Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.
Rating: T
Spoilers: Not sure there are any, this is pretty much self-contained if not entirely AU, but just to be safe let's say "Through Santabarbaratown".
A/N: I'm not sure this story is working for me. I'll try and force out another chapter or two and if I don't get writer's hemorrhoids from it I'll finish it out. Otherwise I'll remove what I've got so far and try something else.
Chapter Two: A Midsummer Night's Hallucination…?
Even by Lassiter's standards, it was a long, hard day. There were too many active cases and not enough detectives, and without having the luxury of a partner to take some of the burden of running down witness statements and alibis he was having to grind. The worst thing was calling the parents - he didn't have to break the news to them, he contacted local police to do that, but he called them later on to express his condolences and to assure them that their daughter's murderer would not go unpunished.
It was well past midnight before he finally put the case file away, and sat there at the desk of his home office with one hand pinching the crooked bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed tight shut, burning with fatigue and strain. He could've requisitioned the Chief for a uniformed officer to help with some of the grunt work, but if he had to pick only one failing it would be his disinclination to asking for help. He turned off the desk lamp and sat there in the half-dark for a long time, giving his eyes and his tired brain a rest.
That was when he heard the woman crying.
His first, perfectly reasonable (for a more-than-slightly paranoid policeman) thought was that it was Mrs. Farrow in the next unit, weeping after an altercation with her husband, although in all the time he'd lived at Prospect Gardens he'd never heard so much as a loud fart from next door, let alone an argument or sounds of spousal abuse - unless Ed's not-infrequent performances from Shakespeare counted. He even stood up and started for his door, prepared to render any necessary assistance, before he remembered that the Farrows had taken a family vacation to Maui and weren't coming back 'til next Friday. Thinking he was simply so tired that he was now hearing things, he turned back into his condo and started toward his bedroom.
A wisp of smoke hovered in the air near the door to the kitchen. Lassiter blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The wisp was still there, except now it seemed to loosely silhouette the figure of a person. He heard again the sound of crying, tinny as though he heard it through a bad speaker system.
"Ooooookay…" Lassiter muttered, and, with admirable aplomb, passed right by the sobbing apparition and went to bed. He had a lot of work to do in the morning, and he didn't have time for hallucinations.
