Chapter 43: Patterns Emerging
[Pacific Palisades — June 22, 2019, 9:17 AM]
The crime scene smelled like fear.
Not literally—the house reeked of broken glass and overturned furniture and the particular staleness of a space violated. But underneath the physical evidence, I could sense what had happened here. My recall cataloguing details before I consciously noticed them. My danger sense whispering that the people who'd done this would do worse if not stopped.
"Home invasion," Tim said, surveying the damage. "Couple in their seventies. Tied up, gagged, left in the closet for six hours before the cleaning lady found them."
"Injuries?"
"Rope burns. Shock. Nothing permanent."
I moved through the living room, photographing everything. Entry point: rear sliding door, lock mechanism defeated with professional precision. Path through the house: systematic, efficient, no unnecessary destruction. Target: the safe in the master bedroom, cracked open with tools that left distinct marks.
"They knew the layout," I said.
"How do you figure?"
"Look at the damage pattern. They went straight to the high-value areas. Didn't waste time searching random rooms. Didn't trash the kitchen or bathroom." I pointed at the sliding door. "That lock has a hidden secondary mechanism. Anyone just looking at it would try to force it. These guys knew exactly where the release was."
Tim crouched by the door, examined the frame. "Inside information."
"Or surveillance. Could be either."
But I knew it wasn't either. My recall had already pulled the match—a case from Season 2 of The Rookie. A crew that started with clean home invasions and escalated to violence when victims started fighting back. The show had ended with a hostage situation and a shooting.
I couldn't tell anyone that. Couldn't explain how I knew the pattern.
So I did what I'd learned to do: planted seeds.
Lopez's Office — That Afternoon
Angela Lopez looked up from her paperwork when I knocked. She'd transitioned to detective work more frequently now, splitting time between patrol and investigations.
"Mercer. Something you need?"
"The Pacific Palisades invasion this morning. I was first on scene with Bradford."
"I saw the report. Clean work. No injuries."
"That's the problem." I sat across from her without being invited. She raised an eyebrow but didn't protest. "Clean work means professional. Professional means pattern. This wasn't random."
"We're already cross-referencing similar MOs—"
"Check the entry methods specifically. That sliding door had a hidden secondary lock. The victims didn't advertise that. Whoever did this either had insider knowledge or extended surveillance access." I paused, choosing words carefully. "Academy case studies showed crews like this escalate. First few jobs are smooth, but eventually they hit a house where someone fights back. Then it gets ugly."
Lopez leaned back. Studied me with that sharp attention that made her an excellent detective.
"How does a boot with less than a year under his belt know case studies well enough to predict criminal behavior?"
"I read a lot."
"Uh-huh." She didn't believe me. But she also didn't dismiss what I'd said. "What neighborhoods would you predict for their next targets?"
"Brentwood. Similar demographic, similar wealth level, similar security systems. If they've been surveilling victims, they probably have a list." I stood. "I'm not trying to do your job. Just... sharing observations."
"From your extensive reading."
"Exactly."
She watched me leave with an expression I couldn't quite read. Suspicion and interest in equal measure.
Three Days Later — June 25, 2019
"All units, 211 in progress at 447 Carmelina Avenue, Brentwood. Multiple suspects, homeowner on scene."
My danger sense exploded.
Tim accelerated before dispatch finished talking. I gripped the door handle, pulse hammering.
"That's them," I said.
"The invasion crew?"
"Yes."
He didn't ask how I knew. Just drove faster.
We arrived to chaos. Three other units already on scene, forming a perimeter. A woman in her sixties stood on the front lawn, bathrobe clutched around her, screaming that her husband was still inside.
"They took him to the bedroom! Please, you have to—"
Tim positioned me at the side entrance while he coordinated with the other officers. My danger sense painted the house in shades of threat—three, maybe four suspects inside, at least one armed, the husband being held in the master bedroom.
"Visual," someone called through the radio. "Two suspects in the kitchen, one in the hallway, one in the bedroom with the vic."
"Armed?"
"Kitchen suspects have handguns. Hallway has a knife. Can't confirm bedroom."
I pressed against the wall beside the side door. My copy ability activated unconsciously, pulling tactical entry techniques from every training session and real operation I'd observed. My danger sense mapped the interior, predicting movements.
Tim appeared beside me. "Waiting for SWAT."
"The husband won't survive that long."
"Mercer—"
"They're panicking. The wife got out, they didn't expect that. When crews like this panic, they eliminate witnesses." I met his eyes. "We have maybe five minutes before that man dies."
Tim's jaw tightened. He knew I was right. He also knew protocol required waiting for specialized units.
"How sure are you?"
"Completely."
