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last01standingTitle: Back to the Future Part... Murder (3/?)
Disclaimer: Psych is not mine. It should also be noted that this is loosely inspired by Life on Mars which is also not mine.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: While the SBPD tries to piece together a twenty year old cycle of murders, Shawn Spencer finds himself thrown back to 1989, as the killer surfaces for the first time.
Author's note: Probaly the most down to earth, reasonable, logically plotted story I have ever written.except for all the time travel
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7
BACK TO THE FUTURE PART... MURDER
THREE
He slept on the beach for six nights, hunting for spare change in the sand so he could by disinfectant to use in washing the sand out of his stab wound. Nothing changed so he upgraded his estimated status from dead to limbo and walked into the Santa Barbara Police Department.
Ten minutes later he found himself standing in front of chief Vick, twenty years younger then the one he was used to and, he’s ashamed to admit it, smoking hot on the Juliet O’Hara level.
Juliet O’Hara who must be about eight years old right now.
Sometimes, Shawn really hated his life.
“Detective Savage,” Vick greeted him. “I was under the impression you were indisposed.”
He didn’t know why he was surprised that past Vick was still a hard ass. It had been kind of a big deal to be a women in policing in the late 80s in a way it just wasn’t in 2010, so for every ounce of person, Vick probably had to be twice as fast and twice as smart to get by.
“Yes,” he answered. “But as it turns out, it’s hard to relax when the person who stabbed and nearly killed you is still out there one the prowl, probably waiting for the possibility of more stabbing and more killing.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate a good hyperbole, Detective, but I assure you your case is being handled. You’re on mandated medical leave.”
He raised his hand to his temple almost without thought. “Karen, I’m sensing that you could really use my input on this.”
Vick’s eyes narrowed and if anything it was even more intimidating in her younger frame. This was a women who could kill him with her pinky. “And I’m sensing that if you don’t get out of my face and back onto your mandatory medical leave.”
God help him it was sexy as hell.
“Savage?”
“Who now?”
“Get away from my desk.”
***
The smell of dried blood hit him hard.
“McNab, get him out of here!” Lassiter growled. “He doesn’t need to see this. Gus, I’ll meet you in the office.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gus said even as his stomach tied itself in knots.
McNab had a hand on his shoulder, floundering between the two orders.
In a rare moment of bravery, Gus turned to look at him and very clearly said, “If you try to take me out of here, I will punch you in the spleen. And I really don’t want to get arrested for assaulting an officer.”
He shrugged off the arm on his shoulder and stalked over to Lassiter. What would Shawn do? he asked himself. Think of this like any other crime scene, you’ve watched him work. You can make the connections. “Tell me what happened.”
Lassiter scrunched up his face, like he wanted to throw Gus out after all but he’d always been more tolerant of Gus then Shawn and despite everything, Gus liked to think he cared about friendships. His face relented. “Blood splatter guys said he put up a fight. Minor wounds at first as he tried to get away from his attacker before then landed a major blow and then...”
Gus’s eyes found the large red stain on the pavement. Dried blood. Shawn’s blood.
“Then he fell.”
Gus swallowed. “That’s Shawn’s blood.”
“Guster, we don’t have confirmation yet, but for the moment, we can only assume that Spencer was our victim. I’m going to need you to think about your recent cases, anyone who might have had a reason to want to hurt Spencer.”
“That’s a lot of blood, Lassiter.”
Shawn had broken his nose when they were both thirteen, stepped to close to someone swinging a baseball bad and caught it just the wrong way. Shawn had blinked bearily and fallen to his knees, hand cupped under his nostrils to catch the drip. The blood had filled up his palm, falling down in to the grass, ruby red sparkling amidst the green. Gus had passed out.
There was a lot more blood then this.
“Nothing’s been confirmed, Guster. This could belong to anyone. Don’t assume the worst.”
“And what is the worst, Lassiter?”
The detective hesitated for a moment and said, “With the amount of blood here, the worst case is pretty bad.”
Gus pressed his eyes shut. “You think he’s dead.”
Lassiter’s silence was more then answer enough.
It was almost unthinkable. If it were true Gus knew his very person was going to unravel. They’d been ShawnandGus for so long he wasn’t sure he knew how to be anything else. But he couldn’t believe it. Not yet. He had to get to the bottom of this. Had to do Shawn’s job.
