Mendez didn’t like the assessment. “It’s moot now. The press is here. They know what they know. We’ve got a job to do. Have you talked to the owner of the property yet? What’s his story?”

“I’ve got a couple of deputies sitting on him, they’re waiting for you and Hicks. I wanted to get these cars secured first.”

“Are you going in with the cars?”

“Yeah.”

“And who else?” Mendez asked.

“Why?”

Mendez made a face as if the whole subject tasted bad. “Farman’s kid brought Lisa Warwick’s severed finger to school for show-and-tell today.”

Dixon’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“Yeah. It’s in a brown bag in my trunk. He tried to feed it to a classmate.”

“Oh my God.”

“The kid probably picked it up at the scene, but how is that going to look in the press? The boy had the victim’s finger and we’re letting his father into the victim’s car? I don’t want to get into it with Frank, but that’s going to look improper. A lawyer could use that down the road.”

Dixon took a moment to let it soak in. He would look at the situation from the perspective of nearly two decades spent as a detective himself. It wouldn’t matter how well he knew Frank Farman. It wouldn’t matter that Farman had a spotless record. This was now a procedural issue.

“Point taken,” he said. “Go talk to the property owner. I’ll deal with Frank. Does he know about this incident with his son?”

“Yes.”

Mendez breathed a short sigh of relief. He walked across the field two rows to Lisa Warwick’s car, where Hicks was standing talking with a couple of deputies.

“We’re up to speak to the property owner,” he said.

“Did you tell Dixon about the finger?”

“Yeah. He said he’ll deal with Frank.”

“Better him than you.”

They took Mendez’s car out of the field and down the road to the main entrance of the junkyard, which was blocked with reporters and deputies.

Mendez honked his horn impatiently. Hicks held his ID up. A photographer snapped a picture.

“Guess now we find out what it’s like to be in the big time,” Hicks said.

“Looks like it’s a pain in the ass.”

The junkyard office was a rusty trailer house that appeared to be a residence as well. Mendez and Hicks walked in, squinting at the harsh fluorescent lighting that shone down from an acoustic tile ceiling yellowed with cigarette smoke. The place was a mess and stank with the smell of sour sweat and fried onions.

A deputy sat at the kitchen table with the man Mendez presumed to be Gordon Sells. Sells looked a hard midforties, balding, grim-faced. Chest and back hair sprouted out around the confines of his stained wife-beater.