Santa Barbara, 1987

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night, but that was the only thing the evening of June 15, 1987 had going for it. Henry Spencer scowled as he tramped up the steps to his front door, the foul odour of the atmosphere offending his nose. “Damn drunk trash collectors,” he muttered, twisting open the front door. The dump truck had been overturned just blocks from his house, and of course the breeze from the ocean blew the stench of spilled waste to his doorstep. It had been a hell of a day and a hell of a mess, turning what should have been a pleasantly windy summer night full of star-studded sky and dimming sunset into a vaguely nauseating experience.

Chief of Police John Fenich snorted tiredly. “Remind me to have a talk with the Mayor about passing more rigorous legislation for hiring public servants,” he said. Henry had just closed a large case, one which had garnered significant media attention. Before announcing the arrest, it was only prudent for the Chief to debrief his lead investigator – and with the day as long as it had been, it was only practical to do so over steaks rather than in office.

Irritated and tired, Henry’s guard wasn’t as alert as it should have been – at least, not up enough to tell him to duck when suddenly bombarded by the flung bodies of two small boys wielding butter knives. “Diiieeeeee!” Came one high-pitched warrior’s wail, followed by the other’s, “You’re not going to eat me!”  

Instinct curled Henry’s arms so that rather than toss the boys off of him he held them, secure in his grip, as they squirmed like a pair of puppies. ‘Puppies,’ Henry thought to himself. ‘Knew there was a reason why I didn’t want any in the house.’ Aloud, he said, “Shawn. Gus.”

Shawn squealed, “Dad?! Oh no, they got you too!” and redoubled his efforts at freedom. Beside him, Gus slowly stilled.

“Uh, Shawn? I, uh.”

Henry could feel Gus hesitate.

“I don’t think your dad is – I don’t think he’s a flesh-eating zombie.”

That was apparently Chief Fenich’s cue to start laughing heartily from where he’d hung back as the two boys attacked. Henry threw a scowl over his shoulder, not caring about possible disrespect.

Shawn struggled still. “Don’t believe what he says, Gus! They’re all zombies! We’re the only ones who survived the nuclear fallout safe because of our bunker!”

Henry never quite knew where Shawn got all his ideas from, the steady supply of imagination and belief that seemed to belong only to the young and the mad. He tightened his grip on his son and said, voice low and authoritative, the unspoken you are very grounded unless you stop right now, “Shawn. Calm down.”

He could feel the fear that wound Shawn’s body tight with adrenaline, and also feel when that fight or flight response clicked off, the animal panic in Shawn’s limbs quieting. That honest terror was the only reason Henry wasn’t currently yelling his head off at his miscreant son; rather, was worried, particularly by the harsh gasping breaths Shawn drew into his lungs.

Carefully, slowly, his back protesting all the while, Henry set both boys down. Gus had the grace to look shame-faced in contrast to Shawn’s very red face, and both boys were the height of dishevelled.

“What’s this all about?” Henry did his best loom.

Shawn traded a guilty look with Gus, then looked up at his father from beneath lowered lashes. Henry inwardly groaned. The innocent look; it never boded well.

“We heard it happen,” Shawn said, earnest. “I told Gus it was a good idea to have a bunker just in case, so at least we had something to hide in. It kept us from getting the ra – radi – the poisoning thing, so we didn’t turn into zombies like everyone else.”

It had been a long day. Henry used this as his excuse for being completely and utterly baffled. He stared at his son until Shawn squirmed uncomfortably. “What do you think happened, Shawn?”

Shawn looked again to Gus, uncertain, then tried yet again to pull off the innocent look (somehow changing the angle to make his lashes seem even longer, a mystery of physics) as he said, “The nuclear strike. We heard it,” he insisted. “That loud bang. And then the smell.” His nose wrinkled to emphasize an olfactory distaste Henry couldn’t help but share. “We kept on waiting for people to come and tell us what happened, but no one did, and the streets are all empty, so we figured the nuclear blast turned everyone into zombies!”

This wasn’t just a twist of logic. This was a backflip, an entire gymnastic floor routine, an extreme yoga twist of logic.

Henry sighed and took his policeman’s hat off his head, dragging his hand through his hair and massaging his forehead. He knew the root to all this. “You boys watched the monster marathon last night, didn’t you.” It wasn’t even a question, he was so sure of the answer – and Gus’s small voice confirmed with a quiet, “Yes sir.”

“I told you not to watch that for a reason,” Henry said. Not that he’d expected to be listened to, not really. Shawn was too headstrong, and Gus too willing to be convinced. “You see why now? It turns you into a bundle of paranoid nerves.” Henry sighed. “You boys go put those butter knives away.”

Gus moved toward the kitchen obediently, but Shawn paused. “Dad?” he’d put a bit of a quiver in the word, because he was a manipulative little bastard; even knowing that, Henry’s ire still melted just a bit.

“Yeah, Shawn?”

“What was that loud bang? And the smell?”

Henry groaned. “What do you think? Use your brain, son. What would cause that kind of noise and that kind of smell?”

Shawn frowned, and before he could say the first thing that leapt to his mind, Henry interrupted with a world-weary, “No zombies, Shawn. No aliens, either. Or enemy soldiers parachuting in to wreak havoc on our streets.”

Shawn pouted, briefly, though the pout quickly transformed again into a frown. “Uh,” he said. “There’s not a lot that smells that bad… and not a lot that can make that kind of noise… Was it the, uh, the… did the dump truck crash?”

It was enough to make Henry smile. “Very good, Shawn. Yes. The dump truck got overturned. They’re still cleaning up the streets. The reason why you haven’t seen anyone outside is because the smell out there is five times worse than the smell in here.”

“Oh.” Shawn seemed disappointed. “That’s not as cool as zombies.” He turned to follow Gus into the kitchen, but once more paused on the threshold of passing through. He looked at Henry over his shoulder and asked, tentative, “You promise not to be mad, right? We thought everyone was dead. We were just protecting ourselves.”

Alarm bells began to ring in Henry Spencer’s head. “What do you mean?”

Something in his tone must have tipped Shawn off to an imminent blow-up, because his eyes widened comically large and he darted into the kitchen, yelping, “Gus! Make a break for it!”

Henry stalked grimly forward, only to rock back on his heels in shock. The entire kitchen – the entire kitchen – had been turned into a mass of blankets and aluminum foil coverings, thrown together in some sort of haphazard structure. “The bunker,” Henry muttered to himself, before raising his voice and bellowing, “SHAWN! GUS! COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW AND CLEAN THIS MESS UP!”

Chief Fenich chortled from behind him, sounding light-hearted where he’d been downtrodden for weeks. He clapped Henry on the shoulder. “Hell of a son you’ve got, there, Spencer,” he said. “Hell of a boy.”

Hell was about the right word for it, Henry had to admit.

Santa Barbara, Present Day

It was one of those irrepressibly sunny days Santa Barbara seemed so fond of producing, with clear skies as far as the eye could see and a sparkling horizon set over the ocean. The temperature was a few degrees short of ‘scorching’ and the humidity was balmy and tropical. It was a good day to work on the oceanfront in the greatest business ever created. The psychic detective business, that was.

For all these fortunate facts, in addition to other ones such as awesome hair and a great smile, Shawn wasn’t feeling all that privileged. Rather, he was morose. Gloomy, glum.  A regular Gus, in other words, which was part of the problem – Gus hadn’t been a regular to the office, not for the last little while. ‘Visiting family,’ Shawn snorted. Why visit family when you had Shawn Spencer right here? And to top it off, in all the time Gus had been gone (three whole days!), not one interesting new case had come across Shawn’s desk.

Well. There was that one with the supermodels and the fashion show, but that had been done already, and Shawn was frankly glad Gus wasn’t around to go all diva yet again. And there was that case with the zookeeper and the nest of snakes, with the missing sapphire – not to mention the case with the aviatrix who had somehow lost her own plane.

So maybe Shawn had managed to keep himself busy, but it still wasn’t the same. Half the fun in running a fake psychic detective agency was having Gus to boss around and/or impress. It just wasn’t as cool when people assumed all his leaps of genius were granted by the spirits – well, okay, it was cool, but in a completely different way.

