(20 years ago)

Carlton braced his hands on his hips as he looked over the car in front of him. The hot summer sun glinted off of the plastic badge he wore on his belt. He needed sunglasses. All good cops had sunglasses.

But that wasn't what was important now. He knelt down, checking the striped asphalt under the car. The front tires perfectly framed the words 'Loading Zone'. Carlton ran his finger along the hot yellow letters that were visible below it. 'Do not park'.

He'd found a crime. He dug his notebook out of his back pocket and flipped it open. It took three tries to get the pages to do what he wanted instead of fluttering about. He grinned in triumph as he took his pencil down from behind his ear. It was two less attempts than last time. He was going to be the best cop ever.

He stood as he wrote the driver a ticket, charging her ten thousand dollars for terrible rule breaking. That would teach her. He was just tearing the page from his notebook when the owner of the car yelled out, "Carlton Jebediah Lassiter, what do you think you're doing?"

A perp always returned to the scene of a crime. Carlton pulled himself up to his impressive four-foot, eight and a half inches as he answered, "Ma'am, do you know why I'm writing this ticket?"

"I told you to follow me!" his perp, also known as his mother, snapped back. She looked guilty with her frizzy hair escaping her headscarf and the large bejeweled glasses hiding her eyes. She had a witness with her, a young girl perched on her hip who was watching everything over the thumb she was sucking.

"This is a loading zone; you're not supposed to park here."

"I don't have time for this." His mother pinched the bridge of her nose like she was fighting another headache. "Carlton, we need to go inside the store. Now."

She'd broken a rule. Rules were important. "You need to move your car."

"Now!"

"Not until you stop breaking rules!"

"Carlton! I will not ask again!" His mother stalked forward and grabbed his arm; he fought as she pulled him away from the crime scene. "We just need to grab a few things for the funeral, and then–"

"No!" She was breaking rules. Like his father broke the rules. Rules like coming back from surgery. "You need to move the car! You need to follow the rules!"

"Carlton!"

She was a perp; she wasn't listening. Carlton did the only thing left to do at the top of his lungs. "You have the right to be silent! Anything you say can be held against you and the court of law!"

His mother didn't listen, her cheeks glistening as he continued to fight. Someday he was going to be a detective, and then everyone would have to listen to him. Everyone would follow the rules.

(Present Day)

The perp squirmed under Lassiter's knee as he grabbed the man's flailing hands and pulled them back. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law." The handcuffs closed with a satisfying round of clicks. "You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you."

"Screw you," the perp growled under his breath.

Lassiter just grinned and pulled him to his feet. He got to arrest dirtbags for a living; life was good.

The ride back to the station was uneventful and he happily thought about the night he had planned as he booked the perp and filled out the necessary paperwork. Victoria had suggested they try a date-in with ordered fancy food, homemade dessert, and then they'd only be a few feet away from second dessert… Lassiter smiled fondly as his imagination took him to beautiful places with the skimpy red lingerie Victoria fancied.

A loud voice broke through his imagination right as the lacy top hit the floor. "Lassiter! Here's some case files that need put away."

One of the detectives held out a pile of folders, and Lassiter snapped to attention as he took them. "Of course, whatever you need."

The man turned around without another word, heading back to the bullpen where several of the detectives were in an animated conversation. One day, he was going to be just like them… But for now he had a job to do. He'd show them he was the best officer in the precinct, then he'd ace the detective exam, then they'd have to promote him.

With the plan in place, Lassiter took the folders to the filing room. It wasn't hard finding the right places for them, but he did have a bit of time before his shift was done… It never hurt to have extra practice at reading a crime scene. He glanced around before opening the first file. It was a clear open and shut case of a business owner trying to hide his profits behind cooked books. It took less than five seconds for Lassiter to find the inconsistencies in the paperwork. He snorted at the shoddy attempt before moving on to the next file.