He looked at the crime scene again, the splotches of red where Shawn had fallen. There was a disconnect here. He could tell. “Where’s the body?” he asked.
“There is no body,” Lassiter answered. “It’s the only sign of hope we had.”
“But there aren’t any drag marks. If someone moved it, there would be some kind of trail, right? This is just like the body fell and then...”
“Then it disappeared,” Lassiter finished.
***
Shawn heard about the attacks third hand. It wasn’t publicized and he doubted anyone but him made the connection. But there were two of them. The first a cop found unconscious but unarmed after he left a bar in the early hours of the night. The second a patrol man who’d pulled over a white sedan only to get jumped, his knee taken out so badly he might never walk again. The car that was originally pulled over had been a stolen vehicle.
Seeing it, Shawn felt a familiar tingle in his spine. The connections, the puzzle taking shape in front of him. Vick and his father had both sent him away when he tried to talk to them at the station. He wondered what it said about him that the police regarded him as more useful as a psychic then a detective.
He spent the night at a local bar, sitting in on a poker game so he could win enough money to afford a hotel room for a few days. The police were mounting some kind of operation. He could see it from the outskirts but couldn’t quite integrate himself like he was used to.
He’d never quite fit in with normal people in the future. Putting him in out of time took him out of his element. He didn’t realize how many of his references were from the 90s until no one understood what he was saying.
He was floundering. He needed Gus, needed someone to make him focus. He needed to research and that was something he could admit he was terrible at.
He came across Lassiter by complete accident.
The Carlton Lassiter of 1989 was one of the most surreal visions of Shawn’s life. He was nineteen years old, a tall, gangly kid wearing a pair of bleached jeans and a black t-shirt. His hair was longer then Shawn was used to, the smile seemed more genuine.
Shawn almost didn’t recognize him. He didn’t walk like a cop, didn’t move like Lassiter and was missing the crooked slant to his nose and it threw Shawn more then he thought was possible. He’d had Lassiter pegged as the kid who went around on his tricycle arresting the other sticky little monsters to crimes related to being sticky little monsters. But Lassiter was a college kid now, an engineer if the book peaking out of his bag was any indication.
He crossed the street to catch up with him before he consciously made the decision to move. “Lassie!” he called.
The sudden hunch to his shoulders told Shawn that he’d been heard but Lassiter himself gave no further outward reaction. Shawn jogged across the street just in time to catch Lassiter by the shoulder. “Seriously, Lassie, wait up.”
As he spun around, Shawn got a hint of pure Lassiter in the kid’s eyes, the flinty, badass, don’t mess with the head detective look that Shawn had directed at him at least once a week. It was the first time Shawn felt like he had his feet on the ground. It took everything in him to keep from pulling Lassiter into a hug. “Wow, Lassie, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you.”
“I don’t know you,” Lassiter said tersely. “Get your hand off of me.”
Even the order was familiar and Shawn dropped his hand, smile still plastered on his face. “If I didn’t know you, how did I know your name?”
“My name is not Lassie.”
“It’s a nickname. A sign of affection people give to their friends.”
“It’s a dog’s name.”
“If you think about it, would you really prefer Carlton? Maybe we can try Carly? Lassitude?”
He had Lassiter’s full attention now and he loved it. He’d always loved it. Loved it from the first second he’d taken a deep breath and proclaimed, The truth is, I’m a psychic and the look on Lassiter’s face had called bullshit. “Are you following me? Who the hell do you think you are?”
An outrageous lie started to spring to his lips before he realized he had actual legitimate credibility at his fingertips. Legitimacy that might actually border on truth. He fumbled the badge out of his pocket. “Detective Savage,” he said, stumbling over the words like he never did when Gus was at his side.
Lassiter narrowed his eyes, taking the badge in his hands, examining it critically. “I have a hard time believing they’d let someone like you be a cop let alone a detective.”
“I’m having a hard time not being offended by that.”
“Something tells me you’re almost impossible to offend.” Lassiter handed the badge back to him. Somehow, in all his years at Psych he’d never felt like more of a fraud then he did right now.
“See,” Shawn said, just a little thickly. “Look at that. We’re already getting to know each other.”
