"Where's the gun, Reacher?" Finlay said.
I looked at him and made a face. Didn't speak.
"Victim died between eleven thirty and one o'clock last night," Baker said. "Body wasn't there at eleven thirty when the evening gateman went off duty. He confirms that. It was found when the day man came in to open the gate. About eight o'clock. He saw you leaving the scene and phoned it in."
"Who was he, Reacher?" Finlay said again.
I ignored him and looked at Baker.
"Why before one o'clock?" I asked him.
"The heavy rain last night began at one o'clock," he said. "The pavement underneath the body was bone dry. So, the body was on the ground before one o'clock when the rain started. Medical opinion is he was shot at midnight."
I nodded. Smiled at them. The time of death was going to let me out.
"Tell us what happened next," Finlay said, quietly.
I shrugged at him.
"You tell me," I said. "I wasn't there. I was in Tampa at midnight."
Baker leaned forward and pulled another sheet out of the file.
"What happened next is you got weird," he said. "You went crazy."
I shook my head at him.
"I wasn't there at midnight," I said again. "I was getting on the bus in Tampa. Nothing too weird about that."
The two cops didn't react. They looked pretty grim.
"Your first shot killed him," Baker said. "Then you shot him again, and then you went berserk and kicked the shit out of the body. There are massive postmortem injuries. You shot him and then you tried to kick him apart. You kicked that corpse all over the damn place. You were in a frenzy. Then you calmed down and tried to hide the body under the cardboard."
I was quiet for a long moment.
"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 anymore. 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 cooperate, 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.