The sun has claimed the bare, treeless hills for itself, pounding them with its fire and splendor. The roadway ascends and from a high point we can see the group of cars.

Marcela is taking out her equipment when a police officer’s rigid index finger moves back and forth to say “No photos.” We protest, to no avail. We can enter the area only if Marcela leaves the camera behind in the car.

The bodies are already on stretchers but the stretchers are still on the ground. They’re both covered by rough tarps.

I want to see the faces. The police won’t let me approach. I appeal: “Where’s the judge?” An older man walks over, the sort who inspires respect on sight. I’m not sure whether it’s his bearing or, on this occasion, his air of deep gravity. He asks if he can be of service and says, “I’m the father.”

He’s barely glanced at me but I notice he gives Marcela a quick, penetrating once-over.

The father speaks to another man, the court clerk. The judge hasn’t come; the clerk is in charge.

For our benefit, he’ll ask them to uncover the head of one of the dead boys. The eyelids have fallen shut, depriving me of the expression in the eyes. There’s blood and dirt on the mouth, but no grimace. I’d imagined the bullet going in at the temple, but that’s not the case. I ask where the bullet hole is.

“This young man was killed by the other one.”

The policeman lifts the tarp higher; the shirt is torn, there are powder burns and splotches of red on the chest.

We move to the second boy, who committed murder, then killed himself.

His eyes aren’t open either. I need to ask a question. But who do I ask?

The father is standing next to us, or, rather, next to Marcela. She consults him discreetly. “Your son?”

He nods gravely.

I should ask how long ago it happened, when they found out about it, and when the father (who strikes me as far more intrigued by Marcela’s proximity than sorrowed by the death of his offspring) arrived on the scene. I ask, instead, “Did they find him like this, with the eyes closed? Was he just the way he is now?”

“No, señor, I myself . . .” and he stretches out toward me the hand that closed the eyelids.

“Can you tell me what his gaze revealed?”

He’s losing control, doesn’t know how to react. I come to his aid. “Some kind of emotion, señor, some kind of pain. Sorrow, fear, pride, pleasure—what?”

“Fear? No, señor. My son was not afraid. You can see that. A grown man doesn’t do what he did. Fear? My son? No, no señor. There was nothing in his eyes. My word as a gentleman: I saw nothing, nothing.”

He’s growing vehement. And has fixated on one word: fear. Why?

Since this one’s not giving me anything, maybe the other one’s father will. But I can’t figure out who that might be.