Page 49 of Manner of Death
“No idea,” Bashir muttered. “But Detective Villeray has it under control.” He turned away from the stairs and met her gaze as he gestured at the body. “Let’s finish up here so we can take him to the morgue.”
An oddly amused look crossed her face. One that didn’t usually materialize at death scenes, where they both kept stoic, professional expressions firmly in place.
He cocked a brow. “What?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head and returned her attention to Colby Simpson. “Just… It’s weird to hear you call him ‘Detective Villeray.’”
Bashir eyed her as he reclaimed his place beside the body. “It’s his name, isn’t it?”
“I figured you two were on a first-name basis by now.”
He cut his eyes toward her, then rolled them and clicked his pen. “We’re at work.”
“Mmhmm. I know.”
He opted not to pursue the line of questioning any further. This was hardly the time or the place. They often spoke casually and about normal things while they were autopsying someone, but there were no hot mics, cameras, cops, or bystanders in there. Out here in the real world, people would be uncomfortable and even offended by the conversations, irreverent banter, and even dark humor that were so normal for him and Tami.
So… it could wait.
When they’d observed, documented, and collected every imaginable piece of evidence or potential evidence on the body, they bagged him up. Rather than stretchering Mr. Simpson down eight floors, they wheeled him into the hallway and onto the elevator, which took them to the lobby. Officer Bailey had radioed ahead of them to make sure the driveway beyond the lobby was clear of reporters, bystanders, and—most importantly, in Bashir’s mind—anyone who knew or was related to the deceased.
The doors opened, and they rolled the stretcher through the deserted lobby. The building had been briefly evacuated at Bashir’s order due to a possible carbon monoxide leak, and when the space was determined to be safe, only cops and other law enforcement personnel returned. The people working here had taken a half day off, and Bashir didn’t blame them at all.
Outside, many had returned to gawk at the scene, and cops were keeping them back with barricades, police tape, and their imposing presence. A few cameras flashed and some people gasped as the stretcher rolled past them, but no one made a scene or got in the way.
Bashir and Tami loaded up the body, and their work here at the scene was done. He shut the van’s back doors, and then Tami left; she’d come in her own car, and Bashir could handle everything from here.
Alone behind the van, he stole a moment to exhale. He was almost tempted to get started on the autopsy as soon as he got to the morgue, because this one was going to be another shitshow, wasn’t it? Some bizarre cause of death, or at least one that didn’t remotely match the circumstances surrounding where and how the body had been found. Was he even going to be able to sleep tonight, knowing what awaited him?
But he’d have to try. He needed to be fresh when he started an autopsy, and today had run him into the ground both physically and mentally. Colby Simpson deserved better than the autopsy Bashir would perform in his current state.
Approaching footsteps reminded him he was still at a crime scene, and he still needed to have on his professional game face. He pulled himself together, squared his shoulders, turned around, and—
Released his breath again.
“Hey.” Sawyer approached, his face a mix of sheepishness and sheer exhaustion. “Sorry about, uh…” He gestured at the building behind him.
“Wasn’t your fault.” Bashir shouldn’t have moved closer to him, but he did. Even if they couldn’t touch out here—they were both way too professional for that—he just needed to be a little closer to Sawyer. “How is he, anyway? I assume he’s home?”
“He’s…” Sawyer glanced toward the parking lot, then sighed and shook his head, renewed fatigue radiating off his slumped shoulders. “I mean, he’s always been a workaholic. And… between you and me, an alcoholic. So he’s trying to dive into work and a bottle at the same time to cope with losing his wife, and…” He trailed off, shaking his head again.
“Shit,” Bashir whispered. “Is there, um… How much time do they think she has left?”
“Hard to say,” Sawyer whispered. “He said he heard her telling his sister they should’ve moved to a euthanasia state while they had the chance. Because now she’s just in constant pain and waiting to die.”
Bashir had to fight off a shudder. In medical school, he’d witnessed the horror of terminal illnesses slowly claiming victory over patients. He’d visited his aunt during her awful final weeks. And God knew he’d autopsied plenty of people who’d been ravaged for months if not years before their bodies had finally given out.
Death itself didn’t scare him. It was the possibility of taking the long way to get there that terrified him.
“That has to be awful for him,” he said softly. “Can’t really blame him for buckling like he is.”
“No, definitely not.” Sawyer pushed a hand through his hair. “I get why he’s not doing so hot. But still… I’m sorry for—”
“Don’t.” Bashir couldn’t resist, and he touched Sawyer’s arm. “It’s no more your fault than the two of us getting called out to a death scene.”
“Still…”
Bashir studied him. Sawyer was obviously exhausted, but the closer Bashir looked, the more he wondered how the man was even still standing. He’d lost a few shades of color except under his eyes. One was black, and the other had a dark circle that made him look like a medical student cramming for finals. His shoulders were hunched almost as much as McKay’s had been when he’d given up and followed Sawyer out of the stairwell.