another new fic, everybody: The Third Law (Psych)
The Third Law
Santa Barbara, CA
April 1984
Shawn Spencer sat sullenly under his father's eye; his ankles crossing and uncrossing under the rough bench. His eyes were closed.
"This isn't a game, Shawn."
"I know, Dad."
Outfitted in full police regalia, Henry Spencer glared down at the tousled brown head, arms crossed. Shawn was being unremarkably uncooperative, and, as usual, it was becoming quite irritating. "So? How many dogs?"
His son's brows knitted together. Henry waited for the expected answer. "Three?"
Wrong, again. "No."
Shawn's eyes flew open to return his father's glare. "There were three, I know it! One by the lifeguard, one by the snow-cone guy, and the other was…"
Henry's frown deepened. "With the elderly couple, I assume?"
Shawn looked at the ground. "Yeah."
"But you didn't remember that one, did you? You just waited until I gave you the answer."
"I did not," Shawn said, gloomy once more. Henry bent and grabbed his chin, dragging up his face for inspection; Shawn avoided his eyes.
"Look at me." He waited until the boy complied. "If you're going to be a good detective you have to notice everything. You have to see everything. There were seven dogs - two Pomeranians with the blonde girl, a chihuahua with the hot dog vendor, and a St. Bernard with the weird guy in the leather jacket. What kind of dogs did you see?"
"The lifeguard had a big one, it was brown… and the snow-cone guy had a - a white one." Shawn wilted further under Henry's disdainful look.
"Wrong. Listen to me, Shawn. We're going to do this until you get it right. No complaints, no ifs, no buts, and definitely no whys. You remember everything, understand? Everything."
Shawn sighed. "Yes, sir. Everything."
-----
January 2008
The day was foggy and grey. Mist rolled in off the ocean, only burning off when the sun neared its peak. All of the colors were subdued - the normally vivid greens, yellows, and reds of coastal California were shaded and dim, everything succumbing to the wintry damp.
The Santa Barbara Police Department had devoted all of its considerable power to solving the Manning-Garcia case, and they were still nowhere. Head Detective Carlton Lassiter stood just inside Chief Vick's cheerful, brightly lit office, feeling tension rise up his back and lock each vertebra into place. His tie seemed to be throttling him - he'd been in the same clothes for two days, and felt it.
He'd known that he wasn't going to like the upcoming meeting as soon as he saw the file on the Chief's desk. It bulged beyond the capacity of the manila folder, with two neat tags of black and purple decorating its edge: black for murder, purple for rape. Abruptly, he decided that he was only going to wait two more minutes for his commander - he couldn't stand looking at that file one more time.
Vick entered just as he was about to walk out. "Good morning, Detective," she said, arching an eyebrow at him. "Somewhere you need to be?"
She looked disgustingly well put-together, all in shades of gray and blue. Lassiter tried to will the undoubtedly venomous look from his face. It had been a long week. "Not especially, Chief. What do you need?"
She sat behind her desk, not indicating that he should sit as well. Another bad sign for him. With chin resting on her laced fingers, Vick gave him a quelling look - for what, he had no idea. "Detective, you know I have the utmost respect for you and your position, correct?"
Lassiter frowned, not sure where this was going. "Yes, Chief."
"Then you know I take no pleasure in stepping on your toes in the middle of an important investigation." Her expression hadn't changed in the least - admirable self-restraint, Lassiter thought sourly, since her devilish amusement while doing just that had nearly caused him four or five heart attacks.
It took him a moment, but he managed to grind out a careful, "Of course."
Vick gave a slight smile - God, even her lipstick was fresh - and leaned back in her chair. Clouds were massing to the north, he saw; the darkening gray matched his mood, and her suit. "Excellent. Glad to hear. Because you're going to have Mr. Spencer on your team from now on."
Lassiter's spine snapped. "What?" he half-shouted, about to launch over the desk and assault her - commanding officer or no. "Have you gone completely insane?"
It was at that shining moment in his office politics career that Shawn Spencer himself, the thirty year-old teenager who specialized in specific tortures (including but not limited to the fake "psychic abilities" he flaunted for all he was worth), bounced into the room.
"Yeah, Lassie!" Spencer exclaimed, wreathed in smiles and enthusiasm. "I knew you'd be psyched!"
Lassiter didn't even spare a glare for the kid, focusing his attention on his apparently cracked commanding officer. "Chief, you can't be serious. We don't need his shenanigans screwing up this investigation - he'll compromise witnesses, ruin our evidence, put the killer on guard. He's a walking disaster!"
Vick raised both eyebrows, this time, taking in fury he didn't bother to suppress. "Be that as it may, Carlton," she said, quashing his protests, "the Department needs all the help it can get. Use him as you will, but use him." The last was delivered with more than the usual amount of menace: clearly, Spencer was going to invade his case whether he liked it or not.
Said pseudo-detective had plopped uninvited into the chair nearest, tatty jean-clad legs sprawled out in front of him, one garish red sneaker propped on top of the other. "This is gonna be great, Lassie. We can go on stakeouts together and everything. I'll bring pineapple!"
Lassiter did glare, that time, ratcheting up the intensity into meltdown levels. Spencer's grin just got a little wider. Chief Vick, however, was more successful at getting his attention.
"Mr. Spencer," she said firmly. He swung around to focus on her. Though not glaring, exactly, her gaze nevertheless held volumes of implicit threat. "A great deal is riding on this case, both for the department and for the city. The culprit, whoever he is, must be caught - fast. Four victims in a month and a half is more than enough reason for you to finally be serious."
To Lassiter's surprise, Spencer actually did straighten in his chair. "Of course, Chief."
"The terms of our agreement do not allow for smoothie breaks or Chinese food runs, Mr. Spencer," she continued. "If you help Detective Lassiter find this man, I'll triple your usual fee." Spencer had the temerity to grin.
Vick stood. "However," she said, voice lowering into dangerous tones - Spencer's grin faded quickly at that, Lassiter noted with grim satisfaction - "if I hear that you have been fooling around on this case, not only will you receive no money at all, I will do everything in my power to prosecute you for hindering the police in the course of our duty. Do you understand?"
