Chapter 13

Today was going from bad to worse, and it wasn't even because of Bashir's increasing saltiness over getting cock-blocked by the universe. That wasn't helping matters, especially when he had to act like a professional goddamned adult around the object of his frustration, but it was more peripheral bullshit than centerstage.

No, there were three men who were going to drive Bashir into a bottle before this day was over, and none of them were Sawyer.

One was Colby Simpson, the thirty-something Caucasian male currently crumpled in a heap at the base of a stairwell inside one of the financial buildings downtown. He was positioned with his upper torso on the landing and his lower body on the bottom steps. His neck was clearly broken, and his left arm was unnaturally bent, so the cause of death seemed obvious at first glance. Either on his own suicidal volition, after a shove from a killer, or by quite literally falling victim to physics, Simpson had made an accelerated descent down the stairs at just the wrong angle and snapped his neck .

At first glance.

The destroyed security cameras on both this landing and the one above it were too convenient to be coincidental. That was for the cops to address, though. For the very tired and confused medical examiner crouching beside the body, the biggest clue that things weren't what they seemed was the cherry red of the decedent's skin, which suggested Mr. Simpson had succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning. Or, judging by the way every other autopsy had gone recently, his cause of death would be something so rare and statistically improbable that Bashir would have to run a few tests twice just to be sure.

Tami looked up from photographing the man's face. "Do you think he was getting carbon monoxide poisoning, and then went stumbling down the stairs?"

Bashir shrugged. Anything was possible, and it was up to the cops to piece together the story told by the scientific evidence. Bashir and Tami just had to collect and report that evidence. They'd speculate and brainstorm with cops, sure, and Bashir could never resist trying to piece it all together himself, but at the end of the day, it was—thank God—the cops' job to actually complete the puzzle.

He didn't envy the cops, because seriously, what in the ever-loving fuck was happening in this town? A serial killer with a Pinterest inspiration board that looked like something out of the weirdest episodes of Forensic Files ?

Which…

Bashir's neck prickled. Maybe Sawyer needed to revisit Felix the True Crime Podcaster. Not necessarily as a suspect—though Bashir wasn't ruling out anyone or anything at this point—but perhaps as an unwitting source of inspiration for the killer. Maybe he'd had some weird fan mail? Weird comments in the chat? Every thread was a thread worth tugging, so he made a mental note to bring it up to Sawyer.

Sawyer, who was down the next flight of stairs, where he was dealing with the second of the three men who were testing Bashir's sanity today.

"Kurt. Listen to me." He had his hands on his partner's shoulders, probably both to steady him and keep his attention. "You have got to go home. You can't be—"

"Back the fuck off, Sawyer," Detective McKay snapped back, and he made an animated but ineffective attempt to shove his partner away. "I don't need you telling me what to do."

Sawyer dropped his arms to his sides, and the pained expression tugged at Bashir's heart. McKay was clearly in crisis mode—drunk, belligerent, trying to barge onto a crime scene where he absolutely didn't belong. Sawyer was doing his level best to talk him down and gently escort him out of the crowded stairwell, but McKay was having none of it.

McKay again tried to push past Sawyer, and in doing so, gave him a shove that had him teetering precariously on the top step. In that split second of imbalance, Bashir's heart went into this throat as his mind filled with visions of Sawyer lying below the stairs like Colby Simpson.

Fortunately, Sawyer only went down one step before he caught himself on the railing, wincing as if that had aggravated his sore ribs.

McKay didn't even seem to notice he'd damn near killed his partner, and he turned his belligerent attention on Officer Bailey. Bailey had been posted midway down the stairs below Bashir to minimize traffic and potential contamination of the crime scene. She positioned herself in the middle of the step and stood her ground.

"Only the investigators on this case, the CSIs, and the medical examiner's personnel are allowed, detective. You'll have to—"

"The fuck I will," he snarled, straightening to his full height. He'd have towered over her had she not been two steps above him. As it was, they were nearly eye-level. "I will be on the phone with your superior if you don't let me through, Officer ."

