Page 15 of Manner of Death
Whatever. They’d both made their choices, and Bashir wasn’t here for pissing contests or temper tantrums.
“I’m sorry, okay?” he’d said on his way out. “I’ll put out a memo for people to stop getting murdered so I don’t have to dump my caseload on you.”
Boyce hadn’t been happy with that, and it admittedly hadn’t been Bashir’s most professional moment, but there it was. Between flirty cops, prickly technicians, and bitchy pathologists, he was a hundred percent done with the living, and it was barely noon.
The scene was clear out on Parson’s Creek Road, and the drive would usually give him time to cool off, but it didn’t help today. He doubted anything would unless it involved alcohol, orgasms, or both.
And wasn’t that Detective McKay’s car?
Bashir indulged in a frustrated sigh as he shut off the engine. He was about to bang his forehead on the steering wheel in hopes of the sweet relief of blunt force trauma, but a uniformed officer was striding toward him with a clipboard under her arm.
Time to be an adult. He’d knuckled through worse. And the alcohol and orgasms at the other end of this shitshow would be worth it.
“They fucking better be,” he muttered to himself as he stepped out of the van. By the time he’d shut the door, he had on his professional face, which consisted of a smile that made him approachable without giving the appearance of over-the-top cheerfulness. Nothing unsettled people quite like the M.E. waltzing onto a death scene with a bright realtor smile.
Not that he was in any danger of appearing too happy today.
The scene commander met him at the edge of the perimeter, clipboard tucked under her arm. “Dr. Ramin.” She extended her hand. “I’m Officer Lane.”
He shook her hand. She quickly logged him in on her clipboard, then lifted the crime scene tape for him to duck under. After he’d put on his gloves, mask, and booties, Officer Lane led him down the marked path toward the middle of the scene. Much like Officer Doran had yesterday, she’d wisely cordoned off a wide perimeter around the scene and laid down tape and cones to indicate a path. Two CSI techs were already working their way through the scene—one crouching beside some ferns a few yards off the road, the other standing near the middle and, Bashir guessed, making a sketch.
About two yards away from the one making the sketch, sprawled at the feet of Detectives McKay and goddamned Villeray, was the reason Bashir had been called out here.
Caucasian male. Mid-twenties, most likely. Maybe early thirties. Dressed in nothing but a pair of blue swim trunks. No visible signs of trauma. He had no idea why someone thought this person had drowned other than the swim trunks. And… did he smell chlorine? That could’ve been bleach, though.
Blowflies were gathering, as was to be expected, and rigor mortis had set in. The victim probably hadn’t been here more than few hours.
The dirt surrounding him was barely disturbed. There were tire tracks in the clay, but no footprints near the body. The footprints Bashir could see were likely from whoever had discovered the body, the CSI techs, the officers, and the detectives, all of whom had carefully stayed back several feet from the body.
Bashir’s best guess at this stage? The deceased had died elsewhere and then been left here. Probably dumped from a vehicle—possibly a moving one—given the position of limbs and the lack of shoe impressions nearby.
He met Detective Villeray’s gaze. The detective’s cheeks darkened, and he glanced away for a second, but then he cleared his throat and reclaimed eye contact. “The, uh… The person who called this in thought he drowned.”
Bashir cocked a brow. “In what? Student debt?” He gestured around them. “There’s no water up here.”
Villeray pressed his lips together as if trying to stifle a laugh. “Yeah, we… can’t figure that one out either.”
Officer Lane cleared her throat. “Well, the scene is dry, but the deceased was soaking wet when we got here.” She turned to Bashir. “And there’s the chlorine smell.”
Bashir nodded. “Good call.” He looked over the body again with the smell in mind. Chlorine from a pool? Or bleach? The deceased’s lungs would tell him a clearer story, hopefully. And now that he looked, the guy’s hair did look like it had been wet recently. On closer inspection, so had the clay near the body. Maybe he had been in a pool or something.
He needed to put drowning out of his mind and focus on the body and whatever story the autopsy told. Conclusions would come from those rather than evidence backing up the assumptions in his brain.
Observe and analyze, he reminded himself. Don’t assume and overlook something because it doesn’t fit the assumption.
“Well,” he said to the cops, “if he drowned, he didn’t do it here. We’ll just have to see what the evidence says.”
With that, he got to work, and the cops left him to it. Villeray hesitated as the other two walked away, and Bashir was hit with the overwhelming horror that the detective was going to hang back and make things worse between them. Like apologize for making things awkward, which would only succeed in making things more awkward. Or try to start chatting in hopes of buttering up Bashir to reconsider his rejection.
Mercifully, about the time Bashir was considering striking up a conversation about what the blowfly larvae would be doing to the body’s eyeballs once they hatched, Villeray left to catch up with his partner.
Thank fuck.
Bashir glanced at the detective’s back, and admittedly, he felt bad. Villeray was a nice enough guy—for a cop—and he wasn’t hard on the eyes at all. He hadn’t deserved Tami’s attitude earlier. Hell, maybe Bashir should apologize for that.
That could wait, though. John Doe of Parson’s Creek Road could not.
With the help of Officer Lane, Bashir put up a small canopy to protect the body and this portion of the crime scene from the elements. A sheet strategically draped over two sides would protect the dignity and privacy of the deceased if looky-loos showed up. Not that there would be many at a remote crime scene like this, but especially with the advent of drones, one couldn’t be too careful.