Lassiter realized, with that last pointed threat, that this show was being put on for his benefit - Spencer was just the tiniest bit cowed in his chair, he saw, shoulders pulled up in the echo of a hunch and a blank, serious face on in place of the smiley one he usually wore in the station. Vick glanced at her head detective, then took up some paperwork on her desk and started reading. Spencer would be cooperative, if Lassiter was.
Dismissed, Lassiter headed directly for his desk, ready to continue cross-referencing in his research - but Spencer, of course, was right behind him.
"So, Lassie - what should I do?" he asked in his usual glib way, dropping onto the detective's desk without as much as a by-your-leave. In direct defiance of the weather, Spencer had donned a sweater of the brightest green the world had yet seen - though goofy, it was at least a spot of color in the overly dim office. Distracted, Lassiter tried the glare again, but it had no effect.
"Spencer, if you knew anything at all about being a real cop, you'd know that the most a civilian is generally good for is as a handy person to commandeer a car from."
Spencer smiled and stole Lassiter's small pile of stress balls, starting to juggle. "Come on," he cajoled. "Surely I can do something. I mean, would you rather I just tried to find out all about the case on my own?"
The very thought made his pulse stop. He leaned back in his desk chair, willing the cocky bastard in his space to at least drop one of the balls, but Spencer didn't even appear to be paying attention to what his hands were doing. "Do you know anything about this case, Spencer, other than that it'll be a lucrative source of income?"
"Yessir, mister detective, sir," Spencer said, adopting a hick accent. The balls started going higher.
"Oh? And who did you flirt with to get the information?"
Spencer smiled again, though this time it seemed more like a leer. "Just what are you suggesting, Detective?" he asked, now affecting a hurt, feminine voice. The stress balls were almost touching the ducts in the ceiling before they started their descents now; Spencer launched another with a quick wrist flick.
"Unknown perp., likely male and over twenty, likes women between twenty and thirty. After an unknown period of probable stalkery, he catches them at night, rapes, and then kills them."
"Well done, psychic," Lassiter said sarcastically. "Excellent summary of television news stories and water-cooler gossip." Spencer gave him a wounded look. "So how do you think you'll be able to aid the highly trained officials at the SBPD with a lot of moaning and wiggling?"
He realized what he'd said as soon as Spencer smirked at him and showily caught all three balls in the same hand. "Well - you let me work on the case, and you'll find out," he said, his grin gone lusty.
Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Listen, Spencer -"
"No, come on, dude!" he interrupted, springing off the desk and looking at least mostly earnest. "I really could help, you know. I'll do whatever you need."
Shawn Spencer begging him to let him help - this was something that should go down into the history books. Lassiter propped one ankle on his knee, slouching back to give the impression of nonchalance, and cocked an eyebrow. "What's the matter, Spencer? Your girlfriend kick you out of the apartment for the weekend?"
Spencer rolled his eyes and ostentatiously threw his hands in the air. "No - as you would know if you paid any attention, I don't have a girlfriend and I actually sort of have an apartment of my own, thank you." When Lassiter only smirked at him, he sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Gus is away at, like, a two week sales conference in Utah. I'm bored."
"Well," Lassiter said, drawing the word out with relish. "I'm so glad you decided to use your precious time to help us poor blind children solve our case - but I think we'd all feel much better if you made yourself scarce." Spencer straightened up, glowering, but Lassiter interrupted any tirade. "Run along, now. Go find a spirit to exorcise, a palm to read."
With a whirl and an outthrust tongue, Spencer obeyed and left.
It was late in the day before Lassiter realized he was being watched. At six o'clock, most of the regular detectives were being switched out to go home and sleep, their replacements coming in for a night of solid work. The twelve hour shifts had started after the third girl, Jessica White, was killed.
The younger detectives gathered around Lassiter in the small, brown and white conference room for an update on the progress made during the day shift. O'Hara had left a few hours before to check on White's family holdings - he'd waited until she left to make this particular announcement.
"Okay, team," he started, in his best authoritative voice. As he talked, he glanced at each face in turn; they were all tired, but absolutely focused. Not bad, especially for one of their first major cases. He'd nearly reached the end of the update before prickles swept up his spine, the hair on the back of his neck rising. He tried to ignore the sense of impending doom - after all, he was in the police station with six trained officers in the room. What could possibly happen?
"So, it's become apparent that all four women were associated with this one particular bar: Harry's, on North Quarantina near the freeway." He circled the location in red on the giant map they'd constructed: different colors for each victim, their photographs and schedules labeled clearly over the representation of Santa Barbara.
"Sir, do you think the killer works there or something?"
Lassiter nodded, the motion sharp. "That's the best we've come up with. What we need now is an in, a way to get inside that place without drawing suspicion. My plan is to go undercover as a barfly, loiter, and see what I can come up with. What I need from all of you -"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Lassie!"
Of course, no one would think to stop Shawn Spencer from attacking their head detective. His doom had arrived.
Spencer rolled out from underneath the conference room table - curse it, they'd all stood for the briefing - and hopped up to stand atop the thing. Looking more disheveled than he had that morning, in a green-brown plaid shirt that was definitely feeling its age, Spencer nevertheless got looks of interest, not condemnation, from Lassiter's own group of handpicked detectives. His assessment of their competence went swiftly downhill.
"I'm - I'm seeing something," Spencer said loudly, covering his eyes with one hand while the other flailed about in midair. He mimed a few punches, swaying so much one of the detectives moved to catch him in case he fell off the table. "Mickey Rourke? Piper Perabo?"
Lassiter sighed, crossing his arms, and waited for the show to get over. He almost wished the kid would just give him straight-up tips, which he could then discard, without going through all the rigmarole of a 'vision'.
Now Spencer was singing "Benny and the Jets" at a pitch which was actually causing nausea, working up to a full boil. Finally one of the detectives managed, "Shawn? Is it to do with Detective Lassiter at the bar?"