In the midst of his brooding, Shawn almost missed the bizarre sight of two dozen bloodied people, wearing torn clothes with what looked like bits of their faces rotting right off the bone, shambling down the walkway outside his office. Except of course Shawn never missed anything, and of course he would never miss anything so out of place.

Neither did anyone else: spectators gathered at the edges, pointing and laughing and making disgusted faces as the mass of rotting humanity lurched its way past. Frowning, Shawn stood. His insatiable curiousity drove him out the door, where he joined the closest group of those watching, and asked the group in general, “What’s going on?”

“You don’t know?” a pubescent boy asked incredulously. His voice was still breaking, and so rose in pitch until it squeaked, painfully. The boy flushed and didn’t elaborate, too ashamed of his voice; the girl next to him (similar facial structure, siblings or close cousins) continued, “There have been flyers all over town for weeks, dude, not to mention the websites. It’s the ZomCon.”

“ZomCon?”

She gave him an Are you for real? look, which made Shawn bristle, but she went on to elaborate, “Zombie convention. You know. People come dressed up like zombies. They talk about dressing up like zombies. They give out prizes for dressing up like zombies. Your typical geekfest.” Her tone was derisive and, by the way her brother/cousin was glaring at her, unappreciated.

“Right,” Shawn said. “ZomCon. So, what’s – “ he gestured at the retreating backs of the ersatz zombies, “that all about?”

“It’s the zombie walk,” the boy said this time, voice lower and calmer. “They start and end the Con with a zombie walk.” He added, tone wistful, “It’s supposed to be a lot of fun.”

“Yeah, if you’re a dork,” the girl said. She rolled her eyes and tossed her hair and turned to her brother/cousin. “Come on, Dev, Mom said she wanted us home an hour ago.”

‘Dev’ looked longingly after the crowd one more time before shrugging and following the girl away from the crowd. Shawn quirked his eyebrow after them, bemused. It wasn’t often he saw a guy so thoroughly whipped by someone he wasn’t dating or married to.

And while Dev was constrained by sisterly/cousinly domination, Shawn shared no such set-backs. Consumed by curiousity and the perpetual need to be where the strangest things were, Shawn followed after the crowd of zombies.

One pineapple smoothie and a few blocks later, Shawn discovered where exactly the zombie walk’s final destination was: none other than Santa Barbara’s own Antioch University. The campus was overridden by the rotting disfigured bodies of ZomConners, and even those dressed as the living rather than the dead seemed to be getting into the spirit of the event, stumbling around and muh’ing. Some didn’t even draw the line at drooling on themselves (or others).

It was weird, sure, but also amusing in a way Shawn hadn’t expected – he was used to being the most bizarre person in any given room. Here, that expectation was eclipsed by the myriad of ways in which the ZomConners attempted to deadify – deaden? – themselves. Grinning, Shawn turned his head to say, “Check out the guy with brains coming out his nose,” to Gus, remembering of course that Gus was still in Connecticut at the last minute. He scowled to himself. Doing things on his own wasn’t as fun as he remembered it being.

Maybe he should call up Jules?

No. She was probably working. Though that had never stopped him before… Shawn grinned and flipped open his cell, pressing the speed dial for Juliet’s phone. It rang three times before she picked up and said, annoyance in her voice, “Shawn, is this an emergency?”

“Does it have to be?”

She sighed. “I’m in the middle of something right now.”

“What? A new case?” Eagerness crept into Shawn’s voice, echoed out into his words. Juliet’s next words deflated his hope at gaining a new diversion.

“No, actually, this is something personal.”

“You’re not going on a date again with that old guy, are you?” Shawn made a face just remembering the SWAT dude, old enough to be halfway to the grave; more than old enough to make picturing him and Jules together a creepy overall experience.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Juliet said, an edge to her tone, “No. This is a different kind of personal. Family.” There was a loud crashing noise in the background, and Juliet yelled to someone, “Get out of the kitchen! There’s a reason no one ever asks you to cook at Christmas!” and then she came back on the line. “Now’s seriously not a good time, Shawn. I’ll talk to you later.”

Before Shawn could weasel out of her how soon ‘later’ would come, she’d hung up on him and left him frowning in consternation at his cell phone.

Thankfully at just that moment two startlingly familiar zombies wandered across Shawn’s field of vision and he grinned broadly. This was going to be good.

Chief Vick let out a particularly harsh yelp when Shawn dropped his arm around her shoulders. The strangely guttural noise wasn’t at odds with her get-up: fair hair crusted black and red, skin an unhealthy pallour, clothes little more than rags – she made the quintessential zombie. The least-expected one, too, or perhaps second-least, as her tall older sister was even more unlikely to masquerade as the undead – yet Barbara Dunlap managed to pull the look off with a kind of aplomb typically seen only in diplomats and actors.

Shawn had to revise this opinion not even two seconds later as he noticed zombiefied Iris Vick peering at him from over her aunt’s shoulder, having been strapped into a carrier across Dunlap’s back. Tiny, adorable, and dead, she grinned gummily at Shawn and waved one tiny fist gleefully.

“I gotta say, I love the look,” Shawn grinned.

“Mr. Spencer!” Vick said. “Get your arm off of me!” She shoved him away, and then glared furiously at his exuberant face. Vick was always a champion glarer (something she had learned as the partner of one Henry Spencer, as fate would have it, which probably had some measure of influence on how she consistently managed to rein Shawn in when he was at his most wild), and something about the caked-on make up only increased the vitality of her stare. “What are you doing here?”

By her side Dunlap crossed her arms over her chest. She’d gone for the more ghoulish look as compared to Vick’s choice of oozing viscera – where Vick was painted red and nauseous green, Dunlap was pale, chalky and grey, lips the dark blue of drowned bodies. Iris had been costumed in a manner reminiscent more of her mother than of her aunt, though not even the most gruesome of makeup could detract one iota of cuteness from her overall appearance.

“What are you doing here?” Shawn returned. He wished he’d thought to grab Gus’ camera, the one Gus had hidden in his locker back at the Psych office. He’d make do with his camera phone as soon as Vick’s attention was drawn elsewhere, anyhow, but still, it was the principle of the thing.

Dunlap was the one to answer, head tilted at a jaunty angle. “Sisterly bonding time,” she said. “Kare used to just love zombie movies.”

Vick rolled her eyes. “Actually, I used to have nightmares of zombies eating my flesh after you made me watch movie after movie of them.”

“Same difference,” Dunlap grinned. “We entered the family contest division.”

“Family contest?”

Dunlap looked as if she were about to elaborate, but Vick shut her up with a jab to the side. “Mr. Spencer,” she said. “I’m sure you have better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. If you’d please go and occupy yourself elsewhere, I’d be much obliged.”

Shawn raised his hands in gesture of surrender and backed away slowly. He couldn’t help the broad grin stretching his face, making his mouth ache. 

Vick smiled grimly and turned away, presumably to say something to her sister. Iris waved at Shawn, and he took this opportunity to whip out his cell phone, flip it open and ready it to take a snapshot – “And no photos!” Vick’s sharp voice cut across Shawn’s scheme. Shawn silently cursed.

Sometimes, he thought, it was almost as if Vick were the psychic, not him.

*

It had been hours since Gus had checked in with him, so Shawn took the opportunity to call up his best bud while walking through the various attractions the ZomCon had to offer. He passed by a group attempting to do a synchronized lurch, their arms and heads flailing as one. The phone rang, but instead of Gus picking up it was –

“Hello?”

“Brenton, my man,” Shawn said breezily. “Gus around?”

“Shawn,” Gus’ brother said evenly, tone almost amused. He’d never participated in the hijinks Shawn and Gus had gotten into as kids, but he’d never told on them when they’d done something worth getting in trouble over. Brenton was like Gus in that he overachieved and worked hard; he was unlike Gus in that he never wanted to even join in the fun. Gus could be tempted – Brenton would just laugh and back away, treating life as a spectator rather than participatory sport. “Burton is out at the moment. He should be back in an hour or so.”

Nonplussed, Shawn asked, “Why do you have his phone?”

“He forgot it,” Brenton said easily. His voice hitched at the end of the sentence and Shawn narrowed his eyes. Brenton was lying.

