“The government wouldn’t use a plastic bag,” Reacher said. “Believe me.”
“So who?”
“Would a rival do it to hurt you?”
“To kill my show? It’s possible.”
Rye went quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “But you know what? Screw them. I just decided. We’re going to do the show anyway.”
Warwick punched the air. He said, “Great decision, Sammy. Real cutting edge. Because losing Yeow doesn’t really hurt us. It actually helps us. We’ll be totally up front about it. We’ll say, this is the story, and brave Jonathan Yeow was murdered while confirming it. The audience will draw its own conclusions. Don’t you see? The message is even stronger with a dead guy.”
Brennan said, “You’re disgusting.”
“Says the killer,” Massee said.
It got tense for a second. Then Reacher stepped out from behind Brennan’s desk. Six five, two fifty, hands the size of dinner plates. He figured he could snap Warwick in two like a pencil, and then tear Rye’s prosthesis off and stuff it down his throat. He figured Massee would have a heart attack all by himself, before throwing his first punch.
He said, “We’re leaving now. But I’m sure we’ll see you again.”
THEY WALKED A BLOCK TO a neutral corner and waited five minutes for another Uber. Brennan spent the time on her phone, bouncing from link to link, following industry gossip about Samuel Rye’s rivals. Then she hit a trade paper headline that said “Rye Signs Controversial Documentary Maker.” There was a picture. Mad eyes, long gray hair, beanpole build. Paul Warwick. She started reading.
The car came and they got in. She said, “Warwick sounds like a piece of work. There are numerous complaints he routinely bullies witnesses, fakes documents, and completely ignores any information that doesn’t fit his story.”
Reacher said, “How did your prints get on the bag?”
“I don’t know.”
“How thorough was your examination of Calder Massee’s remains?”
“What, now you think I’m incompetent too?”
“Did you limit it to the head?”
“Of course not. I examined the whole skeleton.”
“Any broken bones?”
“No.”
“Did you read the original German report from 1987?”
“Of course I did.”
“Any contusions, lacerations, or other injuries?”
“No.”
“Therefore, your report also proves he wasn’t badly beaten while in custody. Believe me, I know how that goes. I’ve seen the results. But Warwick needs to believe it. It’s important to his story. In his opinion the government’s motive is its embarrassment over mistreating the wrong guy. Maybe Yeow told him to cool it on that. Maybe Yeow showed him the original German report. Which diluted Warwick’s narrative. Maybe a couple other details too. Yeow might have been a little more scrupulous than Warwick. He was with the Post, after all. That might still mean something.”
“You think they argued?”
“Maybe worse than that.”
“Go on.”
“Warwick strikes me as the type who wouldn’t like his grand design to be watered down. And he wouldn’t like someone contradicting him in public afterward.”
“Is that enough reason for homicide?”
“That’s what they asked on the radio,” Reacher said. “About you. The consensus was stranger things have happened and professional ruin is a great motivator.”
“Seriously?”
“He said losing Yeow helped him.”
“But only a little, surely. They have their basic story. A couple of extra lies won’t make much of a difference. Not enough to kill someone for.”
“I didn’t like his gloves.”
“Meaning?”
“Look at it from Yeow’s point of view. He’s standing in his kitchen, the bag goes over his head, it’s wrapped tight around his neck, and the world starts to go fuzzy. What does he do?”
“He scrabbles at the killer’s hands, to break the seal. Data show that in cases of strangulation or suffocation, it seems to be an almost universal reaction.”
“Human nature,” Reacher said. “But dumb. Better to use your thumbnails to tear a breathing hole. Or grab the guy’s nuts. But people grab their hands instead. They haul and scratch and scrabble. They leave marks.”
“Hence gloves the next day.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s a long shot. I don’t see enough motive.”
“He might not need much. He seems very intense. I expect he has the soul of an artist. But overall I agree. It’s a long shot. But it’s the kind of long shot a person wants to cross off the list. Human nature.”
“So go take his gloves off.”
“I will. But this is a big deal. As your legal counsel I would advise if we screw this up, we’re dead and buried. We need to be fireproof. I need you to get a look at Yeow’s autopsy notes. No point finding scratches on Warwick’s hands if they didn’t find skin under Yeow’s nails.”
“I can’t get a look at his notes. They’re probably not even transcribed yet.”
“Can you phone whoever did the autopsy and ask for a favor?”
“They might not take my call.”
“You probably trained them. They must know this is bullshit. They’ll help. Ask about the nails. We’re going to have Szewczk and Dupreau all over us. Better to have both ends of the deal in place. One scratches, and one gets scratched. The whole story, right there.”
“Now?”
“This evening. Under the radar. I’ll go back to Crystal City and speak to Warwick, and when you get the news from your medical friends, you can call me there with the outcome, and then either I’ll bring Warwick in, or I’ll give him his gloves back and pat him on the head and disappear.”
“You don’t have a cell phone.”
“I’m sure they have a switchboard. It’s a production company. Someone will put you through.”
“While you’re holding Warwick hostage, after hours?”
“I won’t be. Unless he has scratches.”
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1825 EST
NOT WANTING TO PROVIDE A close-up for some carrion-eating reporter with a superzoom lens, Brennan got another Uber and had the driver take her to Cantina Marina in the district’s Southwest Waterfront area. She ordered the fried clam and shrimp basket and a Diet Coke, then settled at a table in a far back corner.
Her first call was to Bernie Rodriguez, a forensic anthropologist consulting to both the D.C. and Baltimore ME offices. She and Rodriguez had known each other since grad school. Still, she worried about his reaction. If he even answered.
Her worry was unfounded. Rodriguez picked up on the first ring, said he’d seen the media swarm, assured her that everyone in the section thought the accusations were rat shit. From the background hubbub she guessed he was still at the Marriott.
Brennan asked who’d done the autopsy on Jonathan Yeow. Rodriguez didn’t know, promised to check and ring back.
She was finishing her last mollusk when he did. The pathologist was Helen Matias. Brennan knew Matias. They’d taught body recovery protocol together when such courses were still offered at the FBI Academy in Quantico. Matias was impartial, skilled, and kick-ass smart. The two women shared a mutual respect. And a love of George Carlin.
Still.
Rodriguez offered Matias’s cell number. Brennan said she had it, thanked him, and disconnected.
Brennan checked the time. Six twenty-five. Not good. The ME office was undoubtedly closed for the day.
She dialed.
Four rings, then she was rolled to voice mail. She left a few words. Mainly her name.
Brennan looked around the cantina. It was packed with office workers in suits and ties and panty hose and trench coats. With locals in running gear and sweats. With tourists in sneakers and ball caps with cameras and guidebooks.