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The station was quiet. It was still in an unsettling, liminal sort of way. The time was 1:36 AM, and Carlton Lassiter pushed away those feelings of unease. He had only come by the station to pick up some paperwork. It was late, sure, but he and O’Hara were so close to cracking this case wide open. He could feel it in his bones, just like how he could feel that the answer laid in that paperwork.
So here he was, entering the station at the dead of night, telling himself mentally that he had no reason to feel this way. Everyone had long since left, he just had to get what he needed and go home. At least, when he got this same feeling back at Old Sonora, he had more of an excuse. He was a child, and the old fake Western town was admittedly a bit off putting at night.
As Lassiter rounded the corner, he stopped short, being pulled out of his thoughts as his attention zeroed in on the door down the hall. Records room, though the door was shut, soft yellow light spilled through the crack at the bottom, illuminating the wall across from it. Instinctively, Lassiter’s hand went to his holster, pulling out his gun, the weight of it comforting in his hands.
As he stalked down the hall, footsteps silent with practiced ease, he ran through all the possibilities in his head. Janitor? No, why the hell would they be here at this hour? Intruder? Hopefully not, but he had to be prepared just in case. Maybe the late night crew left the light on. That was more believable, though still unusual.
As he reached the records room, Lassiter’s hand hovered over the doorknob, gun held steady in the other, listening for any proof of life on the other side. All was quiet for one tense moment, but at the sound of papers shuffling, Lassiter swung the door open, gun entering the room first, ready for whatever perp might be in there.
…only to find itself pointing at none of than Shawn fucking Spencer. Said man was sitting on the floor, criss-cross, notepad on his lap, pen in his hand, and surrounded by haphazard stacks of papers, files, and pictures. Shawn put his hands up in surrender, looking entirely unconcerned to have a gun trained on him. “I didn’t do it, officer, I swear! Don’t shoot!”
Lassiter’s shoulders sagged with relief as he hastily holstered his gun. “What the hell are you doing here, Spencer?” He demanded, voice stern, face falling into his usual scowl, trying not to let it show how relieved he was that nobody dangerous had broken into the station.
Shawn gave a casual shrug. “Oh, y’know, was just craving some mothballs and moldy paper. Like pregnant women.”
At that last statement, Lassiter momentarily forgot his annoyance, now replaced with sheer confusion. Shawn took the silence as a cue to continue, speaking behind his hand like he was sharing a secret. “The baby is yours, by the way.”
Lassiter took a sharp breath, recovering from his momentary shock. “I could have you arrested for trespassing.” He threatened, though he knew before he even said it that he wouldn't actually go through with it.
Shawn made an indignant sound as he gestured wildly to the mess around him. “I’m working, you can’t arrest me!” Now that his attention was drawn to it, Lassiter took a better look at the files. He recognized most of them, some he even worked on. They were cold cases, all of them, accompanied by their associated paperwork and evidence.
“Working on what? It’s one-thirty in the goddamn morning, Spencer.” Lassiter brought the conversation back on track, it was so difficult to stay on topic with Shawn in the room.
The psychic checked his watch, and his brows raised a bit in surprise. “Huh, that it is. In my defence, it was only like eleven when I got here.” When Lassiter’s glare didn’t let up, Shawn leaned back against the filing cabinet behind him with a sigh. “Couldn’t sleep,” he revealed, idly messing with the pen in his hand. Lassiter still stood in the doorway, listening. “You ever get like that? Brain won’t shut up, all the same old thoughts running around and around in circles ‘til you find some way to drown them out. Figured if I wasn’t getting any sleep at home, I could at least be useful here.
Lassiter took a small step forward, picking up a file from one of the stacks, as Shawn added with a grin, “And if I look like a genius tomorrow, then that’s just a bonus.” Lassiter scanned the familiar file, looking over all the familiar information. At the top, it read Detective Carlton Lassiter- Lead.
Lassiter’s jaw tightened. “I worked this case. I was point on this case.”
“Yeah,” Shawn agreed easily, flipping to a certain page in his notepad. “That’s why I picked it. If I’m gonna go fishing, might as well start where the big scary fisherman already went before.”
