Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
This story was an entry in a Whump-a-thon Challenge over at Psychfic back in July. Since I am trying to get all my fic in one spot, I am posting it here. My prompt was: "Koi are inquisitive fish. But Shawn can't help but find it weird how they're all staring at him from two inches away while he's in the process of being drowned in their pool. Maybe they think he's lunch. Maybe he will be." This is probably the hardest thing I have ever tried to write, simply because it was completely outside of my comfort zone. I don't normally write action, but it was still fun to give it a go nonetheless. Enjoy!
Stretching over several acres, Holbrook Gardens is, in Lassiter's opinion, a tourist trap piece of crap, which just pisses him off further because it rhymes. Sure, it looks nice with its sprawling, gently rolling landscape, dotted with different flowers and styles of gardening, but really, the whole thing is a major nuisance right now because he is having to contend with rubbernecked idiots who feel the need to stand around and stare at his crime scene.
"Who's the vic?" Lassiter removes his sunglasses and kneels down, eyes roaming over the body: early fifties, dark brown hair, olive green coverall. A massive head wound just above the right ear and large puddle of blood leave little question as to the cause of death. Something heavy with a sharp edge caused it, the detective thinks, but there are also signs that the man had taken a beating before dying.
"No wallet, but one of the employees was able to ID him." Buzz fumbles with his notebook, rifling through the pages quickly. "Name is Nick Patrov, groundskeeper. He's on the evening crew, handles the cleaning and tending after the garden closes for the day. Reported in at four as usual, was supposed to clock out at eleven. No one remembers seeing him leave, but apparently the evening crew is small and spreads out to cover the grounds quicker."
"Which means no one probably heard or saw anything. Great."
"Security says they've been having trouble with vandals lately, though they didn't report anything off until they found the body early this morning. Apparently, teenagers have been sneaking in after hours, drinking, smoking." He looks up from his notebook and gestures to the left of the marked off region. "We found some empty beer cans and a few cigarette butts near the hedges over there. Maybe he tried to run some kids off and things went south?"
"Lack of wallet would indicate that someone grabbed it for some quick cash after he was down. If we are dealing with some teenage punks, it's possible they simply saw an opportunity." Glancing around the small area reveals little. About fifteen feet away from the body sits a cart filled with gardening implements and cleaning supplies. No real signs of struggle beyond some disturbed gravel on the walkway. Something is off, but he can't quite put his finger on it yet. He lets it simmer while he looks for his partner, who is walking the perimeter, studying their surroundings.
"O'Hara, any sign of the murder weapon?"
"Not yet, but there is a slight blood trail leading out of the area. Due to the amount of blood we are dealing with, it's probably splatter from the weapon. The assailant may have ditched it somewhere on the grounds before making his exit. We've got people canvassing the area."
Two familiar heads suddenly pop out from behind a hedge next to his partner, Whack-a-Mole style, making Lassiter wish briefly for a mallet. Spencer and Guster are both happily munching away on ice cream cones, though the pharmaceutical rep's eyes are staying firmly away from the body. Lassiter can feel his blood pressure rising in direct correlation to how close they get to the body.
"I am sensing that we are not dealing with a group of teenage hoodlums, hooligans, or something else starting with the letter 'h'." Shawn tilts his head for a moment as if in deep thought. "Harry Potter fans? No, they aren't known for this level of violence and there would be signs of a magic duel in the area if it had been them, or so Gus tells me."
"Unless we are dealing with a Death Eater cosplaying situation." Gus nods, as if this explains everything.
"Spencer, do you actually have something or are you just here to annoy me as usual?"
The younger man manages to look offended for a brief moment before carrying on. "Annoy? I never annoy. Maybe ruffle some feathers or offer witty commentary to keep you on your toes, but annoy would mean that I am unwanted."
Gus takes another lick off of his cone before replying: "Ehhh… you kind of annoy."
"Tutu, Gus?"
"It's 'Et tu, Brute,' Shawn, and you are no Caesar."
"You're right— I have too much fabulous hair."
