Chapter 9

Going into last night's date, Bashir hadn't really thought he and Sawyer would end up in bed. Not that he was a guy who moved slowly or anything—he was more than happy to jump between the sheets with someone if the chemistry was there—but in the back of his mind, he hadn't expected to get naked with Sawyer quite yet.

Today, though, he was seriously pissed off that they hadn't fucked.

Not pissed off at Sawyer. Wasn't his fault someone had been murdered before their flirting could even start getting spicy. Just… pissed off at the whole debacle. The date being interrupted. The two of them having to jump back into professional mode and back to a professional distance. The fact that, instead of spending part of the morning grinning at each other over coffee, Bashir was already here in the morgue and Sawyer was… Well, wherever he was. At home. At the precinct. Somewhere. Probably interviewing witnesses and family members by now.

Bashir had long since grown accustomed to his job sabotaging everything that wasn't his job, including—especially—his love life. This was nothing new.

Except… it was. Because there'd been a string of bizarre murders, which meant he was under a ton of pressure to do his part to stop whatever deranged psychopath was mutilating people in this town, and Bashir needed some goddamned stress relief. It wasn't that stuff like this turned him on or anything. Far from it—what he needed was catharsis, and sex was great for that.

Flattening his gloved palms on the stainless steel table beside Gerard Johnson's autopsied body, Bashir pushed out a breath through his nose. He was in the middle of the biggest shitstorm he'd ever encountered in his career. Was it really too much to ask to take a break and do whatever it took to mentally reset?

Apparently so.

He stared at what remained of Mr. Johnson. The Y-incision had been sutured. The decedent's scalp had been sewn back into place. His eyelids were unnaturally sunken, but the funeral home would take care of that, assuming the family wanted an open casket. That was, fortunately, not Bashir's department; he treated bodies with tremendous respect, and he did what he could not to cause further damage than necessary. Especially damage that would prevent the family from getting the closure they needed. But he was grateful his job didn't include the processes morticians used to make decedents appear lifelike enough for a funeral. Something about that made his skin crawl, though he'd never been able to articulate why.

Maybe because it felt like erasing the truth. Because it felt like destroying evidence. Even when the body was no longer needed for evidentiary purposes, it gave him an anxiety spike to imagine covering up wounds and blanching and bruising. It was as if those might be the critical factors that meant the difference between guilty and not guilty verdicts.

And why the fuck am I getting all maudlin and philosophical at 11:03 in the goddamned morning?

Probably because this was the third autopsy he'd performed this week on the victim of a vicious crime, and maybe he was just a little fucked up in the head right now. It was very possible there was a serial killer in town. In his town. That was quite literally too close to home. And with the weird causes of death on each victim, it was entirely possible Bashir's testimony would be the deciding factor.

If this guy was ever caught.

If this case ever went to trial.

If…

"Jesus Christ," he muttered into the stillness of the morgue. Only years of muscle memory kept him from wiping a hand over his face or rubbing his eyes; that would just make this day worse.

He was far more threadbare than he'd realized. Frustrated over last night. Desperate for some human contact and some catharsis. Buckling under the pressure of his role in stopping whoever was killing all these people.

Should've just taken Sawyer home and let him drill me before we got interrupted.

Nothing he could do about it now. Maybe next time, assuming they found an opportunity any time soon.

Bashir gave Mr. Johnson a mournful look, promised himself and the decedent that he would figure out what the hell was happening, and vowed to see that justice was served. Not that there was much he could do to besides submit his reports and testify. Someone else had to actually, like, find the killer.

Someone like Sawyer.

Bashir groaned with fatigue and frustration. Then he put Mr. Johnson back into the cooler, finished entering a few things on his report, and got started on another autopsy.

This one was fairly routine. A middle-aged mother of three had died from what appeared to be a cardiac event, and her death was not considered suspicious. Bashir's job in this case was just to establish (or confirm, really) the manner and cause of death, do a full final physical to document any additional abnormalities or health issues, and submit a report for the state, her insurance company, her family, and anyone else with an interest in the outcome. It was a horribly sad situation, but at least her loved ones wouldn't be losing sleep over who had done this to her, why, and if justice would ever be served.

Yeah. About that.

