Poker Faces and Lost Marbles
Summary: When a burglar with a conscience sends in a box of taped child pornography and murder, Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara are assigned to the case. But they are shocked to find that one victim, the only survivor, is someone close to home.
Rating: M, for implicit and explicit / graphic underage, nonconsensual sex (which I condemn, not condone). Very sensitive plot theme ahead.
Disclaimer: Still don't own Psych or its characters. I'll let you know when I do.
Dedicated to: The anonymous user who wondered how a story like my earlier "Someone Tried to Kill the Vampire!" might have been if Shawn had been a teenager when it happened. This one turned out a lot more explicit and much darker, and the stories are completely unrelated.
Prolog
"There's a note."
Chief Vick held out her gloved hand for it, and the young officer who had opened the cardboard box—one of those medium-sized moving boxes that was sealed with packing tape—gave it to her. It was a yellow sticky note, though it was no longer sticky after having been peeled off the grainy container, and dampened from the recent rain.
I stole these from address written on flap of box, the note said. Vick's eyes flicked to the mysterious thing again, catching the numbers written in black sharpie as indicated, in the same tiny chicken-scratch writing as the note. She resumed her reading. It's kiddie porn.
The Chief frowned severely, stomach clenching hotly. If there was one thing that made her angrier than sickening crimes like murder, it was rape—especially the rape of children. As a mother, she could only imagine how it would feel to know your child went through such a devastating event, and if her daughter ever did, then she would have a personal vendetta. But she couldn't rely on a note to discover the truth. For all she knew, the stack of blank-cased DVDs and CD-ROMs were bootlegged Disney movies.
"Get these dusted for prints, and find out who lives at that address. Check the security cameras and see who managed to drop this off on our front steps without being detected. Detective Lassiter," she said, turning to him, and he to her. He had been standing aside, looking a little too longingly at the box. It was obvious that he wanted the case. "Once that's all done, I want you and O'Hara to take these to the viewing room and figure out if our burglar with a conscience," she waved the sticky note emphatically, "is telling the truth."
"Yes, Chief," he said in all seriousness.
She gave him an approving nod and retreated to her office, presumably to continue working or to stew about this particular case. As far as Lassiter was concerned, the rapist—or rapists, if there were more than one—needed to be stopped and imprisoned. Whether the owner of the porn was a producer, a distributor, or a client, he would be charged to the fullest extent of the law. If it was porn, anyway. He wasn't sure how reliable a thief's hasty sticky note was.
SBPD's head detective pulled out his phone and sent a quick text message to his partner, explaining the situation. He told her to cut the lunch run short, indicating that he wanted to get started as quickly as possible. There were children's innocence at stake, after all.
Juliet responded in thirty-two seconds: Already bought. Besides, we'll need these sandwiches. Back in ten.
He didn't bother to respond. Lassiter was quite certain that he'd vomit anything he'd managed to eat, if this really was kiddie porn. While he appreciated the adult business as much as the next guy (he was a man, after all, and a recently divorced one at that), it was precisely that: an adult business. If children were being harmed, especially in Santa Barbara, Lassiter was making it his personal mission to fight for them. Even if it meant bypassing his lunch, or even regurgitating it for their sakes.
Not that he'd ever mention it.
By the time Juliet arrived back at the station bearing two plastic Subway bags, the first video had been dusted, placed in an evidence bag, and clearly labeled. The head detective insisted that they get started, just to see if the videos were what they were claimed to be, and their lunches were tucked into his desk drawer for safe-keeping (food was as often subject to thievery in the heart of the police force as any other workplace). With the single readied disk in his hand, Detective Lassiter led his partner to the evidence room, which was equipped with several video players—one for the out-of-date VHS cassette tapes as well, not that they were using that one.
While Lassiter fiddled with the electronics, Juliet donned a pair of gloves and opened the evidence bag to retrieve the DVD. She placed it in the disk tray of the player and pushed it in, then sat in the rolling chair that Lassiter dragged over from the nearby computer desk. He lowered himself into a regular wooden seat, one leg crossed over the other. Juliet watched the screen, arms folded, as Lassiter glared at the remote in his hand. At last, he found the 'play' button and pushed it.
"Aren't these things supposed to start automatically?" he said.
The junior detective shrugged. She thought so, but she wasn't entirely sure. Maybe it depended on the player.
The film began:
"Shoot, Rowland!"
A tall, blurry figure came into focus, staring up at something out of the viewing range of the camera. He tossed an orange basketball up, propelling it out of the shot with a practiced flick of the wrists. A triumphant grin flitted across his face, and he turned and ran back across the court. The camera followed, zooming in more as the tall teen grew smaller with distance.
