It was nearly midnight by the time Lassiter got home from the station and showered. He had needed to give a report about the Salamatchla case. Well, he had needed to give two reports. The first was a detailed and final report of the events leading up to him shooting the dead body of Petrovich. The second was a detailed report on the events that lead to him subduing Mr. Salamatchla while handcuffed in the middle of a cemetery.
The cemetery. Lassiter let out a slow breath and let himself sink into the soft embrace of his bed. A cemetery had been the last place on Earth that Lassiter had envisioned himself spending the last fleeting moments of his life. Sure, he would have a proper policeman's funeral and they would give his mother a flag and Lauren would be trying to fight the tears that she would be crying for her older brother. But that didn't mean that Lassiter would die in the cemetery.
What if he had? If Lassiter closed his eyes he could feel the cool metal of the gun barrel pressed against the back of his skull. What if O'Hara had been seconds too late? What if Salamatchla had pulled the trigger instead of listening to Lassiter's pleas. What had he even said to the man? He couldn't really remember. He thought he had told Salamatchla he was sorry about his son. Had Lassiter begged for his life? Did he even deserve to think he should have lived? After all it was Lassiter's fault Petrovich had been out after three short years. If only Lassiter had worked harder to get the other charges to stick, then Petrovich would have been in prison for thirty-five to life, not a measly three.
If Salamatchla had pulled the trigger, then maybe it's what Lassiter deserved for not getting the charges to stick the first time around. There were many cases Lassiter had never been able to solve, but this case was the only one that had eaten at him. He hadn't been just saying things to get Vick to let him work the case. For three years he had wanted to redo that case. If only he'd had more time maybe he could have found something that would have made the drug charges stick.
Slowly Lassiter pushed himself out of bed. He could feel bruises forming from wrestling Salamatchla to the ground. Between his aching back and the thoughts swirling in his head, he wasn't going to be sleeping anytime soon. He softly padded his way to the kitchen, his bare feet noiseless on the hardwood floor.
Pulling his half empty bottle of Jack from the cupboard and a glass from another, Lassiter poured himself a drink and leaned back against the counter, staring at his caseboard. Despereaux's picture was already gone from the board. The art thief was safely in Canadian custody. There was an empty spot on the board where the smarmy, blond haired thief had hung. It had been empty for two months. He'd been so busy with his caseload that he hadn't had time to find a new criminal to put there. What if he had put Petrovich's picture there? What if in the fleeting moments Lassiter had between cases he'd worked on finding something to put Petrovich back behind bars?
The voice in the back of Lassiter's head, the sensible one that sounded too much like O'Hara, his mother and Hank Mendell all rolled into one, was back. It usually came out after midnight and after Lassiter had been drinking. Lassiter had barely slept the past two months, it reminded him. There was no way he would have had time to dig through old evidence and case files for a guy that would be behind bars for another seven weeks.
Lassiter took another swig of Jack to silence that sensible voice. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and slowly made his way into the living room. He banged his leg against the corner of the coffee table in the dark. Swearing he caught himself before he fell onto the couch and then swore again as he spilled a good amount of his drink on the carpet. Setting the glass down on the coffee table, he eased himself down onto the hard sofa. Spencer was right, this was the most uncomfortable couch on the face of the planet. Not that Lassiter would ever admit to anyone that he thought Spencer was right.
Juliet had saved his life. She had been the good partner and followed his lead, but he knew that if she felt like she could have taken a shot to save him, she would have.
Even Spencer's terrible throwing skills had come in handy. The Sucks as Lassiter had called them at the bar had distracted Salamatchla enough to allow Lassiter to gain the upper hand. Letting his head rest against the back of the couch, Lassiter glanced at the clock to see it was almost 3am. He had to sleep soon, or he would be useless at work.
Useless… like he had been on this case. He'd shot a dead body for crying out loud. That had been embarrassing. Much like his blow up during his television interview. He groaned out loud at the memory. How did Spencer manage to get under his skin like that? He always seemed to show up on cases, even when the chief didn't call him in.
Maybe if Spencer and Guster had actually consulted on the Petrovich case he would have gone away for good. Lassiter's inner voice had changed. All the soothing characteristics of the sensible inner voice were done and replaced with the harsh tones of his self berating voice that came out when he'd not slept enough and drunk too much.
Spencer had claimed a check for their fees, but never worked it. Maybe if he was more responsible then Petrovich would have served his time.
Lassiter sighed, and rubbed his hands over his face. This was a dance he had danced before. After a hard case these voices would come up. They would have him relive the case over and over and then, he would finally get an hour or two of sleep. He would head to work the next morning, with nothing ever solved. He would push the voices to the back and work the next case, only reflecting back when he was too exhausted to do anything else.
Useless… the word came back, in the same berating tone.
Had he been useless? The sensible voice was back. He had certainly felt useless sitting around the police station. The chief hadn't even let him find a change of clothes. Spencer might have raised the alarm at the bar, but it had been Lassiter who had pulled out his guns and defended them all.
Lassiter sighed again and glanced at the clock. It was now 4:30am. Lassiter knew he would have to be to work in three hours. He slowly pushed himself up off the couch. Padding back down the hallway, he collapsed on the bed. There would be bad guys to catch tomorrow and Lassiter would be damned if he let one of them get off easy.