Spencer gasped loudly, placing his fingertips on either side of his head. "Yes, yes, that's exactly right, Plumpie!" he said. Lassiter gave "Plumpie" - the very trim Junior Detective Jackson - a censorious look, and got a shrug and an embarrassed smile in return. "I see Detective Lassiter struggling through a horrible den of sin, full of young, beautiful people, all doing this horrible thing…" He swayed his hips, gyrating a little on the tabletop.
"Dancing?" Martinez asked, excited. His grandmother claimed to be psychic, too.
Spencer nodded frantically, his movements drunken once more. "Lassie, you can't - you can't drink any more! Oh, no - don't fall for it, man!"
"What happened, Shawn?"
The kid fell to hands and knees on the table top, head slumped between his shoulders in a vague semblance of vomiting. "Lassie didn't have a wing man - he's falling for the large lady through beer goggles!"
A series of groans rose from his detectives. Lassiter reached out and seized Spencer's collar, dragging him off the table in a flurry of limbs and hauling him out into the corridor. "Spencer, if I have to kick you out of the station one more time today I'll shoot you - really, I've got a gun and everything. I'll say it was self-defense."
"You know you wouldn't shoot me, Lassie," the con man said ingratiatingly. "I've got permission from the Chief to be here and everything. And I also have a point."
"You think I'm going to get plastered and fall into bed with a three-hundred pound woman?" Lassiter said, actual disbelief at the kid's gall rising through the tide of anger. "Am I hearing this right? Shawn Spencer is lecturing me on responsibility?"
Spencer rolled his eyes, stepping slightly closer and lowering his voice. "Lassiter, I'm saying you can't hold your liquor. How are you going to play a convincing barfly?" When the detective almost started haranguing again, Spencer raised two placating hands. "Hey, I've got a sweet piece of blackmail with your name on it as proof - you're a cheap drunk, so get over it."
"Well, smartass, what do you suggest?"
Another smile tried to creep across the smug face, but Spencer squashed it in time. "Okay, we need an undercover guy at the bar, right?"
"We?"
"So it should be somebody experienced in the bar scene who also can stay pretty observant, right?" Spencer continued, steamrolling the interruption. "Jules would be perfect, but obviously you can't send a pretty girl of the right age into the clutches of the crazy person. She's out. And the other detectives who I know can party," he went on, sending a wave and giant smile to McNab as he left the station, "couldn't keep themselves upright after the second day.
"Other options, then: the Chief." Lassiter grimaced, imagining a drunken and swaying Karen Vick trying to work a crowd. "Yeah, same here. My dad's the right age to be the creepy bar rat, but he and I aren't talking right now and, anyway, he only drinks, like, Coors Light - plus he's got a stick up his butt so far he couldn't relax enough to talk to anyone." Lassiter couldn't help a flutter of amusement at that highly unflattering and highly accurate description of Henry Spencer.
"Therefore," Spencer said with another smirk, "if I've followed the spirit world's logic correctly, the only logical choice is me."
"You."
Spencer blinked at him, green eyes wide, as though wondering what the other man had missed. "Uh-huh. Me."
Lassiter locked his hand around Spencer's left bicep, hauling him around to be marched to the station door. "If you think the Santa Barbara Police are going to pay for you to sit around and get drunk while real police work needs doing -"
"No-no-no, Lassie," Spencer whined, trying to dig in his heels. Lassiter almost wrenched the arm out of its socket. "I don't want to be the barfly. I'm too young and adorable. I'm going to be the bartender."
-----
And, as usual when Spencer got an idea into his head, what he said was so. After he'd escaped Lassiter's clutches and flung himself into the Chief's office, slamming the door behind him, Lassiter knew just moments remained for his dignity as a detective and police officer. Sure enough: Chief Vick escorted Spencer out like a martyr about to do his duty to the Lord, entrusting him to Lassiter's care with so many entreaties to be careful Lassiter thought he'd be sick.
Since Spencer had driven over on his motorcycle, Lassiter was to give him a ride to the bar, just in case anyone recognized the ridiculously well-known 'psychic'. Spencer started fiddling with the radio and temperature controls as soon as they pulled out of the police lot, making Lassiter white-knuckle the steering wheel to prevent himself from delivering a solid blow to the ear that would make the kid lose his hearing for a day or two.
Interrupting the prattle about the best place for a smoothie in the Mexican part of town, Lassiter asked a question that had been bothering him for the last couple of miles. "Spencer - you don’t even know how to tend bar, do you?"
"Are you kidding me?" Spencer asked. "I have a semi-official certificate from the Bartending Academy of South Tucson."
"Semi-official?"
Spencer grinned. "Skipped out on the last week of class to go snorkeling in Rocky Point."
He shouldn't even have asked. "Anyway," Spencer continued, slouching back in his seat. "I spent two months in a cantina in Veracrúz, learning how all sixteen of the regulars liked their margaritas. Then, like, three years ago I went to a bartending convention in Duluth, and won the contest for best James Bond martini." At Lassiter's disbelieving look, he grinned. "I'll show you my gold shaker sometime."
They made it to Harry's without Lassiter hitting Spencer, though it was close. They'd taken one of the undercover cruisers - which only meant that it didn't have official paint and had slightly fewer antennae protruding from the trunk and hood. Lassiter was still in his (now) three day old suit and tie; Spencer had managed to convince the detective to loosen the tie, at least, and also to stop by his apartment on Victoria Street for what he'd called "more suitable clothes". Lassiter glanced over at him now, wondering why on earth he'd thought jeans ripped in fourteen places and a shirt he probably should have retired once he'd got past the Boys section was more suitable.
Too near the 101 for Lassiter's tastes, Harry's Bar was still a pretty nice looking place - from the outside, at least. On the ground floor of a fairly large two-story, the management somehow avoided too much graffiti, keeping the façade dark blue stucco with windows both large and shuttered. It was nearly 7:30 by the time they parked a few streets over and Lassiter attempted to give Spencer some tips on keeping a low profile.
