Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

asked him.
    The doctor shook his head and shrugged.
    “Never seen anything like it,” he said. “I’ve read about it in the journals, time to time. Some kind of a psychopathic thing, obviously. No way to explain it. It didn’t make any difference to the dead guy. Didn’t hurt him, because he was dead. So it must have gratified the kicker somehow. Unbelievable fury, tremendous strength. The injuries are grievous.”
    “What about the second guy?” Finlay asked.
    “He ran for it,” the doctor said. “He was hit close up in the back with the first shot, but it didn’t drop him, and he ran. He took two more on the way. One in the neck, and the fatal shot in the thigh. Blew away his femoral artery. He made it as far as the raised-up section of highway, then lay down and bled to death. No doubt about that. If it hadn’t rained all night Thursday, I’m sure you’d have seen the trail of blood on the road. There must have been about a gallon and a half lying about somewhere, because it sure as hell isn’t inside the guy anymore.”
    We all fell quiet. I was thinking about the second guy’s desperate sprint across the road. Trying to reach cover while the bullets smashed into his flesh. Hurling himself under the highway ramp and dying amid the quiet scuffling of the small night animals.
    “OK,” Finlay said. “So we’re safe to assume the two victims were together. The shooter is in a group of three, he surprises them, shoots the first guy in the head twice, mean-while the second guy takes off and gets hit by three shots as he runs, right?”
    “You’re assuming there were three assailants?” the doctor said.
    Finlay nodded across to me. It was my theory, so I got to explain it.
    “Three separate personality characteristics,” I said. “A competent shooter, a frenzied maniac, and an incompetent concealer.”
    The doctor nodded slowly.
    “I’ll buy that,” he said. “The first guy was hit at point-blank range, so maybe we should assume he knew the assailants and allowed them to get next to him?”
    Finlay nodded.
    “Had to be that way,” he said. “Five guys meeting together. Three of them attack the other two. This is some kind of a big deal, right?”
    “Do we know who the assailants were?” the doctor asked.
    “We don’t even know who the victims were,” Roscoe said.
    “Got any theories on the victims?” Finlay asked the doctor.
    “Not on the second guy, apart from the name on his watch,” the doctor said. “I only just got him on the table an hour ago.”
    “So you got theories on the first guy?” Finlay said.
    The doctor started shuffling some notes on his desk, but his telephone rang. He answered it and then held it out to Finlay.
    “For you,” he said. Finlay crouched forward on his stool and took the call. Listened for a moment.
    “OK,” he said into the phone. “Just print it out and fax it to us here, will you?”
    Then he passed the phone back to the doctor and rocked back on his stool. He had the beginnings of a smile on his face.
    “That was Stevenson, up at the station house,” he said. “We finally got a match on the first guy’s prints. Seems like we did the right thing to run them again. Stevenson’s faxing it through to us here in a minute, so tell us what you got, doc, and we’ll put it all together.”
    The tired guy in the white coat shrugged and picked up a sheet of paper.
    “The first guy?” he said. “I haven’t got much at all. The body was in a hell of a mess. He was tall, he was fit, he had a shaved head. The main thing is the dental work. Looks like the guy got his teeth fixed all over the place. Some of it is American, some of it looks American, some of it is foreign.”
    Next to my hip, the fax machine started beeping and whirring. A sheet of thin paper fed itself in.
    “So what do we make of that?” Finlay said. “The guy was foreign? Or an American who lived abroad or what?”
    The thin sheet of paper fed itself out, covered in writing. Then the machine stopped and went quiet. I picked up the paper and glanced at it. Then I read it through twice. I went cold. I was gripped by an icy paralysis and I couldn’t move. I just couldn’t believe what I was seeing on that piece of fax paper. The sky crashed in on me. I stared at the doctor and spoke.
    “He grew up abroad,” I said. “He had his teeth fixed wherever he was living. He broke his right arm when he was eight and had it set in Germany. He had his tonsils out in the hospital