They didn’t think much of the police and had imagined their daughter could be a doctor or a scientist. Someone who left their community for some time and then returned to Mason Falls, a symbol to others that anything was possible. Instead, she was stuck with me.

“I thought Brevard was the fifth highest for drugs,” I teased. “Sixth? You sure?”

My partner rolled her eyes at me.

The two men being from Brevard County probably meant this was just another death in the drug war. Bad guys killing other bad guys.

The M.E. walked up, her blond hair pulled back in a hair tie. She had on booties and a crime scene onesie, today in blue.

“Detectives,” she said. “Busy week.”

I smiled gently at Sarah. She and I had dated for a few months, until I realized I hadn’t been ready to date anyone at the time.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

Alvin Gerbin, her tech, loped along behind her, a flowery blue XXXL Hawaiian shirt over a white tee.

Remy and I took a step back toward the rear of the Caprice to let Sarah and Alvin get at the bodies.

The Caprice had whitewall tires that looked bleached, and I remembered arresting a guy for robbery back when I was in patrol. He’d been caught stealing five bags from a Dollar General, and all he had to show for it were ten boxes of baking soda and eight packs of those rectangular Mr. Clean erasers. From my interview with him, I learned that those were the secret to beautiful whitewalls.

I stripped off my gloves and turned to Remy.

Most people know that detective work largely happens in the first twenty-four hours after a murder. What they might not know is that most of the early work comes from human intel, not medical evidence. The medical findings come in later and help more in court. In proving out hypothesis and in conviction.

“Let’s let ’em get the bodies out of there, Rem.” I pointed. “Get the Chevy towed into the mod yard. Print it. In the meantime, you and I can start chatting up these guys’ families and friends.”

“Agreed,” Remy said. “Maybe we can find out what the hell these two were doing so far from home.”

“And if they’re low-level schlubs,” I added, “why did they die in such a high-level way?”

13

By ten forty-five, I was at my desk in the precinct, my head buried in my notes from the crime scene.

Juan Vinorama’s license and car were both registered in his Florida hometown, so I’d called up a Cocoa Beach detective from the roadside before Remy and I left the scene. The detective had offered to do a courtesy notification at the address on file with the DMV, and now I stared at my phone, seeing a text come in from the cop in Florida.

Bogus address on Vinorama, Detective. Same with Dilmendes. Sorry. No one to notify.

Remy came in holding up the jackets on our two dead guys. “I got yearbook photos,” she said.