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“ ‘Cut his weasand with thy knife.’ From The Tempest. William Shakespeare. Weasand’s another word for the windpipe, which is the trachea.” He paused. “Of course, it’s for Dr. Mitchell to decide if death was ultimately caused by loss of breath. Or by loss of blood. Or by the blast.”

Dr. Howard Mitchell was the medical examiner. Harris knew the balding, rumpled man, usually found in a well-worn suit, likely would be the one performing the autopsy. Or certainly overseeing it.

Iglesia squatted between the body bags. He pointed to the one on his right.

“But I can tell you that that one died from the blast,” he said, then reached over to the body bag on the left. He pulled down on its opening so that Harris, standing outside the window, could have a better view of the remains. “And this one had what I call a circumcision.”

The photographer chuckled.

Harris said, “What the hell are you talking about, a circumcision?”

Iglesia put two gloved fingers under the dead man’s chin and applied pressure. It caused the head to tip back and reveal the grotesque gap that was a slit across the neck.

“See?” Iglesia said with a grin. “A circumcision, ’cause he’s a damned dickhead.”

The photographer snorted her agreement.

The gash was so big that Harris could easily see that the carotid artery had been neatly severed, too.

That certainly meets the Latin meaning of “homicide”-homo for “human being,” caedere for “cut to kill.”

So then the fire was a cover for a murder?

But who did it?

So far as we know, only one person came out alive.

And he’s not looking like he’s going to make it to lunch.

Iglesia pulled back his fingers and the head bobbed back forward.

He then reached into one of the patch pockets of his lab coat.

“I’m betting,” he said, “that the cut pattern of the flesh will be consistent with the wavelike serrations on the blade of this. And of course that makes it murder.”

He held up a heavy clear plastic bag that contained what was left of a folding pocketknife. It was open, and its blade looked to be about three inches long, the sharpened edge serrated the whole length. The intensity of the heat had discolored the metal of the knife and turned the plastic handle into a melted blob of black goo, at least what remained of it.

Good luck getting a print off that, Harris thought.

“Me, personally?” the talkative Latino went on without prompting, “I’d like to see more of them die, is what I’d like. These drug dealers, they’re all scum-”

“Amen to that,” the photographer chimed in as she fired off another series of shots.

“And you know what they’re doing now, man?” Iglesia went on. “These damn dealers?”

Harris realized that Iglesia had paused, and then it occurred to him that the reason for the pause was that Iglesia was trying to engage him. He wanted Harris to answer.

Which I really don’t want to do, because it’ll only encourage Javier to go on.

And on and on…

After a moment, Harris reluctantly said, “What, Javier?”

With more than a little anger, Iglesia said: “They’re now getting teens, young ones, hooked on horse, is what they’re doing. Kids in my neighborhood doing Mexican black tar heroin, man. And not knowing it, ’cause it’s mixed with candy sugar.” His face showed genuine disgust as he shook his head. “I hope these bastards kill each other, every last one of them. And I can’t think of a better way for them to go down than getting blown up in their own damn meth lab.”

Harris nodded and, not wanting to get into details, said, “I’ve heard something about that.”

“Damn right,” Iglesia said. He sealed the body bags, then looked at Harris. “And you know what else, man?”