He keyed his radio. "Bradford and Mercer taking the side entrance. Requesting immediate backup at the front. Go in sixty seconds."
We moved like we'd rehearsed this a hundred times.
Side door opened silently—unlocked, probably the suspects' emergency exit. My danger sense guided me through the kitchen before I consciously processed the layout. Two suspects by the counter, backs to us, watching the front through the window.
Tim took the one on the left. I took the right.
The confrontation lasted four seconds. My copied techniques flowed without thought—wrist control, weapon redirect, takedown. The suspect hit the floor before he understood what was happening. His partner dropped a second later, Tim's knee on his spine.
"Kitchen clear," Tim radioed. "Two in custody."
Hallway suspect reacted to the noise. Came around the corner with the knife raised.
I was already moving. My danger sense had warned me three seconds before he appeared. I caught his wrist, twisted, felt the knife clatter to the floor. Elbow strike to the solar plexus. He folded.
"Hallway clear."
That left the bedroom.
I approached the door, danger sense screaming. The fourth suspect had heard the commotion. Knew we were coming. Had the husband positioned as a shield.
"LAPD! Release the hostage!"
"I'll kill him!" The voice inside was young, panicked. "I'll fucking kill him, I swear!"
My lie detection fired. He meant it. Actually meant it. Not a bluff.
"Listen to me," I called through the door. "Your partners are in custody. The house is surrounded. The only way this ends without you going to prison for murder is if you let him go."
"You're lying!"
"I'm not." Absolute truth. "Think about it. You're what, nineteen? Twenty? Home invasion's five to seven years. Murder is twenty-five to life. Which one do you want?"
Silence inside. My danger sense tracked his movements. He was calculating. Weighing options.
"If I let him go, you'll shoot me."
"I won't." Also true. "Come out with your hands up, you'll be arrested and processed like your friends. Nobody gets hurt. That's the play."
More silence. Then the door opened slowly.
The husband emerged first, stumbling, face tear-streaked. Behind him, the young man—maybe twenty-two, dressed in dark clothes, hands raised.
I didn't relax until he was cuffed and the house was clear.
Station — Later That Evening
"Four arrests. Homeowners unharmed. Stolen property recovered." Grey addressed the assembled officers. "Operation was... unorthodox."
His eyes found mine. Not accusatory. Considering.
"Officer Mercer's pattern analysis correctly predicted the crew's target neighborhood. Officers Bradford and Mercer's decision to enter before SWAT arrival was technically a protocol violation, but given the circumstances—" He paused. "—officially, it never happened. Unofficially, good work."
Tim stood beside me, saying nothing. When the briefing ended, he walked me to the parking lot.
"That was three days," he said.
"What?"
"Three days from your 'pattern analysis' to catching them mid-crime. Lopez told me you predicted Brentwood specifically." He stopped at his truck. "How?"
"Case studies—"
"Stop." His voice was quiet. Tired. "I've trusted you for a year. Backed your plays when they didn't make sense. But Mercer, whatever you're hiding—it's getting bigger. Harder to explain."
I didn't have an answer. Couldn't tell him about the show I'd watched in another life. Couldn't explain that I'd seen this episode, knew the ending before it played out.
"Some things I can't share," I finally said. "Not won't. Can't."
"Because you don't trust me?"
"Because it would put you in an impossible position." I met his eyes. "I'm not dirty. I'm not corrupt. I'm not working against this department. Everything I do is to protect people. That's the only truth I can offer."
Tim studied me for a long moment. Whatever he saw, it didn't completely satisfy him.
"Alright. Keep your secrets." He climbed into his truck. "But Mercer? This conversation isn't over. Eventually, you're going to have to decide how much you trust me."
He drove away. I stood in the empty lot, watching his taillights disappear.
Trust. The word echoed.
I trusted Tim with my life. Trusted him to have my back in every dangerous situation. But trusting him with my truth—transmigration, meta-knowledge, impossible powers—that was different. That was asking him to believe the unbelievable.
And maybe, eventually, I would tell him. When the right moment came. When the words existed to explain what I was.
Until then, I'd keep doing what I'd been doing. Using my gifts to save lives. Hiding my nature to protect everyone I cared about.
The Armstrong file waited at home, growing thicker every week. The Season 2 threats loomed on my mental timeline—Rosalind Dyer and her serial killings, the corruption case that would target Lopez, the slow escalation toward Captain Andersen's death.
Dark roads ahead. But tonight, four criminals were in custody. A married couple would sleep in their own bed. A young man who'd almost become a murderer would get a chance at a lesser sentence.
Small victories. Incremental progress.
I got in my car and drove home, already planning tomorrow.
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