One of the men is still inside his pickup truck, slumped forward against the steering wheel, seatbelt straining against his skinny chest. Congealed blood has splattered everywhere, amazing amounts of it, and it takes me a few seconds to figure out that he was shot in the neck.

The other man is sprawled face-down on the ground by his truck. There’s only a little blood on the ground around his body; I suppose he’s laying on most of it. He has one hand outstretched as if in appeal.

Neither of them looks peaceful. Neither of them looks like he’s sleeping. So much for that old saw.

“You said they were drug dealers,” I say, forcing my voice to come out flat and emotionless, like this is nothing more than a logic problem I’ve seen a thousand times. Like Chuck’s voice. Cop voice. “A deal gone bad?”

“That’s what I want you to tell me.” He digs in his jacket pocket and pulls out a battered wallet in an evidence bag. “Already checked. No prints. Can you do it with this?”

“Let’s find out.” I hold out my hands.