She didn't budge. "I'm sorry, detective. Dr. Ramin was very clear about—"

"You don't answer to Dr. Ramin and neither do I," he snapped, waving the hand that was in a cast. "Now move. Aside ."

Bashir rolled his eyes, schooled his expression, and stood on the top step. "Detective McKay, you're not assigned to this case, so you have no reason to be on my crime scene. I need—"

"Your crime scene?" the detective slurred up at him. He laughed, letting his inebriation really show. "I think you're getting a little above yourself, aren't you, doc? This is—"

"Kurt." Sawyer appeared beside McKay and put a hand on his arm. "Let me take you home. We've got this scene. You need to be with Molly."

At the mention of his wife's name, all of McKay's anger and bravado died away. He seemed to whither, losing an inch or two in height as he leaned hard on the railing.

"Come on." Sawyer gave his elbow a gentle tug. "Let's go."

McKay didn't look at anyone as he followed Sawyer down the stairs. At the bottom, just before they turned the corner to start descending the set McKay had nearly sent Sawyer tumbling down, Sawyer glanced back at Bashir. They locked eyes for a second, and Sawyer's expression was full of apology and embarrassment. As if this were somehow his fault.

Bashir tried for a look of empathy and understanding. He wasn't sure if he succeeded or failed, only that Sawyer responded with a slight nod before he continued out of sight with his partner.

"What the hell is up with him?" Tami asked.

"No idea," Bashir muttered. "But Detective Villeray has it under control." He turned away from the stairs and met her gaze as he gestured at the body. "Let's finish up here so we can take him to the morgue."

An oddly amused look crossed her face. One that didn't usually materialize at death scenes, where they both kept stoic, professional expressions firmly in place.

He cocked a brow. "What?"

"Nothing." She shook her head and returned her attention to Colby Simpson. "Just… It's weird to hear you call him ‘Detective Villeray.'"

Bashir eyed her as he reclaimed his place beside the body. "It's his name, isn't it?"

"I figured you two were on a first-name basis by now."

He cut his eyes toward her, then rolled them and clicked his pen. "We're at work."

"Mmhmm. I know."

He opted not to pursue the line of questioning any further. This was hardly the time or the place. They often spoke casually and about normal things while they were autopsying someone, but there were no hot mics, cameras, cops, or bystanders in there. Out here in the real world, people would be uncomfortable and even offended by the conversations, irreverent banter, and even dark humor that were so normal for him and Tami.

So… it could wait .

When they'd observed, documented, and collected every imaginable piece of evidence or potential evidence on the body, they bagged him up. Rather than stretchering Mr. Simpson down eight floors, they wheeled him into the hallway and onto the elevator, which took them to the lobby. Officer Bailey had radioed ahead of them to make sure the driveway beyond the lobby was clear of reporters, bystanders, and—most importantly, in Bashir's mind—anyone who knew or was related to the deceased.

The doors opened, and they rolled the stretcher through the deserted lobby. The building had been briefly evacuated at Bashir's order due to a possible carbon monoxide leak, and when the space was determined to be safe, only cops and other law enforcement personnel returned. The people working here had taken a half day off, and Bashir didn't blame them at all.

Outside, many had returned to gawk at the scene, and cops were keeping them back with barricades, police tape, and their imposing presence. A few cameras flashed and some people gasped as the stretcher rolled past them, but no one made a scene or got in the way.

Bashir and Tami loaded up the body, and their work here at the scene was done. He shut the van's back doors, and then Tami left; she'd come in her own car, and Bashir could handle everything from here.

Alone behind the van, he stole a moment to exhale. He was almost tempted to get started on the autopsy as soon as he got to the morgue, because this one was going to be another shitshow, wasn't it? Some bizarre cause of death, or at least one that didn't remotely match the circumstances surrounding where and how the body had been found. Was he even going to be able to sleep tonight, knowing what awaited him ?

But he'd have to try. He needed to be fresh when he started an autopsy, and today had run him into the ground both physically and mentally. Colby Simpson deserved better than the autopsy Bashir would perform in his current state.

