Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6945973.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Gen
  Fandom:
      Psych
  Character:
      Shawn_Spencer, Juliet_O'Hara, Carlton_Lassiter, Karen_Vick, Burton_'Gus'
      Guster, Henry_Spencer
  Additional Tags:
      Past_Rape/Non-con, Explicit_Sexual_Content, child_pornography, Whump,
      some_violence, poor_shawn, Drugs, Kidnapping, Misunderstandings, Drugged
      Sex, Ejaculation, Fellatio, blowjob
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-05-23 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 13712
****** Poker Faces and Lost Marbles ******
by DwaejiTokki
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.
Notes
     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 *****
                                    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.
***** Part One *****
                                   Part One
Shawn Spencer flounced into the bullpen, eyes scanning the room for Lassiter
and Juliet, but didn’t see them. Assuming they were out for lunch, as they
sometimes did, he moseyed over to Lassiter’s desk and took a seat,
surreptitiously rifling through the contents and switching all the hi-liter
caps, but not before sticking his wad of pineapple-flavored bubblegum
underneath the desk, in the precise place Lassiter put his hands so as to pull
his rolling chair forward. He tugged open a drawer, and was slightly surprised
to find two Subway sandwiches tucked inside. A touch informed him that they
were cold.
That meant lunch had been interrupted.
            But by what? A call? He hadn’t heard anything on his (well, his
dad’s, but he was borrowing it for a bit) police scanner.
            He spun the chair around to look across the room, where the stairs
led down to the holding cells and interrogation rooms. That seemed as
reasonable a course to take as any.
            Shawn hadn’t worked his psychic magic in a while, and since Gus was
out of town on a week-long business conference and wouldn’t answer his phone,
he had absolutely nothing to do. Even his dad had used his day off to go
fishing, only half-heartedly inviting his son to come along (Shawn, of course,
had refused). That left his only friends, besides the churro guy, at the police
station.
            The pseudo-psychic clomped downstairs, eyes swiveling in every
direction. So far, nothing new—except for that box sitting on a table inside
the viewing room, which tempted him, but he more wanted to find his dear
detectives than rifle through the contents of said box at the moment. He would
go back for it.
            In the holding cells, there was only a drunk sleeping off the
effects of too much alcohol, so he turned and went deeper into the heart of the
station, where the cold interrogation rooms were. The first was empty, if the
open doors were any indication. Interrogation Room B’s door was shut, but the
viewing room door wasn’t, and he heard a familiar rumble of voices coming from
inside it.
            Smiling, he sidled closer to the entrance so he could catch a
snippet of conversation without being caught. One of the first words he caught
was a heated “pedophile” from Lassiter, which Shawn immediately surmised was
the culprit being held in the interrogation room. But Vick merely sighed and
said, “But his face was not in the video, Detective, so we can’t be sure
yet—not unless he confesses.”
            Shawn thought back to the box in the darkened video room, and,
putting it together with the pedophile clue, came to the conclusion that they
were dealing with child pornography. He wrinkled his nose, but straightened his
face out and stepped into the room, with a pleasant, “Hey, Lassie! Jules. Chief
Vick, how are you?”
            They looked up at him, momentarily startled, but the women relaxed
a bit when they saw it was only him. Lassiter only looked more stressed out.
            “Spencer,” he growled, “now is not the time!”
            “But I had a disturbing vision!” Shawn exclaimed, putting his
finger to his temple in his signature psychic pose.
            At that Juliet and the Chief seemed much more interested.
            “What did you see, Shawn?” Juliet asked.
            “Well,” he said, a bit hesitantly. He couldn’t exactly describe the
porn if he’d never seen it, let alone the faceless entity in the video that had
apparently done the taping—and worse. But he could take a wild guess,
especially if he managed to catch sight of whoever was in the room. Shawn moved
closer to the group on the pretense of speaking more quietly, and he cast his
eyes to the side, past Juliet, and in through the glass.
            A cold vise clamped around his chest suddenly, and he found himself
unable to breathe. His heart pumped frantically against his ribs, but his blood
was frozen. Invisible, hot hands slid roughly across his skin, a puff of putrid
breath across his cheek. It took a long moment before sound reached his ears
again, and he realized that not only were his friends calling his name, but
they sounded concerned—even Lassiter’s gruff tone.
            He shook himself and uttered, “Th—that’s him.”
            They blinked at him and looked in at the man hunched over the
table, wrists shackled in handcuffs, then back at Shawn and his trembling form.
            “Who?” Chief Vick pressed.
            “The bad man,” Shawn whispered, eyes wide and staring. “Red dot
camera. Black mask…The needle.” Then he forced himself to blink and look away,
clenching his shaking fingers into fists in an attempt to still them. It didn’t
quite work.
            “Needle?” Lassiter frowned. “What needle?”
            But Shawn shook his head and stepped back so that he wouldn’t be
able to see into the interrogation room anymore. “The needle,” he repeated
meaningfully, still backing out as he stared hard at Lassiter. “The needle. He
had it.”
            The detectives watched him in concern, but didn’t press him for any
more answers or follow him.
            “Well,” Lassiter cleared his throat once Shawn was gone. “At least
he’s not making light of this one. Finally, a case that can phase that man!”
            “Hmm,” Juliet replied.
            They returned to their conversation, Vick still frowning
thoughtfully. “You said you didn’t watch the entire first video, or any of the
rest yet?”
            “No, Chief,” Juliet said. “We went and made the arrest as soon as
there was evidence that there was sexual abuse. We haven’t even touched the
other nineteen DVDs.”
            “And he hasn’t admitted to anything,” Lassiter jerked his head
back. “Not a sound out of him, even before we read him his rights. He hasn’t
had any previous run-ins with the law—not even a parking ticket.”
            “Watch the rest of the first video, at least,” Vick said. “We might
catch the rapist’s identity. Keep an eye out especially for that needle Mr.
Spencer mentioned.”
            “Yes, ma’am,” they said, dread filling the pits of their bellies.
            The Chief paused and gave them a sympathetic look. “I know it’s not
ideal,” she said, “but I trust you two with this case.”
            The detectives nodded understandingly.
Detectives Lassiter and O’Hara continued watching the videos after having a
half-hearted lunch of cold and soggy Subway. Neither of them managed to finish
their sandwiches. Instead, they filled a couple of mugs with hot black coffee
and trudged to the viewing room. Juliet put the trash bin between them in case
of emergency.
They put the first CD back into the player, and Lassiter skipped forward to
where they’d left off—the beginning of the horror. Both sat by with notepads
and pens, determinedly jotting down a list of offenses and documenting what the
rapist did, the characteristics of the boy and his attacker, and wrote down any
locational clues so that they could try and find the victim.
            But after a half hour, the rapist seemed to have finished up and
left the boy lying unconscious on the dirty mattress, the camera still rolling.
After a few minutes he returned with something in his hands, and rolled Rowland
onto his back. This roused the teen, who looked about groggily, and then made
panicked noises in his throat and sluggishly tried to move. The rapist, whose
face remained covered with a Halloween ski mask (which attested to Shawn’s
words and unease), shushed him and turned his head to one side, exposing the
tender flesh of his neck.
            Then the object in his hands was revealed: a syringe.
            The needle (proving Shawn’s vision, but such a horrible sight that
Lassiter couldn’t even be frustrated at the how question he’d always asked of
the man’s methods) glinted ominously as the rapist lowered it, and disappeared
into his skin—where his jugular would be. Rowland moaned as the substance was
injected, but he was still unable to move properly for the GHB in his system.
            His rapist sat back and set the then empty syringe aside, and
stroked the teen’s belly as though he were a dog. He murmured soft, comforting
words that the camera didn’t quite pick up. And it was with a growing sense of
dread that the detectives realized that Rowland was being put down like a
beloved pet.