"I know, I know," the kid interrupted, looking impatient. "Eyes open, ears pricked, don't make an ass of myself, look for people who knew all four girls." He looked over the low strip mall, at the two-story bar building. Lassiter could catch a smile forming on the visible side of his face. "Pick me up in an hour, Pop?" he sort-of-asked. He was out of the car and strolling into the lion's den, popping the collar of his cocoa leather jacket, before Lassiter could even snarl a reply.
-----
By nine o'clock, Lassiter had vaulted past irritation at Spencer's lateness into worry. Even an extra half-hour at the epicenter of four murders was too long. Worse, he knew that if he ran in, flashing his badge, any position Spencer may have solidified in an hour and a half would be destroyed. He'd parked in front of the same half-empty strip mall at which he'd dropped the kid off; only the giant file kept him company.
Jane Manning, Stacy Garcia, Jessica White, and Meagan Goldberg. As Spencer had so casually noted, they were all between twenty and thirty. Two blondes, a brunette, a redhead; all from different social spheres; all went to different colleges, went to different parties, had different aspirations.
O'Hara went pale when they examined the first body, found in a vacationing family's garage on Olive Street. Manning had been left the way she'd been killed: bent across the work table, ankles tied to the table-legs, wrists secured against the top. Naked, the detectives were able to see the mottled bruises on her hips, where the killer had held her during the rape - more formed a line down her back, and surrounded her throat. She'd been shot in the back; the blood had spilled out from the exit wound, making a pool on the table beneath her body. The girl had been to Harry's Bar five times in three months, from her credit card bills.
Garcia had been found the same way. It was a different room, in a different part of town. She'd been tied up differently: spread-eagled on a bed, this time, her own shirt acting as a gag. She'd worked at Harry's as a waitress for a month, but returned as a customer twice before her death.
White and Goldberg were variations on the theme. Each in different sections of town, each with some connection to the bar. Goldberg had only been dating the bartender Spencer would (in theory) be replacing; the boyfriend quit immediately upon hearing of her murder, submitting to questioning without a complaint. O'Hara convinced Lassiter to release the kid early; in truth, the interrogation had felt more like trying to question a ghost than find a killer.
It was 9:30 when he heard a polite tap on the passenger window. Lost in thoughts of the case, he started violently - only then seeing Spencer's serene grin through the foggy glass. He popped the locks with bad grace, noting the smell cloaking the other as soon as the door opened: tobacco, beer, and sweet booze.
"Have a nice time out here in the cold, Lassie?" Spencer asked, sliding the chair back enough that he could prop his feet on the dashboard - motorcycle boots, Lassiter noted, to go with the '80s metal t-shirt.
Almost absently, he began a tirade on the merits of getting one's ass out of a possible crime scene in a reasonable amount of time. Spencer bore it with grace, though the way he occasionally glanced at his nails made Lassiter want to shoot him, again. When the detective finally ran out of steam, Spencer pulled his boots off the dash and sat up straight, giving him an earnest look.
"Not that this isn't fun, but if you don't start the car and get the heater going I'm gonna die of hypothermia - and then who will be your favorite psychic?"
The kid was truly bad for his health. Lassiter could actually feel the pulse pounding in his ears as he pulled out of the parking lot, heading back to the station.
"Did you get the job?" he ground out after a few minutes of blissfully silent driving.
He saw Spencer glance at him from the corner of his eye. "Yep." Was that it? Another minute passed. "Got some bad news for ya, Lassie."
Lassiter almost jerked the car off the road. "What?"
Spencer gave an audible sigh. "Well, two things. One: there were about five guys in there tonight that had seriously spooky auras. You know, older dudes, kind of built, looked like they knew their way around a good brawl - that sort of thing. Bill the manager says they come in a lot, sometimes pick fights with younger guys, the bros."
Lassiter nodded. It was fairly typical behavior for a stalker who actually followed through on his obsessions. "Did you make any contacts?"
The chuckle surprised him - it was only then that he noticed that Spencer was the tiniest bit inebriated. "I think we can call that a definite yes. I had to do three upside-down kamikaze shots off the bar before Bill believed I could actually work a shift without getting sauced - then this group of Golden Oldies made me do a chug contest with their main guy, Tommy." A shudder ran through Spencer, who once again slid far down in his chair. "Never mix peach liqueur and Guinness, Lassie, especially on the first date."
Lassiter rolled his eyes. "And the second thing?"
"What?"
"You said two things."
Spencer grinned. "Oh, yeah. In order to establish my cover, I had to buy a few rounds for the bar. The department may have to pick up the tab."
They drove through the fog in silence for a few more minutes. Though a pain in the ass, and a fraud to boot, Spencer did know how to work a crowd; Lassiter had to admit that in less than two hours the kid had probably made more lifetime friends than he himself had ever had, lifetime to date. He relaxed a little. Clearly the amateur detective was up to this much of a challenge, if the complete lack of tension in the body next to his was anything to go by; perhaps Lassiter could focus on some other aspect of the case if Spencer was his man on the inside.
The Chief would be proud. Only one full day of working together, and he was sort of (in a reserved way, at least) trusting the idiot neighborhood psychic.
He parked the undercover car in its special, pitch-black lot, a block away from the station, and - despite incredibly vocal protests - marched Spencer to a regular cruiser and made him submit to a Breathalyzer. He only blew a .073, thank God; he could drive himself home.
"When do you start at the bar?" Lassiter asked, now escorting Spencer back to his motorcycle by the tried-and-true expedient of a hand clenched firmly on the arm.
"Why, Lassie," Spencer cooed, sarcastic delight flowing off of him. He hadn't liked the traffic cop treatment. "Do you want to come by and have some pretty pink drinks with me and my new friends?"
"Don't make me shoot you, Spencer," Lassiter returned.
"I'll be there from seven 'til two, every night this week." He gave Lassiter a critical look, putting the detective immediately on the defensive. Then Spencer clapped him on the shoulder, turned, and swung one leg over his bike. "You should try sleeping tonight, Lass. I mean, if I solve the case all by myself 'cause you're passed out in your cruiser, how embarrassing would that be?"
Next Part
Please comment, please: this one is dear, since I've worked on it so long. I'd like to know what y'all think.
