“Looks more like a road trip,” I said.

I leaned in and checked the tags on the shirts. “These are all XXLs,” I said, motioning at the man in the passenger seat. “Maybe the big guy didn’t pack properly.”

I sat down in the back seat of the car, directly behind Juan Vinorama. At a touch over six foot, I could see just above his head, making the driver about five foot eleven. Probably a hundred and fifty pounds. I glanced to his friend, who clocked in at over two bills, but was shorter. He had a hard, rectangular face, from what I could make of it through the bloody mess.

“Bam.” I held up my finger like a gun, pointing at Vinorama over the back seat. “Bam,” I said again, pointing at an angle at the John Doe in the passenger seat.

Remy sat down in the back seat on her side, next to me. She moved her gloved hands along two lines that ran from back to front, across the center of the back-seat vinyl, in between us.

The two marks were dimpled impressions, each less than an inch wide and ten inches long, right in the center of the seat. Like where a person would sit in the middle, if there were three sitting in the rear.

“Something heavy?” she theorized.

I nodded, agreeing, and my eyes moved to a smear of reddish-brown blood that had stained through the passenger seat, from front to back. Beside the mark, the material that made up the seat back was torn up.

“What do you make of those marks?” I said, pointing at the dark spots on the back of the passenger seat. The lumbar area behind the big guy.

“Probably an errant third shot. Guy bled through from front to back,” Remy said. “Bam, bam. And then, bam.” She imitated what I had done, but added a third shot through the seat cushion that landed in the passenger’s lower back.

“Sure, but why?” I asked. “If Biggee was already shot in the head, why hit him again?”

Behind us, I heard an engine shut off and glanced up at the Caprice’s rearview mirror. Sarah Raines, the local M.E., got out of the crime scene van, along with Alvin Gerbin, her tech.

“I dunno,” Remy said. “Maybe the first shot was at the lumbar area. Then the head.”

I climbed out of the Caprice just as Officer Atienza walked up.

“Detective,” Atienza said. “Results came back from the prints on the passenger. His name is Miguel Dilmendes,” she said. “Thirty-two years old. From Cocoa Beach, Florida, just like Vinorama.”

“Brevard County,” Remy said, her mind a steel trap. “It’s got the sixth-highest drug overdose rate in the state of Florida.”

I stared at my partner. The thing you have to understand about Remy is that she not only skipped a grade in junior high, but graduated college in three years. This made her the third-youngest rookie patrolman to come out of the academy and the youngest to make detective in Mason Falls. And while I was downright impressed by both those facts, her parents did not find her occupation to be a source of pride.