Chapter 11: Weekend Warriors — Part 1
The reenactment grounds spread across a hillside in the Santa Barbara foothills, and the smoke from blank-firing muskets hung in the morning air like fog that had wandered in from the wrong century.
Gus parked the Blueberry between two pickup trucks with Confederate flag bumper stickers and grimaced.
"I have concerns."
"Historical concerns or personal safety concerns?"
"Both." He watched a group of men in blue uniforms march past with muskets shouldered. "Also hygiene concerns. Those wool uniforms can't be comfortable in July."
We found the crime scene near what the reenactors called "Artillery Hill" — a rise overlooking the main battlefield where the cannons were positioned. Yellow tape cordoned off a tent, and uniformed officers were interviewing men in period costumes who looked deeply uncomfortable talking to modern police.
And in the middle of it all, Carlton Lassiter was in his element.
I'd seen Lassiter work cases before. The man was competent, methodical, and absolutely convinced that psychic consultants were con artists who got in the way of real detective work. But this case was different. Lassiter moved through the reenactment grounds like someone who spoke the language, and based on the expression on his face, he actually did.
"The victim was part of the 45th Virginia Artillery Battalion," he was explaining to a uniformed officer. "That's a historically significant unit — they were at Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville. These reenactors take their accuracy seriously. The victim wouldn't have been assigned to that battery without passing their authentication requirements."
"Sir, I don't understand—"
"It means the victim knew what he was doing. This wasn't an accident caused by someone who didn't understand the equipment."
[CHARACTER OBSERVATION: LASSITER — GENUINE EXPERTISE DETECTED. CIVIL WAR HISTORICAL KNOWLEDGE: ADVANCED.]
I'd known from the show that Lassiter was a Civil War enthusiast. But watching him actually work a case in his specialty field was something else entirely. The man who treated every other investigation like a personal insult was animated, engaged, almost happy to be here.
"Shawn." Gus nudged my arm. "Are we going to introduce ourselves, or are you planning to lurk behind the artillery pieces all day?"
"Not yet."
"What?"
"This is his case." I kept my voice low. "Look at him. He knows this world, he speaks the language, and the witnesses trust him because he's not treating their hobby like it's ridiculous. If we barge in with psychic theatrics, we derail everything he's built."
Gus stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
"Since when do you care about derailing Lassiter?"
"Since I realized that making him look bad isn't the same as solving cases." I watched Lassiter interview another witness, his questions sharp and informed. "He's good at this, Gus. Actually good. And if we let him run point while we work the edges, we might actually build something useful."
[BCM UPDATE: 29/100. +2 FROM STRATEGIC PARTNERSHIP DISCUSSION.]
We circled the crime scene instead of crashing it. The victim — a man named Gerald Forsythe, age 52 — had died during a live-fire demonstration when a cannon misfired at close range. The official cause of death was "accident during historical recreation," but something had prompted SBPD involvement beyond the standard fatality report.
[SHAWN VISION ACTIVATING — MANUAL TRIGGER]
Three highlights. The cannon itself, where a particular scorch pattern suggested the firing angle had been wrong. A set of boot prints near the tent's back entrance that didn't match the standard reenactment footwear. And a uniform hung on a rack inside the cordoned area — a Union captain's jacket with fresh mud stains that contradicted the dry conditions of the reenactment field.
I memorized the highlights. Didn't announce them. Didn't perform.
"Gus, can you go help with the witness interviews? Lassiter's going to need someone to take statements, and you've got a face that makes people want to confide."
"What are you going to do?"
"Perimeter sweep. Look for anything the initial responders might have missed."
Gus headed toward the interview area while I worked the edges of the scene. The boot prints interested me most — heavy work boots, the kind you might wear on a construction site, not the period-appropriate leather that serious reenactors insisted on.
I photographed the prints without drawing attention. The system pinged a small assist XP bonus, acknowledging that I was contributing without claiming credit.
Juliet found me near the back of the artillery position, examining the mud stains on the Union captain's jacket through the tent's plastic window.
"Mr. Spencer." Her voice was professionally neutral. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Death at a reenactment? Unusual circumstances? Seems like exactly the kind of case that would benefit from a psychic consultation."
"Detective Lassiter seems to have the situation well in hand."
"He does." I stepped back from the tent. "That's why I'm staying out of his way. He knows this world better than I do. Why would I interfere?"
Juliet's expression did something subtle — the particular look of someone recalibrating assumptions.
"The boot print." She nodded toward the area I'd been photographing. "You noticed it."
"I noticed several things. The scorch pattern on the cannon, the boot prints, the mud on that jacket that shouldn't be there given the field conditions." I met her eyes. "I was going to mention them to you, actually. Let you bring them to Lassiter's attention. He'll take evidence from his partner more seriously than from the 'psychic fraud.'"
"Why would you do that?"
"Because solving the case matters more than who gets credit." The words came out more sincere than I'd intended. "And because Lassiter's good at his job, even if he doesn't believe I'm good at mine. Building his trust seems more productive than proving him wrong."
Juliet studied me for a long moment. I could practically see her making mental notes.
"The boot print." She pulled out her notebook. "Show me exactly where."
I walked her through the evidence. She documented it with the precision of someone who'd been trained well and learned fast. When we finished, she had three solid leads to bring to Lassiter — leads that would strengthen his investigation without anyone knowing where they'd originated.
"Detective O'Hara?" I stopped her before she walked away. "One more thing. The man wearing the Union captain's jacket — the one with the mud stains — his uniform doesn't fit him quite right. The sleeves are too long. It might not be his."
She wrote it down without comment. But her expression told me she understood the implication.
Someone at this reenactment was wearing borrowed clothes. And borrowed clothes, at a scene where a man had died, were the kind of detail that investigations pivoted on.
The afternoon dragged on. I watched from a distance as Lassiter worked the case with the particular intensity of someone who cared about the outcome personally. Gus returned from witness interviews with three pages of notes and a borrowed Union private's uniform that he was somehow now wearing.
"Don't ask," he said when I stared.
"I have so many questions."
"Don't. Ask."
[+5 NP — "GLORY" REFERENCE OPPORTUNITY DETECTED. BONUS FOR RESTRAINT: +1 NP.]
I took a photo instead. Set it as Shawn's phone wallpaper while Gus glared at me with the particular fury of a man who knew he'd never live this down.
"The case is stalling," I said, putting the phone away. "Lassiter has too many suspects and not enough evidence to narrow them down."
"Three men with boot prints that match the scene." Gus adjusted his borrowed uniform with visible discomfort. "Three men who had opportunity. All of them with grudges against the victim for various reenactment-society politics reasons."
"He's going to need help whether he wants it or not."
"And you're going to provide it?"
"I'm going to provide exactly as much help as he's willing to accept." I leaned against the Blueberry, watching Lassiter argue with another detective near the command tent. "This isn't about showing off. It's about getting him to acknowledge that I can be useful without making him feel like I'm stealing his cases."
Gus's expression shifted. "You're playing the long game."
"I'm playing the only game that matters." I pushed off from the car. "Come on. It's almost time for Detective Lassiter to swallow his pride."
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