Page 42 of Manner of Death
“You know him?”
“Ugh. Yes.” Bashir took another swallow of wine, then put the glass down and rested his elbow on the back of the couch again. “Every time I see his name on a case where I have to testify, I think this is it—this will be the trial where I end up on the front page for backhanding the defense attorney across the face.”
A laugh burst out of Sawyer, and he only grimaced a little. “You too, huh?”
“Yes. I can’t stand that asshole.”
Sawyer watched him with a devilish sparkle in his eyes, and he gave Bashir’s foot a little nudge with his. “Come on. Tell me a story about facing off with him in court.”
It felt like they should’ve been diving deeper into Sawyer’s theory about their case, just like they both should’ve been downtown poring over notes and leads, but they also both needed the downtime. It wasn’t unusual for cops to work eighteen-hour or twenty-hour stretches during major investigations, and Bashir had had to pull some marathon shifts at death scenes and doing court prep, but the human body and brain were what they were. Rest was a necessity. Downtime wasn’t negotiable. Otherwise people started missing details, including major ones.
Besides, Sawyer needed to be resting his body, and there honestly wasn’t anything Bashir could do for any of their victims until some toxicology and other reports came back. Sawyer’s partner was working Felix to see if she could find out who’d leaked information to him. Some officers were checking in with every company that sold snake venom or yellow oleander to see if any had been shipped to the area recently.
So what was the harm in taking a breather together?
“Okay. Well.” Bashir sipped his wine again. “You know that joke about the attorney who grills the M.E. on the stand about how he knows the person was dead? Where he asks if he checked for a pulse, respiration, brain activity?”
Sawyer nodded. “The one where he finally says he knew the guy was dead because his brain was in a bowl on his desk?”
“Yes, exactly. And then the lawyer asks, but was there still a possibility he was alive? And the M.E. responds, only if he was an attorney?”
Sawyer snickered. “I feel like Larue would have a hundred percent been involved in that exchange.” He paused. “That joke wasn’t based on the two of you, was it?”
“No, no.” Bashir waved his hand. “I heard it back when I was a kid. But about two years ago, I was testifying in a case. Really awful one involving a drunk driver and—” He shook his head. “Anyway. I’m on the stand, and he just starts grilling me about the time of death. He kept trying to get me to say that if first responders had done their job and tried to save the victim, there was a chance she might’ve survived.”
Sawyer rolled his eyes. “Let me guess—he was trying to play it that his client shouldn’t go down for killing the victim, just injuring her, because she would’ve survived if the EMTs had tried?”
“Bingo.” Bashir exhaled. “He literally asked me straight out if it was unusual for me to be called in before paramedics on-scene had even tried. And I said, yes, under many circumstances, that would be considered irregular. But when the victim is pinned from the waist up beneath an overturned vehicle…” He grimaced and shrugged. “That’s more my area of expertise than theirs.”
With a dry laugh, Sawyer shook his head. “Wow. I mean, it’s horrible what happened to the victim, but Larue’s stupidity? What the fuck?”
“I know, right?” Bashir tsked. “I’ve always wondered which cereal box he got his law degree out of.”
Sawyer snorted. “No kidding. I’ll never forget being cross-examined by him this one time back when I was a patrol officer. He looks me right in the eye and asks me—with a completely straight face—how I could possibly know his client’s son was a threat to my life before I shot him.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “My dude, I’m no psychic, but”—he dropped his hand and met Bashir’s gaze with an exasperated look—“when someone’s running at me and brandishing a large sharp object while he screams, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you, you stupid fucking pig,’ it’s reasonable to assume he’s going to kill me.”
Bashir shuddered even as he chuckled. “Did that convince him?”
“Pfft. Are you kidding? He tried to say it was like a wild animal rushing at someone to scare them away. It’s scary and menacing, but they’re not actually attacking.”
“Oh Jesus.” Bashir huffed out a breath. “This from the same guy who tried to have one of the K9 dogs put down because it barked at him.”
“Right?” Sawyer swore under his breath. “I’m so glad the city told him to pound sand. That K9 is still one of our best. And she was literally doing what she was trained to do when someone came at her handler. Larue was getting in Officer Gale’s face over—God, I don’t even remember what his problem was, but Angel protected him. And she just barked, for fuck’s sake. One word from Gale and she’d have had him on the ground.”
“She’d have deserved a commendation for that.”
“They both would’ve.”
“Seriously.” Bashir chuckled, but then he sobered. “That thing that happened to you—the guy coming at you with the knife. Did he actually—I mean, he obviously didn’t kill you, but…”
To his horror, Sawyer pulled up his sleeve, revealing a white scar across his forearm. “Took a fuckload of stitches to close it up, too. And that was after I’d shot him twice.”
Bashir whistled and went for his wine. “See, this kind of shit is another reason I don’t like working with the living. Corpses can startle me sometimes, but they don’t come at me with knives.”
Sawyer cocked a brow. “Startle you? How? You open one up and confetti flies out?”
By some miracle, Bashir didn’t choke on his wine this time. “No, but bodies can… Well, decomp means gases building up, and sometimes those gases let go.” He snickered. “Nothing funnier than the first time a new intern hears a corpse groan.”
“Oh my God.” Sawyer chafed his arms and made a face. “That’s… ugh. No, thank you.”