“Right,” Shawn said. “Do you know if he needs to be picked up from the airport tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Burton’s not going back tomorrow. His flight’s not until Wednesday morning.”

What the hell? “He didn’t mention that,” Shawn said. Gus hadn’t been mentioning a lot of things, lately. “Can you get him to call me back tonight?”

He passed by what seemed to be the zombie organizer, a small woman directing a horde of zombies all about the campus grounds, imperious. Shawn paused to better appreciate her delegating skills – not to mention her costume. Though all the zombies were dressed in torn clothes, hers had very strategically placed rips.

“I’ll let him know you want to talk to him, yes,” Brenton said. “Listen, Shawn, I’ve got to run. It was good hearing from you, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah, you too,” Shawn said, and closed his phone. He stood for a moment, staring at it – he didn’t want to be one of those co-dependent losers who had to always be in contact with his best friend. But even when he’d been road-tripping for the majority of his early-and-mid twenties, he’d called Gus multiple times a day. Shawn frowned and shook his head, resolving to find something with which to occupy himself – like, say Ms. Hot Zombie over yonder.

Shawn put on his most charming grin and loped in her direction. The sunlight made her painted-gray skin look almost fetching, and she looked cheerfully willing to entertain Shawn’s presence, returning his smile with interest.

“You’re not registered to be here,” she said, a mischievous light in her eyes. “No wristband.”

“I need to register?” Shawn asked, and poured some more wattage into his smile. “Shawn Spencer, psychic detective.” He put forth his hand, and she shook it cordially.

“Dahlia of the dead,” she introduced herself. “Psychic detective, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll cover for you if any of the ZomCon police try to kick you out.”

“There are ZomCon police?” Shawn didn’t let go of her hand, and Dahlia didn’t seem inclined to be let go of. She smiled sunnily and nodded in the direction of a particular zombie who wasn’t stooped over as the others tended to be.

“Security officers,” she said. “Hired to keep things from getting rowdy. We had to work hard to get them into costume.”

“We?”

Dahlia shrugged coyly. “My sisters and I sort of organized this undead shindig.” She waved one arm around at the milling mass of zombies, dragging her hand loose from Shawn’s grip. “A lot of effort, but well worth it, I think.”

“Definitely,” Shawn grinned. “So, tell me, where do I get one of those wristbands?”

“Let me show you,” Dahlia said, took him by the elbow, and began to guide him to one of the nearby buildings. Shawn bounced slightly in glee and let himself be dragged. Along the way he saw Dev, from earlier, talking to a zombie girl with similar costume to Dahlia’s when it came to strategic ripping. Good for you, buddy, Shawn thought. Way to escape your sister’s clutches.

Dahlia pointed out an exhibit of horror movie castoff costumes, and Shawn spared a moment to think about how Gus would have loved it – well, maybe not, given the recurring nightmares he’d had as a kid after Shawn had made him watch monster movie after movie – but Gus would still have thought it cool.

Enough, Shawn told himself. Gus isn’t here. He smiled down at Dahlia and resolved to enjoy himself; he’d had fun without Gus before. Lots of fun. Tons of it, in fact.

Yeah.

*

Three hours, a lunch of candied ‘brains’ (Dahlia had insisted Shawn would like them, and they actually hadn’t been too bad though their appearance was a trifle offputting), and a quick intervention between two rival zombie accessory dealers (zombie accessories, apparently, consisted of quantities of fake brains and fake blood – he didn’t ask for more specific details) later, Shawn finally wandered off of the ZomCon grounds. Dahlia’s number was saved in his phone’s contact list. Shawn was contemplating whether or not he should call her – he was really good with first dates, but not so much with second ones, and he didn’t know under what realm their afternoon together had fallen: date territory, or casual hanging out.

Antioch University was a scant seven minute walk from the SBPD, and Shawn took advantage of this fact by quickly ducking into the station. Knowing ahead of time that Vick wasn’t in, Shawn was willing to bet a bushel of pineapples that he’d be able to get some new case details out of Buzz. Somehow, Buzz always seemed to be at the station, even when it was deserted by just everybody else.

Well, Shawn thought to himself, Lassiter always seemed to be there too. Poor guy obviously didn’t have much of a social life, being divorced and all. (Shawn studiously ignored the fact that he, too, was dropping into the police station on a Sunday afternoon. For someone without a ‘real’ job, as his dad would call it, Shawn was actually quite the workaholic.)

Buzz greeted him with a smile and Shawn spent a few moments ‘reading’ the officer’s aura. It was a fun parlour trick and it kept Buzz’ hero worship and awe fresh, and so was worth doing.

Buzz owed him one for looking after his little nephew the week before, and Shawn shamelessly called the debt in: access to all active case files. Most of them were boring affairs, but there were one or two that showed real promise for future fun – one involving monkeys, another sea pirates (Shawn scrutinized closer and discerned that those were actually already closed cases, from a while back, which were just going through the final paperwork stages. Seriously, though, how had he missed out on sea pirates and monkeys?) – when Lassiter swept the folders out of Shawn’s greedy grasp.

“Spencer,” he scowled. “What in the name of Justice are you doing here?” Lassiter was looking particularly harried, hair ruffled rather than immaculate and tone lacking that biting diction Shawn had grown accustomed to hearing.

Mildly concerned, but mind more in the headspace of figuring out how to exploit the apparently-weakened Head Detective, Shawn said, “I ran into the Chief this afternoon and decided to head over to the station, check things out.” Most would take these two statements to be causally related – the way Shawn intended for them to be taken – with his running into Vick naturally leading to him coming into the station, presumably under her orders. Nothing could be further from the truth, but then again, that was what Shawn specialized in: being as far from the truth as possible without breaking the laws of reality.

Unluckily for Shawn, Lassiter had been well trained in the loops of logical thinking and, more relevantly, was wise to the ways of one (fake) psychic. “I don’t think so,” he growled, and grasped Shawn by the upper arm, and made to toss him out the main entrance.

“Oh, come on, Lassy,” Shawn protested and wiggled wildly. Lassiter’s grip was firm, but Shawn was used to slipping out of it. He’d had years of practice with his dad, after all. “You know you want me on your case. Whatever case that might be.”

“Dream on, Spencer,” Lassiter snarled, and hoisted Shawn ever closer to the doors.

“Uh, guys?” Buzz’s hesitant voice behind them stopped both men in their tracks. Lassiter and Shawn each turned his head. Buzz held a phone in one hand. His brow was furrowed; his hair looked demoralized. “I’m getting some weird reports from the zombie convention. Should I, uh. Go check it out?”

Shawn looked to Lassiter. “Vick’s at the convention,” he said quietly. “With her daughter.”

Lassiter darted a quick look between Shawn and Buzz, then growled in consternation. “Stay here, McNabb,” he said. “We’ll call in if we need backup,” and he finished hauling Shawn through the front doors – only instead of kicking Shawn out, dragged Shawn alongside him.

There was an eighteen second argument over whether or not they should take Lassiter’s car down to the ZomCon, Lassiter arguing for and Shawn against – “Seriously, dude, it’s only a few minutes’ walk, you’d waste more time trying to find a parking space.” Lassiter scowled but conceded.

They were two minutes from the campus when the first wave of screaming zombies ran towards them, ran past them, panicked and moving not at all like the dead. They were very much alive, and very much afraid. Lassiter stepped in front of the rushing crowd with his badge out and almost got trampled, Shawn’s quick grab the only thing that saved him from being toppled.

“Stay out of the mob,” Shawn advised quietly, voice and body tight with tension. This many scared people did not bode well. In fact, it would be in their best interests to – “Lassiter, call Buzz. We’re going to need back up. Judging by this, we’re going to need ambulances.”

Lassiter didn’t bother arguing, which was how Shawn knew they were well and truly in trouble.

They finally got one zom-woman to stop and talk to them, though her face was wet with tears, streaking her makeup, and her voice rose ever higher in pitch as she told them, “It happened right in front of me! Oh my god, it was – it was so horrible, I’ve never – “

“Calm down, ma’am,” Lassiter said, and Shawn patted her arm soothingly. “What happened and where?”

