Ли Чайлд - No Middle Name

The ranking MP said, ‘What next?’

The county guy said, ‘It’s above my pay grade. Literally, in the township by-laws. I have to pass it on to State. No choice.’

‘When?’

‘I already called. They’ll be here soon. Then they can decide to keep it or pass it on to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.’

‘We can’t wait for ever.’

‘You won’t have to. Half a day, maybe.’ And then the guy crabbed back around the mud, to his car, where he got in and sat by himself.

The next telex came in an hour later. The same soft sergeant tore it out of the machine and brought it to Reacher’s desk. It said Gunshot victim previously reported was LTC Caroline C. Crawford. DOA inside POV stationary on isolated forest road .

POV meant personally owned vehicle. DOA meant dead on arrival. LTC meant lieutenant colonel. All of which together added up to an issue. Very few senior officers of Reacher’s acquaintance fought to the death in bars. Especially not senior officers named Caroline. And even if they did, they didn’t wind up inside their own private cars on remote woodland tracks. How would they?

Not a bar fight.

He said, ‘Who was she?’

The sergeant said, ‘Sir, I don’t know.’

Which was a case in point. A decent NCO would have detoured to a book or a phone and brought with him at least a capsule biography and a copy of current orders. Frances Neagley would have had all of that five minutes ago. Plus a photograph. Plus a lock of baby hair, if you wanted one.

Reacher said, ‘Go find out who she was.’

The dispute over jurisdiction lasted longer than expected. The State cop who showed up let slip he wasn’t sure if the woods were federal property. Fort Smith’s acreage was, obviously. Maybe the undeveloped land all around was too. The county guy said the road was maintained by the county. That was for sure. And the car was on the road, and the victim was in the car. The JAG lawyers said killing a federal employee was a federal crime, and a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army was assuredly a federal employee. And so on and so forth. Dark clouds gathered in the sky. More rain was on the way. The marks in the mud were about to get washed out. So a compromise was offered. The State Police would be the lead agency, but the army would be fully accommodated. Access would be guaranteed. Acceptable, to the men in green. The autopsy would be performed by the state in Atlanta. Also acceptable, because everyone already knew what the autopsy was going to say. Otherwise healthy, except shot twice in the chest and once in the head . The deal was agreed, whereupon immediately all three factions got into a flurry of crime-scene photography. Then a hard rain started to fall, and a tarpaulin was draped over the Porsche, and they all waited in their cars for the meat wagon and the tow truck.

Reacher looked up and saw his sergeant standing in front of him. A silent approach. The guy had a sheet of paper in his hand. But he didn’t pass it over. He spoke instead. He said, ‘Sir, permission to ask a question?’

Which was a bad thing to hear, from a unit NCO. It wasn’t what it sounded like. It was a whole different announcement. Like a girlfriend saying, ‘Honey, we need to talk.’

Reacher said, ‘Fire away.’

‘I’ve heard you don’t like my work and you’re having me posted elsewhere.’

‘Incorrect on both counts.’

‘Really?’

‘Likes and dislikes dwell in the realm of emotion. Are you accusing me of having feelings, sergeant?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I assess your work coldly and rationally against a custom metric of my own design. Which is, are you a guy I could call in the middle of the night with an emergency?’

‘Am I, sir?’

‘Not even close.’

‘So I’m to be posted.’

‘Negative.’

‘Sir, not to challenge your answer in any way, but I already know Sergeant Neagley has orders to proceed here without delay.’

Reacher smiled. ‘The NCO grapevine gets faster all the time.’

‘She comes, I go. How else could it work?’

‘It could work by you sticking around and learning something. That’s what’s going to happen. Neagley will report to me and you’ll report to Neagley. At times she’ll offer advice and encouragement about how to improve your performance.’

‘We’re of equal rank.’

‘Pretend she comes from a planet with double the gravity. Her rank is worth more than yours.’

‘How long will she be here?’

‘As long as it takes. You people need to think ahead. This reorganization is going to come out exactly ass-backward. You’re not going to be up on a hill, peering down on all you survey. You’re going to be deep in a hole, getting buried in paper. Because this is going to be the cover-your-ass unit. Everyone in the army is going to report everything, so whatever turns bad in the end is automatically our fault, because we didn’t follow it up at the time. So you need to develop a very aggressive attitude towards paperwork. If you hesitate, it will bury you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Therefore you also need to trust your intuition. You need to smell the ones that matter. No time for extensive study. Are you an aggressive person who trusts his intuition, sergeant?’

‘Maybe not enough, sir.’

‘What’s on the piece of paper you’re holding in your hand?’

‘It’s a fax, sir. A history of Colonel Crawford’s postings.’

‘Did you read it on the way in?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And?’

‘She’s in War Plans. Currently liaising with the special operations school at Fort Smith.’

‘Which tells us what?’

‘I don’t know how to put it.’

‘In your own words, sergeant.’

‘She’s a pointy-head.’

‘The pointiest of all. War Plans is special. Regular pointy-heads can’t even get in the door. We’re talking needle sharp here. Shot to death. Should we be worried?’

‘I think we should, sir.’

‘Intuition,’ Reacher said. ‘It’s a wonderful thing.’

‘Any practical steps?’

‘Start playing bad cop with the guys at Smith. Tell them we need more things sooner. In fact tell them we require a Xerox of everything. A complete file, as per protocol.’

‘I think that’s one of the issues not yet decided.’

‘Fake it till you make it, sergeant. Get them in the habit.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And close the door on the way out.’

Which the guy did. Reacher dialled his phone. The Pentagon. A number on a desk outside an office with a window. Answered by a sergeant, inevitably.

Reacher said, ‘Is he there? It’s his brother.’

‘Wait one, major.’ Then a shout, muffled by a palm on the receiver: Joe, your brother is on line two . Then a click, and then Joe’s voice, asking, ‘Are you still in Central America?’

Reacher said, ‘No, they pulled me out and sent me to Benning. Some other guy got in a car wreck. So I’m a day late and a dollar short.’

‘What’s at Benning?’

‘It’s a new thing. A lot of incoming reports. Success or failure will depend on high-speed triage. Which is why I’m calling. I need background on a name at War Plans. It would take all day to get it anyplace else.’

‘What’s happening at War Plans?’

‘One of them died.’

‘What exactly is it you’re doing at Benning?’

‘The mission is to supervise all criminal investigations in the southeastern military districts. The likelihood is it will become a gigantic file cabinet.’

‘Who was supposed to get the command?’

‘A guy named David Noble. Never met him. Fell asleep at the wheel, probably. Too eager to get here.’

‘So you got it.’