Page 3 of Manner of Death
More glass… on top of blood.
Pieces of wood and bark… on top of blood.
Bashir stood back and looked around the scene, suddenly feeling like he was in a slasher film, the geese and chickens staring at him without the ability to tell him what they’d witnessed.
And as he took it all in, he remembered the gouge in the hardwood, the blood on the floor, and the partial shoe impression Doran had cordoned off.
Then he turned his head and peered at the chainsaw. It, like everything in the kitchen, was covered in blood, glass, and tree detritus.
Beside a chunk of viscera, stuck in the blood on the blade, was a leaf. Its surface? Clean.
Perhaps most telling was when Bashir turned that scrutiny on the deceased. There again—shattered wood and glass sprinkled on wounds that should have happened after the tree had broken the window.
Bashir exhaled hard behind his mask. There was no way this wasn’t a homicide.
He finished his preliminary exam, mostly to stay ahead of—and document—the blowflies already making themselves at home. Based on their infestation and current life cycle stage, the man had been dead for a handful of hours at most. When Bashir’s assistant Tami arrived, they could bag the body and take it back to the morgue for an autopsy.
In the meantime, Bashir stepped out of the kitchen, stripped off the first layer of shoe covers, and slipped them into a sealed bag. Then he went outside, took off the second layer, and strode toward the cars.
Officer Doran had regained a little color, and he rose as Bashir came toward him.
“Question for you, officer.” Bashir halted, studying the young man and gesturing over his shoulder at the house. “What made you set this up as a crime scene rather than an accidental death scene?”
Doran’s pallor made the sudden blush appear even more intense, and he shifted nervously as he stammered, “I, uh… Um…”
“I’m not putting you on the spot,” Bashir said evenly. “You were right to call it. Because that”—he pointed at the house again—“is absolutely a crime scene.”
“It is?” Huerta appeared beside Bashir. “I thought the guy just fell on his chainsaw or something.”
Bashir shook his head. CSIs were supposed to go in with no preconceived notions as well, but this was an unusual scene. One that really did seem like an accidental death, only revealing itself as something more sinister upon much closer inspection. Huerta was good at his job—thorough and objective—but any investigator could sometimes take their foot off the gas a little when it seemed like a clear-cut accident. Bashir wanted everyone involved erring on the side of caution with this one, because he had a feeling someone was trying to make this look like an accident.
“It’s not an accident,” he told Huerta and Doran. “Which is why I’m curious what tipped you off.”
Doran shifted from foot to foot. He glanced over his shoulder, and when Bashir looked, a burgundy sedan was approaching. Homicide detectives, most likely. Suddenly even more nervous, Doran said to Bashir, “I don’t know, honestly. Something about it… It just didn’t seem right.” He cringed as if expecting Bashir to read him the riot act for relying on intuition over evidence.
“Nice job,” Bashir said with a nod. “Trust your gut—it’ll serve you well.”
Doran exhaled. Bashir suspected that was the first relief the kid had felt since he’d come to this scene. “Thank you, sir.”
Bashir chuckled. “Just Bashir is fine. I’m not in your chain of command.”
Whatever he was going to say next was cut off by a pair of car doors closing, and all three of them turned as the pair of detectives ducked under the police tape and headed down the driveway toward them.
Bashir had known Detective McKay for a long time. Typical grizzled veteran detective who’d seen it all and, though he was good at his job, was kind of a dick. No doubt he’d have ribbed Officer Doran even harder than Huerta and Bashir had.
His partner… oh, Detective Villeray was not someone Bashir needed to be around tonight. Not after he’d had his date—but not his lengthy dry spell—interrupted. Definitely not while he was concentrating on a horrific crime scene that was meant to be mistaken for an accident. Not the time or the place to notice gray eyes, full lips, or dark hair that pulled off the artfully mussed thing so well, it made Bashir want to know how it looked when it was mussed for real.
Not. The time. Or the place.
Not even if the distraction was a welcome breather from the horror show inside the unassuming farmhouse behind him.
He cleared his throat as the detectives approached, and by the time he was shaking their hands, he had his game face on. Hopefully.
“We got a warrant?” Huerta sounded antsy. Bashir didn’t blame him—the sooner he got started, the more evidence he could preserve and collect before every cop in town found a reason to be here and tromp through the crime scene.
McKay scowled. Sliding his gaze toward Officer Doran, who was in full-on embarrassed little boy mode, the detective said, “Judge Ruffino isn’t going to forgive us any time soon for interrupting her dinner, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Bashir rolled his eyes. At least the judge probably hadn’t had to leave her dinner, but okay.