"The Third Law, part two"
Previous Part
Lassiter spent the next several days on continuing research. As other, smaller cases came up, his team of detectives was filtered down, until he had just three as full time assistants: O'Hara, Jackson, and Martinez. The week was almost out and there hadn't been another body; he didn't know whether to count that as a minor victory or dumb luck. He supposed the former was out of the question. No real progress had been made, though they'd certainly come up with whole files full of people the murderer wasn't.
At the moment, Lassiter was rooted at his desk. By midnight, even the police department went dark. There were a few officers manning phones, of course, but he'd sent O'Hara and Jackson home while he and Martinez worked. Breaking up a team was not something he did lightly - however, when one's partner was about to pass out over statements from the victims' families, he figured it was more logical to work in pairs than not. Martinez was away from the station; Lassiter, without any guilt, had sent him on a stupid, dead-end errand so he could be alone and think.
In truth, he shouldn't have been surprised at all that this rare moment of peace was the one Spencer chose to saunter into the station. He sat back in his chair and covered his face with both hands, groaning. Listening as Spencer came closer, he entertained mild thoughts of murder on his own behalf. Though it wouldn't do the city at large much good, he did think he could make a compelling argument that at least Santa Barbara's head detective would operate more efficiently as a result.
The footsteps stopped, very close to him. When he uncovered his eyes, he discovered the bane of his career a few inches from his face, wreathed in a blinding smile. He reared back, making Spencer's grin widen and slide into something vaguely dirty. "Come on, Lass," he said, eyes squinting with leering humor. He was still leaning in, too close. "Afraid to get a little Brokeback with me?"
Lassiter grimaced. "There is just no way that's appropriate, Spencer."
Spencer shrugged, straightening and looking down at Lassiter with a considering, sideways smile. "I don't know, Lassie," he said, sliding onto Lassiter's desk and letting his heels drum gently against the desk drawer. "It felt pretty good."
Lassiter opened his mouth, about to retort, then paused. That had actually sounded… somewhat sincere. He frowned, but dismissed the thought - Spencer was never serious, so why bother analyzing him as if he was? Instead, he cleared his throat.
"Spencer," he said, with commendable calm. "What in God's name could you possibly be doing here?"
"Now, now, Lassie," Spencer replied, tilting his head to one side. "I've gotta make my report like a good boy, don't I?"
"You know what, psychic? I hadn't even considered it."
That earned him another, sharper grin. Sometimes Lassiter thought Spencer was all corners, spiky angles and serrated edges. Of course, if that was the case his ability to slip oh-so-easily out of any and every tight situation needed some explaining. In such situations he seemed a lot more like mercury.
Spencer leaned back on his hands, rolling his eyes toward the heavens. For tonight, Lassiter saw, he was decked out even more oddly than usual: black jeans, orange and grey sneakers with rips on the sides, and a green plaid shirt, which gaped open to show the overly-tight black Metallica t-shirt underneath. On top of everything, the kid appeared to be wearing…
"Eyeliner, Spencer?" The smile got even toothier. "What the hell kind of bar is this, anyway?"
"Come on, Detective," Spencer drawled, looking back down at his sort-of-partner. "I'm adopting a persona, going undercover. I thought you'd be proud!" He turned his head back and forth, clearly inviting flattery. "And aren't I pretty?"
Lassiter folded his arms over his chest, sighing. He didn't know why he even came into work some days. "Whatever. Tell me."
Apparently, Harry's Bar was a wildly eclectic place. Though deep in the Latino part of town, all sorts of patrons passed through its doors. On any given night, the people Spencer served (he'd said it with an over-long pause and a wink, which Lassiter actually wasn't sure how to take) ranged from bikers to truckers to likely gang members to golfers. College students came and went, including sorority girls and "dweebs", as Spencer insisted on calling them.
"So you're telling me that in three days of working there you haven't identified a likely suspect?"
Spencer shook his head, impatient. "No, Lassie. What I'm telling you is that in three days I've gone from three or five likely suspects to about a hundred maybes." Lassiter palmed his face again, and Spencer hurried to continue. "Look, the problem is that there aren't really regulars. I mean, there are, but it's not the normal deal - some dudes come in each night, but they sit in different places, they're meeting people, they're joking around, getting in random fights. This isn't crazy stalker material, you know what I'm saying?"
