators pursue myriad scenarios. Meanwhile, his wife contracts a deadly disease.
Was Hecher innocent, and if so, who did it? Did the sons of a wealthy Cuban kill Kriger? Were the operators of a gambling enterprise out to get him? Was a love triangle the basis for the shooting? Did a vicious underworld figure do the bidding of a criminal gang? Was a prominent politician behind the slaying? Those are the questions seeking answers amid the exploration of issues of justice and power.
Murder in Palm Beach is the saga of a battle between a man whose swagger has sent him spiraling to the bottom and powerful, sinister forces determined to keep him there. It is a narrative of redemption wrapped in a mystery tale reeking with power, sex, and violence. It also contains a heart-rending love story.
 photo Murder in Palm Beach on sign_zpsf7zcijou.jpg
 Excerpt
“Johnny Traynor?” “Who’s this?”
Palladin did not remember him sounding timorous. “An acquaintance from way back. Tom Palladin.”
“Oh, yes. I remember. Haven’t seen you around for a long time.”
“I had a little difficulty finding your new number. Finally got it from a friend of yours, Davey Ross.”
“Oh, yeah, I moved inland a few years ago.”
“You used to live near the Shore Club. I thought you liked hanging out there. Why would you want to leave the neighborhood?
“Well … to tell the truth, things got a little dicey.” “You talking about the Kriger murder?”
“Well … uh … yeah, sort of.”
“I’d like to get together with you and chat about that. I have some new information.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I don’t know if I have anything that will help you.”
“Where do you live?”
Traynor gave directions to a duplex apartment on the west side of West Palm Beach.
“How about two p.m. tomorrow?” Palladin asked.
“Yeah, that’s okay. I’m working on a guy’s car, and I’ve got plenty of time to finish it.”
“See you then.”
The neighborhood was seedy. Most of the houses were small, run-down, wood-frame structures. Early-model cars and trucks, the paint usually fading, occupied driveways, littered lawns, or sat on the street in front. Patches of dried grass sprinkled with pale green contrasted with splotches of bare, sandy earth, like the shabby clothes of a tramp with tatters that revealed his skin. Traynor’s duplex was the only property on the block that didn’t look slummy to Palladin: a white, concrete-block structure with sidewalks leading to two screen doors opening to wooden front doors. Prosaic, but the grass was mostly green, and the car in the driveway, only a few years old, looked well-cared-for.
He parked on the street and walked to the unit on the right.
Opening the screen door, he knocked.
It  struck  Palladin  like  a  light  flipped  on  in  a  dark   room.
Something was different about the man who opened the door. “Come  in,”  Traynor  said.  He  gestured  toward  an  armless,
cushiony chair. “Sit down. Want a beer? Or Coke? I mean, you want a Coca Cola?” Paladdin noticed he was unsteady.
“Thanks. Are you renting here?”
“No. I bought the duplex and rent out the other half. Gives me a little income.”
“Your place doesn’t look bad. Best one on the block.”
“I’ve gotta keep it up in order to rent it out. I rent it month-to- month and charge a big rate. A lot of my renters are people with criminal backgrounds like me who can’t find anyplace else. That’s why I bought this place. Nobody would rent to me.”
Palladin could see what had changed in the man. No longer exuding cocky self-confidence, he appeared timid, almost frightened. Sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette, his hand trembled. Then it hit Palladin. Coke. The quick clarification of the offer of Coca Cola. Traynor was a cocaine addict.
“Let me tell you why I called. I found out something from a couple of sources. I know who shot Rodger Kriger.”
Palladin saw Traynor blanch. He looked without seeing at Palladin, then raised the cigarette to his lips with a shaky hand and took his time inhaling. He turned his head to blow the smoke away from his guest.
“I think you know who it is, too.”
Traynor leaned forward to the glass-topped coffee table
and snuffed his cigarette out in a small plastic ash tray. He straightened and looked away from Palladin, who noticed his face was grave.
“If it gets out that I told you this, I’ll prob’ly get killed.” He turned to look at Palladin. “You understand? You have to agree not to publish this.”
Palladin said he wouldn’t publish Traynor’s name, but would use the information he provided to dig for details about the murder. Traynor said he was okay with that.
“I drove the getaway car.”
About the Author

 photo Murder in Palm Beach Author Bob Brink_zps7u6mwkfs.png

Bob Brink is a journalist who worked with the Palm Beach Post, The Associated Press in Chicago, Milwaukee Journal, Tampa Tribune, Joliet Herald-News, and Palm Beach Media Group (magazines). His byline has been on thousands of news stories, features, and entertainment reviews.
He has been a freelance writer for several years, and is the author of several books. To promote his current novel, MURDER IN PALM BEACH: The Homicide That Never Died, he has a website, www.bobbrinkwriter.com. From the site, he blogs on three passions: grammar, alternative health care, and socio-political issues.
Brink’s first book, A TALE OF TWO CONTINENTS: Jetting Across the Globe to Have a Baby, is a short memoir that he ghost-wrote for a woman. Almost simultaneously, he authored BREAKING OUT, a coming-of-age novel about a troubled young man. Recently, he compiled a book of short stories titled THE WAY IT WAS: Short Stories and Tall Tales.
Brink has won numerous writing accolades and several awards, including three for Palm Beach Illustrated, which won the Best Written Magazine award from the Florida Magazine Association after he became copy chief and senior writer.
He was a reporter for the Palm Beach Post when the crime that MURDER IN PALM BEACH is based on occurred. It was an enormously sensational event that was featured six years later on a national TV show, and made newspaper headlines for 15 years. A karate expert went to prison for the deed, but many doubted his guilt. A newspaper reporter spent years investigating, and made shocking discoveries about the assassination and the person behind it.
Besides dabbling in short-story writing over the years, Brink immersed himself in learning to play the clarinet and tenor saxophone. He performed many years with an estimable, 65-piece community symphonic band, and played a few professional big band gigs. He relegated music to the back seat after embarking on writing novels. He is a fairly proficient ballroom dancer and a health enthusiast.
A product of Michigan and Iowa, Brink has a bachelor’s degree in English from Drake University in Des Moines and completed graduate journalism studies at the University of Iowa.
 Contact Links
Purchase Links
Amazon  

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

2 Comments

Filed under BOOKS