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flooring, the fingers also missing, the arm smashed to bits at the elbow so the forearm protruded at an impossible angle from the body. Impossible if you’re alive, I mean. When the tech moved I saw the feet lying flat against the floor, the ankles smashed and both feet also nailed to the floor.
    â€œDifferent pattern with the fingers,” a CSU tech said. “Hand on the door, somebody just whacked it off with one blow. Probably used this.” Pointing at a meat cleaver on the Formica countertop. “But this hand…first they nailed it down. Roofing nails, I’d say. Zinc heads. Then Joey here—”
    â€œJoey?” I said. “You’ve got an ID?”
    â€œTom, Dick, Joey, what’s the difference? They started out, they took off one finger at a time. The other two, in the living room, shotgun with no hesitation. Didn’t even have weapons, but whoever came in here, they wanted something only from Joey here. Did his teeth first. Then,near as I can tell without running some DNA and blood analysis, this guy’s hand? It’s been chewed on.
    â€œChewed?” Kyle said. “He trying to fight off the horror?”
    â€œNah. He’s already nailed down. My guess? A dog.”
    â€œA dog,” Kyle said. “Jesus. I always think I’ve heard it all.”
    The tech placed a latex-gloved finger under the body’s jaw, turned it so I could see his mouth.
    Bits of teeth and bone.
    â€œTeeth first, or last?” another CSU tech said. “But not random, I’d say.”
    â€œBled out from both hands and mouth, small amount from the feet. They left this guy alive long enough to find what they wanted. Then they put the shotgun against his back, wham. Random?”
    â€œThese aren’t gangbangers out to get revenge for some vato humping another vato ’s sister. This is deliberate.”
    â€œWhy are you so sure about that?” I said, done with my digital photographs.
    â€œWell, I’m not. But first off, there’s the familiar death card. La Bruja warns all snitches and rats and witnesses. No me jodas . Plus, in seven years working homicides, I’ve seen all kinds of mutilations, this just has the smell of deliberate torture, you know what I mean, lady?”
    I did.
    I went into the living room.
    Sensory overload. Not the shotgun pattern. Nine double-ought pellets, bloody holes splattered across each man’s shirt. The pattern tight, the shotgun probably no more than five feet away.
    Not the pattern, nor the blood. Not the missing fingers. Just every detail of the room:
    cheap mesquite and fake rattan furniture
    overstuffed sofa and matching chair with huge cushions
    a dead woman
    a dead young child
    The woman and child had been irrelevant to the killers. I worked extra hard shutting down my gut feelings, shooting one picture after another.
    Kyle moved next to me, his mouth to my ear.
    â€œGuy was our inside man. Three years it took to get him inside. Now he’s just toast.”
    Rental house furniture with a busy tan and rust fabric that wouldn’t show stains, the kind of junk you buy at a chain discount furniture outlet, no payment for one year, no interest for two. Five-foot-long faux brass coffee table, the mirrored top crazed with age. Flat black assemble-it-yourself entertainment center with expensive flat-screen TV and surround-sound speakers and DVD equipment. Biker and car magazines everywhere, stacks of porn tapes and DVDs.
    I shot over a hundred images. Different aperture, different times. Had to mount my flash on the Nikon shoe for the body in the corner. Enough. I went out to the front yard, leaned against a TPD car in the driveway, hands down in front, holding the Nikon while I tried a mantra, to get the whole sensory data out of my system, I couldn’t leave the crime scene unless I started reclaiming myself before I drove away. I can’t do this work much longer, a thought which had distracted me a