Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

guy before,” he told them.

    HE SLAMMED THE OFFICE DOOR AND I WAS LEFT WAITING with the two cops until the chief of detectives swung in. A tall black guy, not old, but graying and balding. Just enough to give him a patrician air. Brisk and confident. Well-dressed, in an old-fashioned tweed suit. Moleskin vest. Shined shoes. This guy looked like a chief should look. He signaled Baker and Stevenson out of the office. Closed the door behind them. Sat down at the desk and waved me to the opposite chair.
    He rattled open a drawer and pulled out a cassette recorder. Raised it high, arm’s length, to pull out the tangle of cords. Plugged in the power and the microphone. Inserted a tape. Pressed record and flicked the microphone with his fingernail. Stopped the tape and wound it back. Pressed play. Heard the thunk of his nail. Nodded. Wound back again and pressed record. I sat and watched him.
    For a moment there was silence. Just a faint hum, the air, the lights, or the computer. Or the recorder whirring slowly. I could hear the slow tick of the old clock. It made a patient sound, like it was prepared to tick on forever, no matter what I chose to do. Then the guy sat right back in his chair and looked hard at me. Did the steepled fingers thing, like tall elegant people can.
    “Right,” he said. “We got a few questions, don’t we?”
    The voice was deep. Like a rumble. Not a southern accent. He looked and sounded like a Boston banker, except he was black.
    “My name is Finlay,” he said. “My rank is captain. I am chief of this department’s detective bureau. I understand you have been apprised of your rights. You have not yet confirmed that you understood them. Before we go any further we must pursue that preliminary matter.”
    Not a Boston banker. More like a Harvard guy.
    “I understand my rights,” I said.
    He nodded.
    “Good,” he said. “I’m glad about that. Where’s your lawyer?”
    “I don’t need a lawyer,” I said.
    “You’re charged with murder,” he said. “You need a lawyer. We’ll provide one, you know. Free of charge. Do you want us to provide one, free of charge?”
    “No, I don’t need a lawyer,” I said.
    The guy called Finlay stared at me over his fingers for a long moment.
    “OK,” he said. “But you’re going to have to sign a release. You know, you’ve been advised you may have a lawyer, and we’ll provide one, at no cost to yourself, but you absolutely don’t want one.”
    “OK,” I said.
    He shuffled a form from another drawer and checked his watch to enter date and time. He slid the form across to me. A large printed cross marked the line where I was supposed to sign. He slid me a pen. I signed and slid the form back. He studied it. Placed it in a buff folder.
    “I can’t read that signature,” he said. “So for the record we’ll start with your name, your address and your date of birth.”
    There was silence again. I looked at him. This was a stubborn guy. Probably forty-five. You don’t get to be chief of detectives in a Georgia jurisdiction if you’re forty-five and black except if you’re a stubborn guy. No percentage in jerking him around. I drew a breath.
    “My name is Jack Reacher,” I said. “No middle name. No address.”
    He wrote it down. Not much to write. I told him my date of birth.
    “OK, Mr. Reacher,” Finlay said. “As I said, we have a lot of questions. I’ve glanced through your personal effects. You were carrying no ID at all. No driver’s license, no credit cards, no nothing. You have no address, you say. So I’m asking myself, who is this guy?”
    He didn’t wait for any kind of a comment on that from me.
    “Who was the guy with the shaved head?” he asked me.
    I didn’t answer. I was watching the big clock, waiting for the minute hand to move.
    “Tell me what happened,” he said.
    I had no idea what had happened. No idea at all. Something had happened to somebody, but not to me. I sat there. Didn’t answer.
    “What is Pluribus?” Finlay asked.
    I looked at him and shrugged.
    “The United States motto?” I said. “E Pluribus Unum? Adopted in 1776 by the Second Continental Congress, right?”
    He just grunted at me. I carried on looking straight at him. I figured this was the type of a guy who might answer a question.
    “What is this about?” I asked him.
    Silence again. His turn to look at me. I could see him thinking about whether to answer, and how.
    “What is this about?” I asked him again. He sat back