The age old question that had troubled all of man kind for centuries had been solved. At least the age old question that troubled the gay community in Seattle. How long did a guy have to live in the city before some burly guy in a leather jacket ordered him into a restroom in the back of a place that would be hard pressed to even call itself a dive? Apparently it took only as long as it took for the man to show off his impressive bulge, claim it was a gun, and then quietly announce that a crime was about to take place. More creative than the usual bathroom crawl tactics. And one that actually worked with Noah. Because while he could envision a thousand scenarios involving the cop himself and even the stuck in the mud DA, and while each of them involved one hole or another, none of them involved fresh bloody holes torn through their flesh by some gun wielding convict.<br/><br/>Not the time to fantasize or write a letter to the tourism board explaining the worst dives and quickest pickups in the city. This was serious. Noah wasn't the heroic toss himself into the line of fire type, at least he didn't think he was, having never had to deal with such a thing. But he figured if he did, he would leave it to the professionals. Guys like Logan. He had seen enough gun shot victims to know what it was all about. It wasn't a game, it was real. Homicide  by gun was a constant concern, easy to figure the cause of death out, hard to clean up, and often even harder to find the killer, guns could be traded like playing cards, serial numbers removed, a gun could commit a dozen separate crimes, all unrelated, and just keep going. That was life on the streets...<br/><br/>Noah wanted to laugh to himself. He was starting to sound like the beginning of some bad pulp fiction novel about the nitty gritty lives of detectives. It would have been funny. If he hadn't been on HOLD to 911. He sighed to himself and kept the phone to his ear. Shouldn't he have some magical line to cut through all the slowness that could be the emergency services system? Maybe if he were a super hero or some star cop. He was just a medical examiner in a grime filled bathroom though. If that didn't scream how low he was on the law enforcement ladder than what did?<br/><br/>In time he was able to get through though and announcing a cop on the scene needing backup for the 2-11 was enough to get people actually moving at more than the on hold snail's pace he had been experiencing thus far. He could only guess at what was actually happening in the dirty diner as Logan confronted the criminal, as CJ... well probably tried to organize napkins by size or straws by color to keep busy and organized as things went down. Again he wanted to smile and laugh, but just couldn't pull it off. Now was still not the time. He still had no idea exactly what was going down and part of his mind kept playing over the fact he could easily end up examining bullet ridden corpses soon, corpses belonging to the DA and the cop, and while Noah would have given his left eye to see the men naked and laying spread out before him, the autopsy table was NOT the place he wanted that to happen. Well maybe he did.... but not with them dead! He needed the blood to still pump through their veins for the things he liked to get up to while laying down.<br/><br/>Again inappropriate, and again the thought was chased away by genuine worry and concern. Having made the call and ignored the 911 operators incessant desire to keep him on the line and chatting, Noah moved towards the door of the bathroom and pushed the swinging door open slightly to peer out as he could hear sirens in the distance and Logan shouting his colorful rendition of the typical police arrest. Still nothing more he could do than wait and listen. So that was what Noah did. In the grungy bathroom, 911 operator on the line asking if things were okay, and Noah wondering if they were as the entire dive seemed to inhale one deep breath together and hold it, and wait.