Chapter 14

"You don't have to do this."

"Bullshit."

"Nan."

The look she gave Sawyer could have peeled paint. It was the strangest combination of scathing disdain and searing guilt he'd ever seen. "I think it's the least I can do after what happened with Kurt stalking your crime scene."

Sawyer shook his head. "You didn't have anything to do with that."

"I did, though. I'm the one who took the time off."

"You were spending time with your family!"

"Sure, but I still should have told the desk sergeant to make sure he didn't answer any questions about you!" She pointed a pen at him. "This is Partnership 101. Kurt's already proven himself unstable; that's the whole reason we got placed together, and then I wasn't there to have your back when he stormed onto a crime scene."

The memory of nearly falling was still a little too fresh for Sawyer to focus on. He'd done a stunt like that once— well, almost done a stunt like that. His character had fallen down the stairs, but Sawyer had just filmed the initial drop. He'd hit a padded mat, then given things over to his stunt double, who rolled backward down the rest of the flight. His double had been all right at the end of it, but Sawyer already knew that he wouldn't have been. Not in either situation.

"He would have found a way to get into trouble no matter what," Sawyer said tiredly. "He can't handle being at home right now, but he can't handle doing anything else either."

"Not sober, at least," Nan agreed. "But whatever, Kurt's issues are sad but they're not our main concern right now. We're looking at…" She sighed. "That fucker's podcasts."

"Yep." Honestly, it was an angle Sawyer couldn't believe he hadn't considered before. Felix had been running his weekly true crime podcast for three years, and he'd become pretty popular. As his popularity grew, the cases he spotlighted had gotten more and more outrageous. He had a reputation for delving into not just issues of police malfeasance, but also the strangest, goriest, most disgusting deaths he could find.

Sawyer had thought Felix had a connection inside the department that he'd learned about their serial killer from, but maybe he'd had it reversed. Maybe the serial killer was mimicking Felix's old cases, and Felix had put that together and was trying to insinuate himself into the investigation in a very weird case of meta.

The easiest way to figure out whether the connection started with the podcast would have been to ask Felix, but thanks to his bulldog of a lawyer, that felt akin to trying to walk across a minefield. However, thanks to a website of fan summaries, Nan had been able to narrow down a selection of similar cases. None was an exact match so far, but if they found one that involved carbon monoxide poisoning as a mask for something else…well, then they could look at this angle more seriously.

Unfortunately, the summaries could only take him so far.

"Number twenty-eight," Nan said and pressed play. There was Felix's theme music, something like a techno version of Public Enemy's "Fight the Power," which made Nan roll her eyes, and then Felix's voice came on.

"Who would have thought," he said, his podcast voice noticeably lower than his in-person voice, "that a trip to the family farm could end in so much terrible tragedy? Not Michelle McNiell. Five people dead, all of them poisoned…a dismal end for a picture-perfect family, one that rocked the tight-knit community they lived in. But the truth is so much stranger than the picture the killer tried to paint. What is the truth?" Felix laughed. "Nothing like what the so-called authorities would have you believe. Welcome to Stab in the Light, where—"

"Oh my God, how is he even more insufferable when you don't have to see him in person?" Nan asked. "Do we really have to listen to this one?"

"Come for the murders, stay for the poisons," Sawyer said. "I can't find a decent summary of it online, so yeah, I'm afraid we do have to listen. At least long enough to see whether we can cross it off the list."

"Fine." Nan sat in silence for a moment. "Coffee?"

"Sure." There was some left in the pot in the break room, he knew, but it had been stewing for hours now. "I'll walk down to the cart and back."

"Thanks." Nan turned the playback speed up with a grim look, then smiled. "Actually, he'd make a decent chipmunk."

"Congratulations on your coping skills." Sawyer grabbed his jacket and headed out of the repurposed interrogation room. He walked as fast as he could without seeming like he was rushing down the hall and through the lobby, finally breaking into the fresh air and bright sunshine with a sigh of relief, instantly feeling better. The only things that could improve this moment were a cup of decent coffee and Bashir, but Bashir was working, so coffee would have to do.

A black Americano and a caramel latte later—Sawyer hadn't decided yet which one he would give to Nan—he was headed back toward the precinct when his phone went off. He considered ignoring it and answering once he got back inside, but it was so nice out… He sat on the low brick wall between the sidewalk and the parking lot, set the coffees down, and fished out his phone.

Speak of the devil! "Hey," Sawyer said, smiling wide enough that Bashir surely had to be able to hear it. "I was just thinking about you. What's up?"