"Guys!" Juliet's voice interrupts their argument and then gestures at the body. "Crime scene, dead body, anything?"
"Oh, right." Shawn hands off his half-eaten ice cream cone to Buzz before his hands flutter to their usual position next to his temples, face skewed in concentration. The faint crude line of something on the body's skin, barely visible between his gloves and the cuffs of his coverall, something more intricate but not as faint on his neck. "I'm getting something…Bikers… Angelina Jolie… Marks— college girls get them and usually hate them later on … Tattoos! Check his arm."
Juliet slowly eases the sleeve of the coverall up. Leaning forward and squinting, she can just make out what appeared to be a collection of faded tattoos, as if in the final process of having them removed. From what little she can tell, they seem to be of various designs, none of them connected; some more crudely done than others, like prison tattoos. Higher up, on the inner part of his elbow, is a cross with letters she doesn't recognize surrounding it.
"Aw, crap," Lassiter growls next to her ear.
"I don't recognize these symbols. What are they?"
"Just after I made detective, I helped with a case involving a Russian gang that was trying to move contraband in through the harbor. We never caught the guy who was in charge, but we did nab a few of his cronies. They all had tattoos similar to that one and all refused to cooperate. We never even got the name of their boss out of them. A week later and there was no trace of the gang left; they had packed up and moved on."
"So, you think this guy may have been part of that gang?" She frowns, eyes sweeping over the garden again. "But why would they be back now? And why would one of them be working as a groundskeeper in a garden?"
"I'm sensing this man was a part of the gang at one time, but was trying to turn over a new leaf-what better place to do that then here." Shawn gestures grandly, ice cream cone in hand once more. "Working with the earth, picking up trash. I am sure he found it to be-" Pausing, he studies the cart and the body: an empty slot in between a broom and a shovel, the lack of a struggle, the nature of killing blow, a missing wallet. He feels the prickly sensation of being watched on the back on his neck.
Juliet's concerned voice breaks the silence. "Shawn, are you getting something else?"
Resisting the urge to look over his shoulder, he plasters on a grin before continuing. "Um.. No, no. The spirits are definitely way too relaxed in this setting. Something about babbling brooks and gazebos really just put them in a contemplative mood. All I am getting is that this man wasn't a part of the gang anymore, but his death is related to it."
Back in the car, Gus is fastidiously cleaning his hands of all sticky residue from the ice cream cone before placing them at ten and two on the steering wheel. He begins a checklist in his head, steadfastly ignoring the other man in his car. He carefully adjusts his rearview mirror, checks his side mirrors, and then tugs his seatbelt into place. The radio is flipped over to something on NPR and softly spoken voices fill the car.
"Guuuss….."
Eyes forward, check both ways, blinker on and safely merge into traffic. Still ignoring best friend.
"Buddy, c'mon." Shawn reaches for the radio dial only to get his hand soundly smacked.
"No, you come on, Shawn. You promised me, pinky swore, that we were just going to have a relaxing afternoon. It's like that cat case all over again; I need some downtime and you are running on ahead to the next case, not even asking me how I feel about it."
"I have no idea what you are talking about," Shawn splutters at a glare from his friend. "Okay, if I did know what you were talking about, hypothetically speaking, this instance would not be anything like a case that we may have previously had that involved a cat. I didn't know the police were going to be at the garden today! I would never break the solemn oath that is the pinky swear. I am pretty sure breaking one in most cultures means instant death."
"So we just happened to stumble upon a case?" He snorts, thinking it over and quickly realizes that yes, it was highly probable.
Shawn fights back a grin; he knows his friend is a step away from asking about what he saw. No need to rush it.
"Okay, so fine. We have a case. Obviously you saw something or you wouldn't have that look on your face." And there it is.
"As much as I hate to say it, I think Lassie was right—that guy was part of a gang that has ties to the Russian mafia, probably the same one that alluded the SBPD back when Lassie-face was just a little puppy detective."
Trying to seem nonchalant, Gus shakes his head before responding. "You seemed pretty sure that he wasn't in the gang anymore, though."
