Psych: The Call Of The Mild Part 5

La.s.siter's eyes flashed open. "I heard Guster doing the voice of the guy at the end of The Fly," he said. "And I'm sorry, but the const.i.tution doesn't allow me to break into a private home even if I believe a half-man, half-insect is about to be eaten by a spider."

"It doesn't?" Shawn said. "You'd think the Founding Fathers would have planned for that kind of thing."

"Don't you ever watch TV, La.s.sie?" Gus asked.

"What I do in my private time is none of your concern." La.s.siter scowled again and raised his cell phone to his face. "If I want to find Judge Napoli while he still remembers his own name, I've got to start calling bars now."

"What half-fly here is saying is that there's a clever little police trick we've picked up from watching some of your better shows," Shawn said. "We all agree we hear a scream coming from inside the house, and then we've got our exigent circ.u.mstance."

"Unless there's no one inside," La.s.siter said. "And then we're stuck explaining under penalty of perjury how we heard an empty house screaming for help."

"What, you've never seen The Amityville Horror?" Shawn said.

La.s.siter turned to his phone in disgust.

"I can't think why we don't call the police for help more often," Gus said.

"La.s.sie's just doing his job," Shawn said. "Say, I think your shoe's untied."

"It is?" Gus said.

"I believe so," Shawn said. "You might want to check it while I take a step forward to press our case with Detective La.s.siter."

Gus crouched down on one knee. Shawn took a step forward and stumbled over him. He fell forward, right into La.s.siter, pushing him backwards. La.s.siter tried to right himself, but tripped over the door's threshold and tumbled back. The door flew open under his weight, and he crashed to the floor inside the bungalow with Shawn on top of him.

La.s.siter shoved Shawn off him and got to his feet. "All right, get out of here," he commanded. "Right now."

"I don't know, La.s.sie," Shawn said. "It looks pretty exigent to me."

La.s.siter knew he wasn't supposed to be in here, and now that he was, it was inc.u.mbent upon him to get out as quickly as possible. But the cop in him couldn't resist one look around. Ellen Svaco didn't seem to have too many possessions-the furniture was all a.s.semble-it-yourself quality, the wall decorations were unframed posters of famous paintings, her TV was a small, fat desktop tube model, and the major design element was lots and lots of old books.

It wasn't the meagerness of the house's contents that grabbed their attention. It was the fact that every bit of it was scattered across the bungalow's floor. Furniture was smashed into pieces, the posters were torn in shreds, the TV was a mess of wires and plastic.

Gus joined Shawn and La.s.siter in the ransacked bungalow.

"Ms. Svaco?" La.s.siter called out, but there was no answer.

"Maybe she wasn't here when they broke in," Gus said.

"She was here." Shawn pointed towards a door leading to the bathroom. Gus saw a small pink hand lying palm up on the ground.

La.s.siter did a broken-field run across the demolished room until he'd reached the hand. He signaled for Shawn and Gus to stay back, but they were right behind him. By the time they were halfway there, they could tell there was no point in going any farther. Ellen Svaco lay sprawled lifelessly across the white tile, an angry red line across her throat where someone had garroted her.

Even knowing it was useless, La.s.siter took her wrist and felt for a pulse. Her icy skin told him everything he needed to know.

"She's dead," he said.

Chapter Ten.

Gus stared down at the body and tried to put together the steps that had led them here. Ellen Svaco had come to them looking for a necklace she'd lost in the park. After that, nothing made sense. There was an armed mime, a walk of shame in tissue paper diapers, and now a dead client. Not to mention a near case of heatstroke and wilderness-induced panic attack and hallucination.

For one happy moment Gus let himself speculate that he was still hallucinating. He wasn't in Isla Vista at all, but still back in La Canada, wandering on that sun-blasted nature trail; he had dreamed everything that happened afterwards. It made a kind of sense, as most of his non-wilderness-related night-mares involved a spell of public nudity, and the toilet-cover diapers Shawn had made for them were humiliating enough to show up in one of his worst dreams.

But no one else in the house was acting like it was a dream. Shawn was carefully studying the room, while La.s.siter, kneeling by the body, was barking orders into his cell phone. When he was sure no one was looking at him, Gus glanced down casually and made sure that his clothes were firmly in place. They were. This was reality.

La.s.siter snapped his cell phone shut and stood up, seeming to notice for the first time that Shawn and Gus were still in the room.

"You two, out," he snapped.

"Make that three."

Gus, Shawn, and La.s.siter all wheeled around to the front door. The man standing there was over six feet tall with the bleached blond hair and ropy muscles that come from a lifetime of playing beach volleyball. His uniform seemed to have been designed to show off his physique-short khaki pants that exposed most of his thighs and a baby blue polo shirt that was tight across the pecs and featured the stencil of a badge and official logo Gus couldn't make out from across the room. A holstered gun hung off his thigh.

"Stand down, Officer," La.s.siter said. He reached into his breast pocket for his ID. But before he could get his hand near his lapel, the blond man had his gun out and leveled at the detective.

"Don't move!"

"It's going to be hard to get out if I don't move," Shawn said.

The blond man shifted his gun sights to Shawn, then back to La.s.siter.

"You know, sometimes I can go for an entire week without having a gun pointed at me," Shawn said. "Now it's two in one day. Go figure."

"Officer!" La.s.siter's bark brought the blond man's attention-and his gun-back in his direction. "I am Detective Carlton La.s.siter of the Santa Barbara Police Department. I am reaching very slowly into my pocket to pull out my ID."

