"I'm just an insurance salesman," Jack weakly defended himself, feeling a mix of amusement and frustration. Justin was becoming more and more like a normal person, even learning to play pranks.
The female officer's impression of the man in front of her plummeted. "Selling retirement insurance to elderly women in their sixties and seventies?"
"You know, the number of centenarians in our country is increasing, and abuse in nursing homes is rampant," Jack began to ramble seriously.
The female officer glared at him and turned to ask Finley, "Should I lock him up in the holding cell?"
Finley shook his head. "I still have some questions. Leave him to me." He took the printed file from the female officer and led Jack to the meeting room.
This small town's police station didn't have a dedicated interrogation room, only two meeting rooms separated by wooden walls. Finley opened the smaller room, led Jack inside, and motioned towards the partition, indicating he could listen in here. Then he took the file next door.
Sure enough, as Jack sat in the chair, he clearly heard the door opening and closing in the next room, followed by Finley's self-introduction.
"I'm Detective Oscar Finley. I'll be asking you some questions. I know you've been informed of your rights, so you know you're not obliged to answer."
The only response to his awkward introduction was silence.
Finley snorted lightly and continued.
"The body was found in the bushes by the highway, near an overpass, covered by a flattened cardboard box."
"The victim was shot in the head while running, had no identification, and our coroner is verifying the identity through fingerprints."
"Long-distance shot, 9X39mm bullet, no shell casings found."
"The victim was a male, in his thirties, of medium build, and was beaten after death. Do you know who this person is?"
"How did he die?"
The response was still endless silence.
"Alright, talking to you is interesting, but I don't want to waste my afternoon. Maybe your court-appointed lawyer can make you talk."
Jack heard the sound of a chair being pushed back as someone stood up, the scraping sound on the floor indicating Finley had lost his patience and was ending this futile conversation.
Just as Jack heard the door handle turning, a new male voice, deep and resonant, suddenly spoke up from next door. "I don't need a lawyer."
Then came Finley's mockery, "Listen, he's speaking?"
"He speaks when he wants to." Reacher's reply also used third person.
"Why don't you need a lawyer?" The sound of the chair being pushed suggested Finley had sat back down.
"Because I didn't kill anyone," Reacher paused, then continued. "At least not recently, and not in this town."
Finley seemed taken aback. Jack couldn't see his expression, but he imagined it didn't look pleasant at the moment.
Next came the sound of papers being flipped, and after a while, Finley's voice resumed.
"Jack Reacher, both parents deceased, an older brother named Joe. You are a veteran, once led the '110th Special Investigations Unit of the Military Police.' So, you're a military policeman?"
Finley continued reading the file. "You killed several people during your missions, but the military court investigation ruled it was all justified. So, if I believe the man sitting in front of me is a trained killing machine, you know what that means?"
"Your assumption isn't wrong, but this murder has nothing to do with me. Based on your description, there were at least three perpetrators."
Hearing Reacher start to analyze the case, Jack smiled, feeling a sense of camaraderie.
"Long-distance shot, one fatal shot, so the shooter is skilled. 9X39mm bullet, that's a subsonic round from the former Soviet Union. If I had to guess, it was a VSS, with an integrated silencer, efficient and quiet. This person isn't a novice since they collected the shell casings."
"Alright, please continue," Finley seemed to find Reacher's analysis reasonable.
"The second person is a maniac who beat the corpse, not mentally stable, which doesn't align with the professional shooter's behavior."
"The third person is introverted, somewhat compassionate, so they grabbed some items to cover the body. The maniac wouldn't bother with such unnecessary actions, and the shooter is meticulous and wouldn't randomly use a cardboard box to cover someone."
Jack nodded frequently. Though this was a simple psychological profile, the fact that these words came from a man weighing over 230 pounds made it seem incongruous. People often had the bias that someone with muscles must also have a brain full of muscles, not capable of such thought.
Finley seemed to find Reacher's words reasonable. "Your hypothesis is interesting, but someone saw a person near the dump site today, matching your description. You know, in this small town, there aren't many people with your physique."
"That person was me. I got off a long-distance bus this morning and walked here," Reacher explained.
"But the bus doesn't stop in Margrave," Finley pointed out a crucial detail.
"I didn't say it stopped in Margrave. The driver did me a favor and made an exception," Reacher said, a bit angrily.
Jack sensed that Finley was deliberately trying to provoke Reacher to test him, finding it amusing. This guy hadn't realized that the big man in front of him not only far exceeded him in physique but also in intelligence.
The two then had a boring exchange about why Reacher came to Margrave. Reacher claimed he came on a whim, just to learn about a deceased blues singer, Blind Blake.
Finley found this illogical. A drifter with over 200 bucks in his pocket traveled hundreds of miles to this remote town just to learn about a deceased black blues singer?
By now, Finley had fixed Reacher's image in his mind as a useless drifter, or worse, a PTSD-afflicted veteran.
"Alright, the coroner estimates the time of death was around midnight. If I can confirm you were on the bus at that time, you're cleared of suspicion. But until then, we need to detain you."
Finley finally lost his patience, unwilling to listen to Reacher's explanations any longer.
"You know what that means?" Reacher's voice sounded disappointed. "It means I'll be here for a while. It takes time to get a search warrant. Too bad."
Finley stood up briskly, his tone a bit gloating. "Sorry, the law requires a warrant. Come on, I'll take you to the holding cell."
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