Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from "Psych" or "Criminal Minds". This is a work of fiction.
A/N: Written for LAS crossovers community on livejournal.
"Hmmm…what's a four letter word for 'fruitless'?" Lassiter mused aloud.
His brows furrowed in concentration as he attempted to think of the right word which would give them their next clue. He and O'Hara had been assigned the case of a serial murderer who'd been dubbed, much to Lassiter's chagrin, 'The Reckoner'.
Unfortunately, Shawn Spencer, Psychic Detective, had also been assigned to the case, something which Lassiter was not at all happy about. Add in the federal agents who'd swooped in to offer their expertise, and he was having a hell of a bad day.
Shawn Spencer squinted at the crossword puzzle, leaning over Lassiter's shoulder, and well into his personal space to see all of the other grids surrounding the one in question. The slightly younger man's eyes seemed to lose focus and Lassiter tensed when he felt Spencer's breath hot against his ear. He scooted to the side, all too aware of the watching federal agents.
"Spencer, a little room," he barked out, and sighed in frustration when the younger man simply crowded him even more, practically sitting in his lap. Surprisingly, one of the agents sitting across from him looked up at his sharp command and Lassiter filed that away for further thought, wondering if the timid looking agent was easily startled or if there was something else which had caused him to start when he'd yelled at the aggravating psychic.
Tuesday morning's local newspaper, The Santa Barbara Herald, contained a crossword puzzle. It was The Reckoner's way of taunting the police with cryptic clues. Potentially, the clue could lead them to his next intended victim. At least that is what the man's mocking missives, left within the fist of each of his dead victims indicated.
Like clockwork, the clue was given on a Tuesday, the victim died on a Thursday. Lassiter wondered what the killer did with all of the down time between killings. Probably dreamt up stupid clues to drive all of us crazy, he thought.
So far the man had killed five people – three women and two men. They'd discovered nothing linking the five, each of them vastly different in his and her own rights. It was the lack of progress they'd made on the case which had led to the feds being called.
"Four letter word for 'fruitless'," Spencer repeated, finally moving back and giving Lassiter some breathing room.
The psychic brought his fingers up to his temples and wiggled them around dramatically. Lassiter groaned inwardly, steadfastly not looking at the four federal agents who were watching the younger man as he made a fool of himself.
"Vain," the timid agent spoke just as the word was forming on Spencer's lips.
Lassiter smirked and leaned back in his chair, finally looking at the feds.
Spencer's eyes locked on the agent who'd beat him to the punch and pointed, speaking with an exaggerated voice, "The psychic powers intuited that you, Doctor…" he trailed off, humming slightly, and Lassiter waited for the psychic, whom he not so secretly believed to be a phony, to fall flat on his face, "Reid, would have the answer." Spencer leaned back in his own chair, and smiled enigmatically.
The doctor merely smiled and inclined his head. "Very good Shawn Spencer, psychic detective," he responded.
Lassiter held back his massive grin. The young agent hadn't been fooled by Spencer any more than he had.
"But what kind of clue is that?" O'Hara asked, drawing attention away from the silent confrontation going on between the agent and the psychic. "Vain, vanity…we're looking for someone who's vain? We're trying to save a vain man," her voice took on an incredulous tone, "or woman," she hastily amended.
Lassiter shook his head at his partner's obvious tactics, looking sideways at Spencer whose face was scrunched up as though he was deep in thought about something. His finger was idly tracing a pattern on the wooden table.
"I'm sensing…" he stood suddenly, the chair toppling over backwards in his wake.
"Do tell," one of the other agents, Lassiter thought his name was Rossi, spoke. His lips were upturned in a smirk, arms crossed over his chest as he watched the psychic work what Lassiter believed he might call 'mojo' or something else equally inane.
Spencer's eyes went wide and he grasped his tongue, pulling it out and, much to Lassiter's private amusement, accidentally gagging himself in the process. Lassiter held back his laughter, just barely, and inwardly cheered when Rossi snorted.
"Blaspheme…blasphemy…blasphemer!" Spencer shouted and pointed a finger at the dour looking agent in the room.
Special Agent Hotchner, Lassiter recalled the man's name and watched to see how he would react. The man didn't so much as flinch at the psychic's loud outburst. He frowned in thought and nodded.
"I think the psychic," the last word was spoken with just a slight hint of derision, which Lassiter lapped up with giddy greed, "might be onto something Hotch." The only female agent, Prentiss, tapped the crossword puzzle spread out on the table before them with a manicured nail.
"How so?" Agent Morgan, who'd insisted on standing, paced back into the room from where he'd been standing, almost vigilant, in the doorway.
"There is a link between the five people who'd been murdered thus far," Doctor Reid spoke and Lassiter leaned forward.
"What are you talking about?" He demanded to know. There was nothing linking the five victims together, other than their killer and the means of their death.
"Each of the victims," Spencer took over the explanation, righting his chair and sitting in it as he did so.
"Has broken," Doctor Reid continued.
"One of the ten commandments," Spencer finished, nodding and sharing a brief smile with Doctor Reid.
Lassiter blinked and turned to glare at Spencer.
"When were you planning on sharing that bit of psychic knowledge with us?" He asked. He might not like the psychic much, but he was their psychic god damn it, and he didn't want to share.