The Suspect's Confession, the Witnesses' Statement

Lassiter watched the witness sitting across from him. His eyes were fixated on the one way glass, reflecting his own ruffled image back to him. His brown hair, for once, was not perfectly coiffed. It was sticking up at odd angles, and he wasn't even bothering to try and straighten it. His left eye sported a nasty purple bruise. The paramedics had strapped his left wrist on the scene. Nobody could really do anything about his clothes though. His brown jacket and the shirt underneath were still caked with dried blood. All in all it was definitely not the same vain image he loved to present.

He didn't seem to notice, however. He didn't even seem to see his own reflection; instead his eyes appeared to pierce the glass, looking beyond it to the veiled room. Of course, Lassiter knew that was impossible, and besides, for once there was nothing to see, the room was empty. This wasn't normal procedure, but he just wanted to get it over with, it was just a statement after all…

"So, tell me what happened…" it was best to start with the standard. It was a familiar sentence, one he had voiced to many witnesses and suspects alike. It was normal procedure, simple, easy, direct. Of course there was nothing simple, or easy about this.

There was a pause where the other man didn't react at all, long enough that the detective actually considered repeating it as a demand rather than a request. However he seemed to snap himself out of it, tearing his gaze fitfully from the reflection his eyes began wandering around the room, not resting on the detective. But he began talking, and that was all Lassiter required.

"He uh…he told me everything…" Lassiter paused in his writing on the standard yellow pad. He considered whether to clarify who he was and what was said, but they both knew and besides it seemed unnecessarily cruel. Better to just get this over with, Lassiter could always follow it up another day. So the detective allowed him to continue without comment.

"And then he laughed, you know? That smug bastard he laughed about it all, as if…as if it was funny or something…." He trailed off here, his eyes slightly unfocused now, fixating on his hands which were lying uselessly in his lap.

"And then…?" the detective prompted, his blue eyes focused on the witness (he had to keep on reminding himself of that), while his polished black shoe under the table unconsciously tapped, out of nervousness, though he would argue it was impatience. His pen was poised, ready to write the rest.

"And then…" he trailed off again, as if he was actually thinking hard about the question, his brows furrowed as he glared at his hands. As if his red stained fingers held the answer.

Then abruptly Shawn looked up, meeting Lassiter's gaze, his hazel eyes suddenly focused and hard. "And then I aimed carefully and I shot him right in the heart." It was the clearest sentence he had spoken all night, his eyes almost shining with intensity, his jaw set.

There was a pregnant pause, the detective's foot stopped tapping. His pen was stationary, suspended over the pad, his eyes frozen on Shawn's face. Despite all the years Lassiter had known him, his features seemed all of a sudden like a strangers. It was up to the psychic to break the silence once more, per usual, and he didn't disappoint.

"Now I look back on it I guess I was just trying to shut him up you know," he voiced, suddenly leaning back in his chair casually. He gave a wry humourless chuckle, his eyes devoid of feeling, still trained on the detective's face. He stretched out his wrists, as if in invitation for the steel to clamp around them. Lassiter just stared.

"Well what are you waiting for Lassie face?" he finally demanded, a mocking smirk curling his lips upwards, though his eyes still showed no humour. "You've waited for an opportunity like this since the first moment you met me, right?"

Lassiter still sat frozen, unable to move. It was a confession, extenuating circumstances yes, but still, cold, calm, calculated…murder. He could take out the cuffs right now, and slap them on the other man's wrists. The law was the law after all…and it was true, Lassiter had been itching to arrest Spencer from the moment he'd seen that cocky smirk, more so after he actually got to know him. Sometimes he'd entertained thoughts of catching him in the act, he would have taken any crime…almost any crime…

"So…" the detective began, dropping his gaze as it just became too uncomfortable, even for him. Silently he cursed at the sound of his hoarse voice. He quickly cleared it, glancing up again, composed once more, his mind made up. "He lunged at you with a knife, and you panicked and shot him. He did have a knife in his hand, correct?"

He watched it flicker over the other man's face, it took him a minute, a minute longer then it usually would have. His face ranged first from mocking, to the slow drawing of his brows in confusion.

"Yes… but…that's not what I said?" he corrected, his wrists still hanging there, suspended, he was obviously bewildered.

"Yes you did. You said you shot him," the detective repeated blandly, "After he lunged at you with a knife. He threatened your life, it was self-defence." He stated it all matter of factly, he turned back to his page, pen touching paper to continue to write.

"That's not what I said," Shawn snapped, slapping one of his hands down on the table, he was definitely registering anger now.

