Chapter 12: Weekend Warriors — Part 2
Lassiter stood at the edge of the crime scene with the particular posture of a man facing an obstacle he couldn't overcome through sheer willpower. Three suspects. All with motive, all with opportunity, and none with evidence strong enough to make an arrest stick.
I approached slowly, giving him time to notice me before I was in speaking range.
"Spencer." His voice carried the weight of a man pulling his own teeth. "You've been lurking around my crime scene all day."
"I prefer 'observing from a respectful distance.'"
"I prefer you weren't here at all." He turned to face me, and I saw something I hadn't expected — frustration mixed with something that might have been reluctant acceptance. "But you're here, and my case is stuck, and the chief is expecting results before the evening news cycle."
"Three suspects."
"Three suspects, all with grudges against Gerald Forsythe, all with access to the cannon battery, and none with alibis that hold up under pressure." Lassiter's jaw tightened. "I've got boot prints, mud stains, and a uniform that doesn't fit its wearer. But I can't prove which suspect matches which evidence."
"You want me to do a reading."
The words hung in the air between us. Carlton Lassiter, asking for psychic assistance. The particular taste of humble pie that he'd spent two weeks refusing to sample.
"I want you to do whatever it is you actually do." His eyes narrowed. "And if you tell anyone I asked for your help, I will personally ensure you never work with this department again."
"Understood."
I stepped toward the evidence layout that Lassiter had assembled on a folding table near the command tent. Three suspect photos. Three sets of evidence markers. The boot print castings, the mud sample analysis, and the Union captain's jacket with its telltale too-long sleeves.
[SHAWN VISION ACTIVATING — MANUAL TRIGGER]
The highlights were clearer this time, now that I knew what I was looking for. The boot prints belonged to Marcus Webb — the construction contractor who'd joined the reenactment society six months ago and whose work boots had been photographed at the crime scene. The mud came from a drainage ditch behind the artillery position — a spot where someone had crouched to tamper with the cannon's firing mechanism.
And the uniform didn't fit its wearer because it wasn't his. It belonged to the victim. Gerald Forsythe's captain's jacket, borrowed without permission by a man who wanted to get close enough to the cannon to sabotage it.
I touched my temple. Kept the performance restrained — no theatrics, no dramatic stumbling, just the quiet concentration of someone receiving information.
"I'm seeing a man whose uniform doesn't fit right." My voice was low enough that only Lassiter could hear. "The sleeves are too long because he borrowed it. The captain's jacket belonged to your victim. The man wearing it wanted access to the artillery position, and borrowing a dead man's clothes was the easiest way to get it without questions."
Lassiter's expression sharpened. "The jacket was on a rack inside the cordoned area—"
"It was on a rack because the killer put it there after he used it. Check the inside collar for DNA. I'm betting you'll find someone other than Gerald Forsythe wore that jacket on the day of the murder."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he pulled out his phone and called the forensics team.
The arrest happened two hours later.
Marcus Webb, the construction contractor, broke down during questioning when Lassiter presented the DNA evidence from the jacket collar. He'd been furious about a reenactment society decision that excluded him from the prestigious Artillery Battalion — a decision championed by Gerald Forsythe based on Webb's "lack of historical commitment." Webb had tampered with the cannon's firing mechanism, ensuring the next demonstration would result in a fatal misfire.
A man had died because someone took his hobby more seriously than human life.
The press gathered outside the reenactment grounds as uniformed officers escorted Webb to a patrol car. Lassiter stood at the center of the scene, fielding questions from reporters who wanted a statement from the lead detective.
"Detective Lassiter, how did you solve this case so quickly?"
I watched from beside the Blueberry, staying out of the camera angles. This was Lassiter's moment. His expertise, his investigation, his arrest. The fact that a psychic consultant had provided the crucial nudge was irrelevant to the story being told.
"The case was solved through standard detective work," Lassiter said, his voice carrying the particular satisfaction of someone who'd earned his victory. "Forensic evidence, witness interviews, and an understanding of the historical context that allowed us to identify inconsistencies in the suspect's story."
"What about the psychic detective? We heard Psych was involved in the investigation."
Lassiter paused. I could see him weighing options — the easy path of denial, the familiar comfort of dismissing me as a fraud who'd gotten in the way.
"Spencer provided a consultation." The words came out measured, each one costing him something. "The detective work was SBPD's."
Not a compliment. Not generous. But also not the dismissive contempt I'd come to expect.
[LASSIE TOLERANCE INDEX: SIGNIFICANT MILESTONE ACHIEVED][RELATIONSHIP UPDATE: LASSITER — "ACTIVE HOSTILITY" → "ANNOYED TOLERANCE"]
Gus appeared beside me, still wearing portions of his borrowed Union uniform.
"Did Lassiter just acknowledge your existence without calling you a con artist?"
"I believe he did."
"That might be the most impressive thing you've done since we started this partnership."
"I didn't do anything." I watched Lassiter continue his press statement with the particular polish of a detective who'd solved a case and gotten credit for it. "I stayed out of the way and let him work. The acknowledgment was his choice."
