Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

crackling with repressed excitement. A weak case had suddenly grown strong. The thrill of winning was beginning to grip them. I recognized the signs.
    “I was in Tampa last night,” I said. “Got on the bus at midnight. Witnesses can confirm that. I got off the bus at eight this morning where the county road meets the highway. If Chief Morrison says he saw me at midnight, he’s mistaken. At that time I was about four hundred miles away. I can’t add anything more. Check it out.”
    Finlay stared at me. Then he nodded to Baker who opened a buff file.
    “Victim is unidentified,” Baker said. “No ID. No wallet. No distinguishing marks. White male, maybe forty, very tall, shaved head. Body was found up there at eight this morning on the ground against the perimeter fence close to the main gate. It was partially covered with cardboard. We were able to fingerprint the body. Negative result. No match anywhere in the database.”
    “Who was he, Reacher?” Finlay asked.
    Baker waited for some sort of reaction from me. He didn’t get one. I just sat there and listened to the quiet tick of the old clock. The hands crawled around to two thirty. I didn’t speak. Baker riffed through the file and selected another sheet. He glanced up again and continued.
    “Victim received two shots to the head,” he said. “Probably a small-caliber automatic with a silencer. First shot was close range, left temple, second was a contact shot behind the left ear. Obviously soft-nosed slugs, because the exit wounds removed the guy’s face. Rain has washed away the powder deposits but the burn patterns suggest the silencer. Fatal shot must have been the first. No bullets remained in the skull. No shell cases were found.”
    “Where’s the gun, Reacher?” Finlay said.
    I looked at him and made a face. Didn’t speak.
    “Victim died between eleven thirty and one o’clock last night,” Baker said. “Body wasn’t there at eleven thirty when the evening gateman went off duty. He confirms that. It was found when the day man came in to open the gate. About eight o’clock. He saw you leaving the scene and phoned it in.”
    “Who was he, Reacher?” Finlay said again.
    I ignored him and looked at Baker.
    “Why before one o’clock?” I asked him.
    “The heavy rain last night began at one o’clock,” he said. “The pavement underneath the body was bone dry. So, the body was on the ground before one o’clock when the rain started. Medical opinion is he was shot at midnight.”
    I nodded. Smiled at them. The time of death was going to let me out.
    “Tell us what happened next,” Finlay said, quietly.
    I shrugged at him.
    “You tell me,” I said. “I wasn’t there. I was in Tampa at midnight.”
    Baker leaned forward and pulled another sheet out of the file.
    “What happened next is you got weird,” he said. “You went crazy.”
    I shook my head at him.
    “I wasn’t there at midnight,” I said again. “I was getting on the bus in Tampa. Nothing too weird about that.”
    The two cops didn’t react. They looked pretty grim.
    “Your first shot killed him,” Baker said. “Then you shot him again, and then you went berserk and kicked the shit out of the body. There are massive postmortem injuries. You shot him and then you tried to kick him apart. You kicked that corpse all over the damn place. You were in a frenzy. Then you calmed down and tried to hide the body under the cardboard.”
    I was quiet for a long moment.
    “Postmortem injuries?” I said.
    Baker nodded.
    “Like a frenzy,” he said. “The guy looks like he was run over by a truck. Just about every bone is smashed. But the doctor says it happened after the guy was already dead. You’re a weird guy, Reacher, that’s for damn sure.”
    “Who was he?” Finlay asked for the third time.
    I just looked at him. Baker was right. It had got weird. Very weird. Homicidal frenzy is bad enough. But postmortem frenzy is worse. I’d come across it a few times. Didn’t want to come across it anymore. But the way they’d described it to me, it didn’t make any sense.
    “How did you meet the guy?” Finlay asked.
    I carried on just looking at him. Didn’t answer.
    “What does Pluribus mean?” he asked.
    I shrugged. Kept quiet.
    “Who was he, Reacher?” Finlay asked again.
    “I wasn’t there,” I said. “I don’t know anything.”
    Finlay was silent.
    “What’s your phone number?” he said. Suddenly.
    I looked at him like he was crazy.
    “Finlay,