There was nothing in the report about Narcan being deployed by the paramedics or the emergency department. He suspected they had—better safe than sorry if someone was unresponsive and not breathing, especially someone so young and otherwise healthy—but it hadn't helped, so they'd moved on to other treatment options. Bashir didn't even need to look at the report to know they'd performed CPR, and probably for an extended period. The bruising and broken ribs were testimony to just how hard the first responders and trauma team had tried to save her life.

But with that many pills in her stomach…

Bashir again found himself resting his hands on the edge of the table and acutely feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It never ended, did it? It never fucking ended. The pressure was on him to stop and help convict a serial killer. Now, in the middle of all that, he had to be the one to let a grieving family know their loved one had not been taken by bad luck or biology, but that she'd succumbed to a drug overdose. One that, going by the sheer quantity of pills in her stomach, was undoubtedly a suicide. Had they even known she was in crisis?

There was a part of him that wished he could sign off that she had died of natural causes so the family could find some peace. Natural deaths were still tragic, but they were often far easier for survivors to cope with than murders and suicides. There was less "Why?" and "Could we have done something?" Bashir couldn't bring the woman back. Carla Marie Lowry, age forty-four with four kids and a husband, was gone forever, and there was nothing anyone could do. With the stroke of a pen, Bashir could give them the most peace they would ever find in her death.

But that would also be highly illegal and would cost him his job. He had no choice but to tell them that, in his professional opinion, this petite woman with pink highlights in her hair, a butterfly tattoo on her left ankle, and a C-section scar had died by way of an intentional opioid overdose.

That was news he'd had to break to family members more than once in his career. It never got easier, but Jesus Christ, it could sure get harder.

Of course, right then, the door to the morgue beeped, indicating someone had swiped their badge.

"Fucking seriously?" Bashir hissed, and he rolled his eyes while he was still alone. It was probably Tami coming in to get in some overtime on the weekend; she spent a lot of her off-hours here, and with a fresh murder from last night, there was plenty of work to be done. Or maybe Boyce was coming in to catch up on paperwork, since he inevitably procrastinated on most of it until the D.A. or the state started breathing down his neck .

But the snap of dress shoes on the hard floor told him it wasn't Tami or Boyce.

No, it was much worse than that.

"Bashir?" Sawyer's voice echoed through the morgue.

Bashir closed his eyes, sighed behind his mask, then called out, "I'm in here. Body on the table."

The footsteps faltered slightly, but only for a second. Bashir pulled up a sheet to cover Carla to the collarbones; she may have been mid-autopsy, but she still deserved dignity.

Sawyer came in, and he halted, his shoe scuffing on the floor. "Oh. Shit. I thought… I figured you meant the other body."

"No." Bashir tipped his head toward the cooler. "He's already done. Unfortunately, other people don't stop dying just because somebody was murdered." That came out a lot bitchier than he'd intended, which just made him more aware of his raw, brittle mood. "Sorry. Sorry. I…" He exhaled, suddenly feeling even more exposed than the poor woman on the table. "It's been a long morning."

"Apparently so. Do you, um… Do you want me to come back?"

Yes. No. Please get out of here. Please don't go.

God, he was a mess.

He sighed and lifted his gaze to meet Sawyer's, finding nothing but empathy and concern. "Is this business or personal?"

"Business," Sawyer said quietly. "I, um… I mean, personal, too. But…" He chewed his lip. "There's a new development you might be interested in."

Oh, that was just what Bashir needed on this shit sundae of a day—a "new development" cherry on top. Especially since, from Sawyer's grim expression, this wasn't a they-found-the-killer-dead-beside-a-full-signed-and-notarized-confession new development.

"Okay. Uh." Bashir glanced down at Carla. To Sawyer, he said, "Give me another hour and a half or so to finish with her."

Sawyer nodded. "All right. Text me when you're free."

There was a part of Bashir that wanted to tersely suggest that Sawyer could just send him a text—or, if it was lengthy, an email—explaining the new development. But there might be a reason he wanted to discuss it in person. Every written word was considered evidence. Bashir knew a cop who'd written something on his hand during an investigation, and he'd had to photocopy his hand so the note could be admitted into evidence. It was possible Sawyer wanted to discuss this off-the-record.

Because that wasn't an unsettling thought.

