Chapter Text
Case File No. 13 - The Case of the Missing Cat
Client: Maria McDonald
Date Opened: 5/23/16
Date Closed:
Summary: Teresa McDonald wants me to look for her missing cat.
WITNESS STATEMENT
Teresa McDonald:
I was playing with Mrs. Saltlick outside and she got mad at me for hugging her so she ran away into the street and almost got hit by a car and now we can’t find her. I brought a picture of her, plus the mouse she always plays with. Maybe she’ll come out if she sees it?
NOTES
Teresa’s mom is pretty fucking hot.
[1] Written on a post-it note attached to the file: Shyeaah, y do u think I asked her out!? I <3 MILFs lol!!
Tucker closes the case file with a frown. Finding missing cats for little girls isn't exactly the glamorous life he hoped for when he became a private investigator, but Tucker is nothing if not flexible.
Seriously. You can ask any of his exes. They'll testify to that shit.
One of those exes in particular hops up to sit on the desk next to him in order to get a peek at the name on the folder. “Oh!” she says, brightening when she succeeds. “You're working on that cat case for Hot Mom? Cool. Do you think you’ll be able to find it?”
“Hell yeah,” Tucker agrees. “I'm great at finding pussy!”
Kai's whole face lights up when she smiles. She leans in as if about to tell him a secret and inadvertently gives him a good look down her shirt. “Ooh, so am I!” she exclaims. “Do you think that makes me a psychic, too?”
Tucker's eyes dart up and away from the sight. “Maybe,” he says magnanimously. The things she can do with her tongue sure seemed supernatural back in high school. In fact, it's one of the things he missed most following their decision to remain friends.
And now he's her employer. Funny how that happens.
He leans back in his cushy office chair with a satisfied sigh. “This is gonna be the easiest hundred dollars I've ever made.”
Kai wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, but that's still not gonna pay the rent.”
Tucker makes a face at the reminder. He's still two months behind on his rent for his office and the only reason he hasn't been kicked out yet is because the landlord owes him a favor for stopping a poltergeist that had been terrorizing the building for years. Still, all that goodwill is gonna run out eventually.
Kai suddenly sits up straight. As Tucker watches, the mental projection of a light bulb being switched on appears over her head, a common occurrence for people who have watched way too many cartoons growing up.
Tucker waits for her to share her bright idea.
“Why don't you ask the cops for a job?” she suggests. “I mean, like, they suck, but still, they do that all the time on TV.” Her feet thump noisily against the desk drawers, the sound of it making a vein in his head twitch to the beat. He can't tell if his oncoming headache is because of that or because of her suggestion.
Oh, who is he kidding? It's definitely because of the cop thing. Which is why Tucker is so quick to voice his dismay. “I'm not gonna go ask Wash,” he tells her plaintively. “The dude hates me! He once tried to have me arrested for fraud!”
Kai snorts. “Uh, yeah. That's ‘cause he's a cop and you're just this weird guy who likes to tell everyone that he's psychic.”
Tucker crosses his arms. “Because I am.”
“But he doesn't know that!” she points out. “He just thinks you're a fake like that guy on that show. He doesn't know you can read minds for real!”
He waves his hands in the air, silently telling her to keep her voice down. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to speak wild arm-flailing, if the blank look she gives him is any indication. Finally, he gives up on that and settles for using words like a normal person.
“Shhh!” he tells her anxiously. “No one needs to know that part!”
She scrunches up her nose in confusion.
Tucker sighs. “Look, people are so much cooler when they think I just talk to ghosts and get visions and shit. Once they learn about the other thing, they tend to freak the fuck out. It's better if nobody—especially Wash—figures out that I can, y’know. Do the thing.”
“Okay,” Kai replies. “But what's that got to do with getting a job?”
“Didn't you just hear about the fraud thing?”
Kai rolls her eyes so hard that Tucker's surprised they don't fall right out of her head. “Shyeaah, whatever. There are other cops that you can talk to. Like one who isn't a total narc.”
“Wash isn't a narc!” he says a little too defensively. He flushes when her surprisingly canny gaze turns toward him. For a moment, it's like she's the telepath, and every thought he has is on display for her amusement. “I just mean...he's a detective, alright? He detects stuff.”