            “No,” Juliet said sadly as the convulsions began.
            In only a few moments Rowland was dead.
            The DVD ended and returned to the main screen.
            Lassiter and Juliet sat in silence for a long time, staving off the
emotional effects of the video, and trying to sort through their thoughts. The
Head Detective glanced uneasily to the box on the table, the discs inside of it
calling him, as though the children within the videos were desperate to be seen
and heard, to finally be helped, their spirits only to be put to rest when
their rapist and killer was identified and brought to justice.
            Juliet followed his gaze.
            “They’re not going anywhere,” she said. “But we won’t be able to
hold this guy for possession for long. He’ll bail out unless we can get
something more serious to stick.”
            “The longer we leave these,” Lassiter said, “the harder it will be
to come back and finish them.”
            She nodded in agreement, but neither moved.
            But after two minutes, Lassiter forced his limbs to work, and he
went to the box to choose the next one. There were no dates on the cases, and
he doubted rapists were stupid enough to turn on the time stamp setting on the
cameras, so there wasn’t much telling when these events took place. Or even if
all twenty videos were created by the same person.
            The thought made him sick.
            He chose the next one at random, and replaced the disc that was
already in the player with the new one, putting the first back into its proper
case and label. Lassiter and Juliet steeled themselves.
            This video was much the same as the first: a group of teen boys
were out playing, this time an easy-going soccer match. There were no goals,
and it seemed that no one was really trying to score, only pass the ball around
like a game of keep-away. Again, the camera seemed to focus exclusively on one
boy, but he wasn’t tall and fair like Rowland had been. This kid was stockier
and had dark skin, smaller than the rest of his friends—probably a younger
brother to one of them who had tagged along.
            The boy grew tired and left the game to sit in the shade of a tree,
near the cameraman. He made his move and approached, angling the camera
slightly down as though to insinuate he wasn’t recording.
            “Hey there,” spoke the reedy voice.
            “Hi,” the boy said shyly.
            “I saw you playing out there. You’re really good.”
            “Oh. Thank you.”
            “Thirsty?” A hand appeared, proffering a bottle of Snapple. “I
picked this up at the store, but I didn’t realize it was Strawberry Lime until
I opened it. I didn’t drink out of it, though.”
            The boy looked uncertain. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,”
he said. “Or take things from them.”
            “You’re not taking it,” the voice said kindly. “I’m offering.
There’s a difference.”
            He still didn’t look convinced. But then his eyes landed longingly
on the Snapple. “Well,” he said slowly, tentatively reaching up. “I am thirsty.
And Strawberry Lime is my favorite.”
            “Wow, really? Then here, definitely have it. Enjoy, kid.”
            “Thanks, mister!”
            The man behind the camera moved away, but angled back to get a shot
of the boy drinking from the bottle, downing nearly half the juice in three
gulps, head tossed back. While the boy was distractedly wiping his lip on
collar of his shirt, the camera ducked behind a tree and continued to watch
him.
            It wasn’t long before the kid grew drowsy and dropped off to sleep.
            The older boys were too immersed in a shouting match over some foul
or another to notice the younger boy being gathered up into a stranger’s arms
and carried off.
           The screen blanked for a moment, but a new image was rendered almost
instantly, displaying a new place, new filthy mattress on the floor. But it the
same man with the ski mask, violating the boy, who cried helplessly as he was
touched, as he was kissed, as he was penetrated. He, too, was given a fatal
dose of something from a syringe.
            Sickening, was all the detectives could think.
            But their eyes remained dry, emotions suppressed. The boys were
counting on them to bring justice to them, and that couldn’t be done if they
were sobbing in fetal positions on the floor, lying in pools of regurgitated
coffee and meatball marinara subs.
            So they continued.
            Most of the videos lasted about half an hour, depending on how long
the exposition was—a lot of time was dedicated to watching the boys who played
shirtless, particularly the boy who had showed off his flexibility to impress a
few nearby girls at the park. Every recording began with a group of teens
playing outside, and ended with the overdose of one.
            It was hard on the detectives.
            At last, Juliet, looking haggard and several years older, said,
“This has to be the last one for today, Carlton.”
            “Fine,” he said curtly, secretly relieved that he wasn’t the one
who’d had to admit weakness.
            He retrieved Episode 9 from the box. They were almost halfway
through, but it was also nearly six o’clock, and though he wasn’t hungry, he
would play it off as though he were just to have an excuse to stop the torture
for a while.
            Immediately they noticed that this video was different than the
others.
            Rather than an outdoor setting, this one was in a gym, and the room
was full of mostly girls. A dance practice, judging from the loose, sleeveless
shirts, ponytails and buns, and shorts. As far as the detectives could see,
there were only three boys present, and one of them appeared to be the
instructor’s assistant, who was shouting out directions in a voice that echoed
too much to be understood from the camera’s distance.
            The students were called into a sort of huddle around their
teacher, and the cameraman made his move toward the wall where a cluster of
jackets, shoes, and water bottles were. His hand reached for a specific one:
aThunderCats thermos with a red cap, oddly out of place among the more age
appropriate drinkware. He unlidded it and dumped in a powdery substance,
presumably a less processed batch of GHB, and then put it back where he found
it.
            Then he was hurrying back to his hiding place, zooming in to watch
the dancers—particularly one of the boys in particular. This boy, no older than
fifteen, was also different from the others, further reinforcing that the
rapist’s only preference was pre-pubescent boys, not very picky about looks. He
stretched his arms over his head, causing his shirt to rise and reveal a couple
inches of pale skin.
            The boy responded to something his instructor said with a goofy
smile, toed off his shoes, and jumped onto the stage with his assigned partner.
A catchy beat started up from a radio perched on the edge of the stage, and the
pair began to move in unison, perfectly in time with the instructor’s called
numbers.
           Even Lassiter was a bit impressed with the professional, talented
way the boy moved. He was incredibly good and obviously took it very seriously.
            Before the dance was finished, the instructor stopped the music and
had the pair repeat a couple of moves several times until they’d done it the
way she wanted. Then it seemed practice was over, because the team, after
another brief huddle, began to pack up their things and leave.
            The camera followed the boy over to the water bottles and watched
him guzzle from theThunderCats thermos. He stood around laughing with a few
friends for a few minutes, nursing his water before bidding them goodbye. The
boy lifted the hem of his shirt, giving the camera a full view of his belly and
a peek of a pink nipple, and wiped his sweaty forehead.
            Then he was on his way.
           The screen blanked and was replaced with a new image, this one
outside the Santa Barbara high school, home of the Dons. It struck Lassiter
hard in the gut as he suddenly realized just how close to home this one was.
The school was only a few miles away from the station.
            The boy sat on the curb of the pick-up zone, his bag behind him,
obviously waiting for a parent to fetch him. He sat hunched over his knees,
head resting on his folded arms.
            The camera approached, angled downward, as usual. “Hey there. Need
a ride?” asked the reedy voice.
            “No. M’dad’s just a li’l late,” the boy slurred without looking up.
            “You sure? You don’t look too good. I’ve got a phone in my car, if
you want to call someone.”
            At last, the kid angled his head up to look at the pestering
stranger, eyes squinted in an oddly familiar way. “My dad is running a bit late
today,” he enunciated. “I bet he had to arrest someone.” He dropped his head
back down.
           The detectives’ stomachs dropped at the same moment, mouths drying.
Lassiter suddenly didn’t want to be on the case anymore.
            “Yeah, your dad’s the head detective of the SBPD, isn’t he?” the
stranger said. “I know him. I’m not going to kidnap you or anything, buddy.
That would be stupid. Besides, you obviously don’t feel too well. I can just
give you a ride home so you can go to sleep.”