“In the auditorium,” she gasped. She was paler than the face paint she wore. “We were having our first rally when – oh god, when – he just jumped onto the stage, and he had a gun, and he pointed it at me and then at the man next to me, and then he pulled the trigger – oh, oh,” she moaned and began to hyperventilate.

Shawn and Lassiter traded grim glances. “Ma’am,” Lassiter said, “Wait here for the ambulance and have them check you out. Do you understand?”

She nodded distractedly and Shawn patted her one last time, and then they were moving onward.

“A gun,” Lassiter said. He walked at a pace that would have been a run for someone with shorter legs. “Someone brought a gun to a crowded room where there were children –“

Shawn knew Lassiter was thinking specifically of one child, the child he’d helped deliver into the world: Iris Vick. Shawn was thinking of her too, thinking of how small she was and of the crazed mob that had almost taken down Lassiter. Shawn lengthened his stride to match Lassiter’s, even though that meant he had to jog a little. Anything to get there faster.

*

He’d spent the majority of his day in the auditorium, so Shawn had no trouble guiding Lassiter straight to its entrance. Those few zombies they encountered had the glassy shell-shocked looks of trauma victims; they were the ones who had frozen rather than fled the scene of the shooting. The ambulances arrived at the scene at roughly the same time as Shawn and Lassiter, and paramedics were attending to the worst of the spectators. Some had been run over by the mob and nursed sprained shoulders and ankles; some had sustained worse injuries. One teenager Shawn passed cradled his arm close to his chest, bone bent at an unnatural angle.

This is why, Shawn thought, angrily, This is why you don’t yell ‘Fire’ in a theatre, because the panic is worse than anything else you could do.

Inside the auditorium, Lassiter was the first officer to arrive on the scene – and it was easy to see where the scene was, too. A tight knot of humanity was gathered near the stage, surrounding what Shawn assumed was the victim. Damn. Shawn called for the nearest paramedic to come with them, and they proceeded with their grim forward march.

Dahlia was one of those near the body, and she turned when Shawn called her name, throwing herself into his arms. Not something Shawn would object to, ordinarily, though the circumstances left him sick to his stomach.

The paramedic kneeled next to the body. A slight middle aged man, crusted with blood and gore: he looked familiar. Shawn peered closer. He was one of the zombie accessory dealers he’d encountered just an hour or so ago. Lassiter occupied himself with taking statements from the other bystanders as the paramedic began emergency CPR – though it was by far too late to do any good.

“He just shot Ted,” Dahlia was crying into Shawn’s shoulder. “Just – pointed the gun and shot him, Shawn.”

“Who? Who shot Ted?” Shawn curved his arm around Dahlia’s back. He’d had practice with distraught females.

She shook her head. “I don’t know, he was all in costume, just like everyone else here – he came out of nowhere.” She sniffled. “In the panic, after, I don’t know what happened to him. He must have run off. Oh god.”

“Did he take the gun with him?” Shawn asked insistently.

 Dahlia shook her head, said, “I don’t know, I couldn’t see anything, it all happened too fast.”

Shawn made more soothing noises. “It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t worry, everything’s fine.”

“Uh, guys?” the paramedic looked up at them. Her forehead was crinkled in consternation. “This guy is dead, but he didn’t die from a bullet wound. As far as I can tell, despite all the blood, none of it’s his.”

Lassiter frowned. “What do you mean? He was shot.”

“Yeah, not so much,” the paramedic said. “I’m guessing all the blood is from his costume, because there’s no hole he wasn’t born with here. If anything, I’d say he died from a heart attack.”

Huh. It was a good thing Shawn had picked up some small sense of decorum from being Gus’ best friend, because he almost said out loud what he was thinking : this case just got a lot more interesting.

*

His arm still around Dahlia, Shawn led her out from the macabre auditorium into the light of day. Lassiter followed after and Shawn was about to throw a quick quip the tall Irish officer’s way when he noticed Dunlap’s profile in the distance.

The Coast Guard Commander’s lean body cradled Iris Vick in her arms, and even from this distance, Shawn could tell Dunlap was shaken, and badly. Extricating himself from Dahlia, he jogged to Dunlap’s side. Iris stared at him solemnly, her large eyes red from what Shawn had to assume was a crying fit.

“Hey,” Shawn greeted. “You guys got out okay, good.”

Dunlap flinched and tightened her hold on Iris. “I – she pushed us out of the way. We were standing at the back of the room. Near the doors. And she pushed us-“ Dunlap broke off suddenly and shook herself, presumably to regain composure. Her gaze was fixed to a point in the distance.

“Commander,” Shawn said slowly. There was a sick sensation growing in his stomach, an iron hard ball of unease. “Where’s Chief Vick?”

Dunlap didn’t respond, didn’t waver in her regard, and the nausea grew stronger until it was poison pumping through Shawn’s veins. He didn’t want to turn and look. He had the feeling that what he would see would be yet another countless image he would never be able to forget, cursed by his memory, condemned to a prison of horrific remembering.

“What’s going on?” Lassiter asked, coming up behind Shawn. His tone perked up at the sight of Dunlap, that ridiculous crush of his rearing its weird, freaky head, but even someone as socially oblivious as Lassiter could tell all was not well.

“I don’t think we want to know, Lassy,” Shawn murmured. He didn’t want to turn and look. He did anyway.

At first, Shawn didn’t even know what he was looking at. There were ambulances littered all over the campus, after all. It took him a moment to zero his vision in on the gurney being wheeled into the back of one of them, the careful hands of the EMTs strapping the body carefully in. It took Shawn a moment to give that still, limp form a name.

Lassiter had turned at roughly the same time, formed the same connection, let loose a stream of rough invectives. Shawn felt like joining him. Dunlap didn’t even bother covering Iris’ ears, and actually seemed about ready to let loose some of her own.

Together, tense and full of fear, Lassiter, Shawn, Dunlap and Iris watched as Chief Karen Vick disappeared into the back of an ambulance. It immediately ran its siren and began to drive off.

“You think Cottage Hospital?” Shawn asked Lassiter. Lassiter nodded. Shawn scanned the grounds for a convenient police vehicle to commandeer. The power of Lassiter’s laser blue glare alone would compel a reluctant officer to hand over his keys. “Let’s go.”

“I can’t,” Lassiter said, surprising him. “I need to stay here and control the scene. Take McNabb and the Commander.”

Shawn frowned but didn’t protest. It made an unfortunate amount of sense. He motioned for Dunlap to follow him, having already picked out McNabb’s abnormally tall profile in the distance, questioning some more of the shell-shocked zombie crowd.

“Spencer!” Lassiter called, and Shawn half turned to show he was paying attention. “Call me as soon as you get there. As soon as you know –“

Shawn nodded tensely. Of course. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he muttered, too soft to be speaking to anyone but himself. “Just fine.”

Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital was familiar to Shawn for all the wrong reasons. A life-long resident of Santa Barbara, he’d had more than his fair share of overnight (in some cases, multiple nights) stays, and while he wasn’t a huge fan of being injured, he’d never understood why his parents and Gus always seemed to hate the hospital as much as they did.

Now, pacing the waiting room, Shawn was starting to catch a clue. It was one thing to be the one injured. You knew what was happening to you, at least – that, or you were unconscious and didn’t care. It was different not knowing. It was different wondering, worrying, remembering how pale –.

Dunlap stood abruptly and thrust Iris into Shawn’s arms. “I need to go finish the paperwork,” she said. “You take care of the rugrat.”

Iris was a warm weight in Shawn’s arms and she looked up at him with the abject trust of the small. Shawn didn’t have much practice with the holding of young children, but some things were instinctual, apparently: he tightened his grip. His hand cupped the back of her head and he murmured, “Shhhhh,” to her, though she made no noise. She was, in fact, eerily quiet. “Your mom’s a tough one,” Shawn said. “She’s going to bounce back in no time.” Iris didn’t look like she believed him, but that was okay – Shawn knew he was right.

He closed his eyes and brought forth his memories of the day. He wasn’t sure if he could figure out who the shooter was, or why Ted-the-zombie-accessory-salesman had been the target, but he couldn’t do much else while waiting on news of Vick’s well-being.