Kai grins gleefully, a sudden spike of mischief running through her. He can see it in her eyes, but also with his eyes, visions of bouncy vegetables fluttering through the air the way it always does when she's thinking about sex.
He doesn't know why. He's not sure he wants to. Regardless, it means he's entirely prepared for when she finally speaks and asks, “Then how come he can't detect how much you wanna bone him!?”
She's got a point. Washington may be great at his job, but he sucks when it comes to noticing the obvious. Tucker’s spent a whole year trying to get his attention, but all the euphemisms and all the flirting in the world won't do shit if the person can't see something right in front of their eyes.
Unless Wash was just pretending not to notice.
...shit.
Thankfully, Kai interrupts his train of thought before it can derail and destroy everything. “But then,” she muses, “you're kind of like a detective, right? And you still can't figure out that he wants to bone you, too.”
Tucker sits up so fast he nearly falls off his chair. “Whaaat?” he yelps, drawing out the symbols as much as he can. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
She rolls her eyes again. “Duh. He always stares at your ass when you're walking away,” she points out, which is flattering, but not really conclusive evidence. Plenty of people stare at his ass. It's no different from admiring any other work of art. “And Dakota says he's always complaining about you at work, saying you're always getting in the way and that you're such a pain in the butt....”
“Yeah, can we move back to the part where he stares at my ass?”
Kai just laughs.
After a moment, Tucker gives up with a groan. “Okay, maybe,” he says grudgingly. “Maybe he wants to bang me ‘til the break of dawn.” He covers his ears when she squeals. “I said maybe!”
But Kai isn't listening. Instead, she hops off the desk and starts doing her happy dance, arms held high over her head, all the while babbling something about shopping trips and makeovers and getting a girl pregnant to make Wash jealous.
Tucker makes a face at her and purposely moves his gaze to the computer monitor, grabbing it eagerly and twisting it around to show her the folder again. “Yeah, sorry, but I've got to go rescue kittens or some shit. You know, detective stuff.”
She snickers at him in open amusement, but he does his best to ignore her as he stands up and strides over to the hook where his teal jacket hangs. He puts it on with a flourish and tugs it straight, glancing at his reflection in the glass on the door to make sure he looks good before he goes out into the world.
“Alright,” he says after he's done preening. “I’ll be back by lunchtime. Want me to bring you back something to eat?”
“Uh-huh, yeah,” she responds eagerly. “Like, the biggest hamburger I can fit in my mouth—and trust me, I can fit a lot of meat in there!”
That's too easy, even for Tucker, so he just nods and heads out with a wave, letting the door click shut behind him. Then, on second thought, he goes back inside, waving Kai off before she can ask him what's up. “Forgot the goods,” he explains offhandedly. He opens up his desk and pulls out two objects to help him along the way: one a picture and the other a toy.
He stares at them for a long moment, debating which one to take with him. The picture of the cat is good for visions, but the mouse is better for straight out tracking, though neither of them will do shit if he’s not in the right frame of mind. Still, he grabs the toy regardless of his own vague doubts and takes two deep breaths while focusing on it. Immediately, he feels a tug in his gut, pushing him...shit, he thinks it's west, but he's not a fucking nerd or anything, so he’ll just say it’s to his left.
Distracted, he makes his way out of the building, following a trail that only he can see. He follows it down the block and around the corner, and then he follows it straight for another ten minutes before having to make a turn again. He keeps going from there, winding a path around the concrete streets until—
“Hey, buddy! Can't you read? It says ‘Do Not Cross!’”
Tucker's head snaps up. Blearily, he looks around, only to see a crowd around him where there was none before. They're all looking at something Tucker’s too short to see; an accident, maybe, or some kind of incident, or even something like a…
The jumbled thoughts in everyone’s mind suddenly becomes clear. There's a person drawn in chalk in one, and orange jumpsuits in another. A police officer here. An ambulance there. Dozens of graves and closed caskets.
There's been a murder.