Much as he hated to admit it, Lassiter did. The sort of serial criminal they were likely looking for would be quiet, focused, waiting to be rejected by a woman. He wondered how Spencer knew that. "What about your co-workers?"
Spencer waved one hand, dismissing that instantly. "All totally cool. Bill already invited me to a party, and Drew and Bianca - the wait people," he added, seeing Lassiter's confused look, "- are as not-freaky as it's possible to be while still breathing. Or at a CPA convention."
"So we're nowhere. Great, Spencer. Thanks so much for checking in," Lassiter said, aiming for withering.
During his account, Spencer had been leaning forward, intent on getting in each detail. At the detective's words he sat up straight. "Don't be that way, Lassie," he insisted. "I am getting somewhere. I just need to wait until the right person comes in. Don't worry," he added, throwing on his serious look for the first time that evening. "I've got my evil aura sensors on full-blast. I'll find him."
-----
Lassiter saw little of Spencer for the next two days. Their paths crossed only in the parking lot at the station: in order to maintain complete secrecy about his actual identity, Chief Vick had insisted that Spencer use a borrowed car to get himself back and forth. In what Lassiter saw as a complete waste of both time and manpower, Spencer drove over to the station on his motorcycle, was taken by a plainclothes cop to the rear parking lot of "his" apartment on East Haley, and then went through the building's back door and out the front to get into yet another car, which he then drove to work at Harry's Bar. Of course, due to Spencer's particular personality, the junior cops all fought for the privilege to be his chauffeur - Lassiter had caught Martinez coming in from one of these little assignments wearing a new, sky-blue "Frankie Says Relax" headband, complete with a stupid grin plastered across his face. He didn’t bother to ask.
When Lassiter returned from his daily sleep and shower break at five on Friday afternoon, Spencer was kicked back on the front steps of the police station, gabbing at the phone cemented to his ear. Resplendent in head to toe dark blue, Lassiter thought he could safely accuse of the younger man of looking good - looking fantastic, even. However, when Spencer looked up and caught his eye, Lassiter mentally swallowed the compliment: the navy was matched by full-on, midnight blue eye shadow. The detective felt his jaw drop, but couldn’t do much to stop it. Christ, the kid had even accentuated the eyeliner to give himself a cat-eye effect, and had added a touch of silver glitter to boot.
Spencer noticed him noticing. Another grin spread his mouth, blade-sharp. Lassiter managed to close his own mouth, and simply stood waiting, coffee in hand, while the kid finished his conversation.
"Gus, I told you - you're a terrible snowboarder. Stick to skis." As he listened to the retort, Spencer's eyes fluttered at Lassiter, doing a passable imitation of coquetry. He'd even shaved, removing the constant three o'clock shadow which hid his features. "Yeah, I know they're dorky, but seriously, man - how much cooler is it to fall on your ass? Anyway, gotta run - Lassiter wants a word. What? When have I ever not been careful?"
He clicked his phone closed without waiting for a response, and hopped to his feet. "Lassie! I'm so glad to see you. Do you want to have the honor of giving me a ride this fine evening?" There was a slight emphasis on the ride which Lassiter chose to ignore, for his sanity.
Instead of replying, he just stared at Spencer for a minute, prompting a full 360 degree turn and a coy look. "Aren't I fetching?" he asked, spreading his arms wide.
Not knowing quite how to respond, Lassiter gave him another, closer look. Navy Converse with navy laces, dark wash, overly-tight jeans, and a midnight blue, skin-tight t-shirt that he'd probably stolen from some model's closet. Even the friendship bracelet was switched out for one in dark blue. A black blazer, tailored fiendishly close to accentuate Spencer's waist, completed the nighttime image. "Spencer, seriously," he said, gesturing with the coffee. "What… the hell are you doing? What are you supposed to be?"