“What do you want, Savage?” Lassiter demanded. The name sounded ridiculous, almost like Lassiter was calling him a lower-case savage.
“It’s Shawn,” he corrected absently.
“And why would I possibly care what your name is?”
“Because I need your help.” Shawn smirked. “Tell me, Carlton, are you a fan of solving crime?”
Lassiter didn’t answer. He just rolled his eyes and walked away without another word.
“That’s all right!” Shawn called after him. “We’re going to pick this up later.”
***
“Maybe we were wrong,” Gus said. “Maybe it wasn’t the same guy.”
Lassiter rubbed a had against his forehead. “It was the same guy.”
“So what, you’re a psychic now?”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Lassiter snapped a second later he quieted. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. My partner’s in the hospital. I’m tired and I’m sick at doing nothing but looking at this guy’s past hatchet jobs. There should have been something by now.”
“Juliet’s gong to be all right,” Gus answered. He shuffled through the folders in front of him. It was a testament to Lassiter’s worry that he was even letting Gus touch his case and Gus knew it. “And mark my words, we’re going to find a lead.”
“Go home, Guster,” Lassiter ordered. “You’re no good to anyone when you’re exhausted.”
“I’m not—”
“Go home,” Lassiter repeated. “You’re not helping your friend like this.”
Gus felt his shoulders sag as he acknowledged the truth in Lassiter’s words. “I’m going to go to the hospital. Check in on Juliet.” Lassiter looked up to him and he hastily added. “I’ll call you with an update. Promise.”
He started walking out of the station. But stopped right outside as a white board caught his eyes. It was detailing a robbery cases, different targets circled from all around town. Gus turned to look at it, the vaguely Shawn-ish part of his brain screaming at him that something was off.
“Lassiter,” he called. “Come take a look at this.”
There were three locations circled on the map in a red pen while everything else had been down with a push pin. The date on each and every one of them was the same. Was a date that hadn’t happened yet.
“He’s calling his shot,” Lassiter breathed.
“He’s calling three shots.”
“He’s only going to go with one. That’s how he works.”
“And what about Shawn. The one that goes missing. How does it end for him?”
Lassiter closed off his face, refusing to look Gus in the eyes. “Either we find him... or we don’t.”
| 4 |
Disclaimer: Psych is not mine. It should also be noted that this is loosely inspired by Life on Mars which is also not mine.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: While the SBPD tries to piece together a twenty year old cycle of murders, Shawn Spencer finds himself thrown back to 1989, as the killer surfaces for the first time.
Author's note: Probaly the most down to earth, reasonable, logically plotted story I have ever written.
THREE
He slept on the beach for six nights, hunting for spare change in the sand so he could by disinfectant to use in washing the sand out of his stab wound. Nothing changed so he upgraded his estimated status from dead to limbo and walked into the Santa Barbara Police Department.
Ten minutes later he found himself standing in front of chief Vick, twenty years younger then the one he was used to and, he’s ashamed to admit it, smoking hot on the Juliet O’Hara level.
Juliet O’Hara who must be about eight years old right now.
Sometimes, Shawn really hated his life.
“Detective Savage,” Vick greeted him. “I was under the impression you were indisposed.”
He didn’t know why he was surprised that past Vick was still a hard ass. It had been kind of a big deal to be a women in policing in the late 80s in a way it just wasn’t in 2010, so for every ounce of person, Vick probably had to be twice as fast and twice as smart to get by.
“Yes,” he answered. “But as it turns out, it’s hard to relax when the person who stabbed and nearly killed you is still out there one the prowl, probably waiting for the possibility of more stabbing and more killing.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate a good hyperbole, Detective, but I assure you your case is being handled. You’re on mandated medical leave.”
He raised his hand to his temple almost without thought. “Karen, I’m sensing that you could really use my input on this.”
Vick’s eyes narrowed and if anything it was even more intimidating in her younger frame. This was a women who could kill him with her pinky. “And I’m sensing that if you don’t get out of my face and back onto your mandatory medical leave.”
God help him it was sexy as hell.
“Savage?”
“Who now?”
“Get away from my desk.”
The smell of dried blood hit him hard.
“McNab, get him out of here!” Lassiter growled. “He doesn’t need to see this. Gus, I’ll meet you in the office.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gus said even as his stomach tied itself in knots.
