Psyc 03_The Call of the Mild by William Rabkin Page A

isn’t Hazzard, although if it were, you’d certainly have the shorts for it. This is still Santa Barbara County—”
    “That’s right,” Rasmussen said. “Santa Barbara County, not city. You’ve got no jurisdiction here.”
    “There’s a dead woman two feet behind me,” Lassiter said. “I hardly think the question of which law enforcement agency catches her killer is of primary importance.”
    “Funny, that’s not what your people said when my hot pursuit crossed your precious city limits,” Rasmussen said. “That time, jurisdiction was important enough to throw me in jail overnight.”
    Lassiter stared at him in astonished recognition. “You were the idiot who went screaming down State Street at ninety miles an hour?”
    “It’s called hot pursuit for a reason,” Rasmussen said.
    “You weren’t even in a police car,” Lassiter said. “Just some crummy old Mustang.”
    “We’re the Isla Vista Foot Patrol,” Rasmussen said. “It would look bad if we had official vehicles, so when need arises we volunteer our private cars.”
    “As I recall, the ‘need’ in this case was some punk spray-painting a street sign,” Lassiter said. “And that was your excuse for jeopardizing countless innocent lives.”
    “We take our laws seriously here,” Rasmussen said. “Which is why I’m taking over the investigation of this apparent homicide.”
    “This is my case,” Lassiter said.
    “This is my jurisdiction,” Rasmussen said.
    “I’m not leaving,” Lassiter said.
    Rasmussen raised his gun. With his free hand, he pulled his cuffs off his Sam Brown belt.
    “In that case,” he said, “you’re under arrest.”

Chapter Eleven
     
     
     
     
     
     
    “P ut your hands on your head,” Rasmussen barked at Lassiter.
    Lassiter stared at him coldly and didn’t budge. Rasmussen stared back. Each man was frozen, waiting for the other to make the first move.
    “Shawn!” Gus hissed. “We’ve got to do something.”
    “Yeah, let’s go,” Shawn said. “I’m getting hungry again.”
    “We can’t leave Lassie,” Gus said. “He’s only here as a favor to us.”
    Shawn thought this over and reluctantly came to the same conclusion. With a heavy sigh he stepped between the two policemen. “I’ve seen this scene in a hundred movies, and it never makes any sense. You’re both on the same side.”
    “He’s right,” Gus said. “You both want the same thing.”
    “Well, not all the same things,” Shawn said. “Officer Rasmussen clearly desires a tan that will put George Hamilton to shame, while Lassie aspires to the subtler shades of your average mushroom. But I think we can all agree that what you both want most of all is to find the person who killed Ellen Svaco.”
    “Stay out of this, Spencer,” Lassiter said.
    At the sound of the name, Rasmussen’s head swiveled over to Shawn. “Spencer?” He stared. “I thought I recognized you. Are you Shawn Spencer of Psych?”
    “So my fame has traveled all the way to Isla Vista,” Shawn said. “My master plan is working. Soon they’ll know Psych even as far away as Oxnard.”
    Rasmussen walked over to Shawn, holstering his gun as he went. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
    “Well, thanks,” Shawn said.
    “Your father is my hero,” Rasmussen said, giving Shawn’s hand an enthusiastic pump. “The greatest cop this state has ever seen. I used to read about him in the papers. Sometimes I even wish he could have been my dad.”
    “There were times I wished exactly the same thing,” Shawn said.
    “He’s the reason I became a police officer,” Rasmussen said. “If only I could work a case with him my life would be complete.”
    “Hard to imagine such a rich life isn’t complete already,” Gus said.
    “Indeed,” Shawn said. “Too bad my dad is retired.”
    Outside the bungalow a black crime scene van pulled up to the curb.
    “But of course, no one ever really leaves the Santa Barbara Police Department,” Lassiter said. “I