Spencer drew himself straight, then propped one hand on his hip and artfully slouched, tilting his head back and giving Lassiter a raised eyebrow. "I, sir, am Jason Stone," he said, his voice changing ever-so-slightly. While most of Spencer's voices were so ridiculous Lassiter knew only the severely challenged would believe them, this one sounded practiced: a little huskier with excess breath, slower, his tongue wrapping around the syllables more loosely than was his wont. It turned Spencer into something exotic. "I'm from Colorado Springs. I used to work at the Eden night club, but when they found out I sometimes dated ladies as well as gents I was let go."
"You - you're pretending to be gay?"
Spencer - or Stone - shook his head, giving him a smile. This one wasn't sharp at all - rather soft and sweet, to Lassiter's surprise. "Not at all. I'm bisexual, Detective. That way, I have a little love for everyone." When Lassiter gaped at him once more, Jason Stone vanished, and Spencer's mouth turned up into a grin. "One of my suspects was getting a little possessive of Bianca, thought I was flirting with her too much. Had to start hitting on Drew, too - and voilá, Jason's bi and sort of an equal opportunity threat."
Lassiter shook his head. Perhaps he needed more sleep. Even the fresh, rain-scented day wasn't helping - the barely-there breeze brought him a hint of the cologne (or perfume, he thought fuzzily) Spencer was wearing: he smelled like cinnamon. "How could this possibly help the case?" he asked after a moment.
Spencer waited a beat, pursing his lips in thought, then shrugged. "Honestly? It's hilarious to see which of you boys in blue can handle it and which ones can't. Plus, Jules thinks I'm just lovely in makeup."
O'Hara would, Lassiter thought. "Also, if you want a real reason," Spencer offered, throwing up both hands and stretching showily, making his shirt ride up to show a hint of navy blue boxers, "who wouldn't take the opportunity to play both sides of the field? That way, there's more fun to go around!"
Holy God. Lassiter didn't even have time to fully process that little piece of information before Spencer slipped into his Jason persona, gave him a sweetly flirtatious smile, and slid past him - a little too close to be appropriate - to meet the young, fresh-from-the-Academy cop who was coming up the walk. "See you later, Detective Lassiter," he said over his shoulder, the breathy voice now sounding all the more bizarre.
Lassiter stood and stared up at the sullen grey sky, hand clenched tightly around his coffee cup. Shawn Spencer, gay - well, apparently 'bisexual,' though for Lassiter's frame of mind right now there wasn't much of a difference. Suddenly, all of the dozens of off-hand, mildly annoying comments from the past few years resurged in Lassiter's memory. He'd decided then that Spencer was simply extremely comfortable in his sexuality to make those jokes; as it turned out, that assessment was still accurate, just for a completely unexpected reason. He couldn't think that Spencer was actually flirting with him, had been flirting with him for years, because even if Spencer was truly interested in men there was no way he'd go for Lassiter, the Head Detective. It was unthinkable - and inappropriate.
Though usually he felt like a round at the shooting range after any discussion with his unwanted partner, now he wasn't sure whether he now wanted to hit something or just go back home and sleep another ten hours. He sighed, and mounted the steps into the station. God, sometimes he hated this job.
-----
By eleven o'clock that evening, Lassiter's assessment hadn't changed in the slightest. The more Internet-savvy Officer Jackson had spent his part of the day combing blogs and online journals, looking for, basically, creepy people. He'd transferred his findings to Lassiter when he'd gone home - and, since Martinez had come down with some sort of bug that had him vomiting every hour and running to the bathroom in the downtime between, the head detective had spent all of his time poring over the more twisted fantasies Santa Barbara had to offer.
He'd crossed about twenty of the sites off his list when he came to one that seemed promising. The author of the blog, some guy who called himself Master Commander, had an unhealthy penchant for non-consensual sex and wrote at length on his obsession. Some of the included details set off warning bells in Lassiter's head.
In a few moments, he'd created a fake email account and had subscribed to the guy's site. Lassiter scratched the back of his neck while he waited for the promised reply email, giving a special separate site to visit and a password. Strange, that surfing for porn was part of his job description. At least he was, once again, one of the only people at the station. He shuddered to think what Spencer would say - or do - if he showed up at Lassiter's desk this time.