"Sawyer…"

Oh. Shit. That wasn't a good tone of voice, not the "I'm on break and wanted to call" sound he'd been hoping for. "What is it?" It had to be another murder—but if it was a murder, why didn't he know first?

"I got a call an hour ago about a suicide in Bellfield Park." That was one of the city's larger open space areas. "I didn't realize until I got here that…" He took a deep breath. "I wanted to be the one to tell you, and I wish it could be in person, but Sawyer… The person who died—it's Detective McKay."

Everything went fuzzy for a minute. Sawyer wasn't aware he'd stopped breathing until he almost dropped the phone; then he had to fumble to keep a grip on it.

"—yer? Are you still there?"

"Yes." He was, he was present, he was…he could do this. "I'm…yes. Are you sure it's him?"

"He had his wallet and badge on him."

"Yeah, but are you sure it's him?" Sawyer persisted. "Someone could have taken his identification, someone could have—"

"His features are still intact," Bashir said with the sort of gentleness reserved for grieving friends and family members. "I know him, Sawyer. It's Kurt."

Oh my God.

"Have you…" Sawyer cleared his throat. "Have you called Molly?"

"I don't have her number, but even if I did I wouldn't feel comfortable stepping in like that when you're involved."

That made sense. "And…and you're sure it's a suicide?"

Bashir hummed. "At first glance, that's how it looks. But I've learned better than to trust appearances, especially recently. I think you should come and see things for yourself before I move him. You might see something I don't."

Sawyer swallowed. "Where is he?"

"The east side of the park, about a hundred feet off the loop trail. You can see the cemetery from here."

Of course he could. Shit. "I'll be there as soon as possible," Sawyer said.

"All right. I'm so sorry," Bashir said, and despite how much of a bastard Kurt had been about him, Sawyer could tell that Bashir meant it. He wished he could appreciate that more right now.

"Thank you," he said mechanically, then hung up. He stood, turned, and walked on rote back into the precinct. Jacket…badge…gun…

"Hey, finally!"

Sawyer glanced behind himself to see Nan standing in the hallway, hands on her hips. "That took forever," she complained, then frowned. "Wait. Did you even get the coffee, or—"

"Kurt's dead."

Nan went silent, one hand rising to her mouth.

"I have to go," Sawyer said. "Bashir's at the scene. He thinks it might be a suicide. Or… not. I need to see it." Everything was still fuzzy enough that Sawyer didn't really feel the impact of what he was saying. "I'll handle contacting Molly."

Nan made to grab her purse. "I'll come with you."

"No." Nan was a good partner and a better detective, but if it was a suicide—and the odds were regrettably good that it was , given how insane Kurt had been acting lately—then she didn't need to be there. "Stay and work on the podcast."

She folded her arms. "You want me to hang around here listening to that drivel while you handle one of the toughest moments of your career? Sawyer, come on."

"Nan." The fuzziness was beginning to clear, the sharp edges of reality nipping at his brain. He wasn't going to be able to get through this if he didn't stay numb, and he'd never manage that if Nan came with him. "Please. Let me do this."

She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. "All right. But…" She came over to him and gave him a firm hug, managing to avoid his bruises. His skin crawled with awareness where she touched him, but he squeezed back. She needed this, he realized. She'd known Kurt a lot longer than he had, and if this helped her, then it was…fine. It was fine, but he needed to go before she stripped away his defenses.

"I'll keep you updated." He let go and stepped back. She didn't try to hang on, thankfully. Sawyer left her standing by their desks—by Kurt's desk, too, with a mug full of mostly empty pens and a picture of him and Molly from twenty years ago at Niagara Falls—and went to the parking lot. He got into his car, turned the radio off, and drove in silence to Bellfield Park.

There was the M.E.'s van. There was a patrol car. Sawyer parked as close to the entrance as he could manage, then headed for the loop trail. It felt like he was walking in quicksand, every step dragging and slowing him down. He couldn't force himself to go any faster, though. He was exhausted and out of breath, like his lungs were on the verge of revolt. In the end, he felt lucky he made it all the way to the scene without having to sit down on the way.

The officer on the scene was a vaguely familiar face. I'm glad it's not Doran. He'd had enough crazy calls lately. Sawyer showed his badge and was pointed in the direction of a thick-trunked oak tree. He recognized the bent-over figure there and thought about calling out, but the words stuck in his throat.

Luckily, Bashir turned around and saved him the trouble of trying to get through a greeting. He straightened up and came over to meet him about ten feet from the—

Corpse. Body. Dead person. Get used to it.

