`Postmortem injuries?’ I said.
Baker nodded.
`Like a frenzy,’ he said. `The guy looks like he was run over by a truck. Just about every bone is
smashed. But the doctor says it happened after the guy was already dead. You’re a weird guy, Reacher, that’s for damn sure.’
`Who was he?’ Finlay asked for the third time.
I just looked at him. Baker was right. It had got weird. Very weird. Homicidal frenzy is bad enough. But postmortem frenzy is worse. I’d come across it a few times. Didn’t want to come across it any more. But the way they’d described it to me, it didn’t make any sense.
`How did you meet the guy?’ Finlay asked.
I carried on just looking at him. Didn’t answer.
`What does Pluribus mean?’ he asked.
I shrugged. Kept quiet.
`Who was he, Reacher?’ Finlay asked again.
`I wasn’t there,’ I said. `I don’t know anything.’
Finlay was silent.
`What’s your phone number?’ he said. Suddenly.
I looked at him like he was crazy.
`Finlay, what the hell are you talking about?’ I said. `I haven’t got a phone. Don’t you listen? I don’t live anywhere.’
`I mean your mobile phone,’ he said.
`What mobile phone?’ I said. `I haven’t got a mobile phone.’
A clang of fear hit me. They figured me for an assassin. A weird rootless mercenary with a mobile phone who went from place to place killing people. Kicking their dead bodies to pieces. Checking in with an underground organization for my next target. Always on the move.
Finlay leaned forward. He slid a piece of paper toward me. It was a torn-off section of computer paper. Not old. A greasy gloss of wear on it. The patina paper gets from a month in a pocket. On it was printed an underlined heading. It said:
Pluribus. Under the heading was a telephone number. I looked at it. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t want any confusion over fingerprints.
`Is that your number?’ Finlay asked.
`I don’t have a telephone,’ I said again. `I wasn’t here last night. The more you hassle me, the more time you’re wasting, Finlay.’
`It’s a mobile phone number,’ he said. `That we know. Operated by an Atlanta airtime supplier. But we can’t trace the number until Monday. So we’re asking you. You should co-operate, Reacher.’
I looked at the scrap of paper again. `Where was this?’ I asked him.
Finlay considered the question. Decided to answer it.
`It was in your victim’s shoe,’ he said. `Folded up and hidden.’
I sat in silence for a long time. I was worried. I felt like somebody in a kid’s book who falls down a hole. Finds himself in a strange world where everything is different and weird. Like Alice in Wonderland. Did she fall down a hole? Or did she get off a Greyhound in the wrong place?
I was in a plush and opulent office. I had seen worse offices in Swiss banks. I was in the company of two policemen. Intelligent and professional. Probably had more than thirty years’ experience between them. A mature and competent department. Properly staffed and well funded. A weak point with the asshole Morrison at the top, but as good an organization as I had seen for a while. But they were all disappearing up a dead end as fast as they could run. They seemed convinced the earth was flat. That the huge Georgia sky was a bowl
fitting snugly over the top. I was the only one who knew the earth was round.
`Two things,’ I said. `The guy is shot in the head close up with a silenced automatic weapon. First shot drops him. Second shot is insurance. The shell cases are missing. What does that say to you? Professionally?’
Finlay said nothing. His prime suspect was discussing the case with him like a colleague. As the investigator, he shouldn’t allow that. He should cut me down. But he wanted to hear me out. I could see him arguing with himself. He was totally still, but his mind was struggling like kittens in a sack.
`Go on,’ he said eventually. Gravely, like it was a big deal.
`That’s an execution, Finlay,’ I said. `Not a robbery or a squabble. That’s a cold and clinical hit. No evidence left behind. That’s a smart guy with a flashlight scrabbling around afterward for two small-calibre shell cases.’