‘Should that make a difference?’
‘The doctors say Moorcroft might wake up at some point. No one can say when, or what state he’ll be in when he does. If he does.’
Reacher said, ‘I was at the 110th HQ part of the morning.’
Podolski nodded. ‘For about twenty minutes total. We checked. What were you doing the rest of the morning?’
‘Walking.’
‘Where?’
‘Here and there.’
‘Anyone see you walking?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘That’s convenient,’ Podolski said, for the third time.
‘You’re talking to the wrong guy, detective. Last I saw of Moorcroft, he was making his way out of the OC dining room right here, happy as a clam. Whoever attacked him is running around out there, laughing at you, while you’re wasting your time with me.’
‘In other words, some other dude did it?’
‘Obviously.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ Podolski said again.
‘You ever been wrong?’
‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is, am I wrong now? And I don’t think I am. I’ve got a guy with a history of violence, who was seen arguing with the victim right before the time of the crime, and who dumped a full set of clothes right after the time of the crime, and took his second shower of the day, and who had access to a vehicle, and whose movements aren’t entirely accounted for. You were a cop, correct? What would you do?’
‘I would find the right guy. I’m sure I saw that written down somewhere.’
‘Suppose the right guy says he’s the wrong guy?’
‘Happened all the time. You have to use your judgement.’
‘I am.’
‘Pity,’ Reacher said.
‘Show me your hands.’
Reacher put his hands on the table, flat, palms down. They looked big and tan, and worn and rough. Both sets of knuckles were very slightly pink, and very slightly swollen. From the night before. The two guys, in the T-shirts. The left hook, and the right uppercut. Big impacts. Not the biggest ever, but solid. Podolski stared for a long time.
‘Inconclusive,’ he said. ‘Maybe you used a weapon. A blunt instrument of some kind. The doctors will tell me.’
Reacher said, ‘So what next?’
‘That’s the DA’s decision. In the meantime you’ll come with me. I want you locked up downtown.’
The room went quiet, and then Espin spoke for the first time.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Unacceptable. He stays here. Our homicide beats your felony assault.’
Podolski said, ‘This morning beats sixteen years ago.’
Espin said, ‘Possession is nine points of the law. We’ve got him. You don’t. Imagine the paperwork.’
Podolski didn’t answer.
Espin said, ‘But you can come over and talk to him any time you want.’
‘Will he be locked up?’ Podolski asked.
‘Tighter than a fish’s butt.’
‘Deal,’ Podolski said. He stood up, and gathered his pen and his notebook, and walked out of the room.
After that it was straight into routine pre-trial confinement. Reacher was searched again, and his boot laces were taken away, and he was half pushed and half led along a narrow blank corridor, past two grander interview rooms opposite, and around two corners, all the way to the cell block. Which was a lot more civilized than some Reacher had seen. It was more like the far corner of a chain hotel than a prison. It was a warren of subcorridors and small lobbies, and the cell itself was like a motel room. Hardened, for sure, with bolts and locks, and a steel door that opened outward, and concrete walls, and a barred foot-high slit window near the ceiling, and metal fittings in the bathroom, and a narrow barracks-style cot for a bed, but it was spacious and reasonably comfortable all the same. Better than the place on the three-lane, overall. That was for damn sure. There was even a chair next to the bed. Joint Base Dyer-Helsington House, in all its opulent glory. High-status prisoners on the inside got it better than low-status officers on the outside.
Reacher sat down in the chair.
Espin waited in the doorway.