Flash. Dahlia saying, “Try it, I swear, it tastes better than it looks,” and Shawn lifted the forkful of candied brains to his mouth. They actually did taste better than they looked. The vendor was a middle-aged zombie woman, cheerful beneath her fake scabs. There were a handful of other brain-eaters: one familiar, now that Shawn thought on it, the ZomCon security officer Dahlia’d pointed out earlier. No, this was a useless memory, focus on – later.

Flash. Now dead Ted, short and slight, arguing in the face of a behemoth of a man – “Your zombie blood is a health hazard,” he snarled and the larger man barked a sharp laugh.

“Prove it,” he husked, voice raspy. He was one of a few who hadn’t covered himself in fake blood and brains, wearing instead leathers and a taunting smirk. Meaty arms crossed over his chest, tattoos visible snaking up and down his biceps, completely bald and more than slightly badass, he was a sight to be reckoned with. Now dead Ted looked ridiculous and hysterical in opposition.

No, useless, useless. The other guy hadn’t been in a costume and Dahlia said the shooter was all dressed up. And she would have recognized him, no doubt. Maybe he had an accomplice?

Flash. Tattoo guy speaking with the same ZomCon security officer who’d trailed Shawn and Dahlia to lunch, Shawn seeing them talking to one another as he left the ZomCon grounds.

Flash. Tattoo guy selling a packet of fake blood to some kid, a shapely she-zombie hanging over the kid’s shoulder and flashing an enticing smile at Tattoo guy.

Flash. Tattoo guy catching Shawn’s gaze and grinning, friendly but not, smile tinged with utter and complete malice.

Shawn shook his head. This wasn’t helping. He needed to think about the crime scene. The emptied auditorium, now dead Ted’s carcass poked at by the paramedic, the cluster of zombies surrounding his fallen body.

Flash. Dahlia was one of them. Five other women, three men. Of the five other women, two shared Dahlia’s facial characteristics. The other three were semi-hysterical; one was leaning down clutching at now dead Ted’s hands. She didn’t look like him at all, dark where Ted was light, Hispanic to his Scandinavian – girlfriend or wife. No wedding ring, but that didn’t mean much. Of the three men, two were standing in support of the last two women. Couples, then – and the last man – familiar, the same ZomCon security officer.

Shawn frowned. The security guy kept appearing, which wasn’t necessarily suspicious, but – Shawn resolved to check him out anyway.

Iris in his arms sniffled miserably and Shawn cuddled her closer in his arms. He shifted her higher in his grip so that she could hide her face in his neck, and he felt her hot tears slide against his skin. Singing softly under his breath, he went back to thinking.

The paramedic, what had she said?

Flash. The paramedic looked up at Shawn and Dahlia, Lassiter off to the side interrogating one of the women who looked enough like Dahlia to be her sisters. The paramedic looked puzzled, consternation wrinkling her face. “Uh, guys? This guy is dead, but he didn’t die from a bullet wound. As far as I can tell, despite all the blood, none of it’s his.” Costume blood, fake; heart failure and not a fatal shooting.

What did that mean? Shawn longed for his dry erase board on which to chart the disparate chains of events. The Psych office was too far, all of a sudden; the walls of the hospital – cheerful calm colours that they were – pressed suddenly close to him. Iris’ arms around his neck anchored him. What the hell was he supposed to do – what, Shawn blinked furiously. His eyes were burning with exhaustion and it wasn’t even dark out.

Flash. Dahlia calling out –

“Shawn!”

For a second past and present merged with two female voices, and Shawn’s vision blurred in double, Dahlia’s face overlaid on Juliet’s. He snapped back into ‘now’ with a sharp shake of his head.

“Shawn,” Juliet said again. “I came as soon as I heard. What’s going on? What happened?”

Shawn blinked at her dumbly. “Jules,” he said, aware that he sounded idiotic, tone numb and surprised. His knees suddenly weak and his head dizzy, buzzing with sound, Shawn sat down. It was only his luck there was a chair there, waiting.

*

Juliet wasn’t the last arrival. Slowly over the evening the waiting room gathered yet more to sit vigil. As soon as Shawn remembered he had a cell, he called his dad. Henry had been Vick’s partner and sped his way to the waiting room. Buzz and his wife came; she left after a few hours, murmuring that their cat needed to be fed – it was obvious she was vaguely uncomfortable in the mostly-cop crowd. Lassiter secured the scene back at Antioch University and came to the hospital as quickly as humanly possible. He didn’t protest when Shawn shifted Iris into his arms, though Shawn regretted the loss almost as soon as he’d given up her warm weight. Dunlap was tense and silent, disappearing every hour to attempt again to contact Vick’s husband. He was at some sort of European conference, apparently in the only town in the world not wired for internet.

Dunlap was their sole source of information as the only family member in the crowd. She reported grimly that Vick was stable, that she’d sustained multiple trauma, the least of which being cracked ribs and a sprained knee, the worst – and most worrying – being brain injury. She had slipped into a coma on the way to the hospital and the doctors couldn’t say whether or not she would slip out of it, whether or not the coma was healing in nature or more malicious.

Shawn never thought about the fact that Chief Vick was a small woman – she projected herself to be larger than life, authority expanding her presence to eclipse even the long limbed Lassiter. But she was small, in stature if not in persona, and her slight build could in no substantial way hold up against a rushing horde. Shawn winced, thinking about how Vick had been trampled – he saw the others wince along with him.

At some point, Dunlap disappeared with Iris to clean the zombie gore off of both of them. Henry looked pointedly at Shawn’s neck until Shawn realized he’d gotten Iris’ zombie make up smeared all over him as well, and left the waiting crowd to rinse off. While in the bathroom, his cell rang – fumbling to get it, Shawn dropped it. It clattered open and Gus’ voice said, “Shawn? Brenton said you called. Shawn?”

Shawn leaned down. He didn’t quite know what to say. He picked up his cell.

“Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you called before. I had some stuff to do. Brenton told you I pushed back my return date, right? Shawn, are you even listening to me?”

He hesitated. He couldn’t make his throat work.

He closed his cell and headed out to the waiting room.

“But what are we going to do while the Chief is out of office?” Juliet was saying when Shawn walked back in. Lassiter frowned, bouncing Iris in his arms. “We need someone to direct everyone, don’t we?”

“It’s nothing we need to be concerned about, O’Hara,” he said sharply.

Juliet crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow and gave Lassiter a seriously, now look. “Carlton, I know none of us want to think about this, but whoever takes over will have an impact on the investigation. Do you have any idea at all?”

“Either they’ll promote someone temporarily or they’ll bring someone in from out of the department,” Henry interjected. His eyes flickered to Shawn, and his lips tightened into a grimace. “It depends on how – permanent this situation is.” Shawn flinched. So did everyone else in the room.

Eventually they trickled out of the hospital, Dunlap leaving first with Iris in tow. “She needs to sleep in her own bed,” Dunlap said. Strain aged her face, drained the vitality that made her so dynamic a presence. As she left, Lassiter said, “Barbara – do you need –“ and yeah, he had a ridiculous crush on the woman, but at that moment it was blindingly obvious that his concern was devoid of romantic overtones. Lassiter was too grey with exhaustion for the offer to be anything but sincere and uncomplicated. Dunlap smiled with her mouth but not her eyes and said, “I would appreciate that, yes,” and Lassiter sagged his proud shoulders and followed after Dunlap and Iris.

The remaining vigil-keepers looked at one another uneasily for the next few minutes before Buzz stood, awkwardly in his height, and said, “Uh, I should be getting home, too. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Shawn, Juliet and Henry all nodded; as Buzz exited, Juliet’s cell rang and she snapped it open with alarming alacrity. “Ben,” she said. “I told you, now isn’t the time. Just – I’ll be back soon, watch a movie or, or something, okay?” She shuddered a sigh slow and sweet from inside her, and shook her head. Her hair, normally so neatly pulled back, had been for hours falling down around her face as hour piled on top of hour and stress accrued its weight on her shoulders. “Microwave something. Ben, I swear –“ she paused a beat, then said, “Yes, fine, fine,” and hung up.

Henry stared at her quietly. He had a very still stare, an unnerving one, but she met it. “Go home to your brother,” Henry said. “You don’t need to stay here anymore than anyone else does.”

