Chapter 17

"Wait, I'm confused." Tami looked up from the notes she'd been taking, her brow furrowed. "You think he died of anaphylaxis, but you're calling it a homicide?"

Bashir gazed down at the body in front of him. "There's no way this was a natural death."

"Well, no. Not with the strap around his neck." She shifted on her stool. "But it still looks like a suicide to me."

Bashir shook his head. "I don't think so." He gestured at Detective McKay. "He's got some older bruises that can probably be accounted for with that bar fight the other night, but there are some marks and abrasions here that are fresh."

"Signs of a struggle?"

"Not… Not really? More like signs he was thrashing around." Bashir met his assistant's gaze. "There are nail marks on his throat, but they go under the strap."

"He could've slid the strap up and down his neck while he was clawing at it."

Bashir shook his head again. "If the strap was tight enough to be strangling him, there'd be abrasions from it, too. Especially since this kind of strap is pretty rough."

"So…" She blinked. "Are you saying he was strangled before the strap went around his neck?"

"I'm saying he wasn't strangled." He gestured at McKay's chest, which was closed but not sutured. "Looking at his lungs and airway, there's signs that indicate asthma or anaphylaxis. Mucous. Laryngeal edema. Petechial hemorrhaging. And I know for a fact that asthma disqualifies someone from being a police officer in this city." He looked at Tami again. "So I'm leaning hard toward an anaphylactic reaction."

"What do you think he reacted to? "

Bashir shook his head. "I don't know. Toxicology will probably have to answer that for us."

"But then what about the strap? I'm guessing you don't think he got stung by a bee while he was in the middle of hanging himself."

The irony of such a thing might've been funny in that incredibly dark way things were funny to people in their line of work. When the decedent was Sawyer's partner? Not so much.

He skimmed his gaze over the body, then met hers again. "I think he was dead before the strap ever touched him."

She blinked. "And you're calling it a homicide, so… You think someone gave him something to trigger an anaphylactic response, then put the strap on him to make it look like he killed himself?"

"That's the only way I can explain it." He gestured at McKay's neck. "He was probably clawing at his throat because he couldn't breathe due to the reaction. Then the strap was added postmortem. Aside from the scratch marks, there's almost no bruising. There's no Livor Mortis where I'd expect it after something like this, and the blanching on the rest of his body suggests he was moved shortly after he died." He shook his head. "The skin on his neck is marred from the strap, but those marks and the fingernail scratches didn't happen at the same time. Just… the more I look, the less this appears to be strangulation, never mind hanging. Definitely not one that happened while the decedent was still conscious."

Tami pursed her lips. "Seems like a lot of work to cover something up. Any pathologist was going to put the pieces together. Wouldn't a killer just let the reaction do its thing?"

"I don't think it's a cover-up," Bashir said. "I think it's a game."

"A— what? "

He took a deep breath. "One body after another, each with an obvious cause and manner of death… until the autopsy." He stared at McKay with unfocused eyes, recalling what Sawyer had told him about the theory that the killer was toying with investigators. "This is someone playing a game. It has to be. They enjoy seeing if we can figure out the puzzle."

"Oh my God." Her voice came out hollow. "That's… that's really fucked up."

"Yeah," he said absently. "It is." Again and again he told himself it wasn't his job to put the pieces together. Just figure out what killed the person, turn the evidence over to the cops, and let them take it from there. Same as always.

But much like he couldn't help piecing together what led to a death, he couldn't help doing the same here.

"If this person gets caught," Tami said, "they're looking at capital murder charges. It's all premeditated. Like, hella premeditated." She chafed her arms. "What kind of sick fucker does… hell, any of this?"

"The kind of person who will murder the husband of a dying cancer patient and dress it up like a suicide," Bashir said grimly. "One sick fucker who is absolutely sure they aren't going to get caught, never mind convicted."

He'd known for a while now this had to be a serial killer. It was pretty obvious, after all. But there was something viscerally disturbing about getting closer to understanding a person capable of doing shit like this. Not that he knew who it was or understood what was driving them, but he was willing to bet this was a legitimate psychopath and a sadist. Someone who seemed to enjoy toying with the living more than the dead; the deaths had all been relatively quick—even Kurt's—not the work of someone who enjoyed protracted torture. No, the misery came from the survivors and also—

He jumped as the thought slammed into his mind.

Their killer wasn't torturing victims and fucking with loved ones. Not as a primary motive, anyway.