And… Bashir also kind of wanted an excuse to be in Sawyer's presence. Even if it was strictly professional and discussing this horrible string of murders, it sounded far more appealing than being alone in this morgue with his thoughts and the remains of innocent people.

"Sure," he said. "We'll talk soon."

Sawyer flashed him a quick smile—pleasant and friendly, not flirtatious—and then disappeared out of the morgue.

After the door had shut, Bashir exhaled. He wondered what fresh hell Sawyer was about to reveal to him.

But right now, Carla was his priority.

The autopsy itself only ended up taking another hour, and the report was a relatively quick process. He'd winced as he'd read it over.

Preliminary autopsy findings pending toxicology analysis.

Lowry, Carla M.

Manner of death – Suicide

He kind of hoped her family had already known that suicide was a possibility. It would still be devastating, but he couldn't imagine grieving his partner or his parent after an apparent heart attack, only to discover they'd actually died by suicide. The guilt. The questions .

He shuddered, submitted the report, and pulled out his phone with every intention of texting Sawyer.

Then his desk phone rang.

On the other end was the desk sergeant. "Dr. Ramin? I've got a gentleman here demanding to see you. I can either send him your way or I can stick him in a holding cell for—"

"You can't arrest me!" a voice shouted in the background. "Freedom of speech! This is public property! You're all public servants, so you work for me! "

The desk sergeant sighed like she was a hundred percent done with humanity. "Doc, just let me know what you want me to do, because he absolutely won't leave until I at least try to—"

"The people have a right to know! You can't hide!"

Oh. Shit. That sounded ominous.

And vaguely amusing in a way Bashir couldn't quite define, but also couldn't help welcoming. If nothing else, it would be a break from this emotional funk.

"Send him down. I'm always game for a reminder of why I decided not to work with the living."

That got a laugh out of the desk sergeant that probably saved the idiot from being tased or something. "I'll have an officer escort him down."

"Thanks, Sergeant."

They ended the call, and he texted Sawyer, Done with autopsy + report. Desk sergeant is sending some ranting weirdo down here. Not sure how long it'll take, but come on in.

Sawyer responded a moment later, Some weirdo? Dangerous?

Bashir thought about that. The guy sounded loud and entitled, but the desk sergeant and everyone else up there usually had decent instincts about if someone was a threat or if they were just obnoxious. And there was a metal detector between there and here, which Ranty McShoutypants would probably be thrilled about, so…

Probably safe. Coming with an officer escort. He hesitated, then decided a little flirtation couldn't hurt, right? If you want to come be my big strong bodyguard, I won't say no.

Just as a shouting voice started coming down the hallway toward the morgue's entrance, Sawyer responded. No words, just an animated GIF of a sweaty, veiny, spray-tanned bodybuilder posing with a murderous expression.

The laughter that poured out of Bashir felt damn good. Maybe that was the catharsis he needed. Sex would be even better, but a real, heartfelt laugh would tide him over for now. Funny how it had come from Sawyer. The same man Bashir had been kicking himself for not screwing last night.

He didn't have much time to contemplate that, because the door opened, and the shouts from the hallway exploded into the morgue. Everything echoed in here anyway, thanks to all the open space, stainless steel, and concrete, so this ranting jackass sounded like a small angry mob .

"I have a right to carry a weapon," he was preaching to the officer with all the conviction of a pulpit-pounding pastor. "It is unconstitutional for you to disarm me as a condition of entry into a public building to exercise my constitutional right to free speech! You are a fascist , officer. You are a—oh my God. What is that—what the fuck is that smell?" That was followed by theatrical gagging noises.

The response was a heavy sigh.

Bashir had to work to school his expression. Face as bland and professional as possible, he rounded the corner into the small vestibule where people entered the morgue. There he found an officer who looked like he'd been tasked with wrangling a sugared-up toddler. Beside him, a white guy with a binder under his arm, a bushy beard, and a Stab in the Light Podcast hoody, was gagging and acting like he was about to hurl on the cop's feet.

The cop met Bashir's gaze with pleading eyes.

Bashir offered a neutral but pleasant smile. "Can I help you?"

The man's head snapped toward Bashir, though he was still grimacing and gagging. "Are you Dr. Ramin? The medical examiner?"

"I am, yes." Bashir extended his hand.