"The tattoos, Gus. Obviously, this guy was trying to get them removed, meaning he no longer wanted to be associated with his old life. Plus, what kind of gangster gets a job at a garden? This guy obviously felt bad about his past and was trying to lay low."
"Great. I still don't see how this is a case for us. He got mugged, you heard Buzz."
"No, what I heard was Buzz guessing that the guy got mugged. What I saw was that guy obviously knew who it was that attacked him: no overturned cart or crushed flowers, the gravel on the walking path wasn't disturbed. If he had suddenly got jumped by a group of vandals, there would have been some sort of sign that he had fought back. He wasn't part possum and just decided to play dead. The guy knew his attacker and either trusted him, letting him get close, or the murderer was quick enough that Patrov didn't have a fighting chance. Both point back to someone from his former gang."
"It's 'opossum,' Shawn."
"No one on the planet actually pronounces the 'o' in that word! No, ya know what? I can't do this with you right now. We need to go get something to eat because that ice cream has not satisfactorily filled the hole in my stomach and then we are going to sneak back into the crime scene tonight."
"Why would we do that?"
"Because, Gus, the murderer was at the crime scene today. Whatever he thought was in that wallet wasn't and now he needs to get back in there and look around."
"Shawn," Gus whispers. "If the murderer is here, we should definitely call Lassiter and Juliet. You heard her on the phone earlier: Patrov's house was trashed. This guy means business."
"And we will, once we are sure that he is here." Shawn shuffles forward, crouching down low to avoid detection. A black sedan, far too nice to be owned by any of the night crew, is parked on the far end of the lot under a busted lamp. He bobs and weaves past employee cars, channeling his inner ninja, until he is close enough to the car to make out the license plate. "Gimme your phone."
"What? No. Use your own."
"I don't have mine with me. I am going to call Jules— just give me your phone!" His best friend sighs and hands off his phone. Two rings and Juliet picks up.
"Detective O'Hara speaking, how can I help you?"
"Jules, hey! I am sensing something pretty big here: a license plate for the murderer of Nick Patrov." He rattles off the numbers, scanning the area for any sign of the car's owner. Faintly, he can hear Juliet typing away in the background. He starts moving towards a fence along the perimeter, waiting for her to respond.
"Shawn, this plate is coming back as belonging to Aleksey Markovic, Several arrests, one conviction related to an assault and he is flagged as a person of interest in several cases- including smuggling. Are you sensing anything else, like where he might be?"
He halts when he catches the sight of a downed security guard up ahead. "Oh, I am pretty sure he is at the garden where the body was found this morning."
"Where are you, Shawn?," suspicion coloring her voice.
A scream in the distance causes Shawn's head to jerk up. "Send an ambulance, Jules." He ends the call and tosses it back to his friend before taking off into the garden.
He lost Gus somewhere near the hedge maze, which he is grateful for. While he prefers to have his buddy next to him in these situations, the man he is currently tracking has shown a particularly violent bent and he'd rather his best friend stay far away.
Shawn finds another one of the night crew unconscious next to the shed that contains the employee lockers. A quick peek through the open door reveals a giant of a man standing in front of a locker, riffling through its contents. Apparently unsatisfied with what he has found, he begins pounding on the inside of the container, stopping finally when his fist is met with a hollow thud. Before he can see what the half-grizzly, half-man has found, a hand clamps down on Shawn's shoulder and spins him around.
"What are you doing here?," a heavily accented voice barks at him.
"The same as everyone else- a quiet place to reflect on the day's events and realign my inner chi-ness."
"This place is closed. You are not on the night crew." He shakes Shawn to emphasize his point, fingers digging into his shoulder.
"Night? Is it really? I hadn't noticed, what with all the extremely bright security lights. I thought I might be able to work on my tan while I was here." The door behind him creaks open, drawing his captor's attention for a moment. The other man is holding up a key with a tag attached to it , grin plastered on his face. Beckett's Temporary Storage, Shawn sees over his shoulder, though he can't make out the storage number. Taking advantage of the distraction, Shawn ducks out of the grip, shirt tearing, and snatches the key out of the outstretched hand. He takes off down the path, leading back toward the entrance. The two men swear loudly behind him and give chase.
