YEAR ONE
2008
Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah… own nothing of psych. Only playing in the sandbox. Obviously, making some suppositions. And well, yanno, it's fiction, so let's just roll with it, 'kay?
AN: Obviously, this is an unconventional pairing we're never going to see on screen; however, this is a site designed to allow writers a means by which to express various story ideas, most of which we're never likely to see onscreen. Ergo, this is merely an exercise in "What if?" as all fiction is at its core—an exploration of a path not taken. If you'd care to explore the path, welcome. If it's not one you wish to read, feel free to move along, no hard feelings.
Karen had spent the entirety of the morning buried in meetings, in paperwork, more meetings, a conference call, and still more paperwork, subsisting on little more than coffee spiked with increasing amounts of sugar, until she was pouring in nearly as much as Carlton did on a regular basis.
It was the thought of her head detective, as she tore open yet another packet of sugar, that led to the startling realization she hadn't seen him all morning. Startling because she couldn't recall the last time she hadn't seen Carlton during a workday. Also startling because until this moment she hadn't realized how… aware she was of the man's presence. For such a quiet man, he had a way of dominating space he considered his and if there was any one place he considered to be his domain, it was the detectives' bullpen.
"O'Hara—"
The younger woman looked up from the file she'd been studying. "Chief?"
"Where's Detective Lassiter? I don't recall seeing he had any scheduled court appearances."
"He doesn't." O'Hara lifted a shoulder. "He took a half day—said he'd be in after lunch." Both tone and demeanor radiated a casual lack of concern. Clearly, she'd sensed nothing amiss with her partner.
Then again, she wouldn't. She'd known Carlton barely eighteen months, which by normal people standards was the equivalent of knowing the very private man maybe eighteen days. And that was taking into account the fact they were partners and spent inordinate amounts of time—again, by normal people standards—together. Karen, having known him considerably longer, knew that Carlton simply did not take half days. Not for illness or appointments and most assuredly not for anything frivolous. To the best of her recollection, the last time he had taken a half day had been the day his wife had filed the formal papers for their separation.
Karen hadn't known that was his reason at the time. Hell, she hadn't even been aware of his even taking the time in the first place. Why would she? For one, she'd still been working within the Special Investigations Unit and as such, had neither reason nor desire for any sort of day-to-day interaction with the notoriously cranky Head Detective. For another, no one knew of his separation—not until much, much later and even after it had come to light, he'd alluded to it as a recent event. It hadn't been until after she'd risen to the position of Chief and Shawn Spencer had come by the information during a later case that she'd learned not only of the true length of his separation, but also the efforts he'd gone to in order to try to salvage his marriage. Shortly thereafter she'd been filing performance reviews and making note of work-related absences—or in Carlton's case, a marked lack thereof—and had put two and two together.
Nearly three years later and here he was, taking another half day.
She'd be lying if she didn't admit to wondering why.
It was with that vague, disquieting sense of why hovering that Karen returned to her office and yet another scheduled conference call. She loved her job. She really did. But calls regarding the proper requisitioning of supplies for the various city and county facilities was not the sort of cutting edge work she'd envisioned herself doing when she'd accepted the job of Chief of Police. She allowed herself a half-smile as she tried to envision Detective Lassiter in this position that he wanted so badly. If she was experiencing impatience, she could only imagine how he'd be coping with a phone call of this nature.
He wouldn't is how. He would have long since put the damned phone on mute and gone back to the business of real police work.
It was during a heated discussion between the City Comptroller and the new Coroner, one Woodrow Strode, who was currently arguing that he absolutely needed a wood-fired, brick pizza oven in the morgue for reasons known only to himself, that Karen noted a familiar, dark-suited figure making his way into the bullpen. Head high, gaze focused, he strode confidently toward his desk, nodding acknowledgment at the occasional address or greeting, but there weren't many of those. Detective Lassiter wasn't the sort of man who invited much in the way of casual conversation although he'd unbent a bit in spite of himself, since being partnered with the brighter, cheerier Detective O'Hara.
Frankly, Karen was shocked the partnership had weathered the past eighteen months, what with O'Hara's relentlessly positive attitude, not to mention the introduction of Shawn Spencer into their operations. Especially since Mr. Spencer seemed inexorably drawn toward Detective O'Hara and found countless ways to insert himself into any investigation to which O'Hara and Lassiter were assigned.