Juliet’s lips parted with shock and she said, “How did you know – I never mentioned he’s my brother –“

“Shawn had to get his ‘gifts’ from somewhere,” Henry said laconically and rolled his eyes. “Go. Everyone else is. We’ll know more by the morning.”

Juliet shifted her glance from Henry to Shawn, indecisive, then stood and crossed the room. She paused by Shawn to lean in, slightly, subtle perfume hitting Shawn like a punch to his exhausted face. Sensory overload, the scent was too much after a day of numbed fatigue. He moved back unconsciously, and made his mouth work to offer her a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jules,” he said reassuringly, and she touched her small hand to his shoulder in a not-quite caress. Then she was moving down the hallway to the elevators, and then she was gone, and it was just the Spencer men left staring at one another.

“Well, kid,” Henry said after a beat. “Tell me everything you know.”

“What, in general? Because that could take a while. I know I didn’t do too hot at high school, and didn’t even go to college, not really, but I did pick up a lot on the road-“

“Shawn. Cut it out.”

Shawn closed his eyes and rubbed at them, fireworks of colour exploding beneath his closed lids from the pressure. “From the start?”

“From the start,” Henry nodded.

“This morning,” Shawn began. “I stepped outside the office when I saw this crowd of weirdly dressed people walking by. The zombie walk. I followed them….”

At some point Henry hauled Shawn back to his place – Henry’s, not Shawn’s – and Shawn crashed in his old room on sheets that smelled freshly laundered despite years of disuse. Shawn didn’t wake once the night through, but did rise with the sun, restless. Henry was still up before him.

Neither had the stomach for breakfast, though Shawn would have to be dead to refuse the thinly sliced pineapple Henry set before him with a stern glance urging him to eat. Other than that, each had cup after cup of coffee as they silently planned their plan of action.

It wasn’t so much that Vick had been a target of violence but that she had been in the path of an unthinking mob. There was a lack of intentionality to her life now hanging so precariously between living and dying, which somehow made it worse – there was no bad guy to hunt down for hurting her, though there was a bad guy who bore the blame for her injuries. The clouded line of intent made it impossible to work this case as vengeance driven, but at the same time, the case was personal in a way that not many cases before had been.

Shawn hadn’t known he would be so hard hit by Vick lying hospitalized. He hadn’t thought himself so attached to her and her steely professionalism – but he couldn’t laugh the circumstances off the way he was so used to doing. This meant something to him.

The day outside was bright and sunny and full of possibilities. Henry looked to Shawn, and Shawn looked back. “I’m going to the hospital,” Henry said. Shawn rose, and Henry shook his head. “No. Don’t come with me. I’ll call you if anything’s changed. You need to go to the station, first. Later – somewhere else. Wherever your leads take you.” He leaned forward and his gaze was intense, but Shawn was used to meeting it. “You’ve got work to do, kid. Don’t let us down.”

*

Gus had left five messages on Shawn’s cell, two of them texts. The voice messages were:

“Shawn, you’re such a child. If you can’t accept that I’m not always one hundred percent available to suffer whatever random crazy thing you’re dealing with at any given moment then maybe you should grow up. You know what, whatever. Just give me a call when you get this.”

and

“Seriously Shawn, this is not cool. I can’t believe you’re being so juvenile. I’m a busy guy and this is an important trip – uh, this is an important vacation. I can’t believe even hundreds of miles away you’re trying to wreck it for me. Call me back, Shawn.”

and

“Seriously, did someone die?”

The text messages were:

What is going on? I know you’re getting these at least. Phone me.

and

 I can fly home first thing tomorrow morning but if you’re screwing around, I will end you.

Shawn blinked at his cell and quickly texted back – because he still didn’t trust his voice, not when talking to Gus, who could always hear the things that Shawn didn’t say – Dont come back. Everythings fine. (Shawn never could find the apostrophe key, so never managed contractions.) Go out with Brenton. 2TonGusters on the town. TTYL. (Shawn knew even as he texted ‘TTYL’ that Gus was going to mock him for it, someday, probably vociferously. He winced pre-emptively and began readying his comebacks.)

A few minutes later, he received a reply:

Don’t call us 2TonGusters, Shawn. I’ll call you tonight and this time you better pick up.

Shawn rolled his eyes and closed his cell.

*

He wasn’t the first or even the second one at the police station that morning, having been beat there by a cadre of over eager police officers ready and willing to comb over the entire ZomCon grounds in the hopes of finding some sort of lead that would get them closer to the shooter who incited the panic which had laid low their Chief. Lassiter was among them, stiff and rumpled, eyes heavily shadowed. It was evident he’d barely gotten any sleep, but his mind and his voice were as sharp as ever and for once he didn’t immediately sneer at the sight of Shawn walking through the main entrance.

“Spencer,” he nodded, companionable in a way he so rarely was. It was almost as if yesterday’s witnessing of Vick being wheeled into an ambulance and, later, the extended interval of waiting had both worked to forge some sort of connection between the two men.

“Lassiter,” Shawn nodded back. He didn’t have the energy for antics; he jumped straight to the point. “The spirits spoke to me last night, gave me some leads to follow up on. I’m going to need access to some files.”

Lassiter stared at him steadily, wearily. “No,” he said. His voice was calm; it had no wicked note of satisfaction or glee in the face of blocking Shawn’s investigation – and for a moment Shawn could have sworn he’d misheard the detective.

“What?”

“I said no, Spencer. I’m sure you’ve heard it from a lot of women.” Even the insult was delivered flatly. Still, Shawn narrowed his gaze into a glare, angry and upset.

“Why the hell not?”

“Probably because you haven’t been hired to this case,” a new voice interjected, gravelly and aged, familiar in the way that remnants of childhood not seen in years are familiar. “Yet, that is.” Shawn turned around and saw –

“Chief,” he said, surprise shocking through him. “Chief Fenich, what are you doing here?”

The elderly man smiled and his face dissolved into well worn wrinkles. “Shawn Spencer, come over here,” and held his hand out for Shawn to shake, pulling Shawn into a loose half embrace with his grip. “It’s been too long, kid,” he said warmly, and Shawn laughed shakily.

“You two know each other?!”

Shawn turned to smirk cheekily at Lassiter. His face felt weird and he didn’t feel the expression his face was twisting into – he wasn’t smug, he was shocked, but all those drama credits in high school had to come in handy some day, right? Fenich clapped Shawn’s shoulder soundly and said, “I watched this one grow up. Hell of a handful as a kid, just about drove the department crazy.”

“I livened the place up,” Shawn protested.

Fenich nodded wryly. “You did at that.” He glanced between Shawn and Lassiter. “They called me out of retirement in here to watch over the place while your Chief is on the mend. The first thing I’m doing is hiring you to work in conjunction with Detective Lassiter, here.” Fenich turned grave and serious, eyes dark as he fixed his gaze first on Lassiter and then on Shawn. “Let’s clean up this mess as fast as possible.”

Lassiter and Shawn nodded in time with one another and paused after to glare at one another in vague affront for the crime of having been in sync. Fenich chuckled. “I’ll leave you boys to it,” he said, and walked stiffly to Vick’s office; Shawn flinched watching the door close behind him.

It was wrong to think of someone else sitting on the other side of Vick’s desk. Lassiter apparently agreed because he made a choked sound before looking abruptly in the opposite direction of VIck’s office.

Shawn defused the awkward moment by saying, brightly, “So! Do you have the autopsy report yet?”

*

Ted Stevens had died of heart failure. Apparently he’d been born with severe congenital defects that his family’s health coverage had never allowed to be surgically treated. There were no bullet holes or wounds to be found anywhere on his person, nor did any member of the zombie mob come forward with gunshot wounds. The police had put forth the request that anyone who had been so injured come forward. Ted Stevens did have the beginnings of a small bruise on his forehead, surprisingly spherical. The coroner reported that he had likely been injured either directly before or directly after his death.

“So, what,” Lassiter said, caustic. “He wasn’t shot but he – was scared to death? Literally?”

“Looks like,” Shawn muttered. He was thumbing through the coroner’s reports, looking at the collection of photographs. Cleaned of his zombie makeup, dead Ted was ordinary looking for all that he was sans pulse. The inventory list of materials found on dead Ted captured his interest as his gaze zeroed in on: dense paper ball the size of a pellet found under collar. “Lassiter,” Shawn said. “No one was shot. Well. Ted was shot, just not with a bullet.”