"Here." Bashir handed over a pair of shoe covers, and Sawyer put them on without a word. "He was found hanging from the lowest branch of this tree," Bashir continued in his soothing voice. "My rough estimate is that he was here for between ten and twelve hours. "

"So he died around midnight." Wow, his voice sounded as scratchy as ancient vinyl.

Bashir just nodded. "Are you ready to see him?"

"Yes." He wasn't looking forward to it, but he knew he had to do it. Sawyer followed Bashir over to where the body lay on the ground, covered in a standard white sheet. There was nothing standard about the feelings that surged through Sawyer the second he was able to confirm that it really was Kurt, that this hadn't all been some horrible mistake. No, this was Kurt, and he was dead. That was his off-the-rack suit. That was his green-wrapped cast on his broken thumb. That was…

That was Kurt.

Victim: Kurt McKay, fifty-seven-year-old white male with a history of substance abuse and mental illness.

Sawyer got down onto one knee to get a closer look. Not because he was unsteady on his feet, no matter what Bashir must have thought when he went to support him on the way down. He eyed the dark ligature marks high on Kurt's neck and smelled the stale, sticky-sweet scent of alcohol on his shirt. Kurt's eyes were closed, like he was sleeping, but the way his lips seemed to bulge, Sawyer was pretty sure his tongue had been protruding from his mouth before Bashir decided to tidy him up a bit.

He didn't have to do that. It wasn't like Sawyer hadn't seen a hanging before. Speaking of…he looked over at the tree where the deed had been done and frowned. "You found him hanging on the lowest branch?"

"Yes."

Huerta was over there now, taking samples with a guilty expression. Sawyer ignored him and focused on the fact that—

"It's only, what, five feet off the ground? "

"About that," Bashir agreed. "It's, um… It's not unusual. People use doorknobs, all kinds of low-hanging…" He trailed off.

"So…he could have taken the weight off his neck at any time?" Had Kurt really been out of it, been drunk and depressed enough, to tie himself to a five-foot branch and then just…slouch until he suffocated?

"Getting second thoughts in the middle of a suicide attempt isn't unusual," Bashir said cautiously. Sawyer kind of wanted to yell at him to stop treating him like glass, but he knew if the situation were reversed he'd be doing the same thing. "That said…it's possible he was too drunk to get back to his feet, even if panic did set in. I'll test his blood alcohol level at the morgue."

The morgue. Oh my God. My partner is going to the fucking morgue. He hated that place. Sawyer almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

A thought struck him. "What was he hanged with?"

"Nylon tie-downs."

Sawyer frowned. "Kurt doesn't drive a truck." Not that that was conclusive in any way, but Sawyer knew for a fact that he didn't carry them in his car either.

Bashir looked like he was thinking something over for a moment. He finally said, "There's no petechiae of the eyelids. It's not a hard and fast rule when evaluating a murder versus a suicide, but seeing petechiae would suggest that he was alive when he began to suffocate."

Even as slow as his mind felt like it was moving right now, Sawyer was able to understand the significance of that. "So he might have been strung up after he was dead," he muttered.

"It's a possibility."

If there was a chance that Kurt had died as a result of…of that fucking serial killer instead of his own free will, no matter how twisted that will was… Sawyer closed his eyes and turned away, sitting down hard a few feet from Kurt's body. He folded his arms, put his head on his knees, and just breathed.

A few seconds later, he felt the warmth of another person at his side. Bashir didn't touch him, but he did say, "I'm sorry. I can't imagine how hard this is."

Sawyer wanted to tell him it was okay, to thank him for his compassion and his diligence, but all that came out was, "I've got to tell Molly. What am I going to say to her?"

"I don't know." Bashir sighed. "But I do know that she'd rather hear about this from you than anyone else."

Oh, that was definitely true. Given how news traveled in this town, especially news in the force, that meant he needed to get going. He opened his eyes and looked at Bashir, who was staring back at him with a furrowed brow. "Can you help me up?"

"Of course." Bashir took Sawyer's hands and lifted him back up to his feet. "Do you want me to drive you? Or you can borrow Carlos. I believe he owes you one."

Sawyer shook his head. He didn't want to come back here to get his car after everything was said and done. He might never want to come back to this park again. "I can do it."

"Safely?" Bashir pressed.

Sawyer glared at him. "I wouldn't be on the road if I wasn't safe. I'm not a—" drunk like Kurt, who might have been a detective but sure as hell wasn't a safe driver. "I'll be fine, I promise," Sawyer said instead, and Bashir nodded.

"I'll walk you down."