The man peered at it before tentatively accepting the handshake. That wasn't unusual. It was comical how often Bashir went to shake hands with someone and they eyed him as if they wanted to ask if he'd washed his hands. Just as well he hadn't been eating or something. He'd once absently licked some chocolate off his finger on the way out of the morgue, and an attorney passing by had almost gotten sick.

If he did that now, there wouldn't be any "nearly" about it, and though it was funny when it happened, neither the escorting officer nor the janitor deserved that.

"Your name?" he asked.

"Felix Daughtry. I host the—" He gagged again, covering his mouth. "Seriously, what is that smell? Is there… Am I smelling dead people?"

"It's a morgue, genius," the cop said. "What do you think you're smelling? Garlic?"

Felix lost some color, not that he had much to begin with, and the way he swallowed was ominous.

"No, no, that's not decomp." Bashir chuckled. "Trust me—that's a smell you never forget."

"So what is it?" Felix wrinkled his nose. "Formaldehyde? Because it… Ugh, I think that's what my seventh grade biology lab smelled like."

"Good memory." Bashir couldn't resist, and he said with a perfectly straight face, "What you're actually smelling, though, is Febreeze."

That earned him skeptical looks from both Felix and the officer.

Bashir smiled. "It just smells like formaldehyde when it mixes with decomp." Both men gagged, and Bashir chuckled. "That's a joke. People in our business—well, now you know where the term ‘deadpan' comes from."

The officer snickered, rolling his eyes. Felix just glowered. And grimaced some more.

"Anyway." Bashir cleared his throat. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Daughtry?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm…" Felix took a deep beath, something he instantly regretted. He managed to collect himself, though, and pushed his shoulders back as his earlier entitled bravado returned. "I'm with the Stab in the Light Podcast. We're investigating a string of murders where you did the autopsies, and I want to interview you about some details." The challenging look he shot Bashir suggested he meant " interview" in the same way cops did —"We're not interrogating you, but we're absolutely interrogating you."

A mix of wariness and irritation tightened behind Bashir's ribs. True crime podcasts hit him up all the time, usually about cold cases. "String of murders" wasn't something he could apply to very many situations in his career, though, which made him think this was about a case that was anything but cold.

Guard fully up, he said, "All right. Why don't we come back in here?"

He led them deeper into the morgue. There were chairs in his office, and though it was small, the three of them would be able to sit comfortably and have a conversation. That was where he conducted interviews with most podcasters, grad students, writers, and whoever else came his way with a list of questions and a voice recorder.

Felix had Bashir on edge, though, and Bashir fully intended to level the playing field by returning the favor.

So, instead of sitting in his office, they'd stand.

In the autopsy room.

Felix swept an uneasy glance around the room. His gaze landed on the cabinet doors along the far wall. Most crime podcasters had at least a passing familiarity with morgues, so he probably knew exactly what he was looking at—the cooler. Maybe wondering how many bodies were behind the various doors. For as much as people like him loved doing deep dives into violent crime, many going as far as hunting down photos and even videos of the crime scenes and victims, a surprising number of them were incredibly squeamish about being in the presence of death.

That wasn't a discomfort Bashir made a habit of exploiting, but he'd heard of Felix's podcast. The pun in the title wasn't just to get around the fact that there was already a Stab in the Light podcast; it was him being an edgelord peddling in "we don't just refuse to accept what they tell us—we take what they tell us and slash it apart until all the lies and coverups are exposed."

The show was a mix of anti-government conspiracy theories and almost masturbatory descriptions of the horrible things people could do to each other. He was like the true crime version of a shock jock—in it for the notoriety and the shock value more than the analysis and pursuit of justice that were the genre's usual hallmarks. If Bashir had to guess, Felix would come down a peg on his hunt for a juicy tabloid exposé if he spent the interview backed into a corner by his own revulsion toward death.

Bashir leaned against the table where he'd been discovering the truth about Carla's death less than an hour ago. "So." He clasped his hands together and kept his professional smile firmly in place. "What would you like to know?"

"Oh. Um." Felix stammered a bit, then seemed to remember the binder he'd been holding. He took it out and flipped it open. "I wanted to ask you about your autopsy on Gilroy Upworth."

Bashir tensed. "I can't really discuss an ongoing—"

"The news is still saying it was an accident," Felix steamrolled over him, "but you found a bullet in Upworth's spine. Correct?"