Lassiter ignored the fact that that’s not at all how fishing works, glancing at another file. Then another. And then another. Some were his, some were other detective’s, a few were even Henry’s, and a good chunk were the real old ones before his time as a cop. He felt that familiar irritation creep up his spine, that kind he always got when Shawn tried to one-up him. He set the file back down and straightened up.
“You’re wasting your time,” Lassiter said, tone carefully neutral.
Shawn hummed, scribbling something on the page with messy, rushed handwriting that matched the rest of the notes. “Statistically? Yeah, probably. But also statistically, at least one of these is gonna give, and I know I’m getting clo-”
“No, you’re not,” Lassiter cut in abruptly. “These cases were investigated thoroughly. If there was any evidence in there pointing to a conclusion, I would have found it.”
Shawn paused, that seemed to get his attention. He looked up again, not smug, not gearing up for another joke or insult. But interested, searching, almost calculating. It was the same look he had when he stepped into a crime scene, and now, it was all focused on one detective. It was at this point, under the weight of Shawn’s scrutiny, that Lassiter considered just leaving. He could grab the paperwork he came for, walk away, go home, get a few hours of sleep, and pretend this-
This-
Whatever this is- didn’t happen. Just solve his own case and let Shawn sit here on the dirty floor all night chasing shadows. Any reasonable person would’ve kicked him out already. But…
Lassiter’s gaze drifted to the notepad, to the mess of notes and arrows and timelines and names. He had never claimed to be a reasonable man, after all.
“Show me.”
Shawn blinked. “Show you what?”
Lassiter gestured impatiently to the notepad. “Whatever you think you’ve figured out.”
For just a second, Shawn looked surprised, and Lassiter felt a rush of vindication at finally catching him off-guard, until a grin spread across his face. “Oh my god, is this happening? We’re finally having a real Lassie and Shawn team up? I’ve been waiting for this for so long, Lass, you have no idea.”
“You have?” Lassiter asked, momentarily distracted, until he brushed it off as best he could. “Whatever, continue.”
“Right, right, okay so-” Shawn flipped the notepad around so Lassiter could see, scooting a little closer, clearly excited. “Accidental fall, right? Officially, victim goes over the railing, hits her head on the pavement, tragic, very sad, everyone goes home.”
Lassiter leaned against the wall, crossing his arms across his chest, skimming over the contents of the page. “That’s correct.”
“But.” Shawn continued, slipping into his ‘closing the case monologue’ voice. “The victim- Great balance, not drunk, not distracted, no history of vertigo or whatever. And the railing?” He made a dismissive face, tapping the page with his pen. “Super sturdy. Like, aggressively up to code. Gus would be proud.”
Lassiter doesn’t say anything, and Shawn doesn’t give him the chance, going faster now, caught up in it all. “And then there’s the husband. Low hanging fruit, I know, just hear me out. His timeline is way too good. He’s got specific times for everywhere he went that day, alibis just tight enough to hold, I mean who writes down what time they go to the store? And makes a point to mention the time to the cashier? It’s suspicious, Lassie.”
“Sure, it’s weird but it’s not evidence.” The detective pointed out.
“It is when you pair it with the motive,” Shawn countered, flipping to the next page. “Insurance payout, recent arguments, and- and this is my favorite part- he suddenly develops an urgent need to renovate the deck two weeks later. ‘Part of the grieving process’ my ass, if the fall wasn't an accident, he needed it to look like one.”
Lassiter’s eyes flickered between the page and Shawn. He did note that at the time, but Lucinda hadn’t thought it was important. “Which was actually staging,” He realized. “Which means it was premeditated.”
Shawn leaned closer, smiling back, satisfied and excited. “Which means the neighbor’s statement was right this entire time.”
Lassiter nodded, the details coming back to him, “The neighbor reported movement on the deck at-” he glanced down at the page, “-ten AM, so if the husband was already outside, then either his timeline was off…”
“Or he lied about it, after he murdered his wife in broad daylight just for some of that sweet, sweet, insurance money!” Shawn finished.