Approaching footsteps reminded him he was still at a crime scene, and he still needed to have on his professional game face. He pulled himself together, squared his shoulders, turned around, and—

Released his breath again.

"Hey." Sawyer approached, his face a mix of sheepishness and sheer exhaustion. "Sorry about, uh…" He gestured at the building behind him.

"Wasn't your fault." Bashir shouldn't have moved closer to him, but he did. Even if they couldn't touch out here—they were both way too professional for that—he just needed to be a little closer to Sawyer. "How is he, anyway? I assume he's home?"

"He's…" Sawyer glanced toward the parking lot, then sighed and shook his head, renewed fatigue radiating off his slumped shoulders. "I mean, he's always been a workaholic. And… between you and me, an alcoholic. So he's trying to dive into work and a bottle at the same time to cope with losing his wife, and…" He trailed off, shaking his head again.

"Shit," Bashir whispered. "Is there, um… How much time do they think she has left?"

"Hard to say," Sawyer whispered. "He said he heard her telling his sister they should've moved to a euthanasia state while they had the chance. Because now she's just in constant pain and waiting to die."

Bashir had to fight off a shudder. In medical school, he'd witnessed the horror of terminal illnesses slowly claiming victory over patients. He'd visited his aunt during her awful final weeks. And God knew he'd autopsied plenty of people who'd been ravaged for months if not years before their bodies had finally given out.

Death itself didn't scare him. It was the possibility of taking the long way to get there that terrified him.

"That has to be awful for him," he said softly. "Can't really blame him for buckling like he is."

"No, definitely not." Sawyer pushed a hand through his hair. "I get why he's not doing so hot. But still… I'm sorry for—"

"Don't." Bashir couldn't resist, and he touched Sawyer's arm. "It's no more your fault than the two of us getting called out to a death scene."

"Still…"

Bashir studied him. Sawyer was obviously exhausted, but the closer Bashir looked, the more he wondered how the man was even still standing. He'd lost a few shades of color except under his eyes. One was black, and the other had a dark circle that made him look like a medical student cramming for finals. His shoulders were hunched almost as much as McKay's had been when he'd given up and followed Sawyer out of the stairwell.

Giving his arm a gentle squeeze, Bashir asked, "When was the last time you ate?"

That seemed to bring Sawyer up short. "Uh…"

"Coffee doesn't count."

The faintest wisp of a laugh escaped him, and he shrugged heavily. "It's been a while."

Bashir grunted. "And I assume you drove yourself here?"

Sawyer nodded.

"Mmhmm." Bashir gestured at the van. "Come on. We're going to drop off Mr. Simpson, and then you're going to stuff some food in your face before you collapse."

Sawyer's eyes widened and flicked toward the van. "We're… We're not eating at the morgue, are we?"

Bashir blinked innocently. "Why not? We have all those refrigerators right there, so…"

Just as he'd hoped, Sawyer actually laughed with some feeling, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "Oh my God. Gross."

Chuckling, Bashir nudged him toward the passenger side of the van. "Get in. Let's go."

Sawyer stiffened, glancing back toward the small crowd of cops still managing onlookers. "I should…"

"You're signed out of the scene, right?"

Sawyer blinked a couple of times as if he genuinely couldn't recall.

Bashir took out his phone, and he called the officer who'd been in charge of signing people in and out of the scene. Once he'd confirmed that Sawyer had, in fact, signed out, he ended the call and again sent him to the passenger seat.

Stubbornness flashed across Sawyer's face, but it was no match for the exhaustion or—Bashir guessed—hunger. He nodded and meekly went around to the side of the van.

Alone, Bashir stole a moment to give in to his own fatigue, releasing a breath and rolling his shoulders.

Then he went around to the driver's side, and they headed downtown to the morgue.

As soon as Bashir closed and latched the drawer where Colby Simpson would spend tonight, the third of the three men on his shit list made an appearance .