"You just make sure it's nice and slow, 'Detective,'" the man said.

"Now that's impressive," Shawn said.

"What's that?" Gus said.

The man kept his attention focused on La.s.siter.

"Most people would feel the need to use air quotes to put that much condescension around the word 'detective,' " Shawn said. "Blond guy did it with his voice alone."

Very slowly, La.s.siter reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a wallet, then let it fall open to reveal his badge and ID. "I've identified myself," La.s.siter said. "Now you."

"Officer Chris Rasmussen, Isla Vista Foot Patrol," the blonde said. "All my ID is right here on my chest." He patted the insignia on his polo shirt. "We small-town law enforcement personnel don't get a pretty tin 'badge' like they give the big-city police folk."

Now it was Gus' turn to be impressed. "You're right," he said to Shawn. "I know both of his hands were occupied, but I could swear I saw air quotes."

"Now that I know who you are, maybe you could tell me what you're doing in this house?" Rasmussen said. He lowered the gun to his side, but he didn't holster it.

"These two men are private detectives who have occasionally helped out the Santa Barbara Police Department," La.s.siter said.

"Occasionally?" Shawn said.

"That's fair," Gus said. "We don't solve all their cases."

"Just the hard ones," Shawn said.

"Silence!" La.s.siter snapped, then turned back to Rasmussen.

"They called me suggesting that the occupant of this house, one Ellen Svaco, might be in jeopardy. When we got here, the door was open-"

"And it sounded like David Hedison was about to be eaten by a spider," Shawn said.

La.s.siter glared at Shawn, then stepped aside, giving Officer Rasmussen a view into the bathroom. "Unfortunately we were too late. I've called it in, and the forensics team will be here in a few minutes."

Rasmussen's gaze flickered as he saw the body, but it hardened again as he turned back to La.s.siter. "So you got a call and you just hoofed it on down here without a care in the world."

"My 'care' was for the victim," La.s.siter said.

"That was pretty good, too," Gus said to Shawn.

"Worth a one-handed air quote at best," Shawn said. "I've heard La.s.sie much more condescending than that."

"Was there some other 'care' I should have been concerned with?" La.s.siter said.

"Much better," Shawn said to Gus.

"Something we small-town law folk call jurisdiction," Rasmussen said. "If you have reason to suspect a crime has taken place on my streets, you call me first."

"You're kidding, right?" La.s.siter said.

"Try me."

"Listen, McCloud," La.s.siter said. "This isn't Dogpatch and it isn't Hazzard, although if it were, you'd certainly have the shorts for it. This is still Santa Barbara County-"

"That's right," Rasmussen said. "Santa Barbara County, not city. You've got no jurisdiction here."

"There's a dead woman two feet behind me," La.s.siter said. "I hardly think the question of which law enforcement agency catches her killer is of primary importance."

"Funny, that's not what your people said when my hot pursuit crossed your precious city limits," Rasmussen said. "That time, jurisdiction was important enough to throw me in jail overnight."

La.s.siter stared at him in astonished recognition. "You were the idiot who went screaming down State Street at ninety miles an hour?"

"It's called hot pursuit for a reason," Rasmussen said.

"You weren't even in a police car," La.s.siter said. "Just some crummy old Mustang."

"We're the Isla Vista Foot Patrol," Rasmussen said. "It would look bad if we had official vehicles, so when need arises we volunteer our private cars."

"As I recall, the 'need' in this case was some punk spray-painting a street sign," La.s.siter said. "And that was your excuse for jeopardizing countless innocent lives."

"We take our laws seriously here," Rasmussen said. "Which is why I'm taking over the investigation of this apparent homicide."

"This is my case," La.s.siter said.

"This is my jurisdiction," Rasmussen said.

"I'm not leaving," La.s.siter said.

Rasmussen raised his gun. With his free hand, he pulled his cuffs off his Sam Brown belt.

"In that case," he said, "you're under arrest."

Chapter Eleven.

"Put your hands on your head," Rasmussen barked at La.s.siter.

La.s.siter stared at him coldly and didn't budge. Rasmussen stared back. Each man was frozen, waiting for the other to make the first move.

"Shawn!" Gus hissed. "We've got to do something."

"Yeah, let's go," Shawn said. "I'm getting hungry again."

"We can't leave La.s.sie," Gus said. "He's only here as a favor to us."

Shawn thought this over and reluctantly came to the same conclusion. With a heavy sigh he stepped between the two policemen. "I've seen this scene in a hundred movies, and it never makes any sense. You're both on the same side."

"He's right," Gus said. "You both want the same thing."

"Well, not all the same things," Shawn said. "Officer Rasmussen clearly desires a tan that will put George Hamilton to shame, while La.s.sie aspires to the subtler shades of your average mushroom. But I think we can all agree that what you both want most of all is to find the person who killed Ellen Svaco."

"Stay out of this, Spencer," La.s.siter said.

At the sound of the name, Rasmussen's head swiveled over to Shawn. "Spencer?" He stared. "I thought I recognized you. Are you Shawn Spencer of Psych?"

"So my fame has traveled all the way to Isla Vista," Shawn said. "My master plan is working. Soon they'll know Psych even as far away as Oxnard."

Rasmussen walked over to Shawn, holstering his gun as he went. "It's an honor to meet you."

"Well, thanks," Shawn said.

"Your father is my hero," Rasmussen said, giving Shawn's hand an enthusiastic pump. "The greatest cop this state has ever seen. I used to read about him in the papers. Sometimes I even wish he could have been my dad."