Page 51 of Manner of Death
Boyce grunted something Bashir didn’t quite catch, and then he stalked out of the morgue.
Blowing out a breath, Bashir leaned against the drawer he’d just latched. “Fucking Christ.”
“What was that all about?” Sawyer asked.
Bashir finally let himself roll his eyes, and he shouldered himself off the drawer. “A pathologist who seriously hates answering to a foreign doctor who’s younger, browner, and more qualified than him.”
Sawyer blinked. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.” He gestured for Sawyer to follow him. “Let’s go find you some food before you pass out.”
Though the precinct above the morgue had a halfway decent cafeteria, Bashir wanted something a little less institutional and without so much blanched fluorescent lighting. He also wanted to make sure Sawyer ate something substantial, rather than picking at a stale sandwich or swallowing some watered-down soup.
He hadn’t been going for anything romantic, but that was what they ended up with: two blocks down from the precinct was a cozy European fusion restaurant with soft, dim lighting, rich red cushions and curtains, and intimate booths around hardwood tables. The prices were a little eye-watering, but the way Sawyer almost groaned as some fragrant bread was carried past the table, Bashir decided the check would be worth it. It wouldn’t take any arm-twisting to get Sawyer to eat in this place.
And, hell, it turned out Bashir hadn’t eaten in a number of hours himself. He ended up ordering the beef bourguignon with a Caesar salad. Sawyer hemmed and hawed a little, joking he was trying to decide what not to eat, before settling on the bruschetta chicken and vegetable soup.
When their soup and salad arrived, they both inhaled better than half the bread in short order along with their first courses.
Sawyer put down his spoon in the empty bowl and sat back with a happy sigh. “Oh, Jesus. I was hungrier than I thought.”
“Same.” Bashir picked up one of the few remaining pieces of romaine on his plate. “Who do you think has worse eating and sleeping habits? Cops or doctors?”
Sawyer snorted. “I’m not playing that game. There’s already a universal joke about cops and doughnuts, so…”
Bashir almost choked on his salad. “Okay, okay. Fair. You win.” He took a swig from his water glass. “Though I think the people who make those jokes just don’t see residents lumbering around during hour twenty-seven of a thirty-six-hour shift. You get so damn tired you barely remember what eating is.” He paused, then huffed. “And about the time you’re remembering how to be hungry, a patient throws up on you, and that’s all she wrote.”
“Oh God.” Sawyer laughed, chafing his arms. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Same. Though I apparently thought getting away from the living would mean I’d be somewhat more inclined to eat regularly, but…” He half-shrugged.
“I guess we’re all masochists to some extent.”
“Except I’m pretty sure masochists enjoy the misery.”
Sawyer made a face but didn’t argue. He sipped his own water, and when he faced Bashir again, his expression had turned serious. “So, this shit with your colleague—what’s going on there?”
Bashir’s appetite almost fled as his thoughts shifted to Boyce. Sighing, he absently swirled his water glass like wine. “God. It’s so…” He sat back against the soft cushion as he considered how to explain it. “The thing is, ever since I showed up, he’s had a massive chip on his shoulder. He hates that when the medical examiner position opened up, they brought me in from out of state—hell, out of the country—rather than giving it to him. He hates that he has to answer to me, and that more often than not, I’m the one who gets called in to testify as an expert witness.”
Sawyer tilted his head. “Didn’t he say he’d get called in on the case he was salty about?”
“Yep. Most likely to undermine the jury’s trust in the results of the autopsy. If I had to guess, it’ll be from an angle of wanting to claim he has no credibility because he missed some key points and deemed it a suicide. Then the other side will use that to remind the jury that the medical examiner’s opinion is just that—an opinion—and how do we possibly know which opinion is correct?” He sighed. “I think he’s secretly pissed at himself for screwing it up that badly, but he’s also extra pissed that I basically had to write, ‘no, Dr. Boyce is wrong; this was actually an accident and here’s why.’”
“Wow,” Sawyer said. “I guess I can see why you’re the M.E. instead of him.”
Bashir shook his head. “No, I’m the M.E. because I’m a forensic pathologist. He decided to stop at pathologist, and I think he regrets not pursuing the forensic pathologist designation.” He grimaced. “And the fact that people sometimes mistake him for my assistant doesn’t help.”
Sawyer whistled. “Sounds a lot like the old and grizzled beat cops who piss on young detectives.” He showed his palms. “Not my fault you didn’t take or pass the exam, dumbass.”
Bashir snorted. “It’s a lot like that, yeah. Plus I think he just doesn’t like me.” He sighed. “Honestly, I doubt he’d be heartbroken if I got hit by a bus, except then he’d probably end up working for an even younger M.E.”
“Damn,” Sawyer said with a laugh. “I never thought there was that much drama in a morgue.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
“Yeah?” Interest sparked in Sawyer’s eyes, which were a lot brighter than they’d been an hour, a bowl of soup, and three breadsticks ago. “Do tell.”
“Really? You want to hear about the soap opera of the medical examiner’s office?”