Santa Barbara, CA
April 1984
Shawn Spencer sat sullenly under his father's eye; his ankles crossing and uncrossing under the rough bench. His eyes were closed.
"This isn't a game, Shawn."
"I know, Dad."
Outfitted in full police regalia, Henry Spencer glared down at the tousled brown head, arms crossed. Shawn was being unremarkably uncooperative, and, as usual, it was becoming quite irritating. "So? How many dogs?"
His son's brows knitted together. Henry waited for the expected answer. "Three?"
Wrong, again. "No."
Shawn's eyes flew open to return his father's glare. "There were three, I know it! One by the lifeguard, one by the snow-cone guy, and the other was…"
Henry's frown deepened. "With the elderly couple, I assume?"
Shawn looked at the ground. "Yeah."
"But you didn't remember that one, did you? You just waited until I gave you the answer."
"I did not," Shawn said, gloomy once more. Henry bent and grabbed his chin, dragging up his face for inspection; Shawn avoided his eyes.
"Look at me." He waited until the boy complied. "If you're going to be a good detective you have to notice everything. You have to see everything. There were seven dogs - two Pomeranians with the blonde girl, a chihuahua with the hot dog vendor, and a St. Bernard with the weird guy in the leather jacket. What kind of dogs did you see?"
"The lifeguard had a big one, it was brown… and the snow-cone guy had a - a white one." Shawn wilted further under Henry's disdainful look.
"Wrong. Listen to me, Shawn. We're going to do this until you get it right. No complaints, no ifs, no buts, and definitely no whys. You remember everything, understand? Everything."
Shawn sighed. "Yes, sir. Everything."
-----
January 2008
The day was foggy and grey. Mist rolled in off the ocean, only burning off when the sun neared its peak. All of the colors were subdued - the normally vivid greens, yellows, and reds of coastal California were shaded and dim, everything succumbing to the wintry damp.
The Santa Barbara Police Department had devoted all of its considerable power to solving the Manning-Garcia case, and they were still nowhere. Head Detective Carlton Lassiter stood just inside Chief Vick's cheerful, brightly lit office, feeling tension rise up his back and lock each vertebra into place. His tie seemed to be throttling him - he'd been in the same clothes for two days, and felt it.
He'd known that he wasn't going to like the upcoming meeting as soon as he saw the file on the Chief's desk. It bulged beyond the capacity of the manila folder, with two neat tags of black and purple decorating its edge: black for murder, purple for rape. Abruptly, he decided that he was only going to wait two more minutes for his commander - he couldn't stand looking at that file one more time.
Vick entered just as he was about to walk out. "Good morning, Detective," she said, arching an eyebrow at him. "Somewhere you need to be?"
She looked disgustingly well put-together, all in shades of gray and blue. Lassiter tried to will the undoubtedly venomous look from his face. It had been a long week. "Not especially, Chief. What do you need?"
She sat behind her desk, not indicating that he should sit as well. Another bad sign for him. With chin resting on her laced fingers, Vick gave him a quelling look - for what, he had no idea. "Detective, you know I have the utmost respect for you and your position, correct?"
Lassiter frowned, not sure where this was going. "Yes, Chief."
"Then you know I take no pleasure in stepping on your toes in the middle of an important investigation." Her expression hadn't changed in the least - admirable self-restraint, Lassiter thought sourly, since her devilish amusement while doing just that had nearly caused him four or five heart attacks.
It took him a moment, but he managed to grind out a careful, "Of course."
Vick gave a slight smile - God, even her lipstick was fresh - and leaned back in her chair. Clouds were massing to the north, he saw; the darkening gray matched his mood, and her suit. "Excellent. Glad to hear. Because you're going to have Mr. Spencer on your team from now on."
Lassiter's spine snapped. "What?" he half-shouted, about to launch over the desk and assault her - commanding officer or no. "Have you gone completely insane?"
It was at that shining moment in his office politics career that Shawn Spencer himself, the thirty year-old teenager who specialized in specific tortures (including but not limited to the fake "psychic abilities" he flaunted for all he was worth), bounced into the room.
"Yeah, Lassie!" Spencer exclaimed, wreathed in smiles and enthusiasm. "I knew you'd be psyched!"
Lassiter didn't even spare a glare for the kid, focusing his attention on his apparently cracked commanding officer. "Chief, you can't be serious. We don't need his shenanigans screwing up this investigation - he'll compromise witnesses, ruin our evidence, put the killer on guard. He's a walking disaster!"
Vick raised both eyebrows, this time, taking in fury he didn't bother to suppress. "Be that as it may, Carlton," she said, quashing his protests, "the Department needs all the help it can get. Use him as you will, but use him." The last was delivered with more than the usual amount of menace: clearly, Spencer was going to invade his case whether he liked it or not.
Said pseudo-detective had plopped uninvited into the chair nearest, tatty jean-clad legs sprawled out in front of him, one garish red sneaker propped on top of the other. "This is gonna be great, Lassie. We can go on stakeouts together and everything. I'll bring pineapple!"
Lassiter did glare, that time, ratcheting up the intensity into meltdown levels. Spencer's grin just got a little wider. Chief Vick, however, was more successful at getting his attention.
"Mr. Spencer," she said firmly. He swung around to focus on her. Though not glaring, exactly, her gaze nevertheless held volumes of implicit threat. "A great deal is riding on this case, both for the department and for the city. The culprit, whoever he is, must be caught - fast. Four victims in a month and a half is more than enough reason for you to finally be serious."
To Lassiter's surprise, Spencer actually did straighten in his chair. "Of course, Chief."
"The terms of our agreement do not allow for smoothie breaks or Chinese food runs, Mr. Spencer," she continued. "If you help Detective Lassiter find this man, I'll triple your usual fee." Spencer had the temerity to grin.
Vick stood. "However," she said, voice lowering into dangerous tones - Spencer's grin faded quickly at that, Lassiter noted with grim satisfaction - "if I hear that you have been fooling around on this case, not only will you receive no money at all, I will do everything in my power to prosecute you for hindering the police in the course of our duty. Do you understand?"