            The kid seemed to consider this for a moment, then squinted up
again. “Fine,” he said. “But if you drive a windowless van I’m running and
screaming.”
            The stranger chuckled, and the teen accepted a hand up, swaying
slightly.
The camera went black for a split second.
            The lens focused on a small figure lying prone on a dirty mattress
on a cement floor. He mumbled incoherently, eyes half lidded and roaming about
the room without really taking anything in.
            He didn’t seem to notice the mattress dipping under the weight of
the kidnapper, who knelt beside him and began to caress him through his
clothes. The man, wearing his usual ski mask, leaned down and murmured into the
kid’s ear. This woke him a little, and as his eyes locked on the mask he made a
confused, frightened sound.
            The man sat up, rubbing the kid’s arm in what would have been a
comforting gesture had it not been such a frightening situation. “Hush,” he
said, loud enough for the camera to pick up. “Hush, it’s all right, Shawn.”
           Though deep down Juliet and Lassiter had already known who the boy
was, it was at last confirmed. There was no mistaking it, even with the fear on
his young face.
            Shawn didn’t calm down.
            He clumsily pushed his kidnapper away, stuttering out
incomprehensible syllables, and tried to roll to his feet. But his attacker was
unfazed. He easily maneuvered Shawn back into position, his other hand
simultaneously reaching behind him and bringing a bottle of vodka into the
frame.
            “Nuhhh,” Shawn moaned, turning his face away when the neck was
brought to his lips.
            “Yes,” said the man, digging his thumb and middle finger into the
hinges of Shawn’s jaw, forcing his mouth open. He poured the liquid in, and
Shawn recoiled, gagging and choking weakly. Alcohol splashed everywhere.
            But the rapist seemed satisfied that his victim had ingested some,
and took a swig of it himself before setting the bottle aside. Shawn gasped and
choked a little, and his kidnapper stroked him.
            When he had regained his breath, Shawn began to babble
indistinctly, shaking his head back and forth, trying and failing to talk his
way out of the terrible situation. His struggles, though not much to begin
with, grew more sluggish as the drugs in his system were compounded by the
alcohol.
            The rapist leaned over the boy, and pressed a kiss to Shawn’s lips,
then trailed to his jawline, and then his neck. Shawn whimpered as hands that
were not his own slid up his shirt and fondled his chest. With helpless tears
rolling across his temples and to his hairline, Shawn tried to push the man’s
face away from his neck, his hands off of him; he tried to roll over; to kick
his feet; but his body wouldn’t behave.
            His shirt was removed, revealing pale, smooth skin. The attacker
sat back and appreciated it for a moment before moving in again, latching his
mouth around one nipple and pinching the other with his fingers. Shawn’s hands
fumbled up and tried to push him off again, this time more strongly.
            The man sat up sharply and slapped Shawn hard on the shoulder.
Shawn gave a soft cry of pain, and the rapist grasped his face and forcibly
turned it so that the boy was staring into the eye holes of the mask. “Stop
it,” he said. “Don’t make me hurt you, Shawn. This doesn’t have to hurt.” Then
he softened, using a thumb to wipe away a tear. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll
make you feel good.”
           Lassiter bent over the trashcan between him and his partner and lost
his lunch.
            Juliet stopped the video. “We shouldn’t be watching this,” she
said, eyes wide. “It’s Shawn!”
            Head Detective Lassiter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand
and straightened, feeling a bit better, but also partly ashamed. There
certainly was a moral dilemma. He knew that the case could be handed over to
federal jurisdiction, but he was loath to do that, especially now that he knew
there was at least one survivor—Shawn Spencer.
            He also knew that if they discussed it with the Chief, she would
want to hand over the case. But what would Spencer want?
            Lassiter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
            Juliet seemed to have been thinking the same thoughts. “Maybe,” she
said tentatively, “it would be better if we kept this to ourselves for now.
Finish watching the videos and taking notes. I don’t think Shawn would be very
happy if we brought in the Feds.”
            He nodded slowly. All the same, he didn’t want to keep watching
this atrocity. Lassiter didn’t find it too difficult to reconcile this young
Shawn with the one who had flounced into the interrogation viewing room earlier
that way—not after the way Spencer had reacted just to seeing his rapist.
            But Lassiter was also burning with curiosity: How did Shawn escape,
when he was as worse off as the boys before him (or after, depending on the
chronology of the videos), so weak and helpless? It was too unlikely that the
culprit had a change of heart. He cleared his throat, and motioned for Juliet
to resume the recording.
            She took a deep breath and pressed play.
            The masked rapist continued his exploration of Shawn’s body by
pulling down his sweatpants and then his jalapeno boxers. More pale skin was
showcased, except for his genitals, which were a shade or two darker than the
rest of his skin and just beginning to grow the wiry hairs of puberty. He
fondled Shawn, which caused a great deal of protest that resulted in another
harsh slap, this time to his thigh.
            Shawn fell silent, but a shaking hand tried to free himself again.
The rapist easily held his hands aside, and descended on the boy to perform
fellatio—lapping sloppily and sucking so vigorously that blood was forced to
fill the organ, causing a semi-erection that bobbled when Shawn attempted to
close his legs. The man watched him struggle for a moment, then moved away.
            Off-screen, there was a short sound of a fly unzipping, and a
rustle as the jeans were removed. And all too soon, the rapist was back,
shuffling across the mattress on his knees with his engorged penis in hand.
            He lazily pumped it a few times, then grasped Shawn’s face again.
Shawn, who had apparently relaxed when his captor moved away, jolted in
surprise, eyes fluttering open again in a panic. He was hardly given a chance
to gather his wits about him before the appendage was pushed into his slack
mouth until his nose was buried in the nestle of pubic hair, his head held in
place by a tight grip on both his jaw and hair. Shawn unsurprisingly gagged,
his neglected penis beginning to flag.
            “Ouch!” hissed the man, pulling out. Shawn gasped and coughed, red
in the face, drool and tears sliding down his cheeks. He received two hard
slaps to either thigh, dangerously close to his developing manhood—“No!
Biting!”
            Shawn seemed to give up in exhaustion then, falling slackly back
onto the nasty bed. The rapist reentered his slack mouth, and after a few
minutes of thrusting pulled out again, a shiny thread of saliva clinging to the
tip of his leaking head. As he moved away, the connection severed, drool
sliding down Shawn’s chin. The kid’s head rolled to one side, eyes roaming
unseeingly.
            Three fingers were shoved into Shawn’s mouth, wetting them. Then
they traveled down to the fork between the kid’s legs, and the camera was given
a view of the rapist pushing one of his captive’s knees up, giving him easy
access. He pushed his first finger inside and pumped it, slowly at first, but
gaining speed.
            Shawn made a noise in his throat, but was otherwise compliant,
chest heaving laboriously.
            A second finger was forced inside, and the pedophile began to
scissor them, stretching the orifice.
            This time the kid squirmed, trying to move away. But the rapist was
not fazed. He calmly pulled out his appendages and reached behind him, dragging
the tripod to a new position. Then he draped Shawn’s leg over his shoulder and
used the leverage to reenter his two fingers. The sensation appeared to revive
Shawn, who renewed his struggles.
            His rapist merely shushed him and continued, move his fingers
faster. Then he added the third finger, which elicited a short sob. Shawn tried
to drag himself away, the corner of the mattress he had grabbed to aid him
lifting off the floor and upsetting his balance. It flopped back down with a
springy noise.
            After a minute or two, the attacker removed the intruding fingers,
instead moving his hand to fondle Shawn’s genitals as though meant to be a
soothing gesture. The sudden lack of pain had made Shawn relax, but he trembled
like a leaf, rolling and bucking his hips uncomfortably whenever his sensitive
organ was squeezed or pulled too hard—which, the detectives could see, only
enlivened the rapist’s member. It stuck straight out, rubbing grotesquely
against Shawn’s buttock whenever he moved in the slightest.