And if his luck is as bad as he thinks it is, there's only one detective in the entire district who would be covering this case:
David. Fucking. Washington.
How Tucker keeps finding his way to Wash’s crime scenes is a genuine mystery, and one that he may never solve. All he knows is that the second he steps out the house or goes for a walk, he's 70% sure he's going to bump into Washington, odds that seem to increase with each passing month that goes by.
But not today.
Today, Tucker's got a job to do.
The cop that reprimanded him doesn't seem to have gotten a good look at Tucker, which is the only saving grace in this whole business. It gives Tucker the opportunity to make himself even smaller than he actually is, ducking down as he makes his way through the crowd and constantly keeping the crime scene to the right as he walks.
There's only one problem with that plan: from there, the path begins to thin, enough so that Tucker is out in the open. They’ll be no hiding from anybody there. Anyone and everyone will see him once he takes a few steps forward. But since there is nothing he can do about it, he just keeps his gaze trained on the sidewalk ground and crosses his fingers that he won't be noticed.
Unfortunately, when he finally peeks out, it's to the sight of Wash looking dead at him. Tucker jolts at the sight and fights the urge to back away at what he sees. As always, the man is carrying around an invisible stop sign that flashes in and out of existence at random intervals, silently warding Tucker off before he can get near.
Tucker, as per usual, decides to ignore it.
“Hey, Wash!” he calls as he weren't just hiding.
He waves at Washington, ignoring the other officers who immediately turn to snicker and nudge each other when they see him there. Being the town psychic doesn't exactly make him popular, but luckily Tucker doesn't give a shit what other people think of him. Not anymore. Not after so many years on the job. So he just keeps his chin up and mentally gives them all the finger.
A few of the more sensitive officers flinch back without knowing why. Washington, hilariously enough, gives Tucker a suspicious look in response, to which Tucker responds by winking as obnoxiously as he can.
Wash immediately turns red. The stop sign flashes again, bright and awful, as Washington stalks forward to where he is standing. “Tucker,” he says through gritted teeth. “What are you doing here?”
Behind him, Detective Church—Washington’s partner—looks up from where she was staring down at her notepad, her bright green eyes flashing with amusement when she sees what has gained Wash’s attention. Over her shoulder, her deceased younger brother scowls at Tucker and effortlessly hides Carolina’s thoughts from sight.
Tucker rolls his eyes and gives him the finger too, but when he looks back at Washington, the man is standing there, completely affronted, clearly believing the motion was for him.
Tucker winces. “Sorry, there was a—”
“Tucker, what the fuck are you doing here?” the younger Church says angrily as he fades into existence by Washington’s side. “I thought I told you to stay away from Carolina’s crime scenes.”
“This isn’t her crime scene,” Tucker replies automatically.
Wash’s brow furrows. “This isn’t whose crime scene?”
“Carolina’s,” Tucker responds.
“Nobody mentioned Carolina!”
But before Tucker can explain, Church pipes up angrily. “Hey, asshole!” he snaps at Wash to no avail, “why don’t you take a number, okay? I’m the one chewing his ass out now.”
Tucker can’t help but burst out laughing. “Bow chicka bow wow.”
Church just glares, but Washington practically radiates question marks—and not just normal question marks, no, but irritated ones, with spikes and dark colors, looking physically as well as psychically sharp.
Tucker winces again. “Uh…nevermind?”
The other two narrow their eyes at the same time. For all that they are total opposites in looks, they could be twins in this moment. Wash, with his light blond hair and grey eyes, and Church, with his dark hair and green eyes, each wearing identical expressions on their face: that of complete and utter exasperation. But then a bark of laughter sounds out from a nearby cop and the moment is ruined.
Washington runs a hand over his face, and just like that, the question marks are gone, replaced with the terrifying blankness of someone like Carolina, who always has Church there to block her thoughts.
Tucker frowns at Church. “Are you doing this?”
Church scoffs.
Wash, on the other hand, looks between him and the empty space beside himself, visibly wondering who Tucker is talking to. “Am I doing what?” he asks carefully.
Tucker freezes. “Are you, uh…”
Washington waits patiently.