Lassiter looked at Shawn, comprehension lighting his face. “Blank rounds,” he said. “What the hell. Why would someone fire blank rounds –“

Blank rounds were stuffed with paper rather than bullets, though still powered with gunpowder. It would have looked and sounded very real, if a blank round had been shot at Ted.

Shawn shook his head, attempting to think the scenario through. “I don’t know, Lassy. Why would they fire at Ted? The guy was harmless. The only one who had a problem with him was the other zombie vendor, and he wasn’t the shooter.”

“And I suppose the spirits told you that,” Lassiter said, lips twisted to a wry smirk.

Shawn tsked. “Oh, ye of little faith. The spirits have divulged that the other zombie vendor was busy packing up his shop at the time of the shooting, not to mention that if he was the shooter – believe me, people would have been able to identify him.”

Lassiter gave Shawn the hairy eyeball but nodded in agreement. He’d interviewed the guy, after all.

“Why else would Ted have been singled out?” Shawn frowned. “This isn’t making a whole lot of sense.”

Lassiter got the look on his face that usually prefixed an insult when his phone rang. He shot Shawn a steely glare and picked up; Shawn briefly contemplated making elaborate faces at Lassiter before shaking his head and wandering over to bother Buzz. Juliet hadn’t come in yet; she’d mentioned not being able to make it to the station until early afternoon the night before. Normally Shawn would be jumping all over her evasiveness, trying to find out what it was about her brother that was keeping her home – why her brother was even in Santa Barbara when all of her family was based in Miami – but his heart wasn’t in it, just now.

Buzz was hunched over what looked to be blueprints, and Shawn recognized the broad outline of Antioch University’s campus before he sat down on top of the papers. “Buzz, my man,” Shawn said expansively. “Why would our shooter fire blank rounds at our corpse?”

“Uh,” Buzz said, shaken loose from his intense contemplation of architectural proofs. “At a corpse? I don’t know, Shawn, that seems sort of doubly unproductive. No live fire and no live target.”

Shawn blinked rapidly for a second before laughing. “No, he was alive – he became our corpse.” He shook his head, fond; Buzz had come a long way but sometimes he said something to remind Shawn that he was still a rookie.

“Oh, right,” Buzz flushed. “Uh, then, I don’t know? Maybe the shooter just wanted to scare but not harm? Or, uh, maybe he didn’t know they were blanks? Or… maybe, uh – maybe the shooter wasn’t aiming at –“

“Spencer,” Lassiter bit off shortly from behind Shawn. Shawn twisted his body to see Lassiter tense with suppressed rage. “Chief Fenich said you’re with me, so you’d better get your ass in gear. We just got a report of six dead bodies.”

Shawn narrowed his gaze. “Let me guess,” he snarked. “They’re all dressed up as –“

Lassiter nodded. “Yes. They’re all dressed up as zombies.”

*

On the drive to the crime scene – a drive in which Shawn was delegated to the uncomfortable position of passenger seat in Lassiter’s tiny red car – Lassiter saw fit to mention, casually, “You know, Chief Fenich was my mentor when I was starting out at the police station. He saw something in me, I guess. Thought it was worth nurturing.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “I remember him saying something about the worst officers needing the most attention, back when I was a kid.”

Lassiter stiffened. “Maybe that applied to the other officers in the station. But I was top of my class, had every commendation possible.”

“Right,” Shawn drawled. “Book smart. I hear you. That’s Fenich’s favourite kind of smart.”

Lassiter set his jaw in rigid lines and glared at Shawn from the corner of his eye. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

*

Where Ted Stevens had been shot with what they were supposing were blank rounds, the five unidentified zombie men had been shot with actual bullets, neatly between the eyes.

“Are the spirits telling you anything in particular?” Lassiter said, sarcastic tone but real question in his voice.

Shawn shook his head mutely, but not in denial – rather, in thought. This was execution style. Professionally done, like something he’d seen only in organized hits. All the bodies were together, too, and it was only chance coincidence that someone had driven past the swampy area in the outlying zone of Santa Barbara before the marshy wetland could swallow their bodies.

Private and professional, this was the antithesis of the Ted Stevens death, which had been so damagingly public.

Lassiter motioned to his police minions. “Get them loaded and to the morgue,” he barked out. “And work on some id’s!” His officers milled around busily, most obviously working hard to impress the Head Detective. Not that Lassiter noticed, Shawn thought to himself, grinning – for someone so caught up in the status game, Lassy really was clueless as to his own role in the hierarchy.

Shawn’s cell trilled and he checked the caller id before flipping it open. “Dad?”

“Shawn,” Henry said. “Just letting you know, the doctors say she’s improving. She’s not out of the woods yet, but there’s – hope.”

“That’s good,” Shawn said. His face hurt. He realized only distantly this was so because he was smiling so widely that his mouth stretched unused facial muscles. “That’s really – really good.” He scanned his surroundings restlessly, overcome with the sudden relief of stress, a burden he hadn’t known he was carrying. He froze, suddenly, as his haphazard scanning managed to land on –

“Yeah,” Henry said. “Good enough for Dunlap to dump the kid with me and head for your location. She’s hell bent on being a part of the investigation. My advice? Let her in on it. She doesn’t have jurisdiction, but she’ll be a son of a bitch to get rid of if she’s half as tenacious as her sister.”

Dunlap was in fact right in front of Shawn and zooming in ever closer. “Thanks for the head’s up,” Shawn said, weakly sarcastic, and hung up on his father.

With Vick apparently on the mend and Iris in safe (if questionably competent) hands, Dunlap was a woman restored. She was the same vivacious personality Shawn had first met on the open water, months ago, fighting with her little sister over jurisdiction – irony of ironies considering she had no official right whatsoever to horn in on the case Lassiter and Shawn were building. Yet, in older, pre-civilized ways, perhaps Dunlap’s jurisdiction was more valid than any either Shawn or Lassiter could claim: that of family, the savage law of eye for an eye.

“Give me what ya got,” Dunlap demanded without the cursory greeting customary to polite society; Lassiter turned at the sound of her voice. His eyes flashed startlingly blue for a moment before he was grinning broadly, moving forward to greet her, and Shawn rolled his eyes. Great. He was going to be caught between the two almost-lovebirds for the rest of the investigation.

Fun.

*

Juliet had finally made it into the station, and was fielding the phone calls while Buzz worked on – whatever it was that required so much paper spread out all over his desk and part of Juliet’s as well. Jules was saying, “Your brother’s been missing since the shooting yesterday? And how old is he? Fifteen, right. And you know for a fact that he was at the convention? Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re certain. “ Shawn grimaced in sympathy. It seemed there were ongoing side effects from yesterday’s chaotic mayhem. “How old are you? I see. I’ll need to speak to your parents in order to file a missing person’s report – hello? Hello?” Juliet frowned, hung up, and turned her attention to Shawn who stood patiently by her desk.

“The Chief’s doing better,” Shawn said with no preamble, enjoying instead the way Juliet’s face startled then flushed with joy. Quick on the tail of reporting the good news, Shawn asked, “Why is your brother staying with you?”

As he’d hoped, Juliet answered thoughtlessly, her mind still occupied with relieved happiness: “He’s having some problems with his marriage.” She caught herself almost immediately and glared at Shawn, indignant. Shawn grinned unrepentantly.

“Vick really is doing better, I didn’t just say that to fake you out,” he reassured, and Juliet’s glare softened.

“I know, Shawn,” she said. “You wouldn’t lie about something that important.”

No, Shawn just lied about pretty much everything else. It was a lifestyle.

He tipped her a quick salute before zeroing in on Lassiter’s files lying defenceless on his desk. Lassiter was busy dancing attendance to Dunlap, over eager in the throes of puppy love. Sickening, Shawn thought to himself, though it would have been adorable if it had involved anyone other than Lassiter and Dunlap, the two least sexual people Shawn had ever encountered.

Blanking his brain, turning off the aspects of his mind that analyzed and cranking up those that memorized without a fault, Shawn flipped through the folders neatly lined up on Lassiter’s desk. Each page was instantly and irrevocably consigned to Shawn’s memory. Shawn glanced up quickly to make sure Lassiter was still completely involved in Dunlap before diving into the files the detective had stashed in his drawers.

