This story is a Psych fan fiction. All rights reserved to Steve Franks and USA Network.
Written for Psychfic.com and published on that website on June 30 2014. Edited to correct grammar in 2019.
Carlton looked up from the police report he was writing, to take a sip of his coffee. He had changed his habits and switched from three creams, four sugars to black as midnight on a moonless night. He wasn’t the man to change habits for anything but good reason– as was the case. The Department physician had told him to consume healthier products if he wanted to still be able to perform his job on the same level he was used to, in a decade. There was nothing in Carlton’s life he was more proud of than his position as Head Detective at the Santa Barbara Police Department, (well, maybe his respectable collection of guns) and so he had taken action.
His eyes moved involuntarily from his computer screen to the window. Or to be more exact; to the parking lot outside. A Lexus, Dobson’s Dodge, Shawn Spencer’s motorcycle… What that thing was doing in the parking lot here, while the thorn in his side was on a holiday somewhere only the Devil knew, Carlton could only guess. Not that he would, for he did not care. His eyes moved past the motorcycle. He wouldn’t admit to himself, let alone anyone else, that he was searching for the black canine he realized was sitting next to his own dark blue Ford Fusion, fully appreciating the sunlight it was bathing in. The wretched dog. It had been following him back from lunch this afternoon and for some reason it had refused to be shaken off. And Carlton tried, you can rest assured.
O’Hara had wanted to lunch in some fancy Korean joint, but ever since Carlton had taken a date to an Asian restaurant, and had ended up with food poisoning, he had avoided everything that looked, smelled, tasted or sounded Asian. Food-wise. He might be a conservative ass, that didn’t mean he was a racist. He simply had much better things to do with his time than spending it on a toilet, and who could blame him for that? O’Hara didn’t, though she seemed to enjoy her lunches in Asian restaurants these days much more often than she used to. If he cared, he would inform if there was a reason for his partner to specifically choose restaurants she knew he wouldn’t join her at, but he liked these silent lunches too much, to potentially spoil them if she’d take his question the wrong way, and joined him more often. He spent time around people who appreciated the sound of their own voice more than they should, ten to fourteen hours each day – deducting the hour he practiced at the shooting range. He enjoyed being separated from disturbing distractions, it made him feel more confident and together.
When, after a satisfying double meatball sandwich, he had crossed the street on his way back to the police department, he had first noticed the flea ball following him.
At first, Carlton had shooed it away. When this only seemed to make his stalker more curious about him, Carlton had resigned to throwing stuff he found in his jacket at the dog. Unfortunately for him though, the ‘stuff’ included old Snyder’s sourdough nibblers, and he had made a tail-wagging new friend. By the time the Head Detective thought of running, zigzagging, shouting even, all the black Canis familiaris domesticus saw, was a man playing with him.
How the fleabag had found his car, was a mystery to Carlton, but it probably meant it would be impossible to sneak away without the dog sniffing him up again.
The dog turned it’s charismatic head towards him, as if he felt someone was watching him, and Carlton quickly looked away. It was a silly reaction, he knew that very well. While recollecting himself from the embarrassment, he listened to the sound coming from the desk opposing his. From the moment when Henry Spencer had taken the job to baby sit his son, the man’s excessive breathing had irritated Carlton to no end. It wasn’t that hard to breathe normally, was it? After all, he had done it for all of his life without drawing unnecessary attention to himself, so it was beyond him why other people were incapable of such a simple exercise. The corner of his mouth twitched dangerously, just before he exclaimed his annoyance. “Can you take your rasping breath somewhere else? Preferably where it’s not disrupting my work, Spencer!”
The other man looked up from his paperwork in surprise, his eyes caught by those ready for a fight. Henry wasn’t the man to turn away from a good altercation, especially not one with Lassiter, but today he just was not in the mood. Checking his watch, he registered the time. With a sigh he got up, stretching his limbs while at the same time letting out a loud groan; the only reason being to further annoy the Head Detective. “I’m late for a meeting with the Chief, so I’ll be out of your hair for the next hour, Carlton.” With that, the Psych Consultant walked away. Carlton let out a despising growl. “I’ll cross my fingers for that to happen!” he spat at Henry’s back.
Forcefully, he opened his drawer and blindly searched for the rubber stress toy he knew he had thrown in there a couple of weeks ago. It had been a stupid joke gift from Spencer – – the so-called Psychic one – -in the form of a life size gun. His long, bony fingers recognized the general shape of the toy and with a quick move he pulled it out of the drawer. His strong hand enclosed the soft gun and started squeezing it. Normally, when he was in a mood to kill, he would remove himself from the triggering environment and unload at the shooting range, but this week there was some remodeling being done and the construction workers had kicked him out twice before already, so he thought it better to calm down while abusing this ridiculous toy than to go downstairs and possible be peeved even more by uneducated men who thought having a good time was to whistle at anything with a skirt – with a Glock 17 in his hand.
He looked back outside when a black van drove into the parking lot. He quickly registered the name on the side: Santa Barbara County Animal Services.
Someone must have called the dog catchers for his dog, he thought. He corrected himself. For the fleabag. He watched a man getting out of the van and, approaching the animal, holding something in his hand which, Carlton guessed, must be a cookie. The dog didn’t trust this friendly gesture and with its tale hidden between the legs, it moved back, not losing eye contact with the enemy. An approving smile for the dog’s character appeared on Carlton’s handsome face, and not knowing exactly what moved him, he got up and hurried to the parking lot.
The mixed sound of a Rolling Stones song coming from the van, the fake friendly voice of the dog catcher, and the hostile growling of the dog welcomed him outside. “Hey!” Carlton bellowed as he neared the scene, “Get the hell away from my dog, you tax-sucking hillbilly!”
He was met with an attitude. “Yeah? Do you have papers?” The dog catcher hadn’t even had the decency to look at him while he spoke, and this sign of disrespect was unacceptable to Head Detective Carlton Lassiter. He placed himself in between the dog and its catcher, knowing perfectly well that the worthless earthworm would stare directly at his badge when he did. Showing confidence, he put his hands on his hips and made his voice sound authoritative. “This isn’t going to end well.”
The dog catcher looked up, and to Carlton’s delight he showed fear. His lips curled when the man left, stuttering an apology. This was how you handled people, he thought with satisfaction. He felt a wet nose pushing into his hand and he dropped it to pet it’s owner. When he looked away from the van driving off the parking lot, he saw the animal wagging its tale and gazing up at him with warm, trusting, brown eyes. He cursed under his breath.
“We better buy you belt then, don’t we?” As if the dog had been waiting for these words all day, it jumped up, enthusiastically placed its paws on Carlton’s chest and barked. Carlton laughed as he, unwieldy yet affectionate, moved his hands through his new friend’s thick black fur. And that was a feeling both man and dog enjoyed.
