Carlton Lassiter hated Halloween.
Halloween was arguably one of the worst holidays any police officer could be forced to work. The vandalism rate shot up and some of Santa Barbara Police Department’s finest were sent on wild goose chases tracking down idiots in masks egging a teacher’s house, teepeeing an ex’s car, and partaking in illegal activities all together.
The second holiday was Valentine’s Day, but it was way too early for that thought to even be remotely close to Carlton’s Fighting-Crime-and-Saving-Santa-Barbara-One-Creeper-at-a-Time list of things to do.
Carlton scowled and sipped his hot coffee. The day had barely started and already he was cursing the idiots who decided Halloween would just be a grand, swell holiday to celebrate in America. Really, whose bright idea was it? He’d really like to track down their graves and—
An egg splattered across his window and Carlton jerked in surprise, dropping his hot coffee all over his lap. He yelped and grabbed the wheel with both hands, nearly slamming down on the brakes. Furious, he put his car in park, turned on the hazards, and stepped out of the car.
Two teenagers laughed maliciously as they cycled away, clapping each other’s backs and congratulating themselves on a job well done.
“I’LL HAVE YOU ARRESTED!” he screamed, his hand twitching in an attempt to grab his Glock from its holster and shoot at the idiots who dared to throw an egg at his car. An egg at his car. Sure, there was a chance he wouldn’t quite hit the criminals’ wheels, but what’s a gunshot wound to the leg or arm? Maybe their parents should’ve taught them that attacking people wielding guns wasn’t such a great idea. “YOU’LL NEVER BE ABLE TO SHOW YOUR FACE IN SANTA BARBARA AGAIN!”
Fuming, Carlton opened the back seat of his car and grabbed a napkin that he kept on the floor next to the cleaner. Still scowling, he wiped off whatever egg he could. Cars beeped their horns behind him and, enraged, Carlton walked briskly to the driver's side.
“Move your damn car,” the driver growled angrily.
Carlton couldn’t help but think that his growl was more impressive, and apparently the driver thought so as well if his suddenly pale face were any sort of indication. He pulled out his badge and flashed it in the man’s face. “Do you see this here?” he snarled, his blue eyes sparked with anger. “I could have you arrested for obstruction of justice. Is that what you want at,” he checked his watch, “eight-thirty in the morning? Is it?”
“N-no,” the man stuttered, his sweaty palms tightening their grip on the wheel.
“Then I suggest you shut the hell up.” Carlton scrunched his nose. “And I hope you’re heading home; you reek.”
Without another word, Carlton stormed back to his car and hopped inside, slamming the door. The rest of the drive to the police department was relatively uneventful and it did nothing to improve Carlton’s already sour mood. His fellow police officers sensed the mood as they didn’t comment on the big wet stain on the crotch of his pants or even offer their wishes of a good morning.
Buzz reluctantly smiled at him and hesitated slightly. “Um…D-Detective Lassiter?” he squeaked.
It was a mission to reign in his temper. “What is it, McNab?”
“Um…” Buzz bit his lip and pointed at Carlton’s desk.
Carlton curiously glanced in the pointed direction and his already terrible mood soured faster than his mother’s attempt at goat cheese casserole. “Spencer,” he growled, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Shawn Spencer—the cockroach surprise in his potato salad, the unexpected rainfall at his picnic, the curious fly that drowned in his oh-so-good pot of expensive coffee—was rummaging through his desk as if it were his. Carlton allowed his eyes to roam over Spencer’s form, noting with no small amount of surprise that the child-in-a-man’s-body was dressed professionally. He was donned in a simple black suit, complete with a crisp, white shirt, and a brown tie that, Carlton was loathed to admit, really brought out the fake psychic’s eyes.
“Is there a problem, sir?” Spencer asked calmly, his eyes twinkling merrily though his lips were pulled into a firm line.
“Spencer, what the—”
“Detective Spencer to you, bub,” Spencer interrupted snappishly. “And again, is there a problem, sir?”
“Get the—”
“If there isn’t a problem, some of us actually have work to do,” Spencer said, his tone akin to some of the snappish remarks Carlton would throw at the fake psychic himself.
Carlton’s hands twitched towards his gun again, wondering if he could actually get away with shooting a former cop’s son. He could make a good argument for it, really. Obstruction of justice, impersonating a police officer, being so damn annoying that his hands moved on their own accord… A plethora of excuses, really.
“You have to the count of three to get up before I arrest you,” the Head Detective said slowly, closing his eyes as he began to savagely count in his head.
“Don’t be such a wet blanket,” Spencer moaned, pouting as his fun was ruined. “It’s Halloween; cheer up!”
“Move!” Carlton snapped.
Spencer cocked an eyebrow before nodding his head resignedly. He pushed himself away from Carlton’s desk…and proceeded to roll away, in Carlton’s chair, towards O’Hara. Carlton twitched violently and grabbed his handcuffs from his back pocket.
“Jules, save me!” Spencer wailed, racing behind O’Hara who was sipping her coffee and trying to appear interested in the case file she was reviewing.
“Shawn Spencer, you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, one will be appointed to you,” Carlton recited, securing Spencer’s hands behind his back and ignoring the crowd Spencer’s antics had gathered.
“How exactly have I been obstructing justice?” Spencer asked curiously, a hint of a pout still on his lips.
“If I can’t get to work and solve these cases, I cannot do my job as an officer of the law and bring justice to the victims in said cases, not that I have to explain myself to you,” Carlton retorted, trying to will away his pounding headache.
“Carlton,” O’Hara started.
“It’s okay, Jules,” Spencer assured. “I completely understand that this is the only way Lassie over here can rid himself of all the sexual tension in his life. Granted, I also didn’t expect him to be an S&M kind of guy, but we all have our kinks. I have only one request: if you hear noises coming from interrogation room three, don’t open the door or look behind the glass.”
The police department seemed to quiet as a whole. Carlton spluttered and could feel the tips of his ears burning furiously. “What?!” he growled, hating how his voice cracked slightly.
O’Hara coughed, blushing faintly and sitting down in her seat.
“It’s okay, Lassie. We had to tell them some time,” Spencer assured.
“Excuse us,” Carlton said calmly. Maybe too calmly. “We need to have a talk.”
With that, he roughly man-handled Spencer down the hall.
“Remember, Jules,” Spencer called out. “If you hear noises, don’t investigate them!”
Carlton and Spencer left, an awkward silence in their wake. O'Hara coughed slightly. "Well..." she murmured.
Soon, yelps were heard from down the hall. "I TAKE IT BACK!" Spencer yelled, his voice several octaves higher. "SAVE ME, JULES! LASSIEPANTS IS SADISTIC AND CRAZY! HELP!!"
O'Hara and McNab exchanged a glance before running towards Spencer's voice. Before they could enter the interrogation room, the door was slammed open and Carlton stormed out. He adjusted his tie and scowled before walking leisurely towards his desk.
Carlton Lassiter hated Halloween, especially when Spencer got involved.