They were, as Sawyer had hypothesized, doing this to fuck with investigators.

Specifically…

To fuck with Bashir himself.

The county medical examiner. The only person in a position to find the hidden pieces. The person whose job it was to disassemble the victim and find the needle in the haystack—or the bullet in the spine or the allergen in the detective—and conclude that the cause of death wasn't what it seemed.

His thoughts whipped through his last few autopsies outside this string of murders. How he'd taken extra time on each. How he'd second-guessed every observation he made and conclusion he drew. How every time he landed on some wild and bizarre cause of death when another had seemed obvious from the start, he doubted and stressed over all his other conclusions.

Had the excessive number of pills really been the cause of death? Or had there been something else lurking somewhere?

Had that elderly man's heart really given out? Or had one of the many needle punctures in his skin been the means of delivering some obscure, barely detectable poison?

Had that twenty-year-old's blunt force trauma injuries been from the car that struck him? Or had Bashir missed signs of an assault?

The urge to yank open his files and scrutinize every autopsy he'd ever performed was almost overwhelming. So was the anger, because he was sure this was exactly what the killer was hoping for—to screw with Bashir's mind.

How the hell did I get on a serial killer's radar?

His mind was about to go screaming down that road when the morgue's front door opened. Tami hopped off her perch and helped him cover the body. Even when he was mentally spiraling, the instinct to protect the decedent's dignity was strong enough to knock him into motion.

"Bashir?" Sawyer's voice. Bashir expected to be relieved—both that Sawyer was here and that they'd thought to cover McKay—but something about his tone had Bashir on edge.

"Be right back," he said to Tami, and after he'd stripped off his protective gear, he strode up to the front vestibule.

As soon as he reached the doorway, he skidded to a halt .

Sawyer stood there alongside Detective Walker, who Bashir recognized but hadn't interacted with much. Behind them, two uniformed officers.

It was Sawyer's expression that brough him up short, though. Gone was any trace of the affectionate, vulnerable man who'd been in Bashir's bed last night. Gone was the grieving partner. His eyes were hard and his jaw was set—Sawyer was completely in cop mode.

Bashir cleared his throat. "What can I do for you?"

"You're not the one we need to see." Sawyer sounded official but faintly apologetic. "We need to speak to Ms. Glen."

"Ms.—" Bashir blinked. "My assistant?"

Sawyer nodded. "Tami Glen. We have—"

"What's going on?" Tami appeared beside Bashir, eyes wide. "I heard my name."

Sawyer fixed the friendly-but-serious cop expression on her. "Ms. Glen, I need you to come upstairs and answer some questions."

She balked. "Some questions? About what?"

"We'll discuss all that upstairs." Sawyer gestured at the door. "Would you come with us, please?"

Behind him, the officers straightened, their gazes focused on her.

Bashir turned to her.

She'd gone almost as pale as one of the bodies waiting to be autopsied. "What's… I don't understand. Questions about what?"

There were cops who thought that kind of pushback was a sign of guilt, but Bashir knew—and he hoped Sawyer knew—it was a natural fear. Even a kid who'd done nothing wrong was going to get nervous when he was called down to the principal's office. When a homicide detective showed up and wanted to "ask a few questions"—who wouldn't get nervous?

Bashir put a hand on her back to reassure her, and he asked Sawyer, "Is she under arrest?"

"No," came the quiet response. "This is an interview—not an interrogation."

"Can she have a lawyer present?"

The cops behind Sawyer fidgeted, but Sawyer nodded. "Absolutely."

Bashir looked at Tami again. "I trust him, okay?"

Her lips tightened. "I can't afford a lawyer."

"I'll pay for it."

She blinked. "Really?"

"Yes."

Tami chewed her lip. She glanced back and forth between the cops and Bashir, and finally, she nodded and said in a meek voice, "Okay."

Sawyer relaxed minutely. To the officers, he said, "Set her up in conference room three. Anything she needs or wants, hook her up."

The other detective beckoned to Tami. "Would you come with us, please?"

Tami hesitated, but then she followed. A moment later, everyone was gone from the morgue except for Bashir and Sawyer.

As soon as the door closed, Sawyer shut his eyes and pushed out a long breath, letting the mask slip and revealing the fatigue that had been piling on for the past few days. "I'm sorry." He met Bashir's eyes. "I really am. I didn't—"

Bashir shook his head. "Don't be. You're just doing your job. "

Sawyer tensed. "You don't even know what I'm asking her about or what I have to go on."