            Shawn grunted as he was flipped over, one knee bypassing the soft
mattress and smacking audibly against the cold concrete of the floor. The
rapist didn’t seem to notice or care, merely reached back for the camera and
pointed it downwards to show Shawn struggling to get up, pushing himself onto
his hands and knees. Once he was fairly in the position to crawl away, the
rapist lined himself up, pressing the tip of his fully erect penis to Shawn’s
anus. He diverted his hand to the kid’s hip to hold him in place, then shoved
himself in roughly, sending his captive sprawling forward onto his elbows with
a cry.
            His sobbing began anew, but this time his would-be killer didn’t
bother comforting him. He pulled out agonizingly slowly, and spit several times
along his length for lubrication before he started to rut. The pace was slow
and steady for a few seconds, but quickly built up to punishing speed and
intensity. Shawn, too weak to hold himself up against the onslaught, put one
hand behind him in a feeble attempt to buffer the sharp snap of hips, but to no
avail.
           Lassiter didn’t think he would be able to take any more. Somehow,
though the atrocities committed against the boys were inconceivably evil, it
seemed so much worse when it was Shawn Spencer, psychic detective on the
receiving end of it. The head detective wouldn’t wish such a thing on his worst
enemy. His jaw tightened, teeth creaking under the pressure.
            Juliet beside him was freely crying. Lassiter felt like joining her
(but, of course, he didn’t).
            But finally!
            The masked rapist pulled out completely and sat back on his
haunches. He easily flipped the teen onto his back, then cupped his own testes
with one hand and pumped his erection with the other. Shawn lay shivering, eyes
scrunched closed and leaking tears. The pedophile moaned as he ejaculated at
last, splattering semen over Shawn’s genitals. He stroked himself firmly
several times to get the most out of his orgasm, then leaned forward and kissed
Shawn tenderly.
            “Well done, beautiful,” he said, patting Shawn’s cheek. “You did so
good. You were so good. My favorite.”
            The man stepped off the bed and into his pants. His footsteps
receded, leaving the camera on Shawn.            A horrible chill ran up
Lassiter’s spine, hairs raising on the back of his neck. The syringe was
coming. He knew it.
            The teenage Shawn struggled into an upright position, looking
absolutely wrecked. Tear tracks stained his red, blotchy cheeks, and saliva
both dried and wet clung to his lips and chin, as well as a few red spots of
blood where he might have bitten his lip. Without bothering to wipe himself of
the drying semen, Shawn picked up his discarded pants and yanked them on with
difficulty.
            Fast footsteps grew louder, and Shawn hastily stood, trembling like
a newborn fawn.
            “Now, Shawn, lie down. Be a good boy.” A hand on Shawn’s shoulder
attempted to push him gently back down to the mattress, but he desperately
shook his head, eyes wide and terrified.
            “Lemme guh!” was all that he managed to slur. When he was shoved
back down, he let out a blood-curdling scream that caused the audio to go
fuzzy, and kicked and flailed. The rapist grasped his throat with one hand,
cutting it off and holding him down at once, with the syringe held aloft in his
other hand.
            “Stop that,” he grunted. “Shawn, I mean it, this is—Ohh!” Shawn’s
knee made direct contact with the fork between his rapist’s legs, causing him
to lose his grips on Shawn and on the syringe and to bend double.
            Shawn, with his eyes squeezed shut, didn’t realize his success and
continued fighting. He twisted his body in such a way that his elbow slammed
into the man’s temple, knocking him out cold.
            The kid rolled off the mattress, and the shock of the cold floor
seemed to break off his struggling long enough for him to see that he had won.
He stumbled to his feet, gasping and crying pitifully, and staggered out of the
camera’s view. There was a fumbling sound, a faraway cry of relief, and the
unmistakable creak of an opening door.
            Shawn, unlike the other boys, escaped.
           Of course, the detectives had expected that, considering that he was
a walking and talking presence on a daily basis at the station. They quietly
agreed that Shawn had kept it a secret for some reason, hidden it so well that
even his very observant father hadn’t seen the trauma. It was not an unexpected
response: most victims of such crimes, especially males, never reported them—at
least, not when it mattered. But Shawn would have to be confronted. Not only
was his testimony invaluable in court, but it was important to his own mental
health as well.
            The detectives went home and fell into bed for whatever rest they
could manage.
            They had a psychic to confront in the morning.
***** Part Two *****
                                   Part Two
            “Hello?” Juliet called as she walked into the Psych office. “Shawn,
are you here?”
            “Jules!” he said happily as she stepped through the main doorway
with Lassiter in tow. “Lassie! Welcome to my office. Come in, come in, please!”
            Juliet gave him a smile that she hoped was normal. Her senior
partner, of course, did not smile down at the psychic detective, who was
lounging on the floor with a throw pillow from the couch tucked under his chest
for support.
            “Can I interest you both in a game of marbles? I have to warn you,
though: I’m winning. I’m ahead of myself by nearly fifty points.”
            “Where’s Guster?” Lassiter asked.
            “Learning how to rope good, hard-working people into the drug
industry,” Shawn replied flippantly, staring intensely at the game before him.
            “So, a conference,” Juliet said, raising an amused eyebrow.
            “I’ve heard it both ways.”
            “Spencer,” Lassiter said, tone all business. “We need to talk to
you about—“
            “Hey,” he interrupted, shooting a big marble into the cluster and
breaking it, “are you guys in or no? You can still catch up if you try hard
enough.”
            “Spencer, we—“
            “These green ones are worth five points because they’re pretty. But
the clear ones are only worth half a point because obviously they didn’t try
hard enough. No participation trophies.”
            The detectives were silent for a moment, and Shawn did not try to
explain anything further—so he was merely trying to evade the topic that he
knew was coming. There was a tightness around his shadowed eyes and mouth that
bespoke a night of troubling thoughts.
            So Juliet slipped out of her heels and sat down, grateful that
she’d chosen that day to wear slacks rather than a skirt. She picked up one of
the big marbles with the swirl of color inside the glass. She looked up at
Lassiter meaningfully, who returned with an incredulous look. After a short
facial expression battle, Lassiter relented (well, lost) and joined them after
snagging a couch cushion.
            “How do we play?” he asked grudgingly, picking up the nearest big
marble.
            Juliet and Shawn gave him a scandalized look. He scowled.
            “Traditionally,” Shawn said slowly, as though speaking to a child,
“you’re supposed to have a circle with ten or thirteen marbles. But I put
eighty in there so the game lasts longer and the stakes are higher. These big
marbles are called shooters. You hold it like this,” he demonstrated squeezing
the shooter between his thumb and the first knuckle of his forefinger, “and aim
it at the marble circle. You want to knock as many out of the circle as you can
in one try, and whatever ones get knocked out are yours. Whoever has the most
points at the end wins.”
            “It requires great skill, Carlton,” Juliet added. “Skill that you
won’t have, seeing how you’ve never played Ringer before.”
            “Jules, this isn’t Ringer. It’s Marbles.”
            “In Miami we call it Ringer, ‘cause the marbles are in a circle.”
            “But do you see a circle, Jules?”
            “It’s imaginary, Shawn.”
            “It’s—Jules, as long as you’re in my house we’re calling it
Marbles.”
            “This isn’t your house.”
            Lassiter rolled his eyes. “All right! Let’s just get started. I’ll
show you who’s got skills, O’Hara. You’re both going down.”
            Shawn grinned. “Don’t count your cows before they hatch,
Lassifrass.”
            “You mean chickens.”
            “I’ve heard it both ways.”
