Reacher scanned the transcripts from the 911 calls and the radio chatter between the squad cars. Then he glanced through the crime-scene protocol. The initial sweep by the uniformed officers, the forensic examination by Bellantonio’s own people, Emerson’s inspiration with the parking meter. Then he read the arrest report. It was printed out and pinned up along with everything else. The SWAT tactics, the sleeping suspect, the ID from the driver’s license from the wallet in the pants pocket. The paramedics’ tests. The capture of the dog by the K9 officers. The clothes in the closet. The shoes. The guns in the basement. He read the witness reports. A Marine recruiter had heard six shots. A cell phone company had provided a recording. There was a graph attached. A gray smear of sound, with six sharp spikes. Left to right, they were arrayed in a pattern that matched what Helen Rodin had said she had heard. One, two-three, pause, four-five-six. The graph’s vertical axis represented volume. The shots had been faint but clear on the recording. The horizontal axis represented the time base. Six shots in less than four seconds. Four seconds that had changed a city. For a spell, at least.

Reacher looked at the rifle. It was heat-sealed into a clear plastic sleeve. He read the report pinned above it. A Springfield M1A Super Match, ten-shot box magazine, four cartridges still in it. Barr’s prints all over it. Scratches on the forestock matching varnish scrapings found at the scene. The intact bullet recovered from the pool. A ballistics lab report matching the bullet to the barrel. Another report matching the shell case to the ejector. Slam dunk. Case closed.

“OK, enough,” Reacher said.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Bellantonio said.

“Best I ever saw,” Reacher said.

“Better than a hundred eyewitnesses.”

Reacher smiled. Crime-scene techs loved to say that.

“Anything you’re not happy with?” he asked.

“I love it all,” Bellantonio said.

Reacher glanced at his reflection in the Dodge’s tinted window. The black glass made his new shirt look gray.

“Why did he leave the traffic cone behind?” he said. “He could have pitched it into the back of the van, easy as anything.”

Bellantonio said nothing.

“And why did he pay to park?” Reacher asked.

“I’m forensics,” Bellantonio said. “Not psychology.”

Then Emerson came back in and stood there, waiting to accept Reacher’s surrender. Reacher gave it up, no hesitation. He shook their hands and congratulated them on a well-worked case.

He walked back, one block north and four blocks east, under the raised highway, heading for the black glass tower. It was after five o’clock and the sun was on his back. He arrived at the plaza and saw that the fountain was still going and the pool had filled another inch. He went in past the NBC sign and rode up in the elevator. Ann Yanni didn’t show. Maybe she was preparing for the six o’clock news.

He found Helen Rodin at her secondhand desk.

“Watch my eyes,” he said.

She watched them.

“Pick your own cliché,” he said. “It’s a cast-iron, solid-gold slam dunk. It’s Willie Mays under a fly ball.”

She said nothing.

“See any doubt in my eyes?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I don’t.”

“So start calling psychiatrists. If that’s what you really want to do.”

“He deserves representation, Reacher.”

“He stepped out of line.”

“We can’t just lynch him.”

Reacher paused. Then he nodded. “The shrink should think about the parking meter. I mean, who pays for ten minutes even if they’re not shooting people? It strikes me as weird. It’s so law-abiding, isn’t it? It kind of puts the whole event into a law-abiding envelope. Maybe he really was nuts this time. You know, confused about what he was doing.”

Helen Rodin made a note. “I’ll be sure to mention it.”

“You want to get some dinner?”

“We’re on opposite sides.”

“We had lunch.”

“Only because I wanted something from you.”

“We can still be civilized.”

She shook her head. “I’m having dinner with my father.”

“He’s on the opposite side.”

“He’s my father.”

Reacher said nothing.

“Were the cops OK?” she asked.

Reacher nodded. “They were courteous enough.”

“They can’t have been very pleased to see you. They don’t understand why you’re really here.”

“They don’t need to worry. They’ve got a great case.”

“It’s not over until the fat lady sings.”

“She’s been singing since Friday at five. Pretty loud.”

“Maybe we could have a drink after dinner,” she said. “If I can get away in time. There’s a sports bar six blocks north of here. Monday night, it’s about the only place in town. I’ll drop by and see if you’re there. But I can’t promise anything.”

“Neither can I,” Reacher said. “Maybe I’ll be at the hospital, unplugging James Barr’s life support.”

He rode down in the elevator and found Rosemary Barr waiting for him in the lobby. He guessed she had just gotten back from the hospital and had called upstairs and Helen Rodin had told her he was on his way down. So she had waited. She was pacing nervously, side to side, crossing and recrossing the route between the elevator bank and the street door.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

“Outside,” he said.

He led her through the door and across the plaza to the south wall of the pool. It was still filling slowly. The fountain splashed and tinkled. He sat where he had sat before, with the funeral tributes at his feet. Rosemary Barr stood in front of him, facing him, very close, her eyes on his, not looking down at the flowers and the candles and the photographs.

“You need to keep an open mind,” she said.

“Do I?” he said.

“James wanted you here, therefore he can’t be guilty.”

“That’s a leap.”

“It’s logical,” she said.

“I just saw the evidence,” he said. “More than enough for anyone.”

“I’m not going to argue about fourteen years ago.”

“You can’t.”

“But he’s innocent now.”

Reacher said nothing.

“I understand how you feel,” Rosemary said. “You think he let you down.”

“He did.”

“But suppose he didn’t? Suppose he met your conditions and this is all a mistake? How would you feel then? What would you do for him? If you’re ready to stand up against him, don’t you think you should be equally ready to stand up for him?”

“That’s too hypothetical for me.”

“It’s not hypothetical. I’m just asking, if you’re proved wrong, if he didn’t do it, will you put the same energy into helping him?”

“If I’m proved wrong, he won’t need my help.”

“Will you?”

“Yes,” Reacher said, because it was an easy promise to make.

“So you need to keep an open mind.”

“Why did you move out?”

She paused. “He was angry all the time. It was no fun living with him.”

“Angry at what?”

“At everything.”

“So maybe it’s you who should keep an open mind.”

“I could have made up a reason. But I didn’t. I told you the truth. I don’t want to hide anything. I need you to trust me. I need to make you believe. My brother’s an unhappy man, maybe even disturbed. But he didn’t do this.”

Reacher said nothing.

“Will you keep an open mind?” she asked.

Reacher didn’t answer. Just shrugged and walked away.

He didn’t go to the hospital. Didn’t unplug James Barr’s machines. He went to the sports bar instead, after a shower back at the Metropole Palace. The six blocks north of the black glass tower took him under the highway again and out into a hinterland. Gentrification had a boundary to the south, as he had seen, and now he saw it had a boundary to the north, too. The bar was a little ways beyond it. It was in a plain square building that could have started out as anything. Maybe a feed store, maybe an automobile showroom, maybe a pool hall. It had a flat roof and bricked-up windows and moss growing where blocked rainwater gutters had spilled.