Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

problem.”
    “What was the background story?” Roscoe asked him.
    He swung his gaze back to her. Glanced through the file.
    “He was depressed,” he said. “Had been for a while. The night it happened he was out drinking with his chief, who was the Morrison guy we just had in here, and the town mayor up there, some guy called Teale. The three of them were drowning their sorrows over some case Gray had screwed up on. He got falling down drunk and they had to help him home. They got him in to his house and left him there. He must have felt bad. He made it to the garage and hung himself.”
    “That was the story?” Roscoe said.
    “Morrison signed a statement,” the doctor said. “He was real upset. Felt he should have done more, you know, stayed with him or something.”
    “Did it sound right to you?” she asked him.
    “I didn’t know Gray at all,” he said. “This facility deals with a dozen police departments. I’d never seen anybody from Margrave before then. Quiet sort of a place, right? At least, it used to be. But what happened with this guy is consistent with what usually happens. Drinking sets people off.”
    “Any physical evidence?” I asked him.
    The doctor looked back in the file. Looked over at me.
    “Corpse stank of whiskey,” he said. “Some fresh bruising on the upper and lower arms. Consistent with him being walked home by two men while inebriated. I couldn’t see a problem.”
    “Did you do a postmortem?” Roscoe asked him.
    The doctor shook his head.
    “No need,” he said. “It was open and shut, we were very busy. Like I say, we have more to worry about down here than suicides over in Margrave. February, we had cases all over the place. Up to our eyes. Your Chief Morrison asked for minimum fuss. I think he sent us a note. Said it was kind of sensitive. Didn’t want Gray’s family to know that the old guy had been blind drunk. Wanted to preserve some kind of dignity. It was OK with me. I couldn’t see a problem and we were very busy, so I released the body for cremation right away.”
    Roscoe and I sat looking at each other. The doctor stepped back to the cabinet and put the file away. Closed the drawer with a screech.
    “OK, folks?” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do.”
    We nodded and thanked him for his time. Then we shuffled out of the cramped office. Got back out into the warm fall sunshine. Stood around blinking. We didn’t speak. Roscoe was too upset. She’d just heard about her old friend getting murdered.
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    “A bullshit story from beginning to end,” she said. “He hadn’t just screwed up on a case. He never screwed up on any case. He wasn’t especially depressed. And he didn’t drink. Never touched a drop. So he certainly wasn’t falling down drunk. And he would never socialize with Morrison. Or the damn mayor. He just wouldn’t. He didn’t like them. Never in a million years would he spend a social evening with them. And he had no family. So all that stuff about his family and sensitivity and dignity is total bullshit. They killed him and bullshitted the coroner so he wouldn’t look too closely.”
    I sat there in the car and let the rage pour out of her. Then she was quiet and still. She was figuring out how they’d done it.
    “Do you think it was Morrison and Teale?” she asked me.
    “And somebody else,” I said. “There were three guys involved. I figure the three of them went around to his place and knocked on the door. Gray opened up and Teale pulled a gun. Morrison and the third guy grabbed him and held him by the arms. That explains the bruising. Teale maybe poured a bottle of whiskey down his throat, or at least splashed it all over his clothes. They hustled him off to the garage and strung him up.”
    Roscoe started the car and eased it out of the hospital lot. She drove slowly over the speed bumps. Then she swung the wheel and blasted up the road through the countryside toward Margrave.
    “They killed him,” she said. Just a simple statement. “Like they killed Joe. I think I know how you must be feeling.”
    I nodded.
    “They’ll pay for it,” I said. “For both of them.”
    “You bet your ass,” she said.
    We fell silent. Sped north for a while, then merged with the county road. A straight twelve miles up to Margrave.
    “Poor old Gray,” she said. “I can’t believe it. He was so smart, so cautious.”
    “Not smart enough,” I said. “Or cautious enough.