            “Who’s going first?” Juliet asked.
            Shawn gestured to her. “Prettiest goes first, so it’s you, me, and
then Lassie with his strong Irish hairline.”
            Juliet adjusted the marble in her hand and aimed it at the cluster.
A sharp squeeze sent the ball shooting, and several clacks sounded as the
marbles struck. She reached forward to retrieve her shooter and the three she
had displaced.
            “Nice one!” Shawn said. Then he hunkered down toward the floor,
lining up his now serious gaze and his own shooter. It snapped forward.
            The junior detective made an amazed noise in her throat as eleven
marbles detached from their group and rolled away. “That was so cool, Shawn!”
she said genuinely. “I’ve never seen one shot take so many before.”
            The pseudo-psychic grinned swiftly. “I know.”
            “All right, all right,” Lassiter said. “It’s my turn.”
            He glared angrily at the shooter in his hand, and then at the ring
of balls. He shot it.
            The shooter skimmed the edge of the cluster, knocking one of place,
and then rolled away under Shawn’s desk. Shawn reached out to stop its progress
and handed it back to Lassiter, who was frowning severely.
            “Don’t worry Det. Grumpypants,” Shawn said cheerfully. “You’ll get
the hang of it.”
            Juliet took her turn, successfully gaining several more, while
Shawn took more than should have been possible without a physics degree.
Lassiter did better on his next turn. So they played on, mostly in silence but
occasionally egging each other on, with Lassiter growing more competitive the
more marbles he earned.
            But, of course, Shawn won easily.
            “Whatever,” Lassiter said irritably. “It’s a stupid children’s
game. I don’t know why I played it with you two! O’Hara, you should have known
better than to get drawn into it.”
            Shawn and Juliet only laughed at him.
            The Head Detective grudgingly rolled his eyes and began to gather
up his marbles. Shawn produced an empty cookie tin which had been scribbled all
over in variously colored marker, and read in a childish scribble: Gus and
SHaWN’S MaRbLeS!
            For a moment there was only the musical sound of marbles falling
into the tin.
            The atmosphere grew heavy again.
            “Shawn…” Juliet tried as he pressed the lid over his box.
            He said nothing and did not look over, apparently intently focused
on making sure his marbles were safely secured.
            Again, Lassiter and Juliet shared a look.
            They knew they needed to establish a safe environment for Shawn so
he would feel comfortable enough to talk, but what could be safer than his own
office? Lassiter made a motion that he would leave them alone, but Juliet shook
her head frantically. Another facial battle, one to rival those of Shawn and
Gus, ensued.
            “Look,” Shawn said sharply, interrupting them. He wore a more
serious expression than either detective was used to. Then he seemed a bit
taken aback, and a little irritated. The psychic averted his gaze, still
frowning, and said, “Don’t look at me like that.”
            The detectives didn’t know how else to look, and tried on a
different face—Lassiter attempted to make himself look less severe than usual,
while Juliet opted to try a more neutral expression—that only served to make
them both look uncomfortable and awkward.
            Shawn blew out a frustrated sigh. “It was my fault, I know. I
should have…I was supposed to…Never mind. Anyway, you want my testimony. I’ll
give it. But not right now.”
            Neither Juliet nor Lassiter had expected to hear self-blame from
Shawn. She opened her mouth to refute it, but her senior partner beat her to
the punch and exclaimed, “Sweet justice, Spencer, why didn’t you tell anyone?”
            “Carlton!” Juliet hissed.
            Shawn fixated him with a glare that bordered and hurt and bitter.
“Didn’t tell anyone?” he repeated, with a harsh laugh that did not suit his
character at all. “Why don’t you ask the head detective of the SBPD from ’90 to
’95? See what he remembers from that night. Let him lecture you about stranger
danger and responsibility and his—and his stupid reputation! I’m the victim,
but he—“ his jaw clicked shut as he seemed to realize that he had just
incriminated an officer of the law, but he couldn’t unsay what had been said.
            After a terse moment of silence in which the detectives reeled,
Shawn quietly turned on his heel and walked away to the back of the office. A
moment later they heard the bathroom door shut, and the faint sound of running
water.
            Lassiter gritted his teeth. If there was one thing he hated more
than anything, it was a bad cop. “Come on, O’Hara.”
            Juliet followed obediently, clearly upset.
                                      ###
            They all had on their poker faces.
            Lassiter and Juliet sat on one side of the cold interrogation
table, while former SBPD Head Detective Henry Spencer took the remaining chair,
meeting their stares straight on. All three of them ignored the tape recorder
in the center of the table.
            At last, he broke the silence. “You gonna tell me what this is
about, detectives?” The lightness of his tone belied annoyance at the
unexplained interruption of his workday.
            Juliet spoke, voice crisp and clear, “Mr. Spencer, do you recall
one afternoon in which you were late picking up your son from his dance
practice?”
            The elder Spencer’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and a wry chuckle
left his lips. “Well, Detective, there were many such afternoons. You’ll have
to be more specific.”
            “Perhaps when you arrived, Shawn was not waiting at the school for
you.”
            “Ah,” he said, rolling his eyes and running a palm over his balding
head. “Yes, yes, I remember that night.”
            Before either detective could ask him another question, he
continued without humor:
            “Listen, I don’t know what Shawn told you, but he probably
dramatized the entire thing. I’m telling you that everything that happened was
his fault, not anyone else’s.”
            For a moment, Lassiter and Juliet could only gape at him
incredulously. Henry folded his arms over his broad chest challengingly.
            “Did you report anything?” Lassiter demanded, eyebrows making a V
over widened eyes.
            “No,” Henry responded gruffly. “No, I didn’t, Detective. I had a
reputation to uphold, and if people knew that my kid had been involved in that
sort of thing, how would it reflect on me?”
            Seeing that Henry was entering dangerous territory with her
partner, Juliet cut in, legs shaking beneath the table. “Why don’t you just
start from the beginning? For the recorder.”
            He gave a put-upon sigh. “There’s really not much to tell,
Detective,” he said. “I was late picking him up from his little dancing
practice, and when I got there he wasn’t waiting on the curb like he was
supposed to be. So I hunted all over the school for him, and he wasn’t there.
Of course, I assumed he’d gotten a ride home from one of his friends and didn’t
call me, and I went home, but he wasn’t there, either.
            “I waited up for hours, long past dark. No phone call, no nothing.
            “And then he finally came stumbling in around three in the morning,
no shoes or bag, and threw up on the brand-new rug. And wouldn’t you be pissed
off?
            “This is probably the part that Shawn exaggerated, but I can
promise you that it’s nowhere near as bad as he made it sound. I shouted at
him, and yeah, smacked him once to make him stop gibbering whatever nonsense
excuse he was making. Then I put him in a cold shower, got rid of his
disgusting clothes, and tucked him into bed.
            “Shawn was sick for a few days afterward—no surprise since he’s
never been able to handle his alcohol—dramatically claiming to be so very ill
that he couldn’t even walk. Obviously that’s not team behavior, so I made him
apologize to his dance team and quit since he wasn’t responsible enough to be a
part of it. I banned him from any and all teams until such time that he could
prove himself worthy of them, and he never put in any effort, so he missed his
chance. His fault.”
            Finished, Henry sat back and made a shrugging gesture as though to
say that he’d done nothing wrong.
            Both detectives were staring at him, shocked and appalled.
            “No wonder he’s so messed up!” Lassiter exclaimed, forgetting the
recorder. For once, he was completely on the pseudo-psychic’s side.
            Henry frowned. “Excuse me?!”
            “How could you?” Juliet demanded, finding her voice. “How could you
punish your son for something like that?”
            Affronted, Henry turned on her. “What would you do if your child
directly disobeyed you, got drunk at a party, and apparently had such a good
time that he’d made a mess in his underpants?”
