Disclaimer:

WB: Obviously, I own EVERYTHING!

Shawn: Lies! I do!

WB: Do not!

Shawn: Do too!

WB: D-

JW: Dude! You're talking to yourself! You know that, right?

WB/Shawn: Yeah, yeah. Jesse does not own anything but original characters and plot.

Author's Note: I suck! I know. Sorry, for making you wait FOREVER! I aged too. Also, there are so many potholes in this story, they called in the construction crew... too bad, I locked them in a basement. Mwahahahahahahaha! Also, I'm going to chill with this story and make it more realistic.

Thank you all you annoying (kidding) reviewers who kept encouraging (berating) me to continue.

Sorry, I posted a Doctor Who one-shot instead of this chapter. Lol.

Chapter 4: In The Shadows

June 22, 2014

Nathalie's POV

"Chief Vick, I see, always a pleasure."

She looked between her partner and the SBPD Chief of Police. It was obvious they had a shared history, along with the two stunned detectives that entered as well. Emotions quickly ranged from restrained anger, sorrow, and indifference to mistrust.

"Mr. Spencer," the Vick greeted stiffly.

Exchanging quick glances with Dean and Patrick, she acknowledge that they noticed too. Since their boss was a part of the problem, she took point.

"Obviously, the rest of my team is missing something. I can assume you all know each other?"

Shawn stood, tense and wary. "Chief Karen Vick, Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, and Junior Detective Juliet O'Hara, he addressed them formally and by rank from highest to lowest. Taking a deep breath, he introduced them. "Meet my team, Detectives Nathalie Franchez, Dean Walkers, and Patrick Reed."

He ignored the incredulous looks, hoping they'll get over it fast. They were here for business, and he was itching to finish it to leave and go back to New York.

"You worked with them," Dean stated, guessing the truth. "Did you transfer, WB?"

"He was never a cop," Lassiter interrupted, glaring at the imposter. "Last time, I saw you, you admitted to fraud. What should stop me from arresting you now?" The detective fingered his cuffs idly.

"Statute of limitations," was all he had to say to that. He addressed his team, smiling brightly though it didn't reach his eyes. "Lovely, you brought me home." His cheery exterior dropped. "I ran away," he deadpanned. "Thanks," he added sarcastically.

"Was it the psychic bit?" asked Patrick suddenly from where he stood silently watching. When attention was directed toward him, he shrugged. "Lassiter said fraud. You played psychic."

Shawn wasn't even surprised. Chief Howard knew about that and his GTA. Pulling a few strings, he allowed him the chance to enroll in the Academy. Of course, his partners looked him up. He had done the same. That was how he had found them. The "psychic" turned detective nodded.

"I thought I recognized the Irish hairline," Dean joked, trying to ease the tension that simmered in the air.

Nathalie shifted, uncomfortable. "So, we are all acquainted and the truth is out. Now, what?"

"Now, we get pass the fact that, yes, I am a detective. What rank? Head Detective. Where? NYPD. How? My awesomeness. Why are we here? Scorpion. Just saying," he finished.

Juliet was oddly quiet, standing slightly behind her partner, as if using him as a shield. He noticed that she hadn't stopped watching him since they walked in.

The Chief spoke up. "Head Detective?"

He winked, but it wasn't with his usual playfulness. That was when they started noticing the differences. Their pseudo psychic changed. He was tailored, more professional... tamed.

"That's just not right," Lassiter muttered.

A ghost of a smirk passed over Shawn's lips. "Sorry to burst your bubble."

"WB?"

He sighed, reluctant to meet her eyes, so he chose to focus on the old glass fish that decorated the Chief's desk. "Nickname. It's lame." He stuck out his tongue at his team. "No offense, guys." He stood, taking his place at their sides. That's where he belonged. This was his NYPD team of joyful hard workers. "So, Scorpion?"

"We can't possibly be working with him. He's a fraud," Lassiter protested.

His glare was intense and dark. "I'm a detective, and this is my case."

"They'll hate me."