They both went quiet. The room wasn’t still anymore, no, it was buzzing with energy between the two of them. Lassiter looked at the notes again, really looked this time. There were connections, evidence. Not guesses, no nonsense, no insane leaps in logic. Work. Solid work.
Shawn wasn’t psychic, he knew that. Of course he knew that. The man sitting on the floor before him, drawing a duck smoking a blunt in the very same notepad he used to solve a near-decade old cold case, was not a psychic. It seemed in his bout of insomnia, he had forgotten he was supposed to be pretending.
“No visions tonight?” Lassiter asked, his voice casual, though they both knew what he was really asking. Shawn looked up from his drawing, taking just a moment too long to answer. Most people wouldn’t notice, and if they did, they would blame it on the late hour. But Lassiter was a trained interrogator, and he had known Shawn for 5 years now, he could see him coming up with a lie.
“Ah, no, don't think the spirits remember most of these cases. Thought I'd be solo for this one. Guess I was wrong about that, huh?” Shawn said with a little smile.
Lassiter knew that if he hadn’t come to the station tonight, if Shawn had been alone all night, he would’ve solved the case anyway. He probably would've solved it faster, without having to wait for Lassiter to catch up. But he had shown up, and they did technically solve it together. In the absence of the theatrics, the lying, the breaking of the law, Lassiter got a peek at how he actually worked. And it was amazing. Great pattern recognition, a memory of steel, and an understanding of how people think on a deep level. Everything that made a great cop. So then why? Why waste on a lie?
“You ever consider doing this properly?” Lassiter asked abruptly.
Shawn tilted his head like a confused puppy. “Define properly.”
“The academy,” Lassiter clarified. “Badge, procedure, accountability.”
Shawn chuckled a bit. “Ah, yes, my two favorite things. Authority and consequences. Let me go tell my dad right now, he’ll be thrilled.”
Lassiter rolled his eyes at the sarcastic reply. “This isn’t a joke, Spencer.” He said, though his tone was lighter than it normally was.
“I’m not joking,” Shawn shrugged, then sighed. “Look, Lassie, you and I both know that if I joined the academy, I would stick it out for maybe two weeks, then get bored and quit.” Lassiter had to agree that was probably true. Shawn’s had, what, almost 60 jobs? “I know how I work, and the way I work gets results.” He continued. “However I get there.”
Yeah. He does get results. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Shawn will probably never have a cold case in his whole life. “Get some sleep, Spencer. Your ‘psychic powers’ or whatever won’t do any good if you're sleep deprived.”
Shawn grinned instantly, tension gone like it was never there. “Aww, Lassie, you do love me!”
“I definitely do not,” Lassiter deadpanned as he opened one of the filing cabinets.
“Just say it. Let your heart run free, Lassie!” Shawn continued on as the detective rooted around in the cabinet.
“I hate you,” He pulled out the file he originally came for.
“Oh that's so close! You got this.”
Lassiter finally turned to look at him, making direct, unflinching eye contact. “I will poison you with potassium so it looks like you have a heart attack, and before they can do an autopsy, I’ll sneak in, steal your body, chop it into dozens of pieces, and leave them all in different lakes and rivers all over the country so they can never put you back together, and you’ll end up as just another dusty cold case file in this very room."
Shawn paused, not reacting for a second, until he clasped a hand over his heart, batting his eyelashes for good effect, “And they say romance is dead. Love you too, Lassie-poo!”
Lassiter scoffed, swiftly turning away so Shawn couldn’t see the smile fighting to form on his face. Just as he began to walk away, Shawn spoke up again. “I’ll go home, at some point. Just as soon as I solve like three more of these.”
Lassiter shot him a look over his shoulder. “If you’re really going to commit to this, look at the truck driver one. It’s always bugged me.”
Shawn blinked. Then he smiled back, wide, bright, thrilled. “Noted. See you in a few hours, Lass!”
Even after Lassiter had left, Shawn couldn’t stop smiling to himself. The inevitable crash that's coming in the morning after pulling an all-nighter is sure to be worth it.