CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
“Eight.” The interrogator slapped down a manila folder on the table in front of Reid. “Eight dead. Several more wounded.” He shrugged out of his black suit jacket and hung it on the back of a blue plastic chair, but he did not sit. Instead he paced the length of the steel table bolted to the floor between them.
The man was Interpol, around fifty, his dark hair shifting gray and deep crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Judging by his accent, Reid could assume he was French, though he spoke in English.
“Eight bodies found in two countries, three cities, over the span of only a few hours. Every witness to these crimes claims that an American man fitting your description committed them.” The interrogator leaned forward on the table, his fingers splayed, and stared int