"What the hell is this, Ramin?" Boyce slammed a file folder down on the empty exam table. "You want to tell me why you're undermining me? Again?"

Bashir blinked. Then he glanced at Sawyer, who was definitely a few degrees closer to awake now, alert in that way cops always were when a situation got tense. Bashir kept his tone measured, not so much to calm down his heated colleague, but to signal to Sawyer that he had things under control.

"I'm not undermining you, Andy." Bashir picked up the folder. "What's going on?"

"This death was clearly a suicide. And now when the decedent's employer gets sued by the family over the"—he made viciously sarcastic air quotes—" ‘accidental' death, the attorneys are going to rip me apart for being incompetent."

Bashir skimmed over the notes, including the ones he'd included disputing Boyce's conclusion. Ultimately Bashir made the final decision as the medical examiner, but anything made in writing—including Boyce's erroneous conclusion that the death was a suicide—was subject to discovery. In the very likely event of a lawsuit, Boyce's credibility and competence would be ripped to shreds in whatever way the various lawyers thought it could benefit their cases. Bashir would, not for the first time in his career, have to testify and walk the fine line between defending his own decision to override Boyce and defending his colleague's competence.

He couldn't fucking wait.

Holding on to his calm by his fingernails, Bashir said coolly, "I'm not risking my position or my license to avoid bruising your ego."

"Uh-huh. And I'll bet you lose all kinds of sleep at night over making me look like an asshole while you're the star of the show."

Only his familiarity with Boyce's temper kept Bashir from rolling his eyes, but he did abandon the calm, even tone. "Of course, you'll gloss right over how much I'm risking my professional reputation every time I choose not to fire you over something like this." Sliding the folder back across the table to Boyce, he added, "This is why I don't assign you to the major cases. I would suggest you either review this report and figure out exactly how you went wrong, or you update your résumé."

Boyce's nostrils flared as he snatched up the folder. "Are you threatening me, Bashir?"

"I'm letting you know, as your direct supervisor, that I'm not going to continue to cover for you, and I'm not going to continue putting up with the disrespect." It had been so tempting to include insubordination in there, but he was already prodding at a sore spot. Boyce despised Bashir's position as his supervisor. He loathed Bashir's status as county medical examiner and as the man with the power to fire or demote him. Usually, Bashir was careful to avoid nudging those landmines, but in the interest of making a point, he was stomping on them now. "Am I clear, Dr. Boyce?"

Boyce grunted something Bashir didn't quite catch, and then he stalked out of the morgue.

Blowing out a breath, Bashir leaned against the drawer he'd just latched. "Fucking Christ."

"What was that all about?" Sawyer asked.

Bashir finally let himself roll his eyes, and he shouldered himself off the drawer. "A pathologist who seriously hates answering to a foreign doctor who's younger, browner, and more qualified than him. "

Sawyer blinked. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll tell you about it over dinner." He gestured for Sawyer to follow him. "Let's go find you some food before you pass out."

Though the precinct above the morgue had a halfway decent cafeteria, Bashir wanted something a little less institutional and without so much blanched fluorescent lighting. He also wanted to make sure Sawyer ate something substantial, rather than picking at a stale sandwich or swallowing some watered-down soup.

He hadn't been going for anything romantic, but that was what they ended up with: two blocks down from the precinct was a cozy European fusion restaurant with soft, dim lighting, rich red cushions and curtains, and intimate booths around hardwood tables. The prices were a little eye-watering, but the way Sawyer almost groaned as some fragrant bread was carried past the table, Bashir decided the check would be worth it. It wouldn't take any arm-twisting to get Sawyer to eat in this place.

And, hell, it turned out Bashir hadn't eaten in a number of hours himself. He ended up ordering the beef bourguignon with a Caesar salad. Sawyer hemmed and hawed a little, joking he was trying to decide what not to eat, before settling on the bruschetta chicken and vegetable soup.

When their soup and salad arrived, they both inhaled better than half the bread in short order along with their first courses.

Sawyer put down his spoon in the empty bowl and sat back with a happy sigh. "Oh, Jesus. I was hungrier than I thought."