The email arrived with a cheerful bing! When he opened it, his monitor was immediately consumed with black and dark blue graphics, proclaiming him to have arrived at "The Dungeon". The entries were horribly graphic, illustrating bloody scenes of sexual conquest - though the women involved seemed to be enjoying the treatment. Lassiter continued reading, blinking away tiredness, until he came to the entry for December 17th - just a few days before Manning's body had been found.
Well, my followers, I found the girl of our dreams. Her skin is so pale I can see her heart pumping blood to her veins, a lovely blue-green at her wrists and throat. She is blonde, with curls falling around her bare shoulders. I caught her this evening. As I write, she is bent over the table in my dungeon: I have stripped away any barriers between her beautiful flesh and my eye. Her wrists (oh, friends, what lovely bones she has!) are tied together, lashed with black silk to the table. Her gorgeous legs are spread, ankles secured so she will be unable to hide from us.
I have now placed her head in a brace I built just for her: it keeps her face tilted upward, away from the tabletop, so that she can see herself in the mirror as I bury myself inside. I have set up two cameras, as well: one just for her face, the other behind my shoulder so you can all see how she writhes as I make love to her. Already, I have decorated her with bruises: bites down her spine, sucked marks on her throat.
She is so tight, comrades, so tight.
Lassiter felt his stomach turn over. That was it. This was their man. The description of the girl in the entry matched Manning perfectly - the bruises were the same, the position the same. There were special links to video files beside the entry, which he quickly found out showed him the terrified, teary face of Jane Manning as she was tortured, and were also completely devoid of the killer.
He skipped down a few pages, no longer tired. Sure enough, there was an entry for Stacy Garcia - the details were different for the Latina girl, but the same air of loving mutilation pervaded the words. He just skimmed the next few, ensuring that they were for Jessica White and Meagan Goldberg, before sending a quick email linking the site to the entire department and getting ready to call in every IT guy they could find to track down where the bastard was making his entries from. Before he could dial a number, though, his elbow caught the directional pad on his keyboard, sending the image on his monitor down to the last entry in the blog. His eye caught the bright, all-caps title.
OUR FIRST MAN
I have found the perfect candidate to branch out into the more rugged sex, my fellows. He is a beautiful boy - sweet natured, fun loving, and an excellent listener. Adorably tousled brunette hair crowns a tanned, slender body. His mouth is full, ripe, and so quick to smile. When he does, it is always honest, and his eyes join in, a gorgeous green.
Not long ago, he admitted to me that he was bisexual. He said (in that seductive voice! He cannot know what he does to me!) he was afraid to tell his other coworkers - indeed, he is with me every day at work - but thought he could trust me. I encouraged him to be honest, and do whatever he wanted. My friends, I unleashed the most provocative and charming personality I have ever come across. This boy (he tells me he is near thirty, but acts with a demeanor much younger) makes all who talk to him fall in love with him, on one level or another. He treats his work as if it were vacation, not a chore; he adores the customers; and I adore him.
I have decided to take him, and soon. For him, I would do anything.
Recently, he has been dressing more and more provocatively; while still in his entirely heterosexual persona, he wore only casual, fraternity clothing. Now, though - by all that we hold dear, comrades, he is becoming more and more like some joyful Adonis, trying to torture me. His eyes are accented with kohl and shadow, his mouth at times with scarlet - his dress and attitude have changed as he embraces the homosexual side of his personality. Today, he arrived as a little Antinous all in midnight blue, little knowing that was my favorite color.
I will have him tonight, right here. It will be particularly pleasing for me to take him where I have seen him flirt with so many others. Do not worry, friends: I will share with you what I have. Be waiting.
Lassiter stared at the monitor. It felt like his heart stopped beating.
Spencer. The next victim was Spencer.
-----
Aren't I evil? Bwa-ha.
No, seriously, a few notes: Trust me, I don't find non-con appealing. I really, really don't. However, despite my best intentions, I've been told I'm pretty good at the creepy - which is almost too bad, really. And I'm sorry about the cliffhanger, though I bet you guys could make a few educated guesses about where we'll be going.
Please comment! Even if it's to tell me that you hate me. (Maybe even especially then.)
