standing there waiting for them in the entrance corridor. A nondescript guy, maybe thirty years old, in a lieutenant's uniform under a white lab coat. Newman nodded toward him. "This is Lieutenant Simon. He runs the lab for me. Couldn't manage without him."
He introduced Reacher and Jodie and they shook hands all around. Simon was quiet and reserved. Reacher figured him for a typical lab guy, annoyed at the disruption to the measured routine of his work. Newman led them inside and down the corridor to his office, and Simon nodded silently to him and disappeared.
"Sit down," Newman said. "Let's talk."
"So you're a sort of pathologist?" Jodie asked him.
Newman took his place behind his desk and rocked his hand from side to side, indicating a disparity. "Well, a pathologist has a medical degree, and we anthropologists don't. We studied anthropology, pure and simple. The physical structure of the human body, that's our field. We both work postmortem, of course, but generally speaking if a corpse is relatively fresh, it's a pathologist's job, and if there's only a skeleton left, then it's our job. So I'm a bone doctor."
Jodie nodded.
"Of course, that's a slight simplification," Newman said. "A fresh corpse can raise questions concerning its bones. Suppose there's dismemberment involved? The pathologist would refer to us for help. We can look at the saw marks on the bones and help out. We can say how weak or strong the perpetrator was, what kind of saw he used, was he left-handed or right-handed, things like that. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I'm working on skeletons. Dry old bones."
Then he smiled again. A private, amused smile. "And pathologists are useless with dry old bones. Really, really hopeless. They don't know the first thing about them. Sometimes I wonder what the hell they teach them in medical school."
The office was quiet and cool. No windows, indirect lighting from concealed fixtures, carpet on the floor. A rosewood desk, comfortable leather chairs for the visitors. And an elegant clock on a low shelf, ticking quietly, already showing three-thirty in the afternoon. Just three and a half hours until the return flight.
"We're here for a reason, General," Reacher said. "This isn't entirely a social call, I'm afraid."
"Social enough to stop calling me General and start calling me Nash, OK? And tell me what's on your mind."
Reacher nodded. "We need your help, Nash."
Newman looked up. "With the MIA lists?"
Then he turned to Jodie, to explain.
"That's what I do here," he said. "Twenty years, I've done nothing else."
She nodded. "It's about a particular case. We sort of got involved in it."
Newman nodded back, slowly, but this time the light was gone from his eyes.
"Yes, I was afraid of that," he said. "There are eighty-nine thousand, one hundred twenty MIA cases here, but I bet I know which one you're interested in."
"And a hundred twenty. Two thousand, two hundred missing from Vietnam, eight thousand, one hundred seventy missing from Korea, and seventy-eight thousand, seven hundred fifty missing from World War Two. We haven't given up on any single one of them, and I promise you we never will."
"God, why so many?"
Newman shrugged, a bitter sadness suddenly there in his face.
"Wars," he said. "High explosive, tactical movement, airplanes. Wars are fought, some combatants live, some die. Some of the dead are recovered, some of them aren't. Sometimes there's nothing left to recover. A direct hit on a man by an artillery shell will reduce him to his constituent molecules. He's just not there anymore. Maybe a fine red mist drifting through the air, maybe not even that, maybe he's completely boiled off to vapor. A near miss will blow him to pieces. And fighting is about territory, isn't it? So even if the pieces of him are relatively large, enemy tank movement or friendly tank movement back and forth across the disputed territory will plow the pieces of him into the earth, and then he's gone forever."
He sat in silence, and the clock ticked slowly around.
"And airplanes are worse. Many of our air campaigns have been fought over oceans. A plane goes down in the ocean and the crew is missing until the end of time, no matter how much effort we expend in a place like this."
He waved his arm in a vague gesture that took in the office and all the unseen space beyond and ended up resting toward Jodie, palm up, like a mute appeal.
"Eighty-nine thousand," she said. "I thought the MIA