Lassiter realized, with that last pointed threat, that this show was being put on for his benefit - Spencer was just the tiniest bit cowed in his chair, he saw, shoulders pulled up in the echo of a hunch and a blank, serious face on in place of the smiley one he usually wore in the station. Vick glanced at her head detective, then took up some paperwork on her desk and started reading. Spencer would be cooperative, if Lassiter was.
Dismissed, Lassiter headed directly for his desk, ready to continue cross-referencing in his research - but Spencer, of course, was right behind him.
"So, Lassie - what should I do?" he asked in his usual glib way, dropping onto the detective's desk without as much as a by-your-leave. In direct defiance of the weather, Spencer had donned a sweater of the brightest green the world had yet seen - though goofy, it was at least a spot of color in the overly dim office. Distracted, Lassiter tried the glare again, but it had no effect.
"Spencer, if you knew anything at all about being a real cop, you'd know that the most a civilian is generally good for is as a handy person to commandeer a car from."
Spencer smiled and stole Lassiter's small pile of stress balls, starting to juggle. "Come on," he cajoled. "Surely I can do something. I mean, would you rather I just tried to find out all about the case on my own?"
The very thought made his pulse stop. He leaned back in his desk chair, willing the cocky bastard in his space to at least drop one of the balls, but Spencer didn't even appear to be paying attention to what his hands were doing. "Do you know anything about this case, Spencer, other than that it'll be a lucrative source of income?"
"Yessir, mister detective, sir," Spencer said, adopting a hick accent. The balls started going higher.
"Oh? And who did you flirt with to get the information?"
Spencer smiled again, though this time it seemed more like a leer. "Just what are you suggesting, Detective?" he asked, now affecting a hurt, feminine voice. The stress balls were almost touching the ducts in the ceiling before they started their descents now; Spencer launched another with a quick wrist flick.
"Unknown perp., likely male and over twenty, likes women between twenty and thirty. After an unknown period of probable stalkery, he catches them at night, rapes, and then kills them."
"Well done, psychic," Lassiter said sarcastically. "Excellent summary of television news stories and water-cooler gossip." Spencer gave him a wounded look. "So how do you think you'll be able to aid the highly trained officials at the SBPD with a lot of moaning and wiggling?"
He realized what he'd said as soon as Spencer smirked at him and showily caught all three balls in the same hand. "Well - you let me work on the case, and you'll find out," he said, his grin gone lusty.
Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Listen, Spencer -"
"No, come on, dude!" he interrupted, springing off the desk and looking at least mostly earnest. "I really could help, you know. I'll do whatever you need."
Shawn Spencer begging him to let him help - this was something that should go down into the history books. Lassiter propped one ankle on his knee, slouching back to give the impression of nonchalance, and cocked an eyebrow. "What's the matter, Spencer? Your girlfriend kick you out of the apartment for the weekend?"
Spencer rolled his eyes and ostentatiously threw his hands in the air. "No - as you would know if you paid any attention, I don't have a girlfriend and I actually sort of have an apartment of my own, thank you." When Lassiter only smirked at him, he sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Gus is away at, like, a two week sales conference in Utah. I'm bored."
"Well," Lassiter said, drawing the word out with relish. "I'm so glad you decided to use your precious time to help us poor blind children solve our case - but I think we'd all feel much better if you made yourself scarce." Spencer straightened up, glowering, but Lassiter interrupted any tirade. "Run along, now. Go find a spirit to exorcise, a palm to read."
With a whirl and an outthrust tongue, Spencer obeyed and left.
It was late in the day before Lassiter realized he was being watched. At six o'clock, most of the regular detectives were being switched out to go home and sleep, their replacements coming in for a night of solid work. The twelve hour shifts had started after the third girl, Jessica White, was killed.
The younger detectives gathered around Lassiter in the small, brown and white conference room for an update on the progress made during the day shift. O'Hara had left a few hours before to check on White's family holdings - he'd waited until she left to make this particular announcement.
"Okay, team," he started, in his best authoritative voice. As he talked, he glanced at each face in turn; they were all tired, but absolutely focused. Not bad, especially for one of their first major cases. He'd nearly reached the end of the update before prickles swept up his spine, the hair on the back of his neck rising. He tried to ignore the sense of impending doom - after all, he was in the police station with six trained officers in the room. What could possibly happen?
"So, it's become apparent that all four women were associated with this one particular bar: Harry's, on North Quarantina near the freeway." He circled the location in red on the giant map they'd constructed: different colors for each victim, their photographs and schedules labeled clearly over the representation of Santa Barbara.
"Sir, do you think the killer works there or something?"
Lassiter nodded, the motion sharp. "That's the best we've come up with. What we need now is an in, a way to get inside that place without drawing suspicion. My plan is to go undercover as a barfly, loiter, and see what I can come up with. What I need from all of you -"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Lassie!"
Of course, no one would think to stop Shawn Spencer from attacking their head detective. His doom had arrived.
Spencer rolled out from underneath the conference room table - curse it, they'd all stood for the briefing - and hopped up to stand atop the thing. Looking more disheveled than he had that morning, in a green-brown plaid shirt that was definitely feeling its age, Spencer nevertheless got looks of interest, not condemnation, from Lassiter's own group of handpicked detectives. His assessment of their competence went swiftly downhill.
"I'm - I'm seeing something," Spencer said loudly, covering his eyes with one hand while the other flailed about in midair. He mimed a few punches, swaying so much one of the detectives moved to catch him in case he fell off the table. "Mickey Rourke? Piper Perabo?"
Lassiter sighed, crossing his arms, and waited for the show to get over. He almost wished the kid would just give him straight-up tips, which he could then discard, without going through all the rigmarole of a 'vision'.
Now Spencer was singing "Benny and the Jets" at a pitch which was actually causing nausea, working up to a full boil. Finally one of the detectives managed, "Shawn? Is it to do with Detective Lassiter at the bar?"