Bashir's own spine prickled. "I'm sorry—where are you getting this information?"

Felix met him with a sarcastic look and a haughty huff. "Don't try to gaslight me or cover up the truth." He stepped closer and thrust the binder at Bashir. "Or is that not your signature?'

Bashir took the binder, and the prickle turned to a full-body chill. His head snapped up. "Where did you get this?"

Felix sniffed indignantly. "That's a public health document, Dr. Ramin. You know that as well as I do."

"I do, yes." Bashir fought to keep his voice calm and professional, and that was a chore when panic was snaking along his nerve endings. "But documents like these are not made publicly available until any criminal proceedings have been adjudicated. I'll ask you again— where did you get it?"

"I don't have to name my sources," Felix snapped. "I'm a journalist. I'm not turning over my sources to the fucking cops." He threw a sneer in the officer's direction, earning him an eyeroll.

Bashir dropped any pretense of politeness. "Mr. Daughtry, you being in possession of this document means it's been leaked illegally." Felix tried to shout over him, but Bashir had not only had it up to here with everyone and everything today, he'd also inherited his father's ability to bark anyone into silence. " I am not done. "

The podcaster's teeth snapped shut, and he stared at Bashir with wide eyes. Even the cop looked a little alarmed.

Bashir lowered his voice to one that was quieter, but no less effective at shutting people right up. "This is information that could compromise the investigation and prosecution of a murderer. Do you understand, Mr. Daughtry?" He held up the binder. "Do you understand that your need to be first on the scene and break something shocking could contribute to a murderer walking free and potentially killing again?"

He thought Felix had paled at the smell of the morgue, but the kid was almost translucent now. "I… But it's…" He was trying like hell to bring back his chest-puffing arrogance, but Bashir had him off-balance. Exactly where he wanted him.

"I need to know your source," he said through his teeth. "And I need to know what other information you have about this case." He paused, remembering Felix's comment about "a string of murders." "I also need to know what you have about any other active cases."

Felix stared at him, but then his eyes flicked toward the binder that was now in Bashir's possession, and his righteous fury came back. "You can't just confiscate my property! That's a Fourth Amendment violation, and—"

"No, it isn't." The officer sounded about as done with this whole thing as Bashir was. "You handed it over voluntarily, and it's considered stolen property." He paused. "Dr. Ramin might not be able to confiscate it from you, but I absolutely can."

"The hell you can! Not everything in there is—it's not stolen! It's a copy of a report that's on file, so you're—"

"It's not a report you're legally entitled to view or possess," Bashir snapped. "And maybe instead of making this about your rights, you should consider the rights of the victims and their families, not to mention those of any victims that might die while we're wasting time instead of apprehending the suspect." He slammed the notebook down on the autopsy table, making both men jump. "You can obtain the information with a Freedom of Information Act request after the case has been adjudicated, and not before. Period."

"That's bullshit! You can't just withhold—"

"Is everything all right in here?" Sawyer's voice jerked Bashir's attention to the doorway, and for the first time today, there was some actual relief.

Oh, thank God you're here.

Felix coughed a caustic laugh. "And look at that. More cops. Anything to suppress free speech and make sure the truth doesn't come out. What the fuck are you assholes hiding about these deaths, anyway? Why are you so determined to—"

"How do you know I'm a cop?" Sawyer's tone was smooth, almost casual, but the question was still pointed.

Felix blinked stupidly. Then he laughed again, still full of sarcasm and derision. "So now we're playing ‘good cop'…" He gestured at the officer. "Bad cop." He gestured Bashir. "And not a cop? Is that the latest game?"

"No, it isn't." Sawyer stepped deeper into the room, eyes never leaving Felix, expression not even twitching with the slightest hint of annoyance. "It's a genuine question." He looked down at himself, then back at Felix, and shrugged. "How do you know I'm a cop?"

Felix's mouth opened and closed like a fish's.

"Mmhmm." Sawyer slid his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, and only then did he narrow his eyes and let the subtlest—and maybe sexiest—little smirk come to life. "See, you could've just said the fact that I let myself in through the front door, which clearly meant I had credentials allowing me to get this far into the police department, as well as into the morgue. As opposed to, you know, someone coming to collect or drop off a body, who'd pull up to back and ask to be buzzed in."