McNab had a hand on his shoulder, floundering between the two orders.
In a rare moment of bravery, Gus turned to look at him and very clearly said, “If you try to take me out of here, I will punch you in the spleen. And I really don’t want to get arrested for assaulting an officer.”
He shrugged off the arm on his shoulder and stalked over to Lassiter. What would Shawn do? he asked himself. Think of this like any other crime scene, you’ve watched him work. You can make the connections. “Tell me what happened.”
Lassiter scrunched up his face, like he wanted to throw Gus out after all but he’d always been more tolerant of Gus then Shawn and despite everything, Gus liked to think he cared about friendships. His face relented. “Blood splatter guys said he put up a fight. Minor wounds at first as he tried to get away from his attacker before then landed a major blow and then...”
Gus’s eyes found the large red stain on the pavement. Dried blood. Shawn’s blood.
“Then he fell.”
Gus swallowed. “That’s Shawn’s blood.”
“Guster, we don’t have confirmation yet, but for the moment, we can only assume that Spencer was our victim. I’m going to need you to think about your recent cases, anyone who might have had a reason to want to hurt Spencer.”
“That’s a lot of blood, Lassiter.”
Shawn had broken his nose when they were both thirteen, stepped to close to someone swinging a baseball bad and caught it just the wrong way. Shawn had blinked bearily and fallen to his knees, hand cupped under his nostrils to catch the drip. The blood had filled up his palm, falling down in to the grass, ruby red sparkling amidst the green. Gus had passed out.
There was a lot more blood then this.
“Nothing’s been confirmed, Guster. This could belong to anyone. Don’t assume the worst.”
“And what is the worst, Lassiter?”
The detective hesitated for a moment and said, “With the amount of blood here, the worst case is pretty bad.”
Gus pressed his eyes shut. “You think he’s dead.”
Lassiter’s silence was more then answer enough.
It was almost unthinkable. If it were true Gus knew his very person was going to unravel. They’d been ShawnandGus for so long he wasn’t sure he knew how to be anything else. But he couldn’t believe it. Not yet. He had to get to the bottom of this. Had to do Shawn’s job.
He looked at the crime scene again, the splotches of red where Shawn had fallen. There was a disconnect here. He could tell. “Where’s the body?” he asked.
“There is no body,” Lassiter answered. “It’s the only sign of hope we had.”
“But there aren’t any drag marks. If someone moved it, there would be some kind of trail, right? This is just like the body fell and then...”
“Then it disappeared,” Lassiter finished.
Shawn heard about the attacks third hand. It wasn’t publicized and he doubted anyone but him made the connection. But there were two of them. The first a cop found unconscious but unarmed after he left a bar in the early hours of the night. The second a patrol man who’d pulled over a white sedan only to get jumped, his knee taken out so badly he might never walk again. The car that was originally pulled over had been a stolen vehicle.
Seeing it, Shawn felt a familiar tingle in his spine. The connections, the puzzle taking shape in front of him. Vick and his father had both sent him away when he tried to talk to them at the station. He wondered what it said about him that the police regarded him as more useful as a psychic then a detective.
He spent the night at a local bar, sitting in on a poker game so he could win enough money to afford a hotel room for a few days. The police were mounting some kind of operation. He could see it from the outskirts but couldn’t quite integrate himself like he was used to.
He’d never quite fit in with normal people in the future. Putting him in out of time took him out of his element. He didn’t realize how many of his references were from the 90s until no one understood what he was saying.
He was floundering. He needed Gus, needed someone to make him focus. He needed to research and that was something he could admit he was terrible at.
He came across Lassiter by complete accident.
The Carlton Lassiter of 1989 was one of the most surreal visions of Shawn’s life. He was nineteen years old, a tall, gangly kid wearing a pair of bleached jeans and a black t-shirt. His hair was longer then Shawn was used to, the smile seemed more genuine.
Shawn almost didn’t recognize him. He didn’t walk like a cop, didn’t move like Lassiter and was missing the crooked slant to his nose and it threw Shawn more then he thought was possible. He’d had Lassiter pegged as the kid who went around on his tricycle arresting the other sticky little monsters to crimes related to being sticky little monsters. But Lassiter was a college kid now, an engineer if the book peaking out of his bag was any indication.
