Page 1 of Manner of Death
Chapter 1
Just once, Bashir wanted to get through a first date or even a hookup without somebody dying.
It didn’t seem like too much to ask. It really didn’t. Yeah, fine, in a city of just under a hundred thousand people, an average of three or four deaths per day wasn’t all that out of the ordinary. But a lot of those were the kind that didn’t necessitate a call to—never mind a visit from—the county medical examiner.
Yet here he was, disappointment curdling the exceptionally good artichoke dip he and Max had shared as an appetizer. And he wasn’t going to get to eat that chicken marsala he’d ordered, was he? This place had some of the best chicken marsala he’d ever had, and he’d been looking forward to it all week. Ever since he and Max had agreed to meet in person.
Bashir sighed apologetically. “I’m sorry. I, um…” He grimaced as he gestured at the phone. “I have to go.”
On the bright side, at least this was going to prevent him from wasting any more time with Max. The guy had been nice enough when they’d chatted, and the flirtation had seemed promising. So far, the chemistry had been good in person, too. Max was funny and smart, and he had a nice smile.
But the annoyance in his expression now—the tsk and the roll of his eyes as he reached for his wine—told Bashir this was not a good match after all.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ll, uh… I’ll pick up the bill on my way out. Text me?”
Max’s smile was sour and his shrug was non-committal.
No, this was not going to work in the long run or even the short term. Shame, because much like he’d been looking forward to the chicken marsala, Bashir had been eagerly anticipating everything else they’d both alluded to during their flirtation via phone and text.
As he left the restaurant, it occurred to him that it was just as well they’d decided on an actual date instead of going straight to a hookup. If Max was this put out over Bashir bailing in the middle of dinner, he’d have been thrilled to be left with an unexpected case of blue balls.
Well. Back to the drawing board.
Tomorrow, anyway. Tonight, Bashir had other priorities.
Those priorities took him to a farm just outside of town. He was given little more information than the location and the number of bodies; his predecessor taught him not to ask for or even accept any further details, as there was too much potential to cloud his judgment. The deceased—and indeed any possible suspects—deserved his objective and unbiased conclusions about what had taken place. Much of that came down to the CSI techs, the detectives, and the district attorney, of course. Nevertheless, many a suspect had walked because, despite everyone else painting a clear picture of homicide, an M.E. testified that the manner of death was an accident, a suicide, or undetermined.
No pressure or anything.
The responding officer had duly cordoned off the entire property as well as the long driveway and a hundred-foot stretch of road in either direction with yellow police tape. Just outside the cordon was a patrol car as well as the black CSI van. Beside the vehicles, a cop spoke with Carlos Huerta, a CSI tech Bashir knew well. The officer was twitchy and agitated; maybe because he was young, or maybe because the scene was especially grisly. Given the extra-wide cordon, it was probably both. The new guys often took “make the scene as big as you can because you can always shrink it later” to heart. Some of the older officers ribbed them for it, but Bashir appreciated it, earnestness and all. The older guys might’ve laughed and the younger ones might’ve felt sheepish, but it only took one instance of a critical piece of evidence being found—untouched and uncontaminated—six inches inside a scene’s too-big perimeter for them all to shut their pieholes.
Leaning against the side of the van, arms crossed and a loosely-laced combat boot resting on a running board, Huerta looked about as nonplussed as he ever did. Bashir wondered sometimes if anything affected him, or if he—like most of the crime scene techs, even in their mid-twenties like him—had just seen it all.
Bashir got out of his car, left his suit jacket in the front seat, and changed into the pair of weathered sneakers he always kept in his trunk. He also stuffed a few pairs of shoe covers and gloves into his pocket, then headed over to the van and patrol car.
Huerta flashed him a smile. “Hey, Doc.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Homeowner’s waiting inside.”
From the way the officer turned a little green, Bashir didn’t have to ask if the homeowner was the decedent. Huerta was respectful of the dead and of crime scenes, but he wasn’t the greatest at reading social cues, and on top of that, he sometimes couldn’t help trolling the younger cops who were still squeamish.
Bashir nodded. “Still waiting on a warrant?”
Huerta rolled his eyes. No shock there; the homicide detective was likely hammering the judge at that very moment to get a signature on the warrant, but it took time.
Bashir, however, did not need a warrant. The body was all the warrant he needed.
He signed into the crime scene log and gave it back to the officer—Officer Doran, it turned out, who was indeed quite young if the nonexistent stubble on his boyishly soft jaw was any indication.
Bashir raised his eyebrows. “First time at a scene like this?”
Doran swallowed as if he were struggling to keep his esophagus on a southbound trajectory. “Yeah.”
Bashir offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Well, lucky for you, you’re on gatekeeping detail.” He pointed at the clipboard in the officer’s hand. “This place is going to be crawling with people as soon as word gets out. You know how to manage traffic?”
Now it was nerves more than horror on Doran’s face, but he nodded again. “Yes, sir. I, uh… I already marked a path inside. I…” He furrowed his brow. “Should I have waited? Until we got a warrant? God, did I fuck this up already and—”
“You’re good,” Bashir said gently. “You’re protecting and preserving evidence. Don’t need a warrant for that part. Especially if, uh…” He gestured at the house. “No one’s home.”
Doran was white already—far paler than Huerta or Bashir—and he lost even more color.