            Lassiter and Juliet froze, anger dissipating into confusion.
            “Shawn told you he was at a party?”
            The elder Spencer squared his shoulders. “No, but he didn’t need
to. I’m not an idiot. I can piece together evidence just fine, thank you.”
            Lassiter took a deep, calming breath, while Juliet put her face in
her hand.
            “You didn’t listen to him,” she said.
            By that time Henry was beginning to feel a bit misunderstood. “What
are you talking about?”
            The partners shared a look. “Excuse us for a minute.”
            To Henry’s outrage, he was left alone in the room. He frowned and
tried to replay everything he remembered of that night, tried to make sense of
the noises that had been spilling from Shawn’s lips. Obviously he’d missed
something important.
            “What do we tell him?” Juliet asked, worrying her bottom lip. “He’s
completely misinterpreted the entire situation.”
            “We can’t keep the truth from him,” Lassiter said. “If we’re taking
this bastard to trial, Henry will find out about it, especially considering his
son is involved.”
            “But we can’t just walk in there and tell him that Shawn was r…you
know!”
            “Damn it, O’Hara, we have to!”
            “Have to what, Detectives?” asked a voice behind them.
            They turned, startled, to see Chief Vick standing with a cup of
coffee, blowing gently to cool it before taking a sip. She raised an
intimidating eyebrow when they hesitated.
            “Well,” Lassiter said, “it’s about the child pornography case,
Chief, and our…findings.”
            She glanced at the closed door past them and made a shrew guess.
“Questioning our surviving vic’s father?”
            “Yes, ma’am.”
            “If I know Henry,” she said, “he’ll find out eventually, whether
anyone tells him or not. Perhaps in this situation, words aren’t your best
course of action.”
            “What do you mean?” Juliet frowned.
            The Chief only gave the pair a meaningful look, then continued on
her way.
            Once she was out of earshot, Lassiter said quietly, “We’re going to
show him the evidence.”
            “The video?” Juliet confirmed. “But that’s way against policy.”
            “He’s going to find it one way or another,” Lassiter argued
wearily. “Might as well get it over with. We can leave him in the room alone
for a while, let him sort through…”
            They stood contemplatively, both trying to think of an easier way
to break the terrible news to their coworker. But there was none.
            It would be a blow to Henry to find out what had really happened,
and neither detective wanted to deliver it. The all-knowing Chief had
understood this before they had, and had offered them a get out of jail free
card with the DVD.
            Juliet opened the door. “Mr. Spencer,” she said, and he looked up.
“Come with us, please.”
            He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
            Lassiter led the way to the evidence room and located the correct
video to put in the player, while Juliet placed a rolling chair in front of the
television. Henry felt sharp fingernails raking his insides, but said, “I have
better things to do than watch teenagers drink and paw at each other,
Detectives.”
            “You’ll want to sit down, Mr. Spencer,” Juliet told him gently.
            “We’ll be in the bull pen,” Lassiter said, handing him the remote.
“It autoplays.”
            With that, the detectives were gone.
            Of course they pitied him, but neither felt too sympathetically
toward the man. Shawn had lived with the terrible demon that was victim-blaming
for over fifteen years.
            Lassiter and Juliet, finding nothing to speak about, went to their
respective desks and busied themselves. They worked especially hard on putting
together their reports on the case. With the only evidence being the masked man
in the video, Shawn’s future testimony, and the fact that their perp was in
possession of the videos, they had a good chance of persecution. Whether the
man in custody was the rapist himself was yet to be determined, and would be
difficult to do, unless Shawn could positively identify him (which Lassiter
believed he could, considering his reaction to seeing the “bad man” the
previous day). They also still needed to find out who the other boys were, and
whether their bodies had been found—any evidence found on them could
incriminate the rapist, and it might provide DNA for comparison.
            It was long after the run time of the DVD that Henry reemerged from
downstairs, looking haggard and ten years older. He made his way over to the
detectives, who respectfully stood.
            “He’s been arrested?” he asked.
            “The man in possession of pornography is in custody,” Lassiter
informed him. “We have yet to determine whether he is the man in the video, but
either way he will be prosecuted.”
            Henry nodded wearily, and without another word turned and strode
away.
            Lassiter followed him with his sharp gaze to be sure that Henry
didn’t go down to the holding cells to exact old-fashioned justice, but Henry
just clocked out early and left the station, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. He
and his junior partner went back to work.
                                      ###
            At the end of the day, Lassiter had offered Juliet a ride home,
which she gratefully accepted. He, on the other hand, came to regret it,
because she wanted to talk about feelings, which he, as a manly man, did not
like.
            “Poor Shawn,” she sighed.
            He grunted noncommittally, trying to avoid the subject.
            Juliet was persistent. “I can’t believe Henry didn’t listen to him.
Shawn couldn’t have been more than fifteen…He hadn’t been through puberty when
it happened. He was just a kid.”
            “I feel bad for him, O’Hara, but there’s no point in being all sad
about it now,” Lassiter said firmly. “The best we can do is catch the bastard
and bring him to justice.”
            “Yeah,” she agreed. There was silence for a moment as Lassiter
slowed for a red light and made a right turn. When the car picked up speed
again, she started anew. “I just feel so awful, Carlton. Maybe we should get
Shawn a pineapple.”
            Lassiter mentally counted to ten, as his therapist had told him. “I
think he’s got enough pineapples, O’Hara.”
            “I’ll buy him some chocolate-chip pancakes tomorrow morning,” she
said. “If I get up early enough, I can—oh, but he might still be sleeping,
because I’d have to get there by six if I want to get to work on time.”
            “O’Hara, I don’t think Spencer would want your pancakes of pity.”
            “It’s not pity! I just want to do something nice for him.”
            “He’ll see it as pity, O’Hara. The only other time you’ve gotten
him something was after he got shot. That was a milkshake of pity.”
            “Do you think I should wait a few days, then?” she asked. “Because
he really likes pancakes, and—“ She was cut off by the shrill ring of her
phone, which she hurriedly dug out of her pocket and checked. “It’s Shawn,” she
said, slightly surprised. “Hello?”
            Lassiter pulled into the parking lot of Juliet’s apartment complex
and put the car in park. He sat back and listened to Juliet, frowning when her
voice changed to one of concern.
            “Shawn?” she asked. “Are you all right? You sound, um, sick.”
            There was a pause as she listened to him.
            “No, Shawn, no, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. No
one is going to make you testify, okay?”
            Lassiter frowned. Shawn’s testimony was critical to the case, but
it was impossible to force it out of him. They could probably made do without
it, though prosecution would be considerably weakened.
            “Where are you, Shawn?...Okay, what are you…What are you doing,
Shawn? What’s that noise?” Juliet asked, raising her voice slightly so that
Shawn would hear her over whatever the sound was.
            Her partner was growing more anxious by the second, glaring at her
with eyes that demanded to know what was going on. But he didn’t interrupt,
seeing as she was having difficulty hearing the man on the other line.
            “Shawn, you don’t have a foosball table at your apartment.” Another
short pause. “Shawn, what are you doing? Seriously, what’s that
sound?...Shawn?”
            She called his name several more times, but from the alarmed look
she gave Lassiter, he surmised that he was no longer answering. Wordlessly,
Lassiter reversed the car and peeled out of the lot in the direction of Shawn’s
place.
            Juliet continued saying Shawn’s name into her phone, occasionally
checking that she still had connection, as though she thought perhaps there
were something wrong with the speaker. When a couple of minutes had passed and
she still had not gotten a response, Lassiter rolled down his window and set
his flashing siren on the roof, picking up speed.
            They arrived at his apartment in record time. The windows were
dark, and for a split second Lassiter thought that Shawn might have lied about
being home. But they moved forward anyway.