Sawyer wanted to tell him it wasn't necessary, but given the way he was feeling it honestly did seem like a good idea right now. He and Bashir walked down to the parking lot together, ignoring stares from incoming hikers and some very pettable dogs. When they got to Sawyer's car, he pulled out his keys and just stared at them for a moment.

It was only ten minutes to Kurt's house from here. Should he call Molly and give her a heads-up? Should he surprise her? Should he…

"Sawyer."

"I'm fine." He grimaced. "I mean, I'm not, but I can drive. I'm just wondering whether or not to call ahead."

Bashir nodded. "I think this sort of thing is best delivered in person. I hate that I had to tell you over the phone."

"Okay." Okay, then that was what he'd do. Which meant it was time for him to go and, well, do it.

Fuck.

"I have to go."

Bashir paused, then clasped Sawyer's hand in both of his. "You have to go," he agreed. "I know it's going to be hard, but you can do this. But later, if you want to talk…I'll listen."

Listen to what? To Sawyer talk about how awful this was? It wasn't as though Bashir didn't already know. That would just be boring for him, awful and clingy and repetitive. Still, the offer was meant well. "Thanks." Sawyer pulled away and got into his car, busied himself with buckling up and backing out, then drove away on autopilot. Careful autopilot.

Sawyer knew how to perform grief. He knew how to look sad for himself, sad for other people, sad about pets and relationships and the world. He wasn't nearly so good at feeling grief—at letting it writhe around inside him for as long as it needed to get the worst of its bite out.

The last time he'd felt sadness like this, his mother had been abducted by a stalker fan. For three brutal days Sawyer had lived with grief, fear, and anger, ignored by his frantic father and his weepy sister. Then his mother had come back, but the feelings hadn't gone away. If anything, seeing her in the aftermath, how she'd changed, they'd raged more than ever.

No, his personal experience with grief was the worst compass right now. He needed to think clearly, for Molly's sake. What would make this easiest for her? Did she need straightforward and earnest? Factual and reserved? Gentle and comforting? Did she need a shoulder to cry on, or would she rather he leave as soon as he told her what had happened so she could lean on her family?

Sawyer pulled up to Kurt and Molly's house before he was able to settle on an answer. He'd have to play it by ear, then. He inhaled deeply, way down into his core, working to settle himself the way his acting coach had trained him to.

Blow out fear, blow out nerves, blow out reservations. You can do this.

You don't have a choice.

Sawyer got out and walked up the flagstone path to the ramp that had been installed over the steps leading up to their front door. There was a sign taped over the doorbell— DO NOT RING! He knocked instead, fast, before he could let himself prevaricate. A few seconds later he heard footsteps, and then—

"Are you here about that bastard?" a heavyset blonde woman in an oversized purple sweatshirt demanded, one hand on her hip.

"Callie," Molly called out from deeper inside the house.

"This looks like one of his cop friends," Callie replied, her eyes narrowing. "You'd better be here to tell us you threw that drunk son of a bitch in a cell this time. He needs to sober up and start thinking straight, that—"

"Will you stop it?" another woman snapped as she came up behind the blonde. She had grayish-brown hair and shared too many facial features with Kurt to be beautiful, but wore a flattering dress and a pair of heels, even inside. "He's having a hard enough time without you swearing at him constantly."

"I'm not swearing at him, I'm swearing at this guy!"

"Sawyer?" That was Molly again. "Honey, if that's you, please come inside."

Sawyer stepped into the foyer, automatically taking off his shoes and pushing them to the side of the door. He ignored the other ladies' bickering and went into the living room, where Molly was sitting in her recliner. Her walker, with her portable oxygen tank, was pushed off to the side, and she had a cup of tea in her hand that was still steaming.

"Hi," she said with a small smile when she saw him. "Please tell me he hasn't gotten into another bar fight."

All the words, all the choices, all the thought Sawyer had put into preparing himself for this moment vanished. He was left unable to speak, staring at Molly desperately as he willed his voice to cooperate.

"Sawyer?" Molly lowered the footrest of the recliner and sat up. "Honey, what's wrong?"

He shook his head, helpless. Acrid tears sprang up in his eyes, and when Molly reached out a hand toward him, he went to her. Her grip was nothing like Bashir's; her skin felt almost as cold as Kurt's must have been, but it was strong. Painfully strong.

"Sawyer…please."

"Molly," he managed at last. His voice sounded nothing like it usually did, low and gritty. The women behind them went silent. "I'm so sorry."

"No." She shook her head, slowly at first, then wildly. "No, no, no…"

Sawyer's throat had tightened up again. He nodded, then braced himself as Molly collapsed into him, her hands claws against his back as she wailed.

All Sawyer could do was hang on.