Running Blind (The Visitor)

Somebody happy to act without the proper authorities getting in the way, you know?”
    “Somebody both women knew,” Blake said. “Somebody they knew well enough to let right in the house, no questions asked, like an old friend or something.”
    “Somebody decisive,” Lamarr said. “Maybe like somebody organized enough to think for a second and then go buy a label machine and a tube of glue, just to take care of a little ad hoc problem.”
    More silence.
    “The Army ran them through their computers,” Lamarr said. “You’re right, they never knew each other. They had very few mutual acquaintances. Very few. But you were one of them.”
    “You want to know an interesting fact?” Blake said. “Perpetrators of serial homicide used to drive Volkswagen Bugs. Almost all of them. It was uncanny. Then they switched to minivans. Then they switched to sport-utilities. Big four-wheel-drives, exactly like yours. It’s a hell of an indicator.”
    Lamarr leaned across and pulled the sheaf of papers back from Deerfield’s place at the table. She tapped them with a finger.
    “They live solitary lives,” she said. “They interact with one other person at most. They live off other people, often relatives or friends, often women. They don’t do much normal stuff. Don’t talk much on the phone, they’re quiet and furtive.”
    “They’re law enforcement buffs,” Poulton said. “They know all kinds of stuff. Like all kinds of obscure legal cases defining their rights.”
    More silence.
    “Profiling,” Blake said. “It’s an exact science. It’s regarded as good enough evidence to get an arrest warrant in most states of the Union.”
    “It never fails,” Lamarr said. She stared at Reacher and then she sat back with her crooked teeth showing in a satisfied smile. Silence settled over the room.
    “So?” Reacher said.
    “So somebody killed two women,” Deerfield said.
    “And?”
    Deerfield nodded to his right, toward Blake and Lamarr and Poulton. “And these agents think it was somebody exactly like you.”
    “So?”
    “So we asked you all those questions.”
    “And?”
    “And I think they’re absolutely right. It was somebody exactly like you. Maybe it even was you.”

4
    "NO, IT WASN’T me,” Reacher said.
    Blake smiled. “That’s what they all say.”
    Reacher stared at him. “You’re full of shit, Blake. You’ve got two women, is all. The Army thing is probably a coincidence. There are hundreds of women out there, harassed out of the Army, maybe thousands. Why jump on that connection?”
    Blake said nothing.
    “And why a guy like me?” Reacher asked. “That’s just a guess, too. And that’s what this profiling crap comes down to, right? You say a guy like me did it because you think a guy like me did it. No evidence or anything.”
    “There is no evidence,” Blake said.
    “The guy didn’t leave any behind,” Lamarr said. “And that’s how we work. The perpetrator was obviously a smart guy, so we looked for a smart guy. You saying you’re not a smart guy?”
    Reacher stared at her. “There are thousands of guys as smart as me.”
    “No, there are millions, you conceited son of a bitch,” she said. “But then we started narrowing it down some. A smart guy, a loner, Army, knew both victims, movements unaccounted for, a brutal vigilante personality. That narrowed it down from millions to thousands to hundreds to tens, maybe all the way on down to you.”
    There was silence.
    “Me?” Reacher said to her. “You’re crazy.”
    He turned to Deerfield, who was sitting silent and impassive.
    “ You think I did it?”
    Deerfield shrugged. “Well, if you didn’t, it was somebody exactly like you. And I know you put two guys in the hospital. You’re already in big trouble for that. This other matter, I’m not familiar with the case. But the Bureau trusts its experts. That’s why we hire them, after all.”
    “They’re wrong,” Reacher said.
    “But can you prove that?”
    Reacher stared at him. “Do I have to? What about innocent until proven guilty?”
    Deerfield just smiled. “Please, let’s stay in the real world, OK?”
    There was silence.
    “Dates,” Reacher said. “Give me dates, and places.”
    More silence. Deerfield stared into space.
    “Callan was seven weeks ago,” Blake said. “Cooke was four.”
    Reacher scanned back in time. Four weeks was the start of fall, seven took him into late summer. Late summer, he had done nothing at all. He had been