Karen sighed. She really should make more of an effort to assign Spencer to the other detective teams, but she couldn't deny, the unlikely combination of O'Hara, Lassiter, Spencer, and to a lesser degree, Mr. Guster, yielded results. And it wasn't simply because of Spencer's preternatural gifts either. Much of their success could be just as readily credited to Lassiter's increasing annoyance with what he saw as Spencer's interference—an annoyance that spurred him to increase his efforts and apply his own prodigious gifts even more diligently.
Whatever she thought of Mr. Spencer—and if she was honest, there were days it wasn't much—the four of them got results. The Mayor—he liked results.
As the tedious conversation wore on—from what she could gather, Strode was now requesting an inversion table, for increased blood flow purposes, you understand—she found her gaze returning to Detective Lassiter. She couldn't shake the feeling of something being… off. Not quite right, despite nothing outwardly out of the ordinary with respect to his usual stern demeanor.
Except…
She watched as he removed his black suit jacket and hung it up; unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves of his ivory dress shirt before unfastening his collar and loosening his tie.
His black tie.
Carlton was a stoic individual, yes, and he did have a marked preference for dark, well-cut suits, but for the most part, he had a tendency to offset the suits with either shirts in varying shades of blue or more recently, increasingly vibrant ties.
Karen couldn't recall a time she'd ever seen Carlton in a black suit and black tie. Almost as if he'd just been at a—
"Oh, hell," she muttered.
"Chief Vick?" came a disembodied voice from the speaker. "You have something to add to the discussion?"
"Uh… no." Considering she had no earthly clue what direction the discussion had meandered. Her focus returned to Lassiter, sorting through items on his desk, signing a form that Sergeant Allen brought him, even exchanging conversation with O'Hara, a rare ghost of a smile crossing his face. But it was a smile that didn't reach his eyes—one that, the moment O'Hara turned away, faded, leaving him not simply stern, but unusually somber. Turning his chair, he leaned back, his deliberate motion to close himself off from the rest of the bullpen bringing him more fully into her line of sight. Even through the slatted blinds, Karen could see a rare blankness rendering the normally sharp, vibrant blue of his gaze dull and gray.
She pulled her computer keyboard closer and very quietly, so as not to attract the attention of the rest of the conference call participants, began a search of obituaries, looking for his mother's name. While Karen was well aware the woman drove him utterly nuts and had never quite forgiven him for not telling her he was separated from his wife—or more accurately, for not retrieving the wedding rings from the gold-digging little witch, a direct quote according to O'Hara who'd had the misfortune of being the one to break the news to the old battle-axe—she was still Lassiter's mother.
Why he didn't think he could take an entire day—hell, a week... Good Lord, but the man was impossible.
So intent was she on looking for Mrs. Lassiter's name, that she very nearly missed it. It was only some subconscious part of her brain that tripped over the once-familiar name—that prompted her to scroll back up the page and read the entry, making note that yes, today, had been the memorial service.
Stomach churning, she typed that same name into a new search window, pulling up the articles reporting the circumstances of the death in question, providing every gruesome detail.
How could she have missed this?
Easily, her conscience poked. It had been eighteen months since Karen had last seen her—even spared her a second thought if she was completely honest. Not since she'd signed the paperwork transferring the junior detective and ending her short-lived tour of duty with the Santa Barbara Police Department. She'd had no choice. What had happened… it was highly unprofessional and as early in her own tenure as it had been, she'd had to deal with it with a firm hand, effectively establishing her unquestionable authority.
Ironically, it had been Carlton himself who had found the open detective's slot up in San Luis Obispo. At the time Karen had cynically thought it was so they could maintain their relationship. It was close enough it certainly wouldn't have been beyond the realm of possibility, even working around two busy schedules and the unpredictability of police work. In the weeks that followed, however, she realized they hadn't. That Carlton wouldn't. He'd been humiliated beyond all measure—another reason Karen was shocked his partnership with O'Hara with its baggage of Shawn Spencer, the engineer of his downfall, had lasted.
And now…
And now…
"Oh, God."
"Chief Vick?"
"Dammit, not now." With an impatient jab, she ended the phone call. For all she cared, Strode could build a gourmet pizza and Reiki massage parlor in the morgue.
She pressed fingertips to painfully throbbing temples. "Oh, Carlton. Why didn't you say anything?"
Then again, why would he? Especially to her, of all people.
And what could she say to him? What could she possibly say that would ease what she could so clearly see now was a very real, deep pain?
What on earth could she ever say that could absolve her in any way of the blame he no doubt laid squarely on her shoulders?
Lucinda Barry had been killed in the line of duty and because of Karen, Carlton hadn't been there to protect her.
