Stuyvesant said nothing. Bannon checked his watch. Took his cell phone out of his pocket and laid it on the table in front of him. It sat there, silent.
"I'm sticking with the theory," he said. "Except now I'm listing both of the bad guys as yours. If this phone rings and Reacher turns out to be right, that is."
The phone rang right then. He had the ringer set to a squeaky little rendition of some famous classical overture. It sounded ludicrous in the somber stillness of the room. He picked it up and clicked it on. The fatuous tune died. Somebody must have said chief? because he said yeah and then just listened, not more than eight or nine seconds. Then he clicked the phone off and dropped it back in his jacket pocket.
"Sacramento?" Stuyvesant asked.
"No," Bannon said. "Local. They found the rifle."
They left Swain behind and headed over to the FBI labs inside the Hoover Building. An expert staff was assembling. They all looked a lot like Swain himself, academic and scientific types dragged in from home. They were dressed like family men who had expected to remain inert in front of the football game for the rest of the day. A couple of them had already enjoyed a couple of beers. That was clear. Neagley knew one of them, vaguely, from her training stint in the labs many years before.
"Was it a Vaime Mk2?" Bannon asked.
"Without a doubt," one of the techs said.
"Serial number on it?"
The guy shook his head. "Removed with acid."
"Anything you can do?"
The guy shook his head again.
"No," he said. "If it was a stamped number, we could go down under it and find enough distressed crystals in the metal to recover the number, but Vaime uses engraving instead of stamping. Nothing we can do."
"So where is it now?"
"We're fuming it for prints," the guy said. "But it's hopeless. We got nothing on the fluoroscope. Nothing on the laser. It's been wiped."
"Where was it found?"
"In the warehouse. Behind the door of one of the third-floor rooms."
"I guess they waited in there," Bannon said. "Maybe five minutes, slipped out at the height of the mayhem. Cool heads."
"Shell cases?" Neagley asked.
"None," the tech said. "They must have collected their brass. But we've got all four bullets. The three from today are wrecked from impact on hard surfaces. But the Minnesota sample is intact. The mud preserved it."
He walked to a lab bench where the bullets were laid out on a sheet of clean white butcher paper. Three of them were crushed to distorted blobs by impact. One of the three was clean. That was the one that had missed Armstrong and hit the wall. The other two were smeared with black residue from Crosetti's brains and Froelich's blood, respectively. The remains of the human tissue had printed on the copper jackets and burned on the hot surface in characteristic lacy patterns. Then the patterns had collapsed after the bullets had flown on and impacted whatever came next. The back wall, in Froelich's case. The interior hallway wall, presumably, in Crosetti's. The Minnesota bullet looked new. Its passage through the farmyard mud had scoured it clean.
"Get the rifle," Bannon said.
It came out of the laboratory still smelling of the hot super-glue fumes that had been blown all over it in the hope of finding latent fingerprints. It was a dull, boxy, undramatic weapon. It was painted all over in factory-finish black epoxy paint. It had a short stubby bolt and a relatively short barrel made much longer by the fat suppressor. It had a powerful scope fixed to the sight mounts.
"That's the wrong scope," Reacher said. "That's a Hensoldt. Vaime uses Bushnell scopes."
"Yeah, it's been modified," one of the techs said. "We already logged that."
"By the factory?"
The guy shook his head.
"I don't think so," he said. "High standard, but it's not factory workmanship."
"So what does that mean?" Bannon asked.
"I'm not sure," Reacher said.
"Is a Hensoldt better than a Bushnell?"
"Not really. They're both fine scopes. Like BMW and Mercedes. Like Canon and Nikon."
"So a person might have a preference?"
"Not a government person," Reacher said. "Like, what would you say if one of your crime scene photographers came to you and said, I want a Canon instead of this Nikon you gave me?"
"I'd probably tell him to get lost."
"Exactly. He works with what he's got. So I don't see somebody going to their department armorer and asking him to junk a thousand-dollar Bushnell just because he prefers the feel of a thousand-dollar Hensoldt."
