Killing Floor Read Free Page B

he was black.
    “My name is Finlay,” he said. “My rank is captain. I am chief of this department’s detective bureau. I understand you have been apprised of your rights. You have not yet confirmed that you understood them. Before we go any further we must pursue that preliminary matter.”
    Not a Boston banker. More like a Harvard guy.
    “I understand my rights,” I said.
    He nodded.
    “Good,” he said. “I’m glad about that. Where’s your lawyer?”
    “I don’t need a lawyer,” I said.
    “You’re charged with murder,” he said. “You need a lawyer. We’ll provide one, you know. Free of charge. Do you want us to provide one, free of charge?”
    “No, I don’t need a lawyer,” I said.
    The guy called Finlay stared at me over his fingers for a long moment.
    “OK,” he said. “But you’re going to have to sign a release. You know, you’ve been advised you may have a lawyer, and we’ll provide one, at no cost to yourself, but you absolutely don’t want one.”
    “OK,” I said.
    He shuffled a form from another drawer and checked his watch to enter date and time. He slid the form across to me. A large printed cross marked the line where I was supposed to sign. He slid me a pen. I signed and slid the form back. He studied it. Placed it in a buff folder.
    “I can’t read that signature,” he said. “So for the record we’ll start with your name, your address and your date of birth.”
    There was silence again. I looked at him. This was a stubborn guy. Probably forty-five. You don’t get to be chief of detectives in a Georgia jurisdiction if you’re forty-five and black except if you’re a stubborn guy. No percentage in jerking him around. I drew a breath.
    “My name is Jack Reacher,” I said. “No middle name. No address.”
    He wrote it down. Not much to write. I told him my date of birth.
    “OK, Mr. Reacher,” Finlay said. “As I said, we have a lot of questions. I’ve glanced through your personal effects. You were carrying no ID at all. No driver’s license, no credit cards, no nothing. You have no address, you say. So I’m asking myself, who is this guy?”
    He didn’t wait for any kind of a comment on that from me.
    “Who was the guy with the shaved head?” he asked me.
    I didn’t answer. I was watching the big clock, waiting for the minute hand to move.
    “Tell me what happened,” he said.
    I had no idea what had happened. No idea at all. Something had happened to somebody, but not to me. I sat there. Didn’t answer.
    “What is Pluribus?” Finlay asked.
    I looked at him and shrugged.
    “The United States motto?” I said. “E Pluribus Unum? Adopted in 1776 by the Second Continental Congress, right?”
    He just grunted at me. I carried on looking straight at him. I figured this was the type of a guy who might answer a question.
    “What is this about?” I asked him.
    Silence again. His turn to look at me. I could see him thinking about whether to answer, and how.
    “What is this about?” I asked him again. He sat back and steepled his fingers.
    “You know what this is about,” he said. “Homicide. With some very disturbing features. Victim was found this morning up at the Kliner warehouse. North end of the county road, up at the highway cloverleaf. Witness has reported a man seen walking away from that location. Shortly after eight o’clock this morning. Description given was that of a white man, very tall, wearing a long black overcoat, fair hair, no hat, no baggage.”
    Silence again. I am a white man. I am very tall. My hair is fair. I was sitting there wearing a long black overcoat. I didn’t have a hat. Or a bag. I had been walking on the county road for the best part of four hours this morning. From eight until about eleven forty-five.
    “How long is the county road?” I said. “From the highway all the way down to here?”
    Finlay thought about it.
    “Maybe fourteen miles, I guess,” he said.
    “Right,” I said. “I walked all the way down from