Page 66 of Manner of Death

“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.

Chapter 18

The hard-ass, bad-cop version of interviewing people had never been Sawyer’s strong suit. He wasn’t the sort of person who enjoyed pushing his version of events and breaking someone else’s will; in his experience, those people had been the worst kinds of directors, and they made pretty bad detectives too. He preferred to take a cooperative approach: show the suspect certain pieces of evidence, tell them the conclusions being drawn, then give them time to explain. It worked way more frequently than he’d first expected it to, especially given that so many people lawyered up in an effort to prevent just those incautious explanations.

Sawyer hadn’t expected Tami to be a challenge in the interview room. She didn’t like him, that much was plain, but she also didn’t seem to be a very good liar. While Nan showed her the video of her driving Kurt’s car, Sawyer watched Tami’s face carefully. He waited for the spot where they got a good look through the window, and—there. The tiny furrow in her brow, the way the corner of her lip trembled.

That was her, all right.

“You can see why we had to bring you in,” Sawyer said once the video ended. “It’s very clear that you’re driving, Ms. Glen.”

“I…” She shook her head. “No, that’s not me.”

“It is, though.” Sawyer tapped his left ear. “Even if the look at your face wasn’t enough, those earrings are definitely yours.” The video was grainy but the earrings she’d been wearing—and was wearing now—were big and distinctive.

She gave him a half-hearted shrug. “Anyone could wear hoops like that.”

“But we’re not talking about anyone. We’re talking about you.”

Tami shook her head again and shifted in the chair. “It wasn’t me. I’ve never driven that car in my life. I didn’t do anything.”

Sawyer leaned a little closer, tilting his head and affecting curiosity. “What is it that you think we’re suggesting you did?” He gestured at the screen. “All we’ve shown you is footage of you behind the wheel of a car.”

Tami opened her mouth to speak, but froze, her eyes wide and some color slipping out of her face. The oh fuck was plainly evident. She rallied quickly, though, and she crossed her arms as she sat up. “You wanted to talk to me about—”

“We never told you why we wanted to talk,” Nan jumped in. “Only that we had some questions.”

Tami’s eyes flicked back and forth between them. “But it’s… Why else would…” She swallowed hard as if trying not to throw up.

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