"So why the switch?"
"I'm not sure," Reacher said again. "Damage, maybe. If you drop a rifle you can damage a sniper scope pretty easily. But a government repairer would use another Bushnell. They don't just buy the rifles. They buy crateloads of spare parts along with them."
"Suppose they were short? Suppose the scopes got damaged a lot?"
"Then they might use a Hensoldt, I guess. Hensoldts usually come with SIG rifles. You need to look at your lists again. Find out if there's anybody who buys Vaimes and SIGs for their snipers."
"Is the SIG silenced too?"
"No," Reacher said.
"So there you go," Bannon said. "Some agency needs two types of sniper rifles, it buys Vaimes as the silenced option and SIGs as the unsilenced option. Two types of scope in the spare-parts bins. They run out of Bushnells, they start in on the Hensoldts."
"Possible," Reacher said. "You should make the inquiries. You should ask specifically if anybody has fitted a Hensoldt scope to a Vaime rifle. And if they haven't, you should start asking commercial gunsmiths. Start with the expensive ones. These are rare pieces. This could be important."
Stuyvesant was staring into the distance. Worry in the slope of his shoulders.
"What?" Reacher asked.
Stuyvesant focused, and shook his head. A defeated little gesture.
"I'm afraid we bought SIGs," he said, quietly. "We had a batch of SG550s about five years ago. Unsilenced semiautomatics, as an alternative option. But we don't use them much because the automatic mechanism makes them a little inaccurate for close crowd situations. They're mostly stored. We use the Vaimes everywhere now. So I'm sure the SIG parts bins are still full."
The room was quiet for a moment. Then Bannon's phone rang again. The insane little overture trilled into the silence. He clicked it on and put it to his ear and said yeah and listened.
"I see," he said. Listened some more.
"The doctor agree?" he asked. Listened some more.
"I see," he said, and listened.
"I guess," he said, and listened.
"Two?" he asked, and listened.
"OK," he said, and clicked the phone off.
"Upstairs," he said. He was pale.
Stuyvesant and Reacher and Neagley followed him out to the elevator and rode with him up to the conference room. He sat at the head of the table and the others stayed together toward the other end, like they didn't want to get too close to the news. The sky was full dark outside the windows. Thanksgiving Day was grinding to a close.
"His name is Andretti," Bannon said. "Age seventy-three, retired carpenter, retired volunteer firefighter. He's got granddaughters. That's where the pressure came from."
"Is he talking?" Neagley asked.
"Some," Bannon said. "Sounds like he's made of slightly sterner stuff than Nendick."
"So how did it go down?"
"He frequents a cop bar outside of Sacramento, from his firefighting days. He met two guys in there."
"Were they cops?" Reacher asked.
"Cop-like," Bannon said. "That was his description. They got to talking, they got to showing each other pictures of the family. They got to talking about what a rotten world it is, and what they would do to protect their families from it. It was gradual, he said."
"And?"
"He clammed up on us for a spell, but then our doctor took a look at his hand. The left thumb has been surgically removed. Well, not really surgically. Somewhere between severed and hacked off, our guy said. But there was an attempt at neatness. Andretti stuck to his carpentry story. Our doctor said, no way was that a saw. Like, no way. Andretti seemed pleased to be contradicted, and he talked some more."
"And?"
"He lives alone. Widower. The two cop-like guys had wormed an invitation home with him. They were asking him, what would you do to protect your family? Like, what would you do? How far would you go? It was all rhetorical at first, and then it got practical fast. They told him he would have to give up his thumb or his granddaughters. His choice. They held him down and did it. They took his photographs and his address book. Told him now they knew what his granddaughters looked like and where they lived. Told him they'd take out their ovaries the same way they'd taken off his thumb. And he was ready to believe them, obviously. He would be, right? They'd just done it to him. They stole a cooler from the kitchen and some ice from the refrigerator to transport the thumb. They left and he made it to the hospital."
Silence in the room.
"Descriptions?" Stuyvesant asked.
Bannon shook his head.