Reborn: The Rookie Detective

"I... I'm just an insurance salesman," Jack weakly defended himself, inwardly both amused and exasperated. Justine was becoming more and more like a normal person, even learning to play pranks.

The policewoman's impression of this guy plummeted. "Selling retirement insurance to women in their sixties and seventies?"

"You know, there are more and more centenarians in our country now, and abuse in nursing homes is rampant," Jack began to lie with a straight face.

The policewoman glared at him, then turned to Finlay and asked, "Should I put him in the detention room?"

Finlay shook his head. "I have some questions to ask. Leave them to me." He then took the file the policewoman had printed out and led Jack towards the conference room.

This small town police station didn't have a dedicated interrogation room, only two conference rooms, one large and one small, separated by wooden partitions. Finlay opened the smaller one, led Jack inside, gestured towards the partition wall to indicate that he could observe the proceedings from there, and then took the file to the next room.

Sure enough, Jack, sitting in his chair, clearly heard the sounds of a door opening and closing next door, followed by Finlay's self-introduction.

"I'm Detective Oscar Finlay. I'll be asking you some questions. I know you've been informed of your rights, so you know you don't have to answer."

Silence met his convoluted opening.

Finlay gave a soft hum and continued, "The body was found in the bushes beside the highway, near an overpass, covered by a flattened cardboard box."

"The deceased was running, shot in the head, and had no identification on him. Our coroner is verifying his identity through fingerprints."

"Long-range shot, 9x39mm bullet, no spent casing found."

"The victim is a male, in his thirties, of medium build, who was brutally beaten after death. Do you know who this person is?"

"How did he die?"

Again, endless silence answered Finlay.

"Alright, it's been interesting talking to you. I don't want to waste the rest of my afternoon. Maybe your court-appointed lawyer can get you to speak."

Jack heard the sound of a chair being pushed back as someone stood up, scraping against the floor. It seemed Finlay had finally lost his patience and was about to end this futile conversation.

Just as Jack heard the sound of a doorknob turning, a male voice suddenly came from next door, deep and powerful, with a slight resonance, "I don't need a lawyer."

Then came Finlay's sarcasm: "Listen to that, he's finally speaking?"

"He only speaks when he wants to." Reacher's reply was also in the third person.

"Why don't you need a lawyer?" There was another sound of a chair being pushed back; Finlay must have sat back down.

"Because I haven't killed anyone." Reacher paused, then continued, "At least not recently, and not in this town."

Finlay seemed a little speechless. Jack couldn't see his expression, but he imagined it wasn't a pleasant look.

Then came the rustling sound of papers being turned over, followed by the detective's voice after a while.

"Jack Reacher, orphaned, with an older brother, Joe, two years his senior. You're a veteran, formerly the leader of the '110th Military Police Special Investigations Unit,' so you're also a military police officer?"

Finlay continued reading the files. "You killed several people during a mission, but a subsequent court-martial ruled it all justified. So, if I believed the man sitting in front of me was a trained killer, do you know what would happen?"

"Your deduction is correct, but this murder has nothing to do with me. From your description, there are at least three perpetrators."

Hearing Reacher begin analyzing the case, Jack next door smiled, a kind of camaraderie between colleagues.

[A/n: I don't know why But I am getting irritated with Mc in the scenes involving Reacher. I mean, I can't put it into words but still don't like it.]

"Long-range shooting, one shot, fatal, so the shooter was a good marksman. 9x39mm bullets, a subsonic rifle produced in the former Soviet Union. If you ask me, it was a VSS, with a built-in suppressor, efficient and silent. This guy wasn't a novice, because he picked up the spent casing."

"Okay, please continue." Finlay seemed to think Reacher's words made a lot of sense.

"The second person was someone who would beat up a corpse, not quite right in the head, which doesn't fit the logic of that professional shooter."

"And the third person was introverted, with some compassion, so he just grabbed something to cover the corpse, because the second person wouldn't do something so unnecessary, while a professional shooter wouldn't just casually cover a person with a cardboard box."

Jack nodded frequently. Although this was a simple psychological profile, the thought of these words coming from a big guy weighing over 230 pounds felt incredibly jarring. It seemed that ordinary people would have a prejudice that muscular people must also be all muscle and not good at thinking.

Finlay seemed to agree with Reacher's assessment. "Your guess is interesting, but someone saw someone walking near the dumping site today. The build matches your description. You know this is a small town; people your size are rare."

"That person was me. I got off the long-distance bus this morning and walked all the way here," Reacher explained.

"But the long-distance bus doesn't stop in Margrave," Finlay seized on the point.

"I didn't say the bus stopped in Margrave. The driver made an exception for me," Reacher said, somewhat angrily.

Jack sensed that Finlay was deliberately provoking Reacher to test him, and secretly chuckled. This guy hadn't grasped the situation; the big guy opposite him was not only much bigger but also smarter.

Then the two engaged in a pointless exchange about Reacher's purpose in coming to Margrave. Reacher stated that he came purely on a whim, simply wanting to learn about a deceased blues singer — the blind Blake.

Finlay found this incomprehensible. A homeless man with just over $200 in his pocket traveled hundreds of kilometers to this remote town just to learn about a deceased black blues singer?

Well, at this point, Reacher's image in his mind was fixed as an idle homeless man, or even further, a retired veteran suffering from PTSD.

"Alright, the coroner estimated the deceased's time of death to be around midnight last night. If I can confirm you were on the long-distance bus during that time, you're cleared of suspicion. But until then, you'll need to be detained."

Finlay finally lost patience and wasn't going to listen to Reacher's rambling any further.

"Do you know what this means?" Reacher's voice was somewhat disappointed. "It means I'll be staying here for a while. Applying for a search warrant takes time. This is terrible."

Finlay stood up decisively, his tone tinged with satisfaction. "I'm sorry, the law requires a search warrant. Come on, I'll take you to the detention room."