He crossed the street to catch up with him before he consciously made the decision to move. “Lassie!” he called.
The sudden hunch to his shoulders told Shawn that he’d been heard but Lassiter himself gave no further outward reaction. Shawn jogged across the street just in time to catch Lassiter by the shoulder. “Seriously, Lassie, wait up.”
As he spun around, Shawn got a hint of pure Lassiter in the kid’s eyes, the flinty, badass, don’t mess with the head detective look that Shawn had directed at him at least once a week. It was the first time Shawn felt like he had his feet on the ground. It took everything in him to keep from pulling Lassiter into a hug. “Wow, Lassie, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you.”
“I don’t know you,” Lassiter said tersely. “Get your hand off of me.”
Even the order was familiar and Shawn dropped his hand, smile still plastered on his face. “If I didn’t know you, how did I know your name?”
“My name is not Lassie.”
“It’s a nickname. A sign of affection people give to their friends.”
“It’s a dog’s name.”
“If you think about it, would you really prefer Carlton? Maybe we can try Carly? Lassitude?”
He had Lassiter’s full attention now and he loved it. He’d always loved it. Loved it from the first second he’d taken a deep breath and proclaimed, The truth is, I’m a psychic and the look on Lassiter’s face had called bullshit. “Are you following me? Who the hell do you think you are?”
An outrageous lie started to spring to his lips before he realized he had actual legitimate credibility at his fingertips. Legitimacy that might actually border on truth. He fumbled the badge out of his pocket. “Detective Savage,” he said, stumbling over the words like he never did when Gus was at his side.
Lassiter narrowed his eyes, taking the badge in his hands, examining it critically. “I have a hard time believing they’d let someone like you be a cop let alone a detective.”
“I’m having a hard time not being offended by that.”
“Something tells me you’re almost impossible to offend.” Lassiter handed the badge back to him. Somehow, in all his years at Psych he’d never felt like more of a fraud then he did right now.
“See,” Shawn said, just a little thickly. “Look at that. We’re already getting to know each other.”
“What do you want, Savage?” Lassiter demanded. The name sounded ridiculous, almost like Lassiter was calling him a lower-case savage.
“It’s Shawn,” he corrected absently.
“And why would I possibly care what your name is?”
“Because I need your help.” Shawn smirked. “Tell me, Carlton, are you a fan of solving crime?”
Lassiter didn’t answer. He just rolled his eyes and walked away without another word.
“That’s all right!” Shawn called after him. “We’re going to pick this up later.”
“Maybe we were wrong,” Gus said. “Maybe it wasn’t the same guy.”
Lassiter rubbed a had against his forehead. “It was the same guy.”
“So what, you’re a psychic now?”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Lassiter snapped a second later he quieted. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. My partner’s in the hospital. I’m tired and I’m sick at doing nothing but looking at this guy’s past hatchet jobs. There should have been something by now.”
“Juliet’s gong to be all right,” Gus answered. He shuffled through the folders in front of him. It was a testament to Lassiter’s worry that he was even letting Gus touch his case and Gus knew it. “And mark my words, we’re going to find a lead.”
“Go home, Guster,” Lassiter ordered. “You’re no good to anyone when you’re exhausted.”
“I’m not—”
“Go home,” Lassiter repeated. “You’re not helping your friend like this.”
Gus felt his shoulders sag as he acknowledged the truth in Lassiter’s words. “I’m going to go to the hospital. Check in on Juliet.” Lassiter looked up to him and he hastily added. “I’ll call you with an update. Promise.”
He started walking out of the station. But stopped right outside as a white board caught his eyes. It was detailing a robbery cases, different targets circled from all around town. Gus turned to look at it, the vaguely Shawn-ish part of his brain screaming at him that something was off.
“Lassiter,” he called. “Come take a look at this.”
There were three locations circled on the map in a red pen while everything else had been down with a push pin. The date on each and every one of them was the same. Was a date that hadn’t happened yet.
“He’s calling his shot,” Lassiter breathed.
“He’s calling three shots.”
“He’s only going to go with one. That’s how he works.”
“And what about Shawn. The one that goes missing. How does it end for him?”
Lassiter closed off his face, refusing to look Gus in the eyes. “Either we find him... or we don’t.”
| 4 |