            Juliet knocked on the door and called his name, but there was no
answer. She tried the doorknob, and found it unlocked.
            As they entered, the smell of alcohol and greasy food met them.
Lassiter ran his hand along the wall until he found the switch, and flicked the
lights on to reveal a mess. Beer cans and taco wrappers littered the floor and
covered the coffee table. Shawn was lying on the floor, slumped back against
the footrest of his La-Z-Boy recliner. His phone was in his hand, which rested
on the floor at his hip.
            While Juliet went to check on him, Lassiter counted the beer cans.
There were six cans, and about twelve taco wrappers. He wasn’t surprised when
his partner said that Shawn did not display any symptoms of alcohol poison. He
was slightly annoyed that they’d rushed over for him when it was nothing
serious, but decided to cut him a break considering the circumstances.
            “Spencer, wake up,” he said, shaking him.
            Shawn roused, bleary-eyed and cranky. “Wha’?” he murmured, swatting
Juliet’s hands away from his face.
            “Get up. You’ll be more comfortable in your bed.” Lassiter stooped
down and tugged encouragingly on his arm.
            “ ‘M fine,” Shawn said, trying to curl up on the floor again.
            “No, you don’t,” the head detective said, pulling more insistently.
            “Stooop.”
            “Come on, Shawn,” Juliet tried. “Come to bed.”
            “Nooo, listen,” Shawn slurred. “M’dad’s a p’lice ossifer, so leave
me ‘lone.” Then he made himself comfortable again, dropping his phone with a
clatter.
            Juliet sat back on her heels, frustrated, but Lassiter was having
none of it. Shawn would have to be manhandled to his bed, which was about ten
feet away.
            “Get his legs,” he said shortly, squatting behind Shawn and looping
his arms around the younger man’s chest. Juliet gripped the backs of his knees
and lifted as Lassiter did. Shawn had slipped back into sleep and did not
protest the movement.
            Together they maneuvered him into his bed and rolled him into the
recovery position just in case. Juliet flipped the blanket over him, then
retrieved his phone from the floor and brought it back to his bedside table to
plug into the charger. Lassiter went to the back and found a clean glass to
fill with water, and spotted a bottle of aspirin on the counter, from which he
took two. As Juliet texted Shawn that he could call her if he wanted to talk,
Lassiter brought the medicine and water and set them on the night stand next to
the phone.
            Juliet nodded approvingly at his kindness, and they left quietly so
that he could sleep it off peacefully.
            As Lassiter was giving her a ride home (again), it occurred to
Juliet that Gus probably didn’t know. Considering that his own father, a police
officer, had blamed him for what had happened, Shawn probably hadn’t told
anyone, not even his mother. Despite it having been a tragic misunderstanding
on the elder Spencer’s part, Juliet felt extremely angry at Henry. She was sure
that if he had listened to his son, Shawn would have gotten immediately help,
the rapist would have been caught, and those poor boys who came after Shawn
would still be alive.
            She took a breath and calmed herself. It was in the past, and Henry
probably felt badly enough for all of them.
            Her thoughts turned instead to the beginning of the video, of how
happy Shawn had looked during the dance practice, how wonderful he’d been at
it. She wondered what kind of person he’d have been if he’d been allowed to
remain on the team—if he’d have wanted to stay on, after all that. He really
was a good dancer.
            She decided that she’d ask him to go dancing with her sometime.
***** Part Three *****
                                  Part Three
            The next morning, Juliet half expected to have gotten a call or a
text from Shawn, but none came. As the day creeped on and the sun traversed the
sky into afternoon, she still had not gotten anything. She was beginning to
consider asking Lassiter if they should check on him during their lunch break,
because surely he would have woken up by then, even if it was with a raging
hangover.
            But then Shawn popped up in the bull pen with a pineapple smoothie
in hand, a giant pair of carnival sunglasses balanced precariously on his face,
and speaking loudly into his cell phone. As he came closer, it became apparent
that he was arguing with Gus about something, but when he noticed that Lassiter
and Juliet (as well as several other officers) were staring at him, he said,
“I’ve heard it both ways. Ooh, gotta go. Lassie and Jules need me for something
important!”
            He pressed the end call button, cutting off the indistinct gabble
of Gus’ voice, and beamed at his friends. “I could feel you thinking about me,”
he said, as though to explain his presence. Shawn removed the glasses from his
face and folded one leg into the collar of his shirt, revealing tired bags
under his eyes.
            Juliet managed to return the smile, though she was slightly
confused at Shawn’s behavior. He was acting as though nothing had happened,
even though one could tell just be looking at him that something was wrong.
Lassiter, on the other hand, gave the psychic his usual scowl.
            “Oh,” Shawn said, catching the glare, “and that reminds me.”
            He set the condensating smoothie down on Lassiter’s casework and
dug into his pocket. Shawn pulled out a thick wad of paper that had been folded
one too many times, and opened it to reveal that it was actually several pages
together, written on front to back. He used the edge of Lassiter’s desk to
smooth out the creases.
            Both detectives then looked more curious than anything else.
            Shawn handed the papers to Lassiter and then picked up his smoothie
again to take a long, obnoxious slurp. As the detective skimmed the messy
scrawl, squinting at the places where the ink had smudged, Shawn’s eyes darted
about the room.
            “This is—“ Lassiter started, eyebrows drawn together.
            “My dad’s not here?” Shawn asked, raising his eyebrows casually. “I
didn’t think he had the day off.”
            They glanced over to see that Henry’s desk was devoid of his
presence.
            “Well,” Juliet said awkwardly, “we…well…”
            “Ah,” Shawn said, nodding once. “Anyway, I’ve got to go run some
errands. If Gus really wanted me to take care of the plants in his apartment he
should have left explicit instructions to do so—how was I supposed to know they
need to be watered twice a day? Don’t lose those, Lassifrass. I worked on them
all day.”
            With that, he flounced off to buy Gus some new house plants.
            Juliet looked at her senior partner inquiringly as he frowned down
at the papers. He didn’t doubt for a second that it had taken several agonizing
hours to write.
            “It’s his statement,” he supplied when her gaze became more
intense. “We’ll be able to put this guy away for a long, long time, even if we
can’t pin him for murder.”
            Her expression became a cross between relieved and pitying, and
Lassiter was sure that he looked the same.
                                      ###
            When Shawn put his mind to it, he was a really good cook.
            But Henry wasn’t going to lecture his son about it, and didn’t even
say anything when Shawn used the fish spatula for the steaks he was cooking on
the stove. In fact, Henry felt more like an inanimate object than anything
else, or perhaps a really disgusting slug. Yeah, that sounded about right.
            It had been a day since he’d watched that horrendous film, seen his
son violated in that every-parent’s-worst-nightmare sort of way, heard his son
crying as it happened. Shawn wasn’t one to cry helplessly, so that was a sure
sign that Shawn had known, despite his drugged and disoriented state, what had
been going on, that he knew he was probably going to be killed when the deed
was done, that he was scared witless—and rightfully so.
            Henry hadn’t been there to stop it, hadn’t even helped him after
his escape.
            The longer he thought about it, the more vivid his memories of that
day became.