Next Chapter
Lassiter spent the next several days on continuing research. As other, smaller cases came up, his team of detectives was filtered down, until he had just three as full time assistants: O'Hara, Jackson, and Martinez. The week was almost out and there hadn't been another body; he didn't know whether to count that as a minor victory or dumb luck. He supposed the former was out of the question. No real progress had been made, though they'd certainly come up with whole files full of people the murderer wasn't.
At the moment, Lassiter was rooted at his desk. By midnight, even the police department went dark. There were a few officers manning phones, of course, but he'd sent O'Hara and Jackson home while he and Martinez worked. Breaking up a team was not something he did lightly - however, when one's partner was about to pass out over statements from the victims' families, he figured it was more logical to work in pairs than not. Martinez was away from the station; Lassiter, without any guilt, had sent him on a stupid, dead-end errand so he could be alone and think.
In truth, he shouldn't have been surprised at all that this rare moment of peace was the one Spencer chose to saunter into the station. He sat back in his chair and covered his face with both hands, groaning. Listening as Spencer came closer, he entertained mild thoughts of murder on his own behalf. Though it wouldn't do the city at large much good, he did think he could make a compelling argument that at least Santa Barbara's head detective would operate more efficiently as a result.
The footsteps stopped, very close to him. When he uncovered his eyes, he discovered the bane of his career a few inches from his face, wreathed in a blinding smile. He reared back, making Spencer's grin widen and slide into something vaguely dirty. "Come on, Lass," he said, eyes squinting with leering humor. He was still leaning in, too close. "Afraid to get a little Brokeback with me?"
Lassiter grimaced. "There is just no way that's appropriate, Spencer."
Spencer shrugged, straightening and looking down at Lassiter with a considering, sideways smile. "I don't know, Lassie," he said, sliding onto Lassiter's desk and letting his heels drum gently against the desk drawer. "It felt pretty good."
Lassiter opened his mouth, about to retort, then paused. That had actually sounded… somewhat sincere. He frowned, but dismissed the thought - Spencer was never serious, so why bother analyzing him as if he was? Instead, he cleared his throat.
"Spencer," he said, with commendable calm. "What in God's name could you possibly be doing here?"
"Now, now, Lassie," Spencer replied, tilting his head to one side. "I've gotta make my report like a good boy, don't I?"
"You know what, psychic? I hadn't even considered it."
That earned him another, sharper grin. Sometimes Lassiter thought Spencer was all corners, spiky angles and serrated edges. Of course, if that was the case his ability to slip oh-so-easily out of any and every tight situation needed some explaining. In such situations he seemed a lot more like mercury.
Spencer leaned back on his hands, rolling his eyes toward the heavens. For tonight, Lassiter saw, he was decked out even more oddly than usual: black jeans, orange and grey sneakers with rips on the sides, and a green plaid shirt, which gaped open to show the overly-tight black Metallica t-shirt underneath. On top of everything, the kid appeared to be wearing…
"Eyeliner, Spencer?" The smile got even toothier. "What the hell kind of bar is this, anyway?"
"Come on, Detective," Spencer drawled, looking back down at his sort-of-partner. "I'm adopting a persona, going undercover. I thought you'd be proud!" He turned his head back and forth, clearly inviting flattery. "And aren't I pretty?"
Lassiter folded his arms over his chest, sighing. He didn't know why he even came into work some days. "Whatever. Tell me."
Apparently, Harry's Bar was a wildly eclectic place. Though deep in the Latino part of town, all sorts of patrons passed through its doors. On any given night, the people Spencer served (he'd said it with an over-long pause and a wink, which Lassiter actually wasn't sure how to take) ranged from bikers to truckers to likely gang members to golfers. College students came and went, including sorority girls and "dweebs", as Spencer insisted on calling them.
"So you're telling me that in three days of working there you haven't identified a likely suspect?"
Spencer shook his head, impatient. "No, Lassie. What I'm telling you is that in three days I've gone from three or five likely suspects to about a hundred maybes." Lassiter palmed his face again, and Spencer hurried to continue. "Look, the problem is that there aren't really regulars. I mean, there are, but it's not the normal deal - some dudes come in each night, but they sit in different places, they're meeting people, they're joking around, getting in random fights. This isn't crazy stalker material, you know what I'm saying?"