Tucker searches for a non-weird way to end that sentence, but for some reason he brain stalls halfway through, and the only thing he can think about is what Kai said earlier. “Are you...are you doing anything tonight?”
Impossible as it seems, Washington goes even more blank than he did before, holding onto the abyss with both arms spread. He squeezes it until everything bursts out of him in a rush of emotion that's altogether too complicated for Tucker to unravel, much less stand, which makes the reappearance of the familiar stop signs and warning lights comforting rather than crippling.
“Okay, nevermind,” Tucker blurts out. “Forget I said anything.”
He turns his gaze from Washington so he doesn't have to see the disinterest, first searching the gathered crowd behind the yellow crime scene tape, then turning his gaze back to Carolina, who is currently talking to what must be a witness or a relative. There’s something about the person that draws his attention and keeps it there, but he can’t quite put his finger on why.
“Hey,” he says absentmindedly, “Who’s—”
Before he can get the rest of the words out, he’s hit with a blast of images so strong and so gruesome that they immediately knock him off his feet. He hits the pavement hard, shuddering and gasping for air, barely aware of Wash kneeling beside him and frantically asking him some question over and over.
There’s a knife, long and sharp, entering the man’s body over and over, stealing the breath from his lungs until he’s gasping for air that cannot come. Blood spills from his mouth, from his open chest, from his stomach and sides and everywhere, leaving him all in a rush, and all he can do as he drifts off into darkness is wonder why this is happening—”
“Tucker!” Wash’s thoughts spill through the images, replacing them with a protective wall that blocks out all of the sights and sounds. Tucker snaps back to reality with a relieved sigh.
“Wash,” Tucker breathes.
Washington slowly relaxes when he sees that Tucker is fine. “Are you alright?” he says urgently. “Are you alright?”
“Y-Yeah, fuck,” Tucker chokes out. He lifts his head, allowing Wash to help him to his feet, then forces himself to turn his gaze once more to where the murderer is standing. There are people staring at him and the scene he just caused, but they’re nothing compared to the man at his side or the one standing a few feet away.
“Tucker?” Wash murmurs.
“That’s him,” Tucker says distantly. He closes his eyes against the barrage of images, each more devastating than the last. “The one talking to Carolina. That’s the murderer. He stabbed the guy like a million times.”
Wash stiffens. The grip he has on Tucker tightens, his fingers almost bruising in their strength. “How do you know that?” he asks, then holds his hand up before Tucker can open his mouth. “And don't say psychic abilities.”
Tucker closes his mouth.
“Gee, Tucker,” Church says instead, “if I knew it was that easy to get you to shut up, I would've asked you about your so-called powers earlier.”
Tucker sputters, forgetting about the murder for a second. “‘So-called powers?’” he repeats in disbelief. “You're a fucking ghost!”
Church looks at him as though he's stupid. “Yeah, I know. Boo, motherfucker,” he says in a voice that rings with a total lack of appreciation or respect for Tucker. “But that doesn't mean you're anything special. Besides, Caboose can see me too.”
“Yeah, but that's…”
Okay, fine. Church has a point. Still…
“I can't believe I lost that argument to a dead guy,” Tucker mutters under his breath. He fights the urge to facepalm hard, knowing it will only give Wash even more reason to think he's weird. As it is, Washington’s already looking at him about as strangely as you can get.
“Look, Tucker, you fell down pretty hard,” Washington says kindly, all the while resting a reassuring hand on Tucker’s shoulder, as though he forgotten how much he actually dislikes him. Unfortunately, Wash lets go as soon as he remembers, hand flying off so fast that you’d think Tucker was made of fire. He stands there awkwardly for a moment before shaking it off. “I think you might have hit your head. Maybe you should go see a doctor.”
Tucker jerks his head back and forth. “Nah, I'm cool. I'm just gonna bounce.”
“Are you sure you don’t need any help getting home?”
Tucker is about to shake his head, but gets instantly caught by something he didn’t recognize before: the complete and total absence of anything warning him away. He inhales sharply, caught by the idea, wondering if Wash knows what he is doing to him.
“Uh,” Tucker says blankly. He swallows hard. “I, uh…wait, what?”