            He’d been late picking Shawn up from dance practice not because of
his job, but because he was standing around talking with his partner, laughing
about something he couldn’t even remember, while his son was being drugged and
kidnapped. While his son was being (he shuddered to even think of the word)
raped, Henry was at home watching TV, eating a microwave dinner. While Shawn
had fought and stumbled to freedom, no shoes or jacket in the cold night,
possibly with no idea at first where he was and the terrifying feeling that he
was being followed, Henry had stewed more in anger than in worry, thought up
appropriate punishments that ranged from a grounding to a good old-fashioned
spanking. When Shawn had finally arrived home, looking like shit on the bottom
of his shoe, Henry had slapped him hard enough to leave a red mark on his
cheek, had hauled him around roughly by the back of his dirty shirt, had stuck
him in a cold shower that had made Shawn shriek like he was being burned and
writhe and try to escape the stream of water, had practically thrown him into
his bed and ordered him to sleep it off, to lie down and be good for once in
your damned life, had ignored the faint sound of his son crying down the hall
when he’d gone to bed himself. Henry had thrown away all the evidence, had told
Shawn to shut up, that it had been his own fault that any of it had happened,
that he had deserved the punishment Henry meted out. He’d never told Maddie
when she’d returned from her work trip, and apparently neither had Shawn.
            Henry had thought that Shawn was entering his teenage rebellious
phase with a bang, as he was wont to do things, hadn’t even realized that Shawn
was acting out more than ever in an attempt to get attention, maybe even
sympathy from his negligent (borderline abusive) father. Over the years, the
act had become his nature.
            Henry was the one at fault.
            He’d pushed Shawn headfirst over the line that had eventually led
to Shawn buying a death trap of a vehicle and driving off, not to speak to him
for a decade.
            Idly he tried to remember what it was that Maddie had told him
about people who had been traumatized at a young age. Something about
revictimization, in which the victim unconsciously sought out similar traumas
to that first one. He felt sick, wondering how much of Shawn’s acting out was
just to get a rise out of Henry in order to reproduce that night when his
father had victim-blamed him. And then he really thought he might vomit when he
wondered whether Shawn had sought out a relationship with a man to reproduce
the r—no, he wouldn’t think of it.
            So caught up in his miserable thoughts he didn’t even notice that
Shawn had finished cooking until he set a plate in front of him. Shawn sat on
the other side of the table, chair scraping noisily across the floor.
            Henry glanced down at his plate. Everything was in perfect order:
steak juicy and cooked just the way he liked it, none of the vegetables
touching, the brown gravy dolloped into a small valley in the mound of potatoes
so that it didn’t bleed everywhere. Shawn was already eating,
uncharacteristically quiet. The only thing he’d said upon his surprise visit
was, “You’re a mess, Dad. I can’t do this with you right now. Go take a
shower.” And then he’d meandered into the kitchen, leaving a hungover, stubbly,
and sour-breathed Henry blinking on the couch where he’d fallen asleep the
previous night. He’d done as his son asked, then joined him in the kitchen and
watched him prepare their meal.
            They ate in silence, the only sound being the clinking of
silverware on ceramic, the soft thunk of a glass being set down after a sip.
The quiet was nearly overwhelming, suffocating, and Henry had the idea that
this was what it was like for Shawn, that this was why he constantly filled
silence with inane chatter or some obnoxious noise. He wondered if that
aversion to silence he’d always had had been compounded by what had happened.
            He had to break it.
            “It’s good,” he told Shawn.
            Shawn nodded absently. “I used your fish spatula. You should
consider the benefits of using labeled things for activities unrelated to their
specified uses. Chainsaws make good hedge clippers, and Styrofoam packing chips
work just as well as ball pit balls, but my managers didn’t seem inclined to
agree with that, or that kid’s parents.”
            Henry halfheartedly rolled his eyes. The image of a helpless,
fourteen year old Shawn’s eyes rolling as he struggled to stay conscious
flashed through his mind, and Henry fought the sudden urge to be sick.
            “Bone in your corn?”
            He looked up at the teasing question to see Shawn smirking at him,
but there was a not quite hidden tension in his shoulders, a tightness around
his almost wary eyes. And Henry realized that some part of Shawn fully expected
for Henry to blame him still for what had happened, for Henry to believe that
Shawn should have seen it coming somehow, that Shawn could have prevented it.
That Shawn had deserved it.
            The elder Spencer set his fork down, knowing that he wouldn’t be
able to eat any more. It turned to ash in his mouth.
            Shawn tracked the movement with his eyes, aware that some kind of
lecture was coming. Henry watched Shawn brace himself for a verbal lashing, and
it broke his heart.
            “I am so sorry,” he said, his voice coming out like a rush of wind
through dry leaves.
            Shawn seemed taken aback, fork held loosely and forgotten in the
hand that rested on the table. He still looked wary, definitely uncomfortable,
but it was clear that Shawn needed to hear his father vindicate him. There was
that familiar spark of hope in his eyes, the same look he’d gotten as a child
when he wanted to be praised for something. The very look that was often
clouded over with disappointment when Henry had instead found something to
criticize. But he couldn’t let his son down. Not now. Not this time.
            Henry forced his voice out of his too-tight throat, desperate to
alleviate his son at least in this small way.
            “I should have listened to you, Shawn. I should have looked for you
at the school and asked around to see if anyone saw you leave. I should have
picked you up on time. I should have been there, Shawn. But I wasn’t. Ifailed
you. Shawn, it wasn’t your fault. How could it be? If I could go back, I’d…It
was not your fault.” He bit back the ‘son’ that nearly rolled off his tongue.
How dare he, Henry, insinuate that he was any kind of father?
            Fathers didn’t make mistakes like that.
            Shawn was staring at him with wide eyes, his breathing a bit quick.
Henry felt a crushing weight in his throat, but he swallowed the lump back,
willed his tears to stay. He didn’t want to embarrass his son at such a crucial
moment, and hoped that he saw the popping vein not for anger, but for the
strain it was.
            And then Shawn grinned—not a fake one, he was sure—and he instantly
felt the crushing weight shift. He hoped it was enough for Shawn to start to
heal, to forget the truly awful things Henry had said and done.
            “Hey, Dad, the football game’s coming on. Let’s move it to the
couch before we miss all the home runs!” Shawn scooped up his dinner and rushed
out without a backwards glance, giving Henry a moment to compose himself.
            As he got up to follow his only child, the one he had come so close
to losing too many times to count, Henry shot off a quick prayer of thanks to
God that he’d been given this chance of redemption, and swore that he’d be a
better father even this late in life.
            He was so grateful that he didn’t tell Shawn that home runs were
baseball, not football, and he didn’t dare remind him that he hated watching
sports.
***** Epilog *****
                                    Epilog
            “Shawn, is there something you want to tell me?”
            Shawn, feet kicked up on his desk as he flicked through a copy of
Gus’ Safecracker magazine, glanced up at him, who had only returned from his
convention that evening. He pursed his lips faux-thoughtfully. “Hmmmm. No.”
            Gus narrowed his eyes. “There’s something different…I can feel it.”
            Shawn raised his eyebrows, appraising his best friend. “I don’t
know what you mean, buddy.”
            “Yes, you…” His eyes widened. “Did something happen while I was
gone?”
            “Yes, but it is nothing of import, honest! I only lost my marbles.”
            “Lost your—“
            Gus immediately looked concerned. He set his stuff down and moved
closer to Shawn, then proceeded to stare hard, as though judging the sincerity
of his words. He took in the dark rings under his friend’s eyes, the almost
grayish pallor of his skin. Shawn didn’t look sick exactly, but he certainly
appeared as though he’d gone through some sort of ordeal that had left him
exhausted.
            Shawn waved him off before he could take his temperature. “I’m
fine, Gus! Listen, the Chief is going to give us a case tomorrow, so we should
get a good night’s rest tonight. Ooh, will you hand me the remote?”
            Gus obliged, crossing the room to retrieve the TV remote, which was
on his desk. But as he turned, he suddenly slipped and landed hard on his back
with a sharp squeal of pain.
            The sound of a small marble rolling away was drowned out by Shawn’s
exuberant cry, “You found one of my marbles!”
            Gus groaned. “I think I bruised my coccyx again…”
 
                                     END.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!