"It's what happened," the detective said between gritted teeth, looking up. His nerves had reached their tether. Again he felt that familiar infuriating annoyance that only this man could provoke. He tried to look at him meaningfully, but Shawn was too confused to understand, or maybe he was wilfully misunderstanding, as per usual.

"No it's not," he snapped now, rising from the chair in agitation, it fell to the floor with a clatter. "I told you I sho-"

"Spencer for once in your life will you just shut up," Lassiter roared, letting the pen clatter onto the table he rose to his full height and glared at the shorter man. It was the last straw. It had been a long day and a long night and Lassiter just couldn't take anymore of Spencer's selfish stupidity. Had he even considered who he would be affecting before he opened his big mouth?

"None of us are to blame for this. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let you act like some kind of selfish martyr, and leave me stuck with a grieving partner for twenty five years to life, you understand me? Now sit down."

For once Shawn was at a loss for words; he gaped at Lassiter, like a fish which had been suddenly, violently jerked out of the water. And for the first time in his life he did what he was asked, without a word he picked up his chair and sat.

"Good," Lassie said, trying to hide his own shock at the outburst, he settled his grey jacket and tie, than sat down carefully. Picking up the yellow pad sitting discarded he ripped out the page he had been writing on and balled it up, shoving it into his pocket. He then slid the pad over to the other side of the table. "Now write down exactly what you told me. Word for word."

With that Lassiter planted his gaze firmly on the wall, and tried to ignore the man sitting opposite. It didn't help Lassiter's fingers were twitching, desperately wanting to dismantle his gun. Now didn't really seem like the appropriate time for that kind of stress exercise though, even he was sensible to that.

There was a pregnant pause, and then an awkward cough. He ignored it, the sooner this was done the sooner he could get home and fall into his bed. The cough came again, more persistent and louder.

"For goodness sake, you have a glass of water in front of you!" he snapped, glaring at the other man.

"I uh….I need a pen…" Shawn held up his empty right hand, almost hesitantly. Obviously he was reluctant to set the detective off again.

Lassiter glanced at the table, but the other pen appeared to have rolled somewhere into a dark corner of the room, not easily discernible.

"Here," Lassiter finally said, gruffly reaching into his pocket and taking out a simple black pen he shoved it at him. Shawn took it delicately between his two fingers, as if it was an explosive.

Lassiter then resumed his staring contest with the wall; the only sound between them was the pen scraping across the paper.

"Done," Shawn stated quietly. He pushed the pad towards the detective, his other hand furtively tapping the pen against the desk.

Lassiter picked it up, glancing over the scribble. He frowned slightly, the script was barely legible, it took him a minute to decipher it. But he was relieved to see it was all there, almost word for word.

"I added a few more details..." Shawn volunteered the information, his voice unreadable.

"Good thinking," Lassiter conceded, glancing up, but Spencer didn't seem to be paying him heed any longer, instead his eyes moving furtively around the room, the pen continued to tap.

"You can go now," Lassiter finally said, the tapping starting to grate on his nerves, but Shawn showed no reaction to his words. Instead Shawn continued his furtive movement, his eyes moving up and down the wall now, almost as if he was counting the bricks.

"Spencer you can go now," he repeated, raising his voice, he lent over the table and snapped his fingers in front of Shawn's eyes.

Shawn blinked rapidly, snapping out of it, his eyes focusing on Lassiter's face. "Right," he said, dropping the pen abruptly onto the desk he rose, fitfully brushing his hand through his hair. He turned, stumbling towards the door.

"Spencer," Lassiter impulsively called out, Shawn paused, turning around he glanced disinterestedly at the detective.

Maybe if Lassiter was Guster, or O'Hara, or Chief Vick, or heaven forbid Henry Spencer, he would have said something comforting, like; 'Get some sleep, you deserve it,' or; 'You did your best.' But Lassiter wasn't good at providing sympathetic words at the best of times, even stoic ones.

"Just…just forget about it," he muttered after an extended awkward pause. He turned his gaze back to the writing on the pad, only to be interrupted by a strangled sound. Blinking slowly he glanced up in shock, to be met with the sight of Shawn Spencer, laughing, as if he, Carlton Lassiter, had said something hilariously funny.

A/N: Could be read in the context of Santabarbara Town, (looking at an aftermath that we all know is so not going to happen) or not, it is up to you home skillets ). I couldn't help writing this. The show is superior to all, and is utterly ravishingly perfect, like a quilled chocolate porcupine, and I and my feeble attempts at writing are ridiculous like no fireworks on the 4th of July (coincedentally I reside in a country which does not celebrate the 4th of July. We are a sad people.) Criticism and reviews are welcome.