The Enemy

small crocodiles on the breast, playing golf with their wives, maybe holding hands and smiling as they ride together along the fairways in their little electric carts. I knew plenty of guys like that. My own father had been one. Not that he had ever played golf. He watched birds. He had been in most countries in the world, and he had seen a lot of birds.
    I stood up.
    “Call me if you need me,” I said. “You know, if there’s anything I can do.”
    The adjutant nodded.
    “Thanks for the visit,” he said. “Better than a phone call.”

    I went back to my office. Summer wasn’t there. I wasted more than an hour with her personnel lists. I made a shortcut decision and took the pathologist out of the mix. I took Summer out. I took Andrea Norton out. Then I took all the women out. The medical evidence was pretty clear about the attacker’s height and strength. I took the O Club dining room staff out. Their NCO had said they were all hard at work, fussing over their guests. I took the cooks out, and the bar staff, and the MP gate guards. I took out anyone listed as hospitalized and nonambulatory. I took myself out. I took Carbone out, because it wasn’t suicide.
    Then I counted the remaining check marks, and wrote the number
973
on a slip of paper. That was our suspect pool. I stared into space. My phone rang. I picked it up. It was Sanchez again, down at Fort Jackson.
    “Columbia PD just called me,” he said. “They’re sharing their initial findings.”
    “And?”
    “Their medical examiner doesn’t entirely agree with me. Time of death wasn’t three or four in the morning. It was one twenty-three A.M., the night before last.”
    “That’s very precise.”
    “Bullet caught his wristwatch.”
    “A broken watch? Can’t necessarily rely on that.”
    “No, it’s firm enough. They did a lot of other tests. Wrong season for measurable insect activity, which would have helped, but the stomach contents were exactly right for five or six hours after he ate a heavy dinner.”
    “What does his wife say?”
    “He disappeared at eight that night, after a heavy dinner. Got up from the table and never came back.”
    “What did she do about it?”
    “Nothing,” Sanchez said. “He was Special Forces. Their whole marriage, he’ll have been disappearing with no warning, the middle of dinner, the middle of the night, days or weeks at a time, never able to say where or why afterward. She was used to it.”
    “Did he get a phone call or something?”
    “She assumes he did, at some point. She’s not really sure. She was in the spa before dinner. They’d just played twenty-seven holes.”
    “Can you call her yourself? She’ll talk to you faster than civilian cops.”
    “I could try, I suppose.”
    “Anything else?” I said.
    “The GSWs were nine-millimeter,” he said. “Two rounds fired, both of them through and through, neat entry wounds, bad exit wounds.”
    “Full metal jackets,” I said.
    “Contact shots. There were powder burns. And soot.”
    I paused. I couldn’t picture it.
Two rounds fired? Contact shots?
So one of the bullets goes in, comes out, loops all the way around, comes back, and drops down and smashes his wristwatch?
    “Did he have his hands on his head?”
    “He was shot from behind, Reacher. A double tap, to the back of the skull.
Bang bang,
thank you and good night. The second round must have gone through his head and caught his watch. Downward trajectory. Tall shooter.”
    I said nothing.
    “Right,” Sanchez said. “How likely
is
all that? Did you know him?”
    “Never met him,” I said.
    “He was way above average. He was a real pro. And he was a thinker. Any angle, any advantage, any wrinkle, he knew it and he was ready to use it.”
    “But he got himself shot in the back of the head?”
    “He knew the shooter, definitely. Had to. Why else would he turn his back, in the middle of the night, in an alley?”
    “You looking at people from Jackson?”
    “That’s a lot of people.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “Did he have enemies at Bird?”
    “Not that I’ve heard,” I said. “He had enemies up the chain of command.”
    “Those pussies don’t meet people in alleys in the middle of the night.”
    “Where was the alley?”
    “Not in a quiet part of town.”
    “So did anyone hear anything?”
    “Nobody,” Sanchez said. “Columbia PD ran a canvass and came up empty.”
    “That’s weird.”
    “They’re civilians. What else would they be?”
    He went