Much as he hated to admit it, Lassiter did. The sort of serial criminal they were likely looking for would be quiet, focused, waiting to be rejected by a woman. He wondered how Spencer knew that. "What about your co-workers?"
Spencer waved one hand, dismissing that instantly. "All totally cool. Bill already invited me to a party, and Drew and Bianca - the wait people," he added, seeing Lassiter's confused look, "- are as not-freaky as it's possible to be while still breathing. Or at a CPA convention."
"So we're nowhere. Great, Spencer. Thanks so much for checking in," Lassiter said, aiming for withering.
During his account, Spencer had been leaning forward, intent on getting in each detail. At the detective's words he sat up straight. "Don't be that way, Lassie," he insisted. "I am getting somewhere. I just need to wait until the right person comes in. Don't worry," he added, throwing on his serious look for the first time that evening. "I've got my evil aura sensors on full-blast. I'll find him."
-----
Lassiter saw little of Spencer for the next two days. Their paths crossed only in the parking lot at the station: in order to maintain complete secrecy about his actual identity, Chief Vick had insisted that Spencer use a borrowed car to get himself back and forth. In what Lassiter saw as a complete waste of both time and manpower, Spencer drove over to the station on his motorcycle, was taken by a plainclothes cop to the rear parking lot of "his" apartment on East Haley, and then went through the building's back door and out the front to get into yet another car, which he then drove to work at Harry's Bar. Of course, due to Spencer's particular personality, the junior cops all fought for the privilege to be his chauffeur - Lassiter had caught Martinez coming in from one of these little assignments wearing a new, sky-blue "Frankie Says Relax" headband, complete with a stupid grin plastered across his face. He didn’t bother to ask.
When Lassiter returned from his daily sleep and shower break at five on Friday afternoon, Spencer was kicked back on the front steps of the police station, gabbing at the phone cemented to his ear. Resplendent in head to toe dark blue, Lassiter thought he could safely accuse of the younger man of looking good - looking fantastic, even. However, when Spencer looked up and caught his eye, Lassiter mentally swallowed the compliment: the navy was matched by full-on, midnight blue eye shadow. The detective felt his jaw drop, but couldn’t do much to stop it. Christ, the kid had even accentuated the eyeliner to give himself a cat-eye effect, and had added a touch of silver glitter to boot.
Spencer noticed him noticing. Another grin spread his mouth, blade-sharp. Lassiter managed to close his own mouth, and simply stood waiting, coffee in hand, while the kid finished his conversation.
"Gus, I told you - you're a terrible snowboarder. Stick to skis." As he listened to the retort, Spencer's eyes fluttered at Lassiter, doing a passable imitation of coquetry. He'd even shaved, removing the constant three o'clock shadow which hid his features. "Yeah, I know they're dorky, but seriously, man - how much cooler is it to fall on your ass? Anyway, gotta run - Lassiter wants a word. What? When have I ever not been careful?"
He clicked his phone closed without waiting for a response, and hopped to his feet. "Lassie! I'm so glad to see you. Do you want to have the honor of giving me a ride this fine evening?" There was a slight emphasis on the ride which Lassiter chose to ignore, for his sanity.
Instead of replying, he just stared at Spencer for a minute, prompting a full 360 degree turn and a coy look. "Aren't I fetching?" he asked, spreading his arms wide.
Not knowing quite how to respond, Lassiter gave him another, closer look. Navy Converse with navy laces, dark wash, overly-tight jeans, and a midnight blue, skin-tight t-shirt that he'd probably stolen from some model's closet. Even the friendship bracelet was switched out for one in dark blue. A black blazer, tailored fiendishly close to accentuate Spencer's waist, completed the nighttime image. "Spencer, seriously," he said, gesturing with the coffee. "What… the hell are you doing? What are you supposed to be?"