After a few things were cleared up, they were ready to call a debriefing. Shawn had hung back with his team, holding out a hand to stop them.

"Why?" asked his junior detective.

He rolled his eyes. "I don't know, Natalia. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I lied to them for years and then ran."

"Well, you don't have to be sarcastic about it," she reprimanded hotly. "What do you think, boys?"

They shrugged.

"So helpful, you lot are," she muttered, before sending him a helpless look. They had the decency to look sheepish.

"Mr. Spen-"

"Detective," he snapped, proud of his title. It was rude, but he didn't care. He felt a gentle yet warning hand squeeze his shoulder. "Yes, Chief Vick?" he amended.

"I need to introduce your team, Detective Spencer."

"Do you think that is the best idea? I mean, this is a delicate case, and we need the full cooperation and support of the officers and detectives working on it. My known presence might disrupt that."

She gazed at him, finding logic in his predicament. Excluding the ones closest to him, though they were all still affected, many of her precinct's occupants openly mistrusted the pseudo psychic. "What do you propose?"

WB's face scrunched up in contemplation. "Ghost consultant." When he was met with confused faces, he elaborated. "It's similar to a ghost writer, someone who writes the story but isn't identified or credited." He shrugged. "It could work. Natalia claims lead, and I stay in the shadows."

"And if someone asks?"

He winked. "I'm sure you'll come up with something."

The Chief took her place by the projection screen, standing regally before her subjects. At a raise of her hand, the room was silent. Their queen was to be heard.

"As you may be aware of, we were sent a team that would assist us in the Scorpion case. Both the NYPD and the SBPD will be working in tangent, none having authority over the other." She swept to the side gracefully, allowing the stage to her guests, choosing a peasant's position by her two detectives. "I will allow them to introduce themselves."

The NYPD team stepped forward sans one member. The missing yet unknown leader sat aside, out of the public's view, cap slung low as he watched the proceedings quietly.

The junior NYPD detective spoke up for them. "Hello, this is my team from the NYPD Precinct 11. I am Detective Nathalie Franchez."

The emerald eyed, brooding male raised a hand to attract their attention. "Detective Patrick Reed."

Following up, the dirty blond one of the group bowed theatrically, rising up with a dazzling grin. "And I am Detective Dean Walkers." He winked. "At your service."

Shawn groaned, mirroring Nathalie's reaction accurately from where she stood in the spotlight. She heard a growl from behind, which was stifled out quickly.

"Another Spencer," the source of the previous menacing sound complained, hushed by his young partner.

"Where is he anyways?"

Nathalie smirked. "For this case, my team has no previous experience, so we will all be looking at it with fresh eyes. We brought the files NYPD has on this case. Chief?" she addressed the most authoritative figure. "Is the scene still active?"

At a head shake, she sighed. "We'll work with the photos and autopsy report then."

The projector was turned on, and slowly she lead them through the facts. Scorpion was a unknown subject, UnSub, who had four murders under his/her belt, now five. His/Her MO was one effective blow to the heart with a dagger. If, somehow, the person wasn't killed instantly, they would bleed out fast. His/Her name was due to an image of the insect carved next to the victim, whether it be in wood or dirt. The detectives who had worked the case were either dead or retired, so it was up to the "youngsters" to catch the psychopath.

The profile was limited. The scene was cleaned up after, excluding the blood and body. He/She was considered conscious, organized, and calculating. All his/her victims were ages 23 to 27, so he/she was said to be around the same age, but since its been 12 years, that put him/her in his late thirties, early forties.

No DNA, no witnesses, no mistakes.

Victims: Angela Golding, Tommy Saul, Henry Chambers, Samantha Cole, and the newest, Ken Smith.

He/She killed once a week, always a Tuesday. It was assumed the days without death were for observation. Since, Mr. Smith was murdered two days ago, they had five days until the next death.

"Mr. Smith's family was already interviewed," Juliet informed. "We have the notes."

"Can we move to a conference room?" asked Patrick. "We need to get WB involved."