Page 31 of Manner of Death

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.

---