This one was a little more interesting, a stabbing gone wrong. The girlfriend had been brought in, but the boyfriend wasn't pressing charges. Lassiter flipped through the crime photos, not seeing anything unexpected. The evidence was all there; justice would be served.

The third file gave him pause as the mugshot of an arsonist stared back at him. There was only one piece of evidence tying the man to the fire: the ash that had been found behind his ear. Evidence that had, apparently, been found by a slave. Lassiter frowned as he looked over the arrest paperwork. It wouldn't be unheard of for some beat cop to have missed something that obvious… except his own name stared back at him as the arresting officer. How could he have missed it?

Could the ash have been planted? Did the slave's master have a source? Was the whole thing a setup?

Could the slave actually have seen it?

There was a chance he could have seen the perp, he was walked by the bench on his way to the holding room. But it would have only been long enough for a glance. And in such a hidden spot… Surely he couldn't have seen it. He was a slave; they never looked around.

There was another explanation. There had to be.

Lassiter let the pages drop and stared at the signed confession that was right under the mug shot. It didn't matter how they'd found the evidence. They had their answer, the lawbreaker was taken care of, and the streets were that much safer. Another win for the good guys.

So why was he suddenly not feeling celebratory?

He glanced through several more files as he put them away, but his mind kept coming back to the arsonist and the strange slave. It didn't make sense. He hated it when things didn't make sense. Some people liked to call it 'intuition' or a 'gut feeling'. He just saw it as a weakness that needed to be fixed.

He checked his watch. He still had five minutes… He needed answers. And he was already in the right place to find them. Lassiter went back into the files, this time looking through a different drawer as he recalled the slave's collar number. All runaway slaves had a file on them. He just had to find the right one… His searching fingers found the right tab and he pulled out one of the thicker folders in the batch.

The slave was a rule breaker, that much was already obvious. He couldn't be trusted. But that didn't explain how he'd known everything else about the precinct, right down to the hidden evidence in the floozy lady's boot.

Lassiter opened the file and skimmed the slave's papers. Someone had clearly been asleep at the wheel when they'd filled them out, the birthday was off by at least a decade. The idiot. Which meant none of the other information was guaranteed to be accurate either. The slave had been collared relatively recently, though he'd also had an impressive number of masters already. Which only told Lassiter what he already knew: the slave was a troublemaker.

And his current master didn't seem to be able to keep him under control. They'd probably be seeing him again soon.

But that was a problem for another day. For now, Lassiter flipped through the reports under the pages, glancing through the other attempts at running. There still wasn't much to learn, besides the fact that the slave apparently didn't know when to give up. Though it was noteworthy that he seemed to learn from each of his attempts. Even if he clearly didn't learn to stop attempting it.

Some of the other officers or detectives would just write him off as a defective slave that needed to be taken off of the streets. And in a way Lassiter agreed. Their society worked when everyone followed the rules. This slave clearly thought he was beyond the rules.

But at the same time… what if this slave really could see as much as he thought? Just one walkthrough of the precinct had cemented two arrests. How had he done it?

Or how had his master done it. It could easily be a new scam in the works. Or maybe a criminal mastermind was testing the precinct for weaknesses. Or… Or some other explanation that made total and complete sense and didn't involve a slave being more than he actually was.

There were only a few types of slaves, and this one didn't follow any of the regular patterns. Most slaves never made a sound and let the world wash over them. A few of them fought back, being loud and brash and doing everything possible to earn a quick end to their misery. But this one had been different. He'd fought the cops who'd brought him in but had been completely compliant once his master was in the room… But then he'd spoken out of turn again in the dorm. It didn't make sense.

Lassiter's wandering eyes found his watch and he cursed as he saw the time. He'd spent too long looking into the slave; he had to get home. He put the file back and nearly sprinted out of the room, just barely stopping himself before he ran into the chief himself. "Sorry, sir. Sorry!"

"Easy does it, son," the chief said, defensively holding his coffee out of the way as Lassiter regained his balance. "There's no reason for runnin' unless you're trying to catch a perp."