Felix blinked.

Bashir had to fight a laugh at the kid's flustered expression, and he was admittedly impressed by—just impressed, not at all turned on by or attracted to—Sawyer playing verbal chess with this checkers novice.

"So, with that out of the way…" Sawyer's smirk va nished and his serious cop mask was firmly back in place. "How did you know I'm a cop?"

As amusing as the interplay was, Bashir couldn't quite understand why Sawyer was harping on this so hard. Yes, he was in plainclothes, but what did it matter if the podcaster knew he was a cop?

Felix shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. "I, um… I saw you. Last night. At the scene behind the grocery store."

The officer and Bashir both tensed, but Sawyer didn't even flinch.

"Uh-huh. And what exactly were you doing there?"

The podcaster half-shrugged, some color blooming in his previously pale face. "I… I have a police scanner. It said there was…" He shifted a little more. "Said there was a body behind the store."

"Mmhmm. So you just strolled on up to an active crime scene, and now you're in here haranguing the medical examiner?" He gestured at the binder beside Bashir. "While in possession of evidence you shouldn't have? Tell me—did you get your hands on all of that before or after you got in touch with Jessica Villeray-Blanc to produce a potential television series starring her daughter?"

Felix's jaw went slack. Truthfully, so did Bashir's. A television series? And… Villeray-Blanc So, a relative of Sawyer's? What in the actual fuck was happening here? He had to literally bite his tongue to keep from asking that question out loud, and he only did that because he didn't want to interrupt Sawyer's momentum.

While Felix was on his heels and still trying to rally, Sawyer started ticking off points on his fingers. "You've got information you shouldn't have about active investigations. You're using that information to interrogate the M.E., likely to obtain more information that absolutely should not be made public any time soon. You were at the crime scene last night. And you're in talks with a producer about a potentially lucrative TV deal with a headline actress." Sliding his hands in his pockets again, he fixed a glare on Felix that probably could've made a serial killer wet his pants. "Mr. Daughtry, you've got five seconds to give me one good reason why I shouldn't name you my prime suspect in all three murders."

The kid was back to being so white, even Bashir could've mistaken him for a corpse if not for the way his mouth was soundlessly moving. And Bashir might've been making a gobsmacked face himself. Actress? TV deal? Was that… Was that the new development Sawyer had wanted to tell him about?

A renewed chill worked its way down his spine. Coincidences were rarely actual coincidences, especially when dealing with a psychopath who liked to play games. Had the killer involved Sawyer's sister as a way to toy with him? Maybe as a way to fuck with his mind by showing him how close he could get to Sawyer's family? Because that wasn't creepy at all.

Finally, Felix managed to croak, "I'm not a murderer!"

"But all those other facts I stated are still true." Sawyer was unmoved. "So now would be a damn good time to start talking." With a subtle sneer, he added, "I'm pretty sure that's something you're skilled at doing, yes?"

Felix glanced at Bashir. Then at the other cop. Then back at Sawyer. He was wound tight now, like a terrified animal.

Shit. It hadn't even occurred to Bashir that Felix might be a suspect, or that he might have ties to the suspect.

This is why Sawyer is the detective. Leave me to the autopsies .

Sawyer made a show of checking his phone. Then he fixed a glare on Felix. "Well?" His waning patience even made Bashir a little nervous. "Are you going to talk or not?"

Where Felix had been dangerously close to vomiting earlier, he looked even closer now to crying, shitting himself, or both. He was shaking badly, inching back from all three of the other men like a cornered animal. "I want…" He swallowed hard and tried again. "I want a lawyer."

Oh. Shit. Was he the killer?

But Sawyer didn't seem bothered. He half-shrugged and said to the other cop, "Set him up in an interview room upstairs, and get him on the phone with a lawyer."

"Will do." The cop gave a curt nod, then gestured for Felix to head out of the morgue. All the screaming and arguing from earlier were gone, and the podcaster fell into step with the officer.

When they'd left, Bashir said, "Do you think he did it?"

"No," Sawyer said without hesitation.

"Even though he's asking for a lawyer?"

"A lot of people do. Everyone should, honestly, so he's smart." Sawyer gazed in the direction Felix had gone. "Hopefully he's smart enough to lead us back to the killer."