A/N: If y'all are dedicated followers, you know that I don't do multichapter fics. This is my first one (that I started about a month ago) but I've gotten writer's block... So an update might not happen for a while. Please review with comments, what you liked, disliked, characterization flaws, typos, etc. Any help is appreciated.
The first call Carlton received about the murder seemed extremely routine. A body had been found at a high-rise apartment. There was nothing unusual about it. Sure, rich people seemed like they had it all together, but of course they fell apart sometimes. Some more harshly than others.
As Carlton drove with Juliet towards the scene, the police scanner continued to crackle with activity. The last dying rays of the sun shone in through the windows and glinted off the puddles on the pavement. It was one of the most beautiful days in Santa Barbara, and seemingly the last day that a murder would happen. Lassiter parked the car and emerged, O'Hara following closely after. He was unsurprised to see his boyfriend and Guster emerge from the small blue Echo that was parked a little ways away.
"Guster, Spencer," he greeted brusquely, heading into the building. Gus nodded in response, dropping back to walk with Juliet.
"Aww, Lassie why can't you greet me by my first name?" Shawn whined as he followed the head detective in. "I mean, we are on an exclusive basis now, right?"
"Shawn!" Carlton hissed as the elevator doors slid open. "Remember what I said about keeping shop in the shop and house at the house?"
The fake psychic sighed, pouting.
"But House is clearly in the shop like all the time!"
Even though his boyfriend's back was to him, Shawn could hear the furrowed brow.
"Not what I meant, Shawn."
The elevator doors slid open, and the pair walked out. Gus and Juliet emerged from the elevator next to them. Carlton caught his partner's eye before walking into the crime scene.
"Stay back, you guys," Juliet warned. "The perp might have left some… goodies."
The detectives gently pushed the door open, revealing forensics already on the scene. As Shawn and Gus followed the officers into the apartment building, the fake psychic's hyper-observant eyes darted around, soaking in every minute detail.
Spotless apartment. Some signs of a struggle. Lots of lights… umbrellas, screens. Clear pedestals, photos…
"Wait, I can see something!"
The officers and Gus all turned to face Shawn. His eyes were scrunched closed and his fingers were raised to his head in the signature "vision" pose.
"Flashes of light, runways, hot chicks, handsome men..."
"Project Runway?" Juliet tried.
The head detective fought back a snicker. His partner's menacing glare silenced him immediately.
"No, no. Some still life, gruesome pictures…"
"A photographer?"
"Yes, Gus, yes! A photographer! That's who our murderer is!"
"How are you so sure, Spencer?" Carlton asked, skeptical.
Shawn flailed around, sliding his left foot across the ground and landing on the floor. Near his outstretched right hand were a single photograph and a piece of paper.
"This," he panted, "is what makes me sure."
The detectives and the pharmaceutical salesman all gathered around the grounded psychic to examine the new evidence.
"They were screaming to me from under the couch," came Shawn's muffled explanation.
The picture was of a body hanging from the ceiling of the apartment, along with the city line in the photo. Sunset was obvious in the background. Whoever had taken the photo was obviously an expert in lighting, as the rays obscured any reflection off the window. The paper that accompanied the photo had untidy scrawl detailing the angle of the shot.
"32 degrees from perpendicular to the window, and two degrees below the horizontal axis of the torso," Carlton read. "Whoever is doing this is an expert photographer."
He looked at the photograph again and shook his head in disgust. Juliet glanced at the picture thoughtfully.
"Call me crazy, but does this strike anyone as a work of…"
"Art?" Gus finished.
Shawn jolted upright at the comments.
"This is a murder scene, and you think it's beautiful? Gussy-pants, there is a lot we need to go over after we leave."
"No! Seriously, look at this!" Gus protested. "The lighting is wonderfully done, and… it just has a rather artistic feel. You're not crazy, Juliet. It's an amazing photo."
The fake psychic stared incredulously at his friend before looking back towards Carlton.
"Who owns the place?"
The head detective looked down at his phone, and back at his boyfriend.
"A famous photographer. Salaam Dens. He was an immigrant from Jordan. And… strangely, it looks like he was expecting an attempt on his life. Mr. Dens has already written his will and indicated who his apartment is going to."
"Wait, wait, wait. So the owner of this apartment is Mr. Hanging-From-the-Ceiling?"
Carlton sighed.
"Yes, Shawn, he is."
"Who'd want to kill him?"
"Well," Juliet started, "The person who he wrote into his will would be a likely suspect, since he is the inheritor of his apartment."
"And who is that?" Gus asked.
"Another photographer, Weal Fort."
"Hold on. Isn't he based in Seattle?"
"How do you know this?" the fake psychic wondered, rubbing his head. His friend shot him a look.
"It's common knowledge, Shawn."
Shawn looked to his boyfriend for support, and was disappointed to find none.
"Common for you guys," he muttered, picking himself up off the ground.
"O'Hara, put out a warrant for Mr. Fort. I want him at the precinct and ready for questioning," Carlton ordered, sweeping out of the apartment.
"Got it," the junior detective responded, whipping her cell phone out of her pocket.
Gus followed the detectives to the door, and looked back at his friend who was scanning the apartment.
"Dude, what are you doing? They've got it all down!"
"No," Shawn replied. "There's something more. It's not Whale Ford or—"
"Weal Fort."
"I've heard it both ways. But it's not him, it's someone else. Why would Salami write one of his competitors into his will?"
Gus shrugged, and walked out of the apartment. Shawn glanced around one last time, trying to find one last detail to help nab the murderer.
The apartment is strangely clean for an artist, even though he's a photographer… he thought. I just somehow get the feeling that this is the studio of something more sinister.
The fake psychic rushed out of the door, leaving the forensics on duty. As he brushed by the phone, the open entry on the phonebook caught his eye.
Alga Dethrone. Professional photographer.
Gus's voice broke through his thoughts.
"Shawn, let's go!"