Wash ducks his head in order to meet Tucker’s eyes. “I asked if you needed my help getting home,” he repeats with a note of concern. He brings his hands to Tucker’s face and gently pulls on the skin underneath his eyelids, opening them wider for his perusal before letting go. “Your pupils look dilated. You shouldn’t be driving.”
And Tucker is so fucking stupid and so fucking tired that he tells Wash the truth without taking advantage of the situation. “Nah,” he says. “It’s cool. I walked here, anyway. Besides, I still have to finish my case.”
Washington's gaze sharpens. “Your case?”
“Nothing big,” Tucker assures him. “Just finding some kid’s missing pet.”
Wash's lip quirks up as he relaxes. “Important work,” he agrees with a healthy dose of mockery in his voice, because Washington can't help but be a dick sometimes. It's by far one of his better qualities.
Tucker snorts. “Yeah, totally. It's just like investigating murders.”
Washington gives him a wry smile. “If that's what you were looking for, you went into the wrong field of work. Private investigators are more known for catching cheating spouses and tracking down people for relatives and friends. Hard crime is something only the police look into.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tucker replies.
He braces himself at the reminder, then steals one last look at the murderer before turning away. It’s an old white guy, with brown hair, a receding hairline and a weird little mustache. He’s...average. He’s average all over. He doesn’t look like like a murderer, somehow, so much as some kid’s junior high school history teacher.
Yet something about him draws the eye. Tucker doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but it’s familiar to him in a way he’s never felt before. It’s like meeting a long lost brother or someone you haven’t seen in years. It’s like looking into a funhouse mirror and seeing a distorted image of yourself.
Tucker’s never felt anything like it in his life, but it freaks him out. It freaks him out enough that his body is practically twitching with the desire to get away, and God knows he hasn't lived this long by ignoring his gut.
But still, he hesitates before leaving, unable to go without getting verbal confirmation on something he already knows. “You are gonna look into what I said about the murder, right?” he asks Washington, “‘Cause I know you don't believe me, but I was totally serious about that.”
Wash scrutinizes him for a good long moment. Finally, he gives Tucker a terse nod, silently soothing Tucker’s frayed nerves. “I'm a police officer, Tucker,” he reminds him gently. “We were going to investigate him anyway.”
“Yeah, but now you're gonna investigate him more, right?”
Washington raises an eyebrow. “Tucker, when have you ever known me or Carolina to slack off when it comes to work?”
“Never?” Tucker says.
“Exactly. Trust me, if he's as guilty as you think he is, then we’ll find out in no time at all.”
To his relief, Washington’s voice is steady and his eyes are sure, and that more than anything is what convinces Tucker that things will be alright. Tucker relaxes all at once, secure in the knowledge that the situation with that creepy dick will be taken care of.
“Okay,” Tucker says. He backs up a few steps, thankfully not tripping over anything or anyone, which means his luck isn't as bad as he thought it was. “Then I guess I should probably get going if I want to solve my case by lunchtime.”
Washington nods again. “Good luck.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Tucker spends the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon searching for Mrs. Saltlick. When he finally gets back, it's almost one o’clock in the afternoon and Tucker is in a really bad mood. He stalks into the office covered in cuts and scratches, silently hands Kai a bag full of greasy food, then settles down in his comfortable office chair with his bacon cheeseburger and fries and hurries to get a start on his paperwork.
After the day he’s had, he’s more than ready to shut this case.
Sullenly, he takes a handful of salty fries and shoves them in his mouth all at once, chewing on them while he opens the McDonald case for what will hopefully be the last time. With greasy hands, he grabs a pen and carelessly throw the post-it away, thinking for a moment before adding this afternoon's events to the file summary.
Followed the trail to a seafood place, where I found Mrs. Saltlick living it up in the alley. The owners were in the middle of feeding her the expensive shit. Attempted to convince them she was mine, but she scratched me the fuck up when I tried to pick her up. Eventually, I remembered her mouse and pulled it out, which finally worked, and returned her to her family safe and sound.
Thank fuck for that. I am never dealing with another cat case in my life. I don't care how easy the money is.
[case closed]