As Shawn tears around the gazebo, he considers his options. His pursuers are bulky and not as fast as he is, though, loathe he is to admit it, they are in much better shape. They will overtake him before he can get to the front gate if he continues in a straight line, which would lead them right to Gus, who is, hopefully, waiting for the police to arrive. His only option is to double back and around, using the terrain of the area to his advantage, keeping them occupied until help can arrive. More shouts, in Russian, echo out behind him. His Chucks slap hard against the ground, legs burning. He turns abruptly and ducks behind a topiary, clamping hands over his mouth to stifle his panting. The two men stop nearby, shout out to one another, and then move away from his hiding place. He waits three beats before hopping up and taking off in the other direction.
Shawn hears the giant from earlier before he sees him, which saves his life. As he rounds a tree, he hears a deep breath and then the whistle of something heavy being swung. He staggers backwards, arms raising, just as the man pops out from behind a tree, swinging a gardening hoe (covered in dried blood, Shawn distantly notes) at him. Instead of crushing his head in one gory swing as was intended, the metal edge catches him on the left forearm, digging in and slicing a deep furrow. The man raises the gardening tool again and brings it back down in one swift motion, the long wooden handle cracking across Shawn's already mangled appendage. Acting more on instinct than anything, Shawn manages to twist around so that his feet are under him once more and pushes himself forward and away from his attacker. He sprints past benches and flower beds, adrenaline working wonders to frighten his already tired legs into a mad dash.
The initial shock of being hit is wearing off and his arm rapidly becomes one giant scream of pain, racketing up with every other hurried step. Shawn slows, legs feeling full of wet sand. He tucks his arm in close to him, trying to slow the blood that is already coating the length of his arm, dripping down onto the path. In his flight, he has lost track of his pursuer and where he was going.
He reaches a foot bridge spanning the length of a small pond when his feet, made clumsy by terror and pain, betray him. He sags, the bridge tilting in his vision as dizziness rushes in to replace adrenaline. Faintly he hears the sound of the cavalry as he is suddenly tackled to the ground, battered arm grinding into the edge of the wooden bridge, all breath leaving him as his lungs are crushed under the combined weight of himself and the other man. His chin connects with the wet wood bringing the taste of copper and stunning him. Everything goes numb for a moment before the pain reaches Wilhelm Scream levels. Shawn gags, caught between vomiting and the desperate need for air so he can scream properly. He flails out, trying to get some space in between him and the bridge so he can expand his lungs. His right elbow connects with something hard that crunches under the assault. A grunt of pain and the weight lifts slightly, air finally filling his burning, stuttering, lungs.
Shawn kicks his legs, trying to get to a position so he can move the man away from him. Struggling only seems to anger his attacker further as he recovers from the elbow to his face; he pummels the smaller man under him, fists smacking down hard onto ribs and kidneys. Shawn rolls, curling inward, pulling his assailant with him, not realizing he has run out of bridge. They teeter on the edge before smacking into the shallow water below.
The fall, while short, brings up new levels of pain as Shawn hits the bottom of the pond, jarring every last freshly forming bruise. He scrambles, trying to find some sort of purchase, but his shoes slip in the muck along the bottom as fists grab a hold of the front of his ruined shirt. He is dimly aware that the Russian has found his footing and is now holding him just under the surface of the water, night sky and air mere inches away. Twisting and turning, he vainly tries to pull away, lights beginning to sparkle on the edge of his vision. He might as well have been lightly slapping at a wall for all the good it is doing him- muscles already weakened, his pulling and tugging is hampered further by the water. Head breaking the surface for a brief moment, Shawn gets only a taste of air before a fist is driven hard into his cheek and he is shoved back under the water.