"Same." Bashir picked up one of the few remaining pieces of romaine on his plate. "Who do you think has worse eating and sleeping habits? Cops or doctors? "

Sawyer snorted. "I'm not playing that game. There's already a universal joke about cops and doughnuts, so…"

Bashir almost choked on his salad. "Okay, okay. Fair. You win." He took a swig from his water glass. "Though I think the people who make those jokes just don't see residents lumbering around during hour twenty-seven of a thirty-six-hour shift. You get so damn tired you barely remember what eating is." He paused, then huffed. "And about the time you're remembering how to be hungry, a patient throws up on you, and that's all she wrote."

"Oh God." Sawyer laughed, chafing his arms. "I'll pass, thanks."

"Same. Though I apparently thought getting away from the living would mean I'd be somewhat more inclined to eat regularly, but…" He half-shrugged.

"I guess we're all masochists to some extent."

"Except I'm pretty sure masochists enjoy the misery."

Sawyer made a face but didn't argue. He sipped his own water, and when he faced Bashir again, his expression had turned serious. "So, this shit with your colleague—what's going on there?"

Bashir's appetite almost fled as his thoughts shifted to Boyce. Sighing, he absently swirled his water glass like wine. "God. It's so…" He sat back against the soft cushion as he considered how to explain it. "The thing is, ever since I showed up, he's had a massive chip on his shoulder. He hates that when the medical examiner position opened up, they brought me in from out of state—hell, out of the country—rather than giving it to him. He hates that he has to answer to me, and that more often than not, I'm the one who gets called in to testify as an expert witness."

Sawyer tilted his head. "Didn't he say he'd get called in on the case he was salty about? "

"Yep. Most likely to undermine the jury's trust in the results of the autopsy. If I had to guess, it'll be from an angle of wanting to claim he has no credibility because he missed some key points and deemed it a suicide. Then the other side will use that to remind the jury that the medical examiner's opinion is just that—an opinion—and how do we possibly know which opinion is correct?" He sighed. "I think he's secretly pissed at himself for screwing it up that badly, but he's also extra pissed that I basically had to write, ‘no, Dr. Boyce is wrong; this was actually an accident and here's why.'"

"Wow," Sawyer said. "I guess I can see why you're the M.E. instead of him."

Bashir shook his head. "No, I'm the M.E. because I'm a forensic pathologist. He decided to stop at pathologist, and I think he regrets not pursuing the forensic pathologist designation." He grimaced. "And the fact that people sometimes mistake him for my assistant doesn't help."

Sawyer whistled. "Sounds a lot like the old and grizzled beat cops who piss on young detectives." He showed his palms. "Not my fault you didn't take or pass the exam, dumbass."

Bashir snorted. "It's a lot like that, yeah. Plus I think he just doesn't like me." He sighed. "Honestly, I doubt he'd be heartbroken if I got hit by a bus, except then he'd probably end up working for an even younger M.E."

"Damn," Sawyer said with a laugh. "I never thought there was that much drama in a morgue."

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

"Yeah?" Interest sparked in Sawyer's eyes, which were a lot brighter than they'd been an hour, a bowl of soup, and three breadsticks ago. "Do tell. "

"Really? You want to hear about the soap opera of the medical examiner's office?"

"Why not?" Sawyer grinned as he reached for another breadstick. "It isn't the giant stack of cases I can't keep up with or the shitshow that is my partner's life, so… yeah. Do tell."

Okay, that was fair. Bashir was up for a distraction from everything at work, too, and maybe after this, he'd be able to sleep. Then he could actually do tomorrow's autopsies like a professional instead of a semi-comatose med student.

"All right, all right…" He pursed his lips. "Well, at my first job, we had two forensic assistants who were screwing. Which was fine… until they broke up."

Sawyer leaned in, eyes wide. "Seriously?"

"Mmhmm. Let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've been listening to a guy begging his ex to take him back over an autopsy while she's trying not to die from morning sickness…"