Logan's fantasy count shot up a good ten points upon the appearance of the ME. Nice. This one was was all sharp angles and deep eyes, but if he was a betting man (and he was) he would bet there was a shitload of hard sinew underneath that lab coat. Not to mention he noticed the Doc's long fingers...Huh. He'd always found that particular urban myth more on the truthful side, and he wouldn't mind finding out for-<br/><br/><em>"Gum in the trash, this is a clean facility, lord knows the last thing I need is to explain why the victim arrived here clean but left with chewing gum in his hair..."</em><br/><br/>Huh? Logan blinked before his eyes narrowed slightly. Well, shit. He felt eight years old again and sitting in Sr. Mary Angelica's math class as she chucked an eraser at his head when he was daydreaming out the window instead of paying attention to the times tables. With a not well concealed sigh of irritation, he pursed his lips and spat the gum into the trash can without even looking. Nothing but net.<br/><br/>Without his gum crutch, his fingers began to drum themselves against his pant leg as he heard his elevator companion snicker at his expense. Jesus. Before he could really give the guy something to laugh (or cry) about, the ADA asked to speak to the Doc about the latest stiff. The Doc nodded, then glanced at Logan. "Yeah...what he said." The detective grumbled with a flick of his head towards Simons. No sense in repeating the same question since it was obvious they were both here for the same reason.<br/><br/>Logan followed the other two men down the hallway and into a bland conference room, which was similar to an interrogation room in any police precinct, but without the long, two-way mirror. Instead, one wall was taken up by industrial shelving full of medical books, pharmacology manuals, research papers and so on. Since Logan assumed the ME's office did most of their research online these days, the forgotten hard copies of their professional data had been tucked away in this far cornered office, probably until they yellowed and fell apart.<br/><br/>Logan plopped himself into a chair, grimacing at the slight squish of his dripping backside. His drumming fingers now pounded out a tune on the tabletop as Simons bitched about not having a case. Well, no shit Sherlock, the DA's office couldn't find a black bowling ball on top of a coconut cake. Unless the suspect was handed over to them on a fucking silver platter with the murder weapon in hand, they always moaned about not being able to indict. Christ.<br/><br/>He scratched at the scruff on his cheek idly. "You get the tox screen back yet?" He asked Grayson, his blue eyes hooded lazily. He had read the same preliminary report Simons had, with the cause of death listed as asphyxiation, but with no signs of foul play. The problem was, people didn't just up and stop breathing on a whim. Nevertheless, the initial suspect, Alfred Swanson's son, Philip, was being held on suspicion of murder. But Logan wasn't all that convinced Philip was guilty, or even involved.