Page 33 of Manner of Death
“You can’t arrest me!” a voice shouted in the background. “Freedom of speech! This is public property! You’re all public servants, so you work for me!”
The desk sergeant sighed like she was a hundred percent done with humanity. “Doc, just let me know what you want me to do, because he absolutely won’t leave until I at least try to—”
“The people have a right to know! You can’t hide!”
Oh. Shit. That sounded ominous.
And vaguely amusing in a way Bashir couldn’t quite define, but also couldn’t help welcoming. If nothing else, it would be a break from this emotional funk.
“Send him down. I’m always game for a reminder of why I decided not to work with the living.”
That got a laugh out of the desk sergeant that probably saved the idiot from being tased or something. “I’ll have an officer escort him down.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
They ended the call, and he texted Sawyer, Done with autopsy + report. Desk sergeant is sending some ranting weirdo down here. Not sure how long it’ll take, but come on in.
Sawyer responded a moment later, Some weirdo? Dangerous?
Bashir thought about that. The guy sounded loud and entitled, but the desk sergeant and everyone else up there usually had decent instincts about if someone was a threat or if they were just obnoxious. And there was a metal detector between there and here, which Ranty McShoutypants would probably be thrilled about, so…
Probably safe. Coming with an officer escort. He hesitated, then decided a little flirtation couldn’t hurt, right? If you want to come be my big strong bodyguard, I won’t say no.
Just as a shouting voice started coming down the hallway toward the morgue’s entrance, Sawyer responded. No words, just an animated GIF of a sweaty, veiny, spray-tanned bodybuilder posing with a murderous expression.
The laughter that poured out of Bashir felt damn good. Maybe that was the catharsis he needed. Sex would be even better, but a real, heartfelt laugh would tide him over for now. Funny how it had come from Sawyer. The same man Bashir had been kicking himself for not screwing last night.
He didn’t have much time to contemplate that, because the door opened, and the shouts from the hallway exploded into the morgue. Everything echoed in here anyway, thanks to all the open space, stainless steel, and concrete, so this ranting jackass sounded like a small angry mob.
“I have a right to carry a weapon,” he was preaching to the officer with all the conviction of a pulpit-pounding pastor. “It is unconstitutional for you to disarm me as a condition of entry into a public building to exercise my constitutional right to free speech! You are a fascist, officer. You are a—oh my God. What is that—what the fuck is that smell?” That was followed by theatrical gagging noises.
The response was a heavy sigh.
Bashir had to work to school his expression. Face as bland and professional as possible, he rounded the corner into the small vestibule where people entered the morgue. There he found an officer who looked like he’d been tasked with wrangling a sugared-up toddler. Beside him, a white guy with a binder under his arm, a bushy beard, and a Stab in the Light Podcast hoody, was gagging and acting like he was about to hurl on the cop’s feet.
The cop met Bashir’s gaze with pleading eyes.
Bashir offered a neutral but pleasant smile. “Can I help you?”
The man’s head snapped toward Bashir, though he was still grimacing and gagging. “Are you Dr. Ramin? The medical examiner?”
“I am, yes.” Bashir extended his hand.
The man peered at it before tentatively accepting the handshake. That wasn’t unusual. It was comical how often Bashir went to shake hands with someone and they eyed him as if they wanted to ask if he’d washed his hands. Just as well he hadn’t been eating or something. He’d once absently licked some chocolate off his finger on the way out of the morgue, and an attorney passing by had almost gotten sick.
If he did that now, there wouldn’t be any “nearly” about it, and though it was funny when it happened, neither the escorting officer nor the janitor deserved that.
“Your name?” he asked.
“Felix Daughtry. I host the—” He gagged again, covering his mouth. “Seriously, what is that smell? Is there… Am I smelling dead people?”
“It’s a morgue, genius,” the cop said. “What do you think you’re smelling? Garlic?”
Felix lost some color, not that he had much to begin with, and the way he swallowed was ominous.
“No, no, that’s not decomp.” Bashir chuckled. “Trust me—that’s a smell you never forget.”
“So what is it?” Felix wrinkled his nose. “Formaldehyde? Because it… Ugh, I think that’s what my seventh grade biology lab smelled like.”