“Wow, it’s small,” Remy said as she saw the machine coming toward us.

This particular press was made of aluminum and sat twenty-four inches high. The base of the apparatus was affixed to a square piece of steel three inches thick and the shape of letter-sized paper.

At the top of the machine was a feed port or funnel to pour whatever powder formulation into, and along the side was a hand crank.

“So it requires no electricity?” Remy said as Udall had me sign for the item.

“Exactly,” I said.

That was the main advantage of these presses. The lowlifes who used them could set up in some abandoned house or a rural structure out in the woods with no power.

I pointed at the spout. “You fill up here,” I said. “Your die lives right in this column. That’s what stamps the letter or word onto the pill so it looks legit. Like Bayer Aspirin has an ‘81’ on it. And then you crank it like this.” I turned the hand crank one revolution, and the column jammed down. “The pill comes out there.” I pointed at the smooth base of the machine. “You hit this to eject it and wipe the area clean for the next pill. And on you go.”

Remy lifted the machine and turned it on its side. Staring at the column that stuck up twenty-four inches into the air. It had two rails, and she was mentally lining them up with the two marks on the back seat of the Caprice.

“It’s close.” I nodded. “But let’s get it down there and check. Take some pictures and make sure.”

Remy and I took the elevator down to Basement 2, and we were off like a herd of turtles through the bowels of the building. We pushed the cart down yellowing hallways with rooms where case files were stored. When we finally got to the end, we took an elevator all the way up into the vehicle mod yard.

As we got there, Carlos had just arrived for his shift, and he saw us rolling the pill press toward him.

“Oh shit, CSI’s in the house,” he said. “Is this Vegas or Miami? The women were hotter in Miami.”

“You can’t say stuff like that anymore,” I said.

Remy and I rolled the cart over to the Chevy Caprice and gloved up. Then we grabbed the pill press and carried it carefully toward the car.

The back seats of American cars from the ’90s are huge, and Remy got in from one side, while I pushed from the other.

Carlos handed me the press, and I placed it on the seat, positioning the two rails right into the dimples left on the seat.

“Perfect match,” Carlos said.

I got out and went around to Remy’s side. Inspected the indents. Carlos was right. It was a match. But I scrunched up my face, mentally playing through the action.

“What’s wrong?” Remy asked.

“Can I see that picture?” I said. “The one you showed me with the blood smears.”