All clear thoughts leave him, his mind left with pain, detached panic, and the loud thrumming of blood in his ears. He feels something brush up against him as his movements slow: a flash of colorful tail darting back into the shallow depths of the water. Koi, Gus's voice supplies. Strange, he thinks, that they would be so curious, not actually frightened off by the disturbance to their home. But then his arms and legs are growing tired and he dully thinks that maybe they are waiting for him to stop moving entirely so they can investigate him properly. It's oddly calming and he reconsiders the idea of sleeping with the fishes being a bad thing. He isn't even really bothered by the idea of becoming lunch, which he knows should at least cause him to panic a little bit.
Lungs abused for too long cause him to involuntarily suck in water in a desperate bid to find oxygen just as the hands holding him down vanish. He feels weightless and incredibly heavy at the same time, a lead balloon dangling just outside of arms' reach. He knows, vaguely, that he should move but nothing is working properly so he is grateful when someone decides to do the moving for him.
Two hands slip under his armpits and haul him upwards, dragging him out of the water. Pain jangles on the periphery, steadily growing louder, joining the abrupt cacophony of voices around him. A hard smack to his back and he jackknifes, vomiting and pulling away from the arms holding him up. Shawn knows he couldn't have swallowed that much water, but it feels like the entire pond is sitting in his stomach and lungs, forcing its way out. He half expects to see a fish flop out onto the grass, having been freed along with his stomach lining. Dragging in a breath, he leans back, falling against something solid. He realizes then that whatever he is resting against is moving and startles.
"Easy, Shawn. Don't try to move. We got the guy, you're okay now."
Through half-closed lids, he can see ridiculously long arms and legs, though his eyes don't seem to want to fully cooperate. "'uzz?" Not really a full word, but the man holding him seems to get the idea. He feels the nod rather than sees it.
A flash of blonde and a hand gently touching his neck lets him know that Juliet is close by. "How's he doing, Buzz?"
"Seems to be pretty out of it, Detective O'Hara. It looks like Aleksey really worked him over. His arm doesn't look so good."
Juliet is talking to him, but his brain is yanking the full stop lever, so all that comes through the fog is a tone of safety and calm. The clipped commanding tone of Lassiter in the distance. Gus's distinct worried voice coming closer. No words can be made out but the voices envelop him, washing away everything else. With the reassurance that he is in good hands, Shawn gives into exhaustion.
Gus is flitting about his apartment, grabbing yet another pillow and ice pack before heading back to the couch where his best friend is sprawled. He doubles back for the bottle of pain pills and then again for the glass of water he forgot to get his first pass through the kitchen.
"Gus, stop being a hyperactive terrier and come sit down so we can start this movie already."
"I just want to make sure you have everything you need within reach, Shawn." His friend was released from the hospital two days ago and while he will make a full recovery, Gus can't help but wince every time he looks at him. Shawn is a collection of ugly bruises, stitches, and splints- an utter mess. A hot mess, Shawn corrected him when he said as much. He vigorously fluffs the carefully arranged pillows, slipping one under Shawn's bandaged and splint covered arm. Shawn seems entirely amused by the process, mind comfortably befuddled by drugs, and sips on a smoothie brought over by Juliet earlier.
The young detective had stopped by briefly to check in on Shawn and brought both the requested film and news of the case: Aleksey behind bars, awaiting trial; his goon quickly selling out the gangster to avoid a hefty jail sentence. The key that had been behind the whole mess was to a storage unit rented out by Patrov that contained damning evidence against a known Russian crime lord, whom Patrov had served for several years. The SBPD are just beginning to scratch the surface of all the files, but all in all, it looks like an intricate network of smugglers, drug dealers, and thugs is about to crumble after having its patriarch removed from the picture.
Shawn had, of course, received an earful from nearly everyone he knew for being so reckless, but, like everything, it seemed to roll off his back. Gus is patiently waiting until his friend had healed a little more before reading him the riot act; he wants to make sure he has all of his talking points planned out beforehand. Plus he figures for all the joking and smiles Shawn puts on, his friend could use a break from being reminded how close he had been to being killed.
"What movie did you have Juliet pick up for you, anyway? She seemed… flabbergasted."
"Eastern Promises." A grin slowly stretches across Shawn's face as he watches Gus open and shut his mouth several times.
"That isn't funny, Shawn." Maybe he wouldn't wait to yell at him.