"Since when do you stay out of the way?"
"Since I realized that some victories are more valuable than others."
"Maybe I'm learning," I said instead. "Come on. Let's get you out of that uniform before someone thinks you're a deserter."
The drive back to the Psych office was quiet in the way that comfortable silences often were. Gus focused on the road while I stared out the window, processing what had happened.
Two weeks in Santa Barbara. Three solved cases. One Level 2 system milestone. And now, for the first time, a relationship with Carlton Lassiter that wasn't actively hostile.
The progress felt small. But small progress, compounded over time, built toward something bigger.
[CASE COMPLETE: CIVIL WAR REENACTMENT MURDER][XP EARNED: 48 (ASSIST CREDIT MODIFIER)][TOTAL XP: 187/300]
The notification scrolled across my peripheral vision. I dismissed it with a blink and kept watching the Santa Barbara hillsides roll past.
Forty-eight XP. Less than a full solve would have provided, but more than nothing. The assist credit modifier reflected what I'd actually contributed — a targeted nudge rather than a theatrical takeover.
We pulled into the Psych office parking lot just as the evening shadows started to stretch across the asphalt. I was reaching for the door handle when another notification appeared.
[XP THRESHOLD REACHED: 300/300][SYSTEM LEVEL UP: 2 → 3][NEW FEATURE UNLOCKED: SYSTEM SHOP]
I froze. The math didn't work — I'd just been at 187 XP, nowhere near the 300 needed for Level 3.
Then I remembered. The Baxter documents. The discovery at the storage unit. I'd reported them to Lassiter, shared them with the department, contributed to what might become a major corruption investigation.
[DELAYED XP PROCESSING: BAXTER DOCUMENTS CONTRIBUTION][+113 XP (SIGNIFICANT EVIDENCE DISCOVERY)][SYSTEM NOTE: NICE WORK. ENJOY YOUR SHOPPING TRIP.]
The System Shop icon materialized in my peripheral vision — a tiny pixelated storefront with a neon "OPEN" sign blinking in the corner of my HUD. I opened it while Gus was distracted with parking.
SYSTEM SHOP — LEVEL 3 ACCESS
Consumables (Available):
Brain Juice: +1 DV for 1 hour. Cost: 10 NPSmooth Talker Tonic: +1 SE for 1 hour. Cost: 10 NPFocus Fizz: Shawn Vision cooldown reduced to 30s for 1 hour. Cost: 12 NP
Consumables (Locked):
Eagle Eye Drops: +2 OBS for 1 hour. Cost: 15 NP. REQUIRES LEVEL 5Combo Catalyst: +50% combo chain duration. Cost: 20 NP. REQUIRES BCM 41+Nostalgia Nectar: +10 NP on next '80s reference. Cost: 5 NP. REQUIRES PCR 2
The prices were in Nostalgia Points. I had 26 NP — barely enough for two basic consumables, with nothing left over for the more powerful items locked behind higher levels.
"Resource tension," I thought. "Spend NP on temporary buffs, or save for the Reality Marbles that unlock at Level 4."
The answer was obvious. Save. Build the bank. Wait for the features that would actually matter.
But it was nice to finally have options.
"You're grinning at nothing again," Gus said, killing the engine. "What's funny this time?"
"Just thinking about shopping."
"Shopping." He gave me the particular look of someone who suspected they were missing context. "You hate shopping."
"Maybe I'm developing new interests." I climbed out of the Blueberry and headed for the office door. "Come on. I want to check the answering machine."
The Psych office was dark when we entered. I hit the lights, settled into the desk chair, and pressed play on the answering machine.
"Mr. Spencer? This is Margaret Worthington. I recently purchased a Victorian mansion on Eucalyptus Drive, and I... I think it might be haunted. There are noises at night, objects moving when no one is there, and my contractor found something behind the walls that he won't explain. Please call me back. I'm terrified to stay in my own home."
The message ended. Gus and I exchanged glances.
"Haunted house?" He shook his head. "You know I don't do haunted houses."
"The show did a haunted house episode. Season one, if I remember right." I pulled up a blank page on Shawn's laptop and started taking notes. "It wasn't actually haunted. It never is. But the investigation was all about '80s references and theatrical performances — exactly what I need to build my Pop Culture Resonance stat."
"You're planning to investigate a haunted house because it will help with your... psychic development?"
"I'm planning to investigate a haunted house because a woman is scared and nobody else is going to help her." I smiled. "The psychic development is just a bonus."
The answering machine light blinked. One new message.
Margaret Worthington's haunted mansion was waiting.
Get Early Access to New Chapters
Thank you for reading. For those who want to skip the wait, my Patreon is currently 21 chapters ahead of the public sites.
Schedule: 7 new chapters released every 10 days.
Benefit: Gain a significant lead of 7 to 21 chapters depending on your tier.
Support the project and start reading the next arc now: Patreon.com/IsekaiStories