Spencer drew himself straight, then propped one hand on his hip and artfully slouched, tilting his head back and giving Lassiter a raised eyebrow. "I, sir, am Jason Stone," he said, his voice changing ever-so-slightly. While most of Spencer's voices were so ridiculous Lassiter knew only the severely challenged would believe them, this one sounded practiced: a little huskier with excess breath, slower, his tongue wrapping around the syllables more loosely than was his wont. It turned Spencer into something exotic. "I'm from Colorado Springs. I used to work at the Eden night club, but when they found out I sometimes dated ladies as well as gents I was let go."
"You - you're pretending to be gay?"
Spencer - or Stone - shook his head, giving him a smile. This one wasn't sharp at all - rather soft and sweet, to Lassiter's surprise. "Not at all. I'm bisexual, Detective. That way, I have a little love for everyone." When Lassiter gaped at him once more, Jason Stone vanished, and Spencer's mouth turned up into a grin. "One of my suspects was getting a little possessive of Bianca, thought I was flirting with her too much. Had to start hitting on Drew, too - and voilá, Jason's bi and sort of an equal opportunity threat."
Lassiter shook his head. Perhaps he needed more sleep. Even the fresh, rain-scented day wasn't helping - the barely-there breeze brought him a hint of the cologne (or perfume, he thought fuzzily) Spencer was wearing: he smelled like cinnamon. "How could this possibly help the case?" he asked after a moment.
Spencer waited a beat, pursing his lips in thought, then shrugged. "Honestly? It's hilarious to see which of you boys in blue can handle it and which ones can't. Plus, Jules thinks I'm just lovely in makeup."
O'Hara would, Lassiter thought. "Also, if you want a real reason," Spencer offered, throwing up both hands and stretching showily, making his shirt ride up to show a hint of navy blue boxers, "who wouldn't take the opportunity to play both sides of the field? That way, there's more fun to go around!"
Holy God. Lassiter didn't even have time to fully process that little piece of information before Spencer slipped into his Jason persona, gave him a sweetly flirtatious smile, and slid past him - a little too close to be appropriate - to meet the young, fresh-from-the-Academy cop who was coming up the walk. "See you later, Detective Lassiter," he said over his shoulder, the breathy voice now sounding all the more bizarre.
Lassiter stood and stared up at the sullen grey sky, hand clenched tightly around his coffee cup. Shawn Spencer, gay - well, apparently 'bisexual,' though for Lassiter's frame of mind right now there wasn't much of a difference. Suddenly, all of the dozens of off-hand, mildly annoying comments from the past few years resurged in Lassiter's memory. He'd decided then that Spencer was simply extremely comfortable in his sexuality to make those jokes; as it turned out, that assessment was still accurate, just for a completely unexpected reason. He couldn't think that Spencer was actually flirting with him, had been flirting with him for years, because even if Spencer was truly interested in men there was no way he'd go for Lassiter, the Head Detective. It was unthinkable - and inappropriate.
Though usually he felt like a round at the shooting range after any discussion with his unwanted partner, now he wasn't sure whether he now wanted to hit something or just go back home and sleep another ten hours. He sighed, and mounted the steps into the station. God, sometimes he hated this job.
-----
By eleven o'clock that evening, Lassiter's assessment hadn't changed in the slightest. The more Internet-savvy Officer Jackson had spent his part of the day combing blogs and online journals, looking for, basically, creepy people. He'd transferred his findings to Lassiter when he'd gone home - and, since Martinez had come down with some sort of bug that had him vomiting every hour and running to the bathroom in the downtime between, the head detective had spent all of his time poring over the more twisted fantasies Santa Barbara had to offer.
He'd crossed about twenty of the sites off his list when he came to one that seemed promising. The author of the blog, some guy who called himself Master Commander, had an unhealthy penchant for non-consensual sex and wrote at length on his obsession. Some of the included details set off warning bells in Lassiter's head.
In a few moments, he'd created a fake email account and had subscribed to the guy's site. Lassiter scratched the back of his neck while he waited for the promised reply email, giving a special separate site to visit and a password. Strange, that surfing for porn was part of his job description. At least he was, once again, one of the only people at the station. He shuddered to think what Spencer would say - or do - if he showed up at Lassiter's desk this time.