Ten minutes later, whistling, Shawn waved goodbye to Fenich in Vick’s office, Buzz hunched over his desk, and Juliet still fielding phone calls as he strolled out the main entrance. It was time to hole up for about two hours to get all the new information sorted out in his head.

First stop: Psych office.

*

Only that didn’t happen, because Shawn had nearly forgotten Dahlia, but Dahlia had not at all forgotten about Shawn – particularly, she remembered the way in which he had introduced himself. Psychic detective indeed. She was waiting for him on the front steps of the Psych office, looking startlingly pretty without the zombie makeup covering her face. Big eyed, she waved excitedly as Shawn approached.

“Oh, thank god,” she said. “I’ve been waiting here for hours. I really need to talk to you, Shawn.”

Startled but hiding it, Shawn grinned widely. “Come into my parlour,” he gestured grandly, and unlocked the front door. Holding it open, he waved Dahlia inside; she gushed as she entered, saying, “I’m so relieved to see you, you have no idea. I need your help.”

“That’s what I got into the psychic detective business for,” Shawn said. “Helping pretty damsels such as yourself.” He waved her to the couch and settled into his spot behind his desk. It was good to be back in the office after yesterday’s chaos; it felt, finally, like Shawn was back in control of – something, at any rate.

“It’s – I hate saying this,” Dahlia said. “I really do, but – I think – I think Ted is dead because of my sisters.” She looked at Shawn, eyes luminous with tears. “I think someone killed him as a warning to my sisters. As a warning to me.”

“What do you mean?”

Dahlia swallowed. “Gerry and Gia and I started the ZomCon because we really – all three of us – we really love horror movies. But we didn’t have enough money to put it together on our own, and so we –“

“You went to a loan shark,” Shawn said, grim.

Dahlia nodded tearfully. “We didn’t think it would get so bad, at first. We thought we could make enough money to pay off the loan and the interest and still have some money left over to use as capital for the movie theatre we want to buy.” Dahlia side-tracked briefly, adding enthusiastically, “It’s been our dream for so long, we’re going to show vintage horror movies every night, but –“ She shook her head mournfully. “We couldn’t make the first payment. Or the second. We were getting threatening phone calls… so we pushed up the date for the ZomCon and marketed the hell out of it. Fliers everywhere, viral websites, word of mouth, anything we could think of. And the turn-out was enormous. We had such high hopes. But – we’d stopped talking to the loan sharks.” Dahlia huddled into herself and shivered. “They scared us. And I think us ignoring them made them… angry.”

Shawn steepled his fingers in thought, his legs kicked out in relaxed pose. Loan sharks implied organized crime implied professionals which fit the five dead bodies pulled out of the wetlands that morning. But it didn’t fit the first death, the blank round. “Don’t worry,” he smiled reassuringly. “Everything’s going to be okay.” He leaned forward slightly. “I’m going to need to talk to your sisters, but I guarantee you this – everything’s going to be just fine.”

Dahlia smiled gratefully .”Thank you, Shawn,” she said. “I knew I could count on you.”

*

Dahlia had driven to get to Shawn’s office, and of course Shawn’s only means of getting around was a motorcycle he never really seemed to ride anymore. She called her sisters and arranged for all of them  to meet at a local café, and offered to give Shawn a ride over there. Her smile was on the sly side of flirtatious, no longer tremulous as it had been earlier. Shawn approved of her cheering up as teary females in general discomfited him – another thing he’d inherited from his father.

Dahlia’s car was small and compact, shiny dark silver, and when Shawn saw it from a distance he assumed she’d left someone in the passenger side seat as the silhouette from a distance seemed to suggest that. Moving closer, Shawn frowned. Something was in the passenger seat, all right.

“Give me your keys and stay here,” Shawn murmured to Dahlia. Frightened, she did as asked; Shawn walked carefully up to her car.

He rapped on the passenger seat window and the person sitting there didn’t respond. Shawn pushed Dahlia’s keys into the lock only to find it unnecessary – the door opened without him having to turn the key.

The door opened and the body slid sideways and collapse half on Shawn’s legs and feet and half on the concrete. “Great,” Shawn muttered to himself. “Sixth corpse of the day, this must be a record.” He spared a moment to be grateful Gus wasn’t there, as having dead bodies fall on him tended to send him screaming from the vicinity, which was a little too much drama to handle on top of all the stress of the last day and a half.

Shawn backed up slightly, and the corpse fell over onto its back. Its face was familiar. Shawn peered closer.

Flash. “They start and end the Con with a zombie walk.” The boy added, tone wistful, “It’s supposed to be a lot of fun.”

Shawn stared at the corpse, blinking in disbelief at the randomness of this latest violence. “I can’t believe this,” Shawn said. “Dev?”

Shawn rarely wished he could be in more than one place at a time, usually because wherever he was at was so awesome that he couldn’t even imagine being anywhere else. The rare occasions when two interviews/interrogations were going on at once was one of those times Shawn closed his eyes and cursed his inability to spontaneously multiply – he hated having to rely on others’ reports of what had been said and how, mostly because those others invariably missed small vital clues.

In this case, Dahlia’s sisters Gerry and Gia had been set up in different interrogation rooms with Dahlia herself sedated in the hospital for shock. She hadn’t dealt well with walking up behind Shawn to see the corpse of a teenage boy falling from the passenger side of her car. Her shrieks had been literally chilling, Shawn’s skin breaking out in goose bumps, and her breaking into spontaneous tears was vaguely alarming as she quickly moved into hyperventilation territory – territory which quickly led to oxygen deprivation and then passing out. Shawn had moved to catch her but had forgotten about the weight of the dead boy leaning against him. Two minutes of physical flailing later, Shawn was the only one standing of the three, and was looking increasingly suspicious to passers-by.

Shawn didn’t typically have a negative reaction to dead bodies – treated them as clues rather than as people who used to be alive but now were not – and so it always surprised him just a little when others couldn’t manage the same sense of distance. Considering Dahlia was a civilian he perhaps should have been able to predict her reaction, especially given his ‘psychic’ reputation. Shawn had sighed and massaged his head tiredly and called Lassiter.

Gerry and Gia were Geranium and Hydrangea de la Morte (apparently Dahlia meant it literally when she introduced herself ‘of the dead’; apparently the Dead Girls’ parents had a Thing for weird flower names) were twins, identical down to the exquisitely manicured fingernails tapping impatiently against the surfaces of the tables in the interrogation rooms. Though separate, they maintained perfect rhythm with one another – an eerie skill Shawn couldn’t help but admire as he watched them in tandem on the police monitors.

Lassiter with Gerry and Juliet with Gia, the same questions were asked rapid fire in one room and slow, sympathetic in the next. The same answers were given with the same aristocratically bored tone. Thos answers – “Lawyer. Now.” Shawn had to admire a woman who knew her rights, and here were two right in front of him.

Lassiter continued with his hardass routine, though Shawn could have told him there was no way that was going to work. Gerry was too polished, smooth as a river stone worn down by current, implacable. She knew her right to silence and employed it. Juliet, however, worked the big sister angle on Gia – commented with a rueful sympathetic tilt to her head that it was too bad Dahlia was all on her own in the hospital. Shawn had been focusing on Lassiter and Gerry’s interaction, but Gia’s cracking, “What – Dolly –“ had his head snapping like a whip to the side.

For the first time Shawn could differentiate between the de la Morte twins: Gia’s face was tight, white with fear, her hand visibly clenched into a fist and slamming suddenly into the table. The loss of control lasted only a bare minute, emotion stuttering off Gia’s mask-like expression.

Juliet frowned. She’d sensed a struck nerve, but was still too green to expose and exploit it. Shawn shook his head and bit back the urge to burst into the interrogation room, have a ‘vision’ to propel the plot along. Juliet had to learn, after all – Shawn had done her a disservice, perhaps, in always jumping in when his glory-hound ways drove him. The derby case had shown him she was still developing as a detective; skilled, yes, but still quick to jump for the easy clues rather than dig deeper for the ones unseen. She needed to develop the instincts that Shawn had allowed