Spencer gasped loudly, placing his fingertips on either side of his head. "Yes, yes, that's exactly right, Plumpie!" he said. Lassiter gave "Plumpie" - the very trim Junior Detective Jackson - a censorious look, and got a shrug and an embarrassed smile in return. "I see Detective Lassiter struggling through a horrible den of sin, full of young, beautiful people, all doing this horrible thing…" He swayed his hips, gyrating a little on the tabletop.
"Dancing?" Martinez asked, excited. His grandmother claimed to be psychic, too.
Spencer nodded frantically, his movements drunken once more. "Lassie, you can't - you can't drink any more! Oh, no - don't fall for it, man!"
"What happened, Shawn?"
The kid fell to hands and knees on the table top, head slumped between his shoulders in a vague semblance of vomiting. "Lassie didn't have a wing man - he's falling for the large lady through beer goggles!"
A series of groans rose from his detectives. Lassiter reached out and seized Spencer's collar, dragging him off the table in a flurry of limbs and hauling him out into the corridor. "Spencer, if I have to kick you out of the station one more time today I'll shoot you - really, I've got a gun and everything. I'll say it was self-defense."
"You know you wouldn't shoot me, Lassie," the con man said ingratiatingly. "I've got permission from the Chief to be here and everything. And I also have a point."
"You think I'm going to get plastered and fall into bed with a three-hundred pound woman?" Lassiter said, actual disbelief at the kid's gall rising through the tide of anger. "Am I hearing this right? Shawn Spencer is lecturing me on responsibility?"
Spencer rolled his eyes, stepping slightly closer and lowering his voice. "Lassiter, I'm saying you can't hold your liquor. How are you going to play a convincing barfly?" When the detective almost started haranguing again, Spencer raised two placating hands. "Hey, I've got a sweet piece of blackmail with your name on it as proof - you're a cheap drunk, so get over it."
"Well, smartass, what do you suggest?"
Another smile tried to creep across the smug face, but Spencer squashed it in time. "Okay, we need an undercover guy at the bar, right?"
"We?"
"So it should be somebody experienced in the bar scene who also can stay pretty observant, right?" Spencer continued, steamrolling the interruption. "Jules would be perfect, but obviously you can't send a pretty girl of the right age into the clutches of the crazy person. She's out. And the other detectives who I know can party," he went on, sending a wave and giant smile to McNab as he left the station, "couldn't keep themselves upright after the second day.
"Other options, then: the Chief." Lassiter grimaced, imagining a drunken and swaying Karen Vick trying to work a crowd. "Yeah, same here. My dad's the right age to be the creepy bar rat, but he and I aren't talking right now and, anyway, he only drinks, like, Coors Light - plus he's got a stick up his butt so far he couldn't relax enough to talk to anyone." Lassiter couldn't help a flutter of amusement at that highly unflattering and highly accurate description of Henry Spencer.
"Therefore," Spencer said with another smirk, "if I've followed the spirit world's logic correctly, the only logical choice is me."
"You."
Spencer blinked at him, green eyes wide, as though wondering what the other man had missed. "Uh-huh. Me."
Lassiter locked his hand around Spencer's left bicep, hauling him around to be marched to the station door. "If you think the Santa Barbara Police are going to pay for you to sit around and get drunk while real police work needs doing -"
"No-no-no, Lassie," Spencer whined, trying to dig in his heels. Lassiter almost wrenched the arm out of its socket. "I don't want to be the barfly. I'm too young and adorable. I'm going to be the bartender."
-----
And, as usual when Spencer got an idea into his head, what he said was so. After he'd escaped Lassiter's clutches and flung himself into the Chief's office, slamming the door behind him, Lassiter knew just moments remained for his dignity as a detective and police officer. Sure enough: Chief Vick escorted Spencer out like a martyr about to do his duty to the Lord, entrusting him to Lassiter's care with so many entreaties to be careful Lassiter thought he'd be sick.
Since Spencer had driven over on his motorcycle, Lassiter was to give him a ride to the bar, just in case anyone recognized the ridiculously well-known 'psychic'. Spencer started fiddling with the radio and temperature controls as soon as they pulled out of the police lot, making Lassiter white-knuckle the steering wheel to prevent himself from delivering a solid blow to the ear that would make the kid lose his hearing for a day or two.
Interrupting the prattle about the best place for a smoothie in the Mexican part of town, Lassiter asked a question that had been bothering him for the last couple of miles. "Spencer - you don’t even know how to tend bar, do you?"
"Are you kidding me?" Spencer asked. "I have a semi-official certificate from the Bartending Academy of South Tucson."
"Semi-official?"
Spencer grinned. "Skipped out on the last week of class to go snorkeling in Rocky Point."
He shouldn't even have asked. "Anyway," Spencer continued, slouching back in his seat. "I spent two months in a cantina in Veracrúz, learning how all sixteen of the regulars liked their margaritas. Then, like, three years ago I went to a bartending convention in Duluth, and won the contest for best James Bond martini." At Lassiter's disbelieving look, he grinned. "I'll show you my gold shaker sometime."
They made it to Harry's without Lassiter hitting Spencer, though it was close. They'd taken one of the undercover cruisers - which only meant that it didn't have official paint and had slightly fewer antennae protruding from the trunk and hood. Lassiter was still in his (now) three day old suit and tie; Spencer had managed to convince the detective to loosen the tie, at least, and also to stop by his apartment on Victoria Street for what he'd called "more suitable clothes". Lassiter glanced over at him now, wondering why on earth he'd thought jeans ripped in fourteen places and a shirt he probably should have retired once he'd got past the Boys section was more suitable.
Too near the 101 for Lassiter's tastes, Harry's Bar was still a pretty nice looking place - from the outside, at least. On the ground floor of a fairly large two-story, the management somehow avoided too much graffiti, keeping the façade dark blue stucco with windows both large and shuttered. It was nearly 7:30 by the time they parked a few streets over and Lassiter attempted to give Spencer some tips on keeping a low profile.
