Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

severed. Postmortem evidence suggests that the woman was persuaded to swallow the amputated testicles.”
    The office was silent. Silent as a tomb. Roscoe looked at me. Stared at me for a while. Then she looked back at the doctor.
    “I found them in her stomach,” the doctor said.
    Roscoe was as white as the guy’s coat. I thought she was going to pitch forward off her stool. She closed her eyes and hung on. She was hearing about what somebody had planned for us last night.
    “And?” Finlay said.
    “The woman was mutilated,” the doctor said. “Breasts severed, genital area attacked, throat cut. Then the man’s throat was cut. That was the last wound inflicted. You could see the arterial spray from his neck overlaying all the other bloodstains in the room.”
    There was dead silence in the room. Lasted quite a while.
    “Weapons?” I asked.
    The guy at the desk swiveled his tired gaze toward me.
    “Something sharp, obviously,” he said. A slight grin. “Straight, maybe five inches long.”
    “A razor?” I said.
    “No,” he said. “Certainly something as sharp as a razor, but rigid, not folding, and double-edged.”
    “Why?” I said.
    “There’s evidence it was used back and forth,” the guy said. He swished his hand back and forth in a tiny arc. “Like this. On the woman’s breasts. Cutting both ways. Like filleting a salmon.”
    I nodded. Roscoe and Finlay were silent.
    “What about the other guy?” I said. “Stoller?”
    The pathologist pushed the two Morrison files to one side and opened up the third. Glanced through it and looked across at me. The third file was thicker than the first two.
    “His name was Stoller?” he said. “We’ve got him down as John Doe.”
    Roscoe looked up.
    “We sent you a fax,” she said. “Yesterday morning. We traced his prints.”
    The pathologist rooted around on the messy desk. Found a curled-up fax. Read it and nodded. Crossed out “John Doe” on the folder and wrote in “Sherman Stoller.” Gave us his little grin again.
    “I’ve had him since Sunday,” he said. “Been able to do a more thorough job, you know? A bit chewed up by the rats, but not pulped like the first guy, and altogether a lot less mess than the Morrisons.”
    “So what can you tell us?” I said.
    “We’ve talked about the bullets, right?” he said. “Nothing more to add about the exact cause of death.”
    “So what else do you know?” I asked him.
    The file was too thick for just the shooting and running and bleeding to death bits. This guy clearly had more to tell us. I saw him put his fingers on the pages and press lightly. Like he was trying to get vibrations or read the file in Braille.
    “He was a truck driver,” he said.
    “He was?” I said.
    “I think so,” the guy said. Sounded confident.
    Finlay looked up. He was interested. He loved the process of deduction. It fascinated him. Like when I’d scored with those long shots about Harvard, his divorce, quitting smoking.
    “Go on,” he said.
    “OK, briefly,” the pathologist said. “I found certain persuasive factors. A sedentary job, because his musculature was slack, his posture poor, flabby buttocks. Slightly rough hands, a fair bit of old diesel fuel ingrained in the skin. Also traces of old diesel fuel on the soles of his shoes. Internally, a poor diet, high in fat, plus a bit too much hydrogen sulfide in the blood gases and the tissues. This guy spent his life on the road, sniffing other people’s catalytic converters. I make him a truck driver, because of the diesel fuel.”
    Finlay nodded. I nodded. Stoller had come in with no ID, no history, nothing but his watch. This guy was pretty good. He watched us nod our approval. Looked pleased. Looked like he had more to say.
    “But he’s been out of work for a while,” he said.
    “Why?” Finlay asked him.
    “Because all that evidence is old,” the doctor said. “Looks to me like he was driving a lot for a long period, but then he stopped. I think he’s done very little driving for nine months, maybe a year. So I make him a truck driver, but an unemployed truck driver.”
    “OK, doc, good work,” Finlay said. “You got copies of all that for us?”
    The doctor slid a large envelope across the desk. Finlay stepped over and picked it up. Then we all stood up. I wanted to get out. I didn’t want to go back to the cold store again. I didn’t want to see any more damage. Roscoe and Finlay sensed it and nodded. We hustled out like we were