Page 62 of Manner of Death

“Yes, please.” Sawyer gave him the address, kissed him again, kissed him one more time because fuck it, he wanted kisses and Bashir was ridiculously good at it, and then left Bashir’s house a little after seven.

He felt almost guilty about feeling so…well, good. Kurt had died yesterday; Molly had sobbed her heart out in his arms yesterday. Sawyer shouldn’t feel as if things were going well, and yet he couldn’t help it. Being with Bashir, sleeping in his arms and doing a hell of a lot more there too—it made him happy. Bashir made him happy.

Please, he thought as he ran inside and changed, throwing Bashir’s clothes into his hamper to wash before he gave them back. Please let me keep this. Sawyer wasn’t religious and he didn’t make a habit of trying to extract promises from nothing, but today he was willing to make an exception. Please let me just have time with Bashir. That’s all I want. There was too much he wanted to know to have to wait and push things back over and over, although he knew Bashir would understand.

Sawyer wanted to be worthy of that understanding.

He got to work before Nan this time, and despite his restful night he must still have looked like shit, because almost everybody gave him a wide berth. He avoided his captain, going straight to his desk to figure out where to get started this morning. Officer Doran walked up to him there a few minutes later.

“Detective Villeray,” he said, stiff and sad all at once. “I’m very sorry about what happened to Detective McKay.”

“Thank you.” That was thoughtful of him. Officer Doran didn’t leave, though, so Sawyer followed up. “Is there anything else?”

“Oh, right.” He reached into his pocket and handed over an evidence bag containing a thumb drive. “This has security camera footage from the businesses closest to Bellfield Park. Detective Walker asked for it, just in case something stands out.” He paused. “It’s a forensic copy; the real one is in an evidence locker.”

“Ah.” It probably wouldn’t yield anything useful, but it paid to be thorough. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Officer Doran left, and Sawyer took the excuse not to listen to a morning of bad true crime revelations and instead uploaded the footage to his work computer.

There were feeds from three different businesses, each one on a different approach to the park. Sawyer honed in on the hours just before and after when Bashir had called time of death and fast-forwarded through the empty minutes, checking for anything of interest. At least this late at night, there were few enough cars that he didn’t have to spend forever figuring out that there was nothing to…

To…

Wait.

That was Kurt’s Mustang, right down to the Liquor, She’ll Love It decal on the back window. He had stopped at the light right by the gas station at 12:04 at night. Feeling like he’d just swallowed a lump of burning coal, Sawyer backed the footage up and watched as his partner drive to a careful, controlled stop at the light. He must have gotten drunk after the fact, given his driving here. Or…Sawyer leaned in and looked at the light shining off that shock of short blond hair.

That wasn’t Kurt. That was a woman. What was a woman doing driving Kurt’s car?

He zoomed in and backed the footage up, then forward, then up again, searching for a better-lit view of the driver. Eventually he found one—it was only a few frames, but the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that he knew who this woman was.

Tami Glen. The M.E.’s assistant. A woman who had every reason to loathe the people who disparaged her crush. People like Kurt.

Fuck. Sawyer felt his happy evening crumble into dust. He needed to confirm this, but once he did…

He would to have to bring her in for questioning in the death of Detective Kurt McKay.

Chapter 17

“Wait, I’m confused.” Tami looked up from the notes she’d been taking, her brow furrowed. “You think he died of anaphylaxis, but you’re calling it a homicide?”

Bashir gazed down at the body in front of him. “There’s no way this was a natural death.”

“Well, no. Not with the strap around his neck.” She shifted on her stool. “But it still looks like a suicide to me.”

Bashir shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He gestured at Detective McKay. “He’s got some older bruises that can probably be accounted for with that bar fight the other night, but there are some marks and abrasions here that are fresh.”

“Signs of a struggle?”

“Not… Not really? More like signs he was thrashing around.” Bashir met his assistant’s gaze. “There are nail marks on his throat, but they go under the strap.”

“He could’ve slid the strap up and down his neck while he was clawing at it.”

Bashir shook his head again. “If the strap was tight enough to be strangling him, there’d be abrasions from it, too. Especially since this kind of strap is pretty rough.”

“So…” She blinked. “Are you saying he was strangled before the strap went around his neck?”

“I’m saying he wasn’t strangled.” He gestured at McKay’s chest, which was closed but not sutured. “Looking at his lungs and airway, there’s signs that indicate asthma or anaphylaxis. Mucous. Laryngeal edema. Petechial hemorrhaging. And I know for a fact that asthma disqualifies someone from being a police officer in this city.” He looked at Tami again. “So I’m leaning hard toward an anaphylactic reaction.”