"I know, I know," the kid interrupted, looking impatient. "Eyes open, ears pricked, don't make an ass of myself, look for people who knew all four girls." He looked over the low strip mall, at the two-story bar building. Lassiter could catch a smile forming on the visible side of his face. "Pick me up in an hour, Pop?" he sort-of-asked. He was out of the car and strolling into the lion's den, popping the collar of his cocoa leather jacket, before Lassiter could even snarl a reply.
-----
By nine o'clock, Lassiter had vaulted past irritation at Spencer's lateness into worry. Even an extra half-hour at the epicenter of four murders was too long. Worse, he knew that if he ran in, flashing his badge, any position Spencer may have solidified in an hour and a half would be destroyed. He'd parked in front of the same half-empty strip mall at which he'd dropped the kid off; only the giant file kept him company.
Jane Manning, Stacy Garcia, Jessica White, and Meagan Goldberg. As Spencer had so casually noted, they were all between twenty and thirty. Two blondes, a brunette, a redhead; all from different social spheres; all went to different colleges, went to different parties, had different aspirations.
O'Hara went pale when they examined the first body, found in a vacationing family's garage on Olive Street. Manning had been left the way she'd been killed: bent across the work table, ankles tied to the table-legs, wrists secured against the top. Naked, the detectives were able to see the mottled bruises on her hips, where the killer had held her during the rape - more formed a line down her back, and surrounded her throat. She'd been shot in the back; the blood had spilled out from the exit wound, making a pool on the table beneath her body. The girl had been to Harry's Bar five times in three months, from her credit card bills.
Garcia had been found the same way. It was a different room, in a different part of town. She'd been tied up differently: spread-eagled on a bed, this time, her own shirt acting as a gag. She'd worked at Harry's as a waitress for a month, but returned as a customer twice before her death.
White and Goldberg were variations on the theme. Each in different sections of town, each with some connection to the bar. Goldberg had only been dating the bartender Spencer would (in theory) be replacing; the boyfriend quit immediately upon hearing of her murder, submitting to questioning without a complaint. O'Hara convinced Lassiter to release the kid early; in truth, the interrogation had felt more like trying to question a ghost than find a killer.
It was 9:30 when he heard a polite tap on the passenger window. Lost in thoughts of the case, he started violently - only then seeing Spencer's serene grin through the foggy glass. He popped the locks with bad grace, noting the smell cloaking the other as soon as the door opened: tobacco, beer, and sweet booze.
"Have a nice time out here in the cold, Lassie?" Spencer asked, sliding the chair back enough that he could prop his feet on the dashboard - motorcycle boots, Lassiter noted, to go with the '80s metal t-shirt.
Almost absently, he began a tirade on the merits of getting one's ass out of a possible crime scene in a reasonable amount of time. Spencer bore it with grace, though the way he occasionally glanced at his nails made Lassiter want to shoot him, again. When the detective finally ran out of steam, Spencer pulled his boots off the dash and sat up straight, giving him an earnest look.
"Not that this isn't fun, but if you don't start the car and get the heater going I'm gonna die of hypothermia - and then who will be your favorite psychic?"
The kid was truly bad for his health. Lassiter could actually feel the pulse pounding in his ears as he pulled out of the parking lot, heading back to the station.
"Did you get the job?" he ground out after a few minutes of blissfully silent driving.
He saw Spencer glance at him from the corner of his eye. "Yep." Was that it? Another minute passed. "Got some bad news for ya, Lassie."
Lassiter almost jerked the car off the road. "What?"
Spencer gave an audible sigh. "Well, two things. One: there were about five guys in there tonight that had seriously spooky auras. You know, older dudes, kind of built, looked like they knew their way around a good brawl - that sort of thing. Bill the manager says they come in a lot, sometimes pick fights with younger guys, the bros."
Lassiter nodded. It was fairly typical behavior for a stalker who actually followed through on his obsessions. "Did you make any contacts?"
The chuckle surprised him - it was only then that he noticed that Spencer was the tiniest bit inebriated. "I think we can call that a definite yes. I had to do three upside-down kamikaze shots off the bar before Bill believed I could actually work a shift without getting sauced - then this group of Golden Oldies made me do a chug contest with their main guy, Tommy." A shudder ran through Spencer, who once again slid far down in his chair. "Never mix peach liqueur and Guinness, Lassie, especially on the first date."
Lassiter rolled his eyes. "And the second thing?"
"What?"
"You said two things."
Spencer grinned. "Oh, yeah. In order to establish my cover, I had to buy a few rounds for the bar. The department may have to pick up the tab."
They drove through the fog in silence for a few more minutes. Though a pain in the ass, and a fraud to boot, Spencer did know how to work a crowd; Lassiter had to admit that in less than two hours the kid had probably made more lifetime friends than he himself had ever had, lifetime to date. He relaxed a little. Clearly the amateur detective was up to this much of a challenge, if the complete lack of tension in the body next to his was anything to go by; perhaps Lassiter could focus on some other aspect of the case if Spencer was his man on the inside.
The Chief would be proud. Only one full day of working together, and he was sort of (in a reserved way, at least) trusting the idiot neighborhood psychic.
He parked the undercover car in its special, pitch-black lot, a block away from the station, and - despite incredibly vocal protests - marched Spencer to a regular cruiser and made him submit to a Breathalyzer. He only blew a .073, thank God; he could drive himself home.
"When do you start at the bar?" Lassiter asked, now escorting Spencer back to his motorcycle by the tried-and-true expedient of a hand clenched firmly on the arm.
"Why, Lassie," Spencer cooed, sarcastic delight flowing off of him. He hadn't liked the traffic cop treatment. "Do you want to come by and have some pretty pink drinks with me and my new friends?"
"Don't make me shoot you, Spencer," Lassiter returned.
"I'll be there from seven 'til two, every night this week." He gave Lassiter a critical look, putting the detective immediately on the defensive. Then Spencer clapped him on the shoulder, turned, and swung one leg over his bike. "You should try sleeping tonight, Lass. I mean, if I solve the case all by myself 'cause you're passed out in your cruiser, how embarrassing would that be?"
Next Part
Please comment, please: this one is dear, since I've worked on it so long. I'd like to know what y'all think.