"No, but I trust you. If you've got a reason to talk to her, then…" He gestured toward the door.

"Still. I'm sorry."

"I know." Bashir exhaled. "You know neither of us should be working on this case, right? We're way too close to it."

"I shouldn't," Sawyer acknowledged. "But this connection to Tami—it could be nothing, so—"

"She's not the only problem."

Sawyer's eyebrows rose.

Bashir explained what he'd figured out while autopsying Detective McKay. When he'd finished, he said, "Maybe I'm just going fucking insane, and maybe I don't know enough about the rest of the case, so I've got tunnel vision. I don't know." He rolled his stiff shoulders. "But I can't help thinking I'm the target. Like… this is all some kind of game to fuck with me."

On some level, he'd hoped Sawyer would dismiss that theory outright. Tell him he was seeing things that weren't there. Show him some cards that debunked any possibility that this had anything to do with Bashir.

Instead, Sawyer gnawed his lip and stared at the floor between them.

Bashir tilted his head. "What?"

"I, um…" Sawyer looked at him through his lashes. "You may be right. Honestly, it's the closest thing we have to a working theory at this point."

Arching an eyebrow, Bashir prompted, "But…?"

"But…" Sawyer took a deep breath. "If that is what's happening here, then it doesn't look good for your assistant."

Bashir's stomach dropped so hard and so fast, he genuinely expected to hear a splat on the floor. "What do you mean?"

Sighing, Sawyer leaned against the reception desk. "We found footage of Tami driving Kurt's car near the location where his body was found. Likely around the time he was murdered."

"Are you…" Bashir shook his head. " No . There's no way. There's just—"

"Bashir." Sawyer sounded for all the world like he was about to collapse under the weight of his exhaustion. "I don't like it either. I watched and rewatched it a dozen times because I didn't want to believe it. But it's her."

"It's… holy fuck."

"I'm sorry." Sawyer reached for Bashir's waist, but Bashir straightened and pulled back. Sawyer froze.

Bashir showed his palms. "We really can't. We shouldn't have been before, but now… You know we can't."

He wanted Sawyer to stubbornly insist they could make it work. That it wouldn't compromise the investigation or hurt their credibility.

Please tell me we can, he wanted to beg. Because right now, you're the only thing that makes sense in my world.

But Sawyer retreated half a step. "You're right. You're… I'm sorry. You're right."

Damn it.

Sawyer ran a hand through his hair, and Bashir's fingers tingled with the absence of that cool, soft texture between them.

Fortunately, Sawyer was more professional than he was, and he rallied, pulling himself back into cop mode. Clearing his throat, he gestured past Bashir. "Did you find anything on Kurt's autopsy?"

Well, that chased away any romantic pining he had going on, didn't it?

"Actually, yeah." Bashir shifted his weight. "It, um… It wasn't a suicide."

Sawyer's eyes widened. Horror? Hope? Some combo of the two? "He was murdered?"

"Looks that way, yeah."

"And…" Sawyer cringed a little. "Do you think it's our guy? Our serial killer?"

Bashir nodded slowly. "I would be very surprised if it wasn't."

"Jesus Christ," Sawyer breathed, wiping a hand over his face. "It never fucking ends, does it?"

"Tell me about it."

They exchanged looks. Bashir wanted so, so badly to reel Sawyer in and pretend none of this existed for a moment or two. They didn't even have to get frisky—just hold on to each other. Maybe a kiss, but that seemed like it might be too much.

Sawyer broke eye contact first, and he cleared his throat. "I need to go talk to Tami."

Bashir nodded numbly. "Okay. I need to finish up down here."

The shudder that went through Sawyer said he'd read between the lines— I need to finish autopsying your partner.

With one more shared glance and not another word, Sawyer left the morgue.

Alone, Bashir sagged harder against the doorframe. He might have to call in Boyce today. Tap out and let his colleague do the other waiting autopsies. God knew he wasn't in any shape to do it.

Tami was a person of interest. Quite possibly a suspect. Sawyer and Bashir, out of necessity, had stepped back to a professional distance. Bashir was second-guessing every autopsy he'd ever performed. Hell, every incision he'd ever made.

More and more, he was believing this serial killer's entire mission was to mentally wreck him.

And goddamn them, they were succeeding.