Page 9 of Manner of Death
Boyce scowled, and it wasn’t just his resting bitch scowl. Bashir kept grinning; he wouldn’t remind Boyce of their places in the morgue’s hierarchy, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be a sarcastic asshole. He was all about matching people’s energy, after all.
“It’s your call,” he pressed. “I’d be happy to do the post-mortem on the ninety-eight-year-old nursing home resident who—”
“Fine, fine. You can do that one.” Boyce stomped out of the room, shrugging off his jacket as he did. “I need to put on my scrubs.”
Before Bashir had even had a chance to roll his eyes and toss the tweezers back in the tray, Tami exhaled audibly. He turned to her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She avoided his gaze as her cheeks turned red, and she stared pointedly at her screen. “Just… hate it when he’s in a mood.”
Bashir grunted in agreement. He wasn’t fond of the guy anyway. When he was in a mood? Ugh. Shame there weren’t any other qualified pathologists looking for work in this town, and the city was still salty about the expense of bringing Bashir in from Canada.
“You find us a qualified local applicant,” one of the bean counters on high had told him, “and we can talk about hiring someone.”
Maybe Bashir needed to see if he’d received any new résumés.
For now, though, he had the victim of a very bizarre murder lying in front of him. He’d just have to deal with Boyce and his attitude a little longer. Fortunately, Boyce always put on headphones while he was working, so at least he’d be off in his own little world, leaving Bashir and Tami to do their jobs.
Bashir picked up the scalpel and got to work.
By the time he’d disassembled the decedent, he had a few answers, but a hell of a lot more questions.
The biggest question blaring in his mind was… what the fuck happened to this guy?
Because the obvious answer wasn’t the correct one. He’d had a hunch about that at the scene. Too many things hadn’t added up. Now he had confirmation—the chainsaw hadn’t killed Upworth.
On first inspection of both the scene and the body, Upworth appeared to have fallen on the chainsaw blade, then thrashed around, flinging blood and viscera everywhere before succumbing to his injuries. One of his hands was mutilated, suggesting he’d attempted to grab the blade at some point.
But those wounds…
There was catastrophic damage to his midsection and upper pelvic area. The liver and spleen were nicked enough to cause severe bleeding, and the chainsaw had lacerated his abdominal aorta and made mincemeat of his femoral artery. Opening up either of those blood vessels would be lethal… if the injuries had occurred premortem.
Bashir rested his gloved hands on the edge of the table and stared at the dissected midsection laid out in front of him. Something wasn’t adding up.
From where she perched on a stool taking notes for him, Tami said, “What’s wrong? You look confused.”
“I am.” He shook his head slowly, still skimming his gaze over the mess of lacerations in front of him. The longer he took it all in, the more the picture came together, not that it answered that blaring question. When he peeled off his gloves and pulled open a folder containing photos he’d taken at the scene… same problem.
“It is amazing to watch your mind work.” Tami sounded almost giddy. “Seriously, it’s like you see things that no one else does.”
Bashir huffed a dry laugh behind his mask. She’d said as much before; it was why she never needed to be asked twice to come jot notes for him. He had to admit her enthusiasm broke up the macabre monotony sometimes.
But this time, he wasn’t so sure his mind was enough to figure out this puzzle. It was just… weird.
The longer he compared what he knew about the body to what the crime scene photos showed, the less he understood what the fuck had happened to this man. He’d need to advise the detectives to consult with a blood spatter expert, but Bashir knew enough about the subject to read what he was seeing.
Or rather, what he wasn’t seeing—arterial spray.
He stared at the picture, and slowly…
The smear across the cabinet. The sliding handprint from the cupboard above the sink to the counter. More smears on the floor.
On top of those were bigger spatters and chunks of gore. And leaves. And glass.
The blood on the branch was all wrong, too. There was a void beyond it where the branch had stopped flying blood; a macabre “shadow” of the branch while blood and tissue clung to the bark and twigs. But on the counter and sink under the branch, there were smears.
The branch hadn’t been there when those smears happened.
And one by one, other pieces—metaphorical pieces—fell into place.