The email arrived with a cheerful bing! When he opened it, his monitor was immediately consumed with black and dark blue graphics, proclaiming him to have arrived at "The Dungeon". The entries were horribly graphic, illustrating bloody scenes of sexual conquest - though the women involved seemed to be enjoying the treatment. Lassiter continued reading, blinking away tiredness, until he came to the entry for December 17th - just a few days before Manning's body had been found.
Well, my followers, I found the girl of our dreams. Her skin is so pale I can see her heart pumping blood to her veins, a lovely blue-green at her wrists and throat. She is blonde, with curls falling around her bare shoulders. I caught her this evening. As I write, she is bent over the table in my dungeon: I have stripped away any barriers between her beautiful flesh and my eye. Her wrists (oh, friends, what lovely bones she has!) are tied together, lashed with black silk to the table. Her gorgeous legs are spread, ankles secured so she will be unable to hide from us.
I have now placed her head in a brace I built just for her: it keeps her face tilted upward, away from the tabletop, so that she can see herself in the mirror as I bury myself inside. I have set up two cameras, as well: one just for her face, the other behind my shoulder so you can all see how she writhes as I make love to her. Already, I have decorated her with bruises: bites down her spine, sucked marks on her throat.
She is so tight, comrades, so tight.
Lassiter felt his stomach turn over. That was it. This was their man. The description of the girl in the entry matched Manning perfectly - the bruises were the same, the position the same. There were special links to video files beside the entry, which he quickly found out showed him the terrified, teary face of Jane Manning as she was tortured, and were also completely devoid of the killer.
He skipped down a few pages, no longer tired. Sure enough, there was an entry for Stacy Garcia - the details were different for the Latina girl, but the same air of loving mutilation pervaded the words. He just skimmed the next few, ensuring that they were for Jessica White and Meagan Goldberg, before sending a quick email linking the site to the entire department and getting ready to call in every IT guy they could find to track down where the bastard was making his entries from. Before he could dial a number, though, his elbow caught the directional pad on his keyboard, sending the image on his monitor down to the last entry in the blog. His eye caught the bright, all-caps title.
OUR FIRST MAN
I have found the perfect candidate to branch out into the more rugged sex, my fellows. He is a beautiful boy - sweet natured, fun loving, and an excellent listener. Adorably tousled brunette hair crowns a tanned, slender body. His mouth is full, ripe, and so quick to smile. When he does, it is always honest, and his eyes join in, a gorgeous green.
Not long ago, he admitted to me that he was bisexual. He said (in that seductive voice! He cannot know what he does to me!) he was afraid to tell his other coworkers - indeed, he is with me every day at work - but thought he could trust me. I encouraged him to be honest, and do whatever he wanted. My friends, I unleashed the most provocative and charming personality I have ever come across. This boy (he tells me he is near thirty, but acts with a demeanor much younger) makes all who talk to him fall in love with him, on one level or another. He treats his work as if it were vacation, not a chore; he adores the customers; and I adore him.
I have decided to take him, and soon. For him, I would do anything.
Recently, he has been dressing more and more provocatively; while still in his entirely heterosexual persona, he wore only casual, fraternity clothing. Now, though - by all that we hold dear, comrades, he is becoming more and more like some joyful Adonis, trying to torture me. His eyes are accented with kohl and shadow, his mouth at times with scarlet - his dress and attitude have changed as he embraces the homosexual side of his personality. Today, he arrived as a little Antinous all in midnight blue, little knowing that was my favorite color.
I will have him tonight, right here. It will be particularly pleasing for me to take him where I have seen him flirt with so many others. Do not worry, friends: I will share with you what I have. Be waiting.
Lassiter stared at the monitor. It felt like his heart stopped beating.
Spencer. The next victim was Spencer.
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Aren't I evil? Bwa-ha.
No, seriously, a few notes: Trust me, I don't find non-con appealing. I really, really don't. However, despite my best intentions, I've been told I'm pretty good at the creepy - which is almost too bad, really. And I'm sorry about the cliffhanger, though I bet you guys could make a few educated guesses about where we'll be going.
Please comment! Even if it's to tell me that you hate me. (Maybe even especially then.)
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