The playground court, made of cracked asphalt with faded paint and crumbled along the measured edges, was swarming with boys. It was a sunny day, and all of them were wearing outside gear, appropriate for playing sports. They laughed and whooped freely, passing the ball and bouncing it all across the court in their game. Back and forth, back and forth, sometimes scoring and sometimes rebounding, fouls here and there.
A normal basketball game.
Lassiter frowned as the game dragged on. It had been at least ten minutes since the start of it. Though the cameraman was obviously far enough away to not be a parent recording son and friends, apparently he wasn't close enough to garner suspicions, either. And as far as Lassiter could tell, this wasn't child pornography, unless pedophiles got off on tall, sweaty teens named Rowland running around half-naked in yellow basketball shorts. Juliet was watching with a straight, unreadable expression.
He half considered hitting the fast-forward button, but then the camera was moving:
There was a rickety wooden bench a ways from the old court, meant to seat game-watchers or to offer rest to the players. The boys had utilized it as a locker: various shirts and jackets were slung over, hanging pitifully; a capped inhaler sat readily on a neatly-folded red T-shirt; and a host of plastic water and sports bottles in all colors and sizes crowded one end. The camera crouched behind the bench, no longer focused on Rowland, but on the condensating receptacles. A thin, tanned hand grasped a certain red one and lifted it. A messy scrawl in black marker read 'Rowland H.'
The hand uncapped the bottle with a quick flip of the thumb and squeezed a small, palm-sized bottle. Several clear droplets fell into the water, mixing invisibly. The bottle was capped, and the camera retreated back to its hiding place. Now the focus was again on Rowland, who was scoring his team a three-pointer, much to their excitement.
It seemed to have concluded the game, the winning points in favor of Rowland's team. They, grinning and laughing, clapped each other the backs and sneered good-naturedly at the losers, moving toward the bench to collect their things. Most went directly for the water, taking large gulps with their heads thrown back to reveal their bobbing Adam's apples. Rivulets of sweat beaded down their cheeks and chests, flushed with heat.
The camera remained almost exclusively focused on Rowland as he drank from the same red bottle that had been tainted with a drug, presumably GHB in its liquid form.
Lassiter found it impossible to believe that this was a spur-of-the-moment drug and kidnap. It had been planned. The cameraman had taken the time to do his research—where Rowland would be at a certain time, which bottle was his, and even how he would leave. As he watched, the friends bid one another goodbye, promising to meet up again tomorrow morning—it must have been summertime.
Rowland, nursing his water bottle and slinging a white t-shirt over his shoulder, turned and strode across the green lawn of the park. There were several trees offering long branches thick with leaves for shade, but the teen passed them, kicking a battered pinecone ahead of him. His friends had all gone in different directions, leaving him to go home alone. The camera followed like a dog on its master's heels.
The teen up ahead swiped a hand across his forehead and dug a knuckle into his temple as though massaging a headache. He slowed to a stop and leaned against the closest tree, slightly hunched as though he were about to be sick all over his scuffed basketball shoes. When he didn't vomit, he uncapped his bottle and took a small sip, evidently believing it would make him feel better—and in any other circumstance, it probably would have. But the poor kid was only adding drugs to his system.
The guy behind the camera made his move.
It was a reedy sort of voice that spoke, the camera angling down slightly as though to encourage the idea that he wasn't recording the bout of illness before him. "You all right there, kiddo?"
Rowland looked up, face pale and beaded with sweat that was likely more from dizziness and nausea than his earlier exertion. "'M fine," he answered feebly, rubbing his flat belly with a fist. "Just need a minute, sir."
"Need a ride home? I'm parked just over there."
The kid glanced up and then to the side, presumably to where a finger had pointed. "That's your car?"
"Yeah. Where d'you live?"
Rowland hesitated for a minute, clearly remembering that handing out his address or getting rides from strangers was dangerous and more likely than not frowned-upon by his parents. "No, I'll be fine. Thank you, though, sir."
He pushed away from the tree and made to leave, only to take a tumble onto the ground, his long limbs trembling like a newborn colt's.
"Shit," said the cameraman concernedly, kneeling beside him. He was wearing a pair of pressed blue jeans. "You okay? Hey, come on. Let me help you, kid. You look like you need it…Is this your water? Here, have a bit more of it. You'll feel bet..."
The screen went black for a moment, the recording session having been cut off, but nearly instantly a new picture formed on the television. The detectives went rigid in their seats, hearts palpitating in horror and disgust.
It was indeed child pornography.
They didn't need to see any more. It was time to make an arrest.