Morales bends over the case, comes back up, and hands over a set of light-blue paper booties and latex gloves. As Rosaria and the sergeant start getting dressed, another Three Rivers officer comes over, nearly breathless, and says, “Mister Houston, up two houses, he says the folks who were here had a big black pickup truck, extended cab, with those overhead lights. He said it drove out a while ago, he’s not sure of the time.”

Morales says, “Okay, then, put it out. I’m busy here.”

Once they are both dressed, Morales says, “I know you’re a pro, but I still have to say it: be careful where you step, and before you touch anything, ask me first. Savvy?”

“You got it.”

At the open door, the officer notes the time and writes down Morales’s name, and Rosaria presents her identification. After the recording is done—essential at any homicide scene to keep track of the traffic—Morales goes in, and Rosaria closely follows.

The police sergeant stops, and Rosaria takes in the bloody scene. The smell of death is here in this room, and unlike other crime scenes she’s visited over the years, this one is relatively fresh. Too soon for body decomp to have set in, though there’s the aroma of discharged firearms mixed in with the pungent scent of bodies having just been ripped apart by bullets traveling at several thousand feet per second.

The dead man in this small living room is huge, bulked-up, and Rosaria can imagine the house shuddering when he hit the ground. He’s wearing black shorts and a wrestler-type tank top, and there are torn and twisted strips of gray duct tape around his ankles and wrists.

What’s visible on his skin are a lot of tattoos, and Morales notices Rosaria’s interest as she leans over the dead man and says, “Rough ink work, right? That’s Mexican prison stuff, right there. Our dead guy here has a lot of blood and bullets under his belt.”

Rosaria says quietly, “Yeah, plus one through the mouth. Good shooting.”

“Or accidental. Once bullets start flying, you never know where they’ll end up.”

A television is on its side, the sound and picture still on, and Rosaria cants her head, says, “Looks like a telenovela.”

“Good call.”

Rosaria straightens up and says, “This guy…he wasn’t shot right off when the intruder came to the door. He either recognized the intruder or didn’t think he or she was a threat. And the intruder…violent death wasn’t the goal.”

Morales nods. “Yeah. The duct tape. Looks like the big guy here got caught or stunned, was secured by the duct tape, but was strong enough and pissed enough to tear himself free. And look at this.”

Morales steps over the dead man’s thick and outstretched legs, points down to the floor between him and the couch. “Don’t touch it, but it looks like a Beretta nine mill down there. I did a quick check before you showed up. There’s weapons stashed all over the place. Way I figure it, he was down for the count but managed to break free, find a weapon, and he was zapped before he could use it.”