"Yes, sir. Sorry. Again." The chief was actually looking at him… He had to make a good impression. "Uh, may I just say, your mustache is looking extremely dapper today?"

The corner of the glorious handlebar mustache moved as the chief smirked. "No one likes a kissass."

"Of course not." He should have known what that would have sounded like. "Uh, do you need anything?"

"Well, I've got a perp in room one who won't crack…"

He could have an interrogation?! "Yes, sir!"

The chief chuckled and smacked Lassiter on the back in a friendly manner. "Well, I meant it as a joke, but if you really want a crack at him…"

"I can break him. I know I can. Just give me a chance!" He'd prove he was real detective material.

"Ah, what the hell. I'd love to see Carp's face if you succeed."

Carp was a great detective… in his time. But recently he'd been letting more and more things slip by him. Lassiter pulled himself up to his impressive six feet height. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."

"You know…" the chief looked him up and down, his eyes gleaming like he was checking out a new racehorse. "I think you might be right."

Lassiter beamed his way all of the way to interrogation room one. Life was good.

He was an hour and a half late. Lassiter braced himself before letting himself into his apartment. Candles burned on the dining room table, bathing the wood in a warm flickering light. Two plates were set next to each other, one with food carefully plated and the other empty save for a few crumbs. A wine glass stood proud next to a mostly emptied bottle.

"Took you long enough," a husky voice called from the living room.

Lassiter had been in shootouts, he'd been held at knifepoint, he'd suffered his mother's wrath… None of them required more bravery than stepping forward into the candlelight.

His wife lounged on the sofa, a silk robe falling off of one of her shoulders, showing a skimpy red strap. She'd done her hair, coiled and pinned like she was ready to go to a speakeasy, the style matching her bold makeup. The dark eyeshadow framed the fire in her eyes, making her even more gorgeous. She let him stare as she brought her wine glass to her ruby lips and took a sip. "So. What was it this time? A bank robbery, a hostage situation…"

Lassiter winced; he really really should have called her… "It was an interrogation."

"Hmm. Well, congratulations." Victoria's flat voice twisted with a hint of mocking. "I hope you made a good impression."

"I got the confession," Lassiter defended himself.

"Murder? Arson? A drug lord?" she put her glass down and stood with a grace that would make a ballerina cry. "What was our night worth?"

There wasn't any winning with that question. "I'll make it up to you."

"I'll add it to the list." She walked to their bedroom door, her hips swaying as the robe brushed by her gorgeous bare legs. "Dinner's ready, and there's blankets on the couch. Don't stay up too late." She paused with her hand on the doorframe, and Lassiter held his breath as she glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes flicked down, taking him in and finding him lacking. "It's good to see you in one piece, darling. Welcome home."

The door clicked closed, leaving Lassiter alone with the partially burnt candles and the room temperature meal. He had a lot of groveling to do.

The butter sizzled as Lassiter nudged the partially cooked eggs around the pan. The coffee pot gurgled behind him and the toaster popped as he made the perfect flip. Victoria would almost be ready for work by now; he'd timed it perfectly. As he'd predicted, the bedroom door opened right as he slid the omelet onto a plate. "Good morning."

Victoria just grunted her answer as she slid onto the stool on the other side of the kitchen island. Even on the best days, she wasn't a morning person. Lassiter snuck glances at her as he buttered the toast and put it next to the eggs. Her eyes were exhausted, her hair was back to its usual gentle curl, and her makeup was understated and easily overlooked. She was still just as gorgeous as last night. He slid the plate over in a silent apology.

She accepted it with a silent nod, and Lassiter found himself wishing for a knife to be able to cut the tension between them. He'd messed up, it was obvious. Guilt ate away at him and he shoved it down where it wouldn't get in the way. Couldn't she just be done with it already? He'd also succeeded in earning his boss' approval and putting another bad guy behind bars. That had to count for something…

But previous fights had taught him that no, it didn't count.

Which wasn't fair. She'd known who she was marrying. She'd even supported him through his late night studies when he'd earned his Criminology degree. She should remember those times if she wanted to complain about lost nights now…

Lassiter poured two mugs of coffee. Only a small amount of cream went into one, while the other turned a light tan by the time he'd finished fixing it up. One last pour of sugar was all it needed before he took them to the island and slid the darker cup towards Victoria.

There wasn't anything left to do except wait. Lassiter took a drink from his mug, the sweet bitterness helping soothe his jumpy nerves. If he said anything, it'd start another fight. It had to be her to make the next move.

"I'll be out late for work," Victoria finally said as she finished the toast.

"Understood," Lassiter acknowledged. It was the busy season for her; she often had to work late nights at the beginning of the year.

Her voice was completely neutral when she said, "I'll have free time this weekend."

He was working Saturday… but he could probably trade a few shifts around. "I can arrange to be free too. If you want."

She drained her coffee, the mug hiding her face just a bit too long before she set it back on the counter. "If you'd like."

"We could go to Gerard's," Lassiter offered. He could buy flowers, or maybe some jewelry… He could fix this.

She didn't answer, instead walking around the island to give him a peck on the cheek. Her coconut perfume smelled amazing. "Stay safe today."

"Stay smart today," Lassiter answered in their morning tradition.

She gave him a sad smile and walked away to gather her things. Something pulled inside of him, like a piece of himself was about to break. He couldn't leave it like this. "I love you."

She hesitated as she draped her purse over her shoulder. The moment stretched for far too long before she answered, "I love you too."

The door closed and Lassiter took several deep breaths to keep the despair under control. She'd never hesitated before. Anger quickly rose up behind it; why was this his fault? It wasn't like she was perfect… She yelled and gave the silent treatment and had her own long nights at work. And he forgave her. He glanced at his watch before stalking away from the dirty dishes. He'd deal with them later. For now, he needed a trip to the shooting range…

The rest of the week went from bad to worse. He fumbled his testimony in court, leading to constant belittling and 'good natured' jabs. Then he tripped while chasing a fleeing suspect, leaving him with a road burn of shame all across his forehead for several days. The weekend was a small ray of sunshine as Victoria accepted his apology and their make-up date, but then came crashing down when he worked overtime on Monday.

The murder was almost a relief by that point.

The whole station was abuzz at the lawyer's brutal death, and they were all hands on deck as they tried to narrow down the list of suspects. People were constantly going in and out of interrogation rooms, paperwork was always changing hands, and the CSI lab was harassed hourly. The problem was, there were too many people who wanted the victim dead.

The lawyer was known for his high end clientele. He was also known for being a lady's man and the main beneficiary of a recent inheritance. Any one of those traits could have ended up with him literally eviscerated in his office early Tuesday morning. Lassiter was leaning towards one of the clients telling the lawyer something that they didn't want known elsewhere, but most of the detectives were investigating the family instead.

The only good thing about the case, as days went by without any new bodies, was that they didn't seem to have a serial killer on their hands. The detectives all worked overtime, and several officers were taken off of their main duty to assist them, Lassiter included.

Which was why he was now in possession of the file as Detectives Carp left for the night. He was supposed to just check that they didn't have anything new to add, but he couldn't let the opportunity pass him by. Victoria was out for the evening as well, so there was nothing stopping him as he poured another cup of coffee and made himself comfortable at an empty desk.

This was the key to his promotion, to his redemption. He knew it.

An hour passed by as he poured over the paperwork, rereading the interrogation transcripts and the crime lab reports. His head began to ache as he flipped yet another page and the words danced in front of him. There was just too much information. Even with the alibis cutting down their suspects, there were still too many to go through. Too many strings. He needed some way to pare it all down, some new evidence or a new way to look at things…

His mind wandered as he remembered the last time he'd needed new evidence. It had been given to him on a silver platter, by a slave no less. He shook his head and focused back on the file. He didn't need any more mocking, and he didn't need to add any more unpredictable factors to the case. That slave had been a one-off; just part of the oddity that was Santa Barbara.

He could do this. There were several politicians who were undoubtedly dirty who may have slipped and dropped some information that they shouldn't have. At least one of the women the man had slept with had another lover; it could have been a crime of passion at the betrayal. And the vic had an uncle who fit the profile, one who claimed to have been hunting deer at the time of the crime.

Surely there was something he was missing. Just like he'd missed that bit of soot. Something small that could bring the whole thing down.

But he still hadn't found it after another hour of looking, and his mind kept wandering back to the slave who might have answers. The chief had said that he was open to out of the box thinking… Which was something Lassiter was usually very low on. He needed a win.

And how could he actually be considering asking a civilian to borrow his slave for a high end murder investigation? It was insane. He didn't do insane.

"Late night, Lassiter?"

Lassiter jumped; for being such a big man, the chief was very good at sneaking up on people. He quickly closed the file and jumped to his feet. "Sorry, sir. I was just looking–"

The chief held up his hand to stop the flow of explanations. "Easy; we've all been there. I don't suppose you've found anything?"

He was sure it was one of the clients… but he didn't have any evidence. "No, I haven't."

"Maybe you should leave it for someone else. Call it a night, son."

But in the morning it'd be the detectives looking over it again, and Lassiter would be delegated to paperwork duty. He had to earn his boss' approval, he had to prove his late nights weren't in vain, he had to prove he was real detective material… But he had to be sure first. "Yes, sir."

"Just a bit of friendly advice," the chief added as Lassiter gathered up the file and put it back in order. "There'll always be another perp. Don't lose sight of what's important."

"Thank you. I'll… keep that in mind." The chief was right; there were always rule breakers. Which meant they had to work tirelessly to bring them all to justice. They were the only people standing between chaos and order. A new resolve settled over Lassiter like a cape as he put the file away and left the precinct.

He had a job to do, and he was going to use every tool at his disposal. He checked his watch and climbed into his car. He had a master to talk to.

Lassiter's resolve became less certain as he entered the dorm, talked to the worker at the front desk, and rode the elevator up. Surely he wasn't actually expecting a slave to be able to see anything useful in a case file. He probably didn't even know how to read… The elevator dinged and he debated just riding it back to the ground. The soot had probably been a fluke, or a cover.

And if it hadn't been? What sort of detective would he be to overlook a lead?

Lassiter stepped out into the hall. He'd come this far; he had to be sure. He wasn't a lesser officer for using a gun to defend himself instead of his fists. He wouldn't be a lesser officer if he used a slave to find evidence. It was the same thing.

It didn't feel the same as he stopped at the door. His hand came down to rest on the holder of his handcuffs. Worst case scenario, he'd find out the master had a source or was playing a trick, and Lassiter would get to arrest him.

Feeling slightly cheered, Lassiter knocked on the door. The master opened it less than a minute later with a nervous look on his face. "Officer?"

"Mr. Guster. May I come in?"

Guster casts a suspicious look behind him; what was he hiding? Surprisingly, he opened the door wider. "Come on in."

"Thank you." He'd expected Guster to be just as difficult as last time, but he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Lassiter stepped into the room.

It was a typical small dorm room, with the only thing out of the ordinary being the slave kneeling in the corner. He seemed like the perfect slave now, it was hard to believe he was the one yelling about infidelity and terrible hair a little over a week ago. He had nice clothes; clearly the master believed in making a good impression with him. He also had his own little nook in the room, which wasn't something you saw every day. This was clearly a soft master, which would explain why the slave had had enough freedom to run in the first place.

"Is there something we can help you with?" Guster asked after a minute of silence.

"Maybe…" It was now or never; he could still back down. But Lassiters didn't give up. He had a plan, and he was going to execute it. "I need to know how your slave knew all of those things in the station."

The slave cocked his head as his master answered, "We already told you. He sees a lot."

"He's a slave, and that was more than just seeing."

"Sir?" the slave asked, confirming what Lassiter had noticed last time. He didn't need permission to speak. The master was very soft.

"Go ahead," Guster said immediately.

"Most people don't notice slaves, sir. So they don't hide as much."

"Not to mention slaves have to be constantly vigilant to what everyone around them wants," the master added.

That still didn't make sense. Detectives were trained to see things; slaves were trained to obey what their master said. They were completely different.

Lassiter looked around again, though for what he didn't know. A hidden camera? A surveillance setup? A stack of money from a criminal organization?

A stack of newspapers sitting next to the slave caught his eye. It was the only thing in the room that was out of place, and there were pen marks all over it. A secret code from their source? He scooped them up and rifled through them, but instead of code words, he saw evidence circled, barely legible notes in the margins, and predictions next to the headlines. He stopped on a familiar case of an accidental stabbing. The word 'setup' glared at him, and he skimmed the article for the evidence. And dammit, it actually made sense. And explained why the boyfriend hadn't pressed charges, which had been annoying Lassiter all week.

"Where did you get these?"

Guster crossed his arms as he answered, "Shawn looks through them."

"Who's Shawn?"

"My slave…" Guster's voice grew more defensive. "Look, are we in trouble?"

It would be so easy to just arrest him and figure it out at the station… Lassiter looked back down at the newspaper in his hands. A good detective didn't ignore the evidence that was smacking him in the face. The writing was different from the one he'd seen on the paperwork Guster had filled out, there were just enough misspellings to sell the idea that a semi-literate slave had written it, and it matched the facts he already had.

There had to be a test; some way to make sure without a doubt. "You said he sees more than people realize… What does he see about me?"

Guster studied him for a moment before prompting, "Shawn?"

The slave hesitated for the first time before glancing up quickly. Too quickly. There was no way he'd seen anything… The slave started talking. "You had coffee this morning, you want to be a detective more than anything, you're having trouble at home, and you want to know if I can help with something. A case?"

How was that possible? It didn't matter; he had his answer. He had a tool; it was time to use it. ""I'm going to need to bring your slave down to the station."

A look of panic crossed Guster's face. "Why? He didn't do anything wrong."

"Don't worry; you'll be compensated for his time." How was he going to explain it to the chief? "Assuming he behaves, he'll be returned to you unharmed."

Guster took an aborted step forward before catching himself. "You can't take him."

Great, he didn't need to add a civilian to the mess. "Mr. Guster, I assure you–"

"I can decline. Otherwise you'd be taking him no matter what." Guster looked like he was ready to tackle a bear as he set his jaw and said, "I don't give permission to take him. You'll need a warrant to change my mind."

An image of asking a judge for a warrant to have a slave look at a case flashed through Lassiter's mind. He'd be laughed out of the state…

"Sir?" the slave asked quietly, breaking through the hopeless imagination.

Guster's reaction was interesting as he tensed even further, looking like he was about to break into two. "No."

That should have been it, but incredibly the slave kept going. "I can help."

The slave should have been shocked right then and there, but instead he and his master locked eyes like equals. A wordless conversation happened in the blink of an eye before Guster's shoulders slumped in defeat. Why was he giving in to his slave? What was even going on?

There was a distinct tremor in Guster's voice as he argued, "No one will listen, even if he sees something. You said it yourself, slaves can't see things that the cops didn't."

He has a point, and really this whole situation was so strange, it would probably be better to just leave and pretend none of it had happened. There'd be other cases to earn his boss' approval. This was probably a tool he didn't actually want to deal with…

Lassiter's feet stayed frozen in place, almost with morbid curiosity as the slave cocked his head to the side and asked, "But what if I could see things no one else could?"

Guster seemed to understand the confusing statement as his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "You can't be serious."

The slave's eyes flicked up again, but this time he didn't look back down. Lassiter felt like his whole being was on display as the slave took him in. The slave's eyes moved up, meeting his gaze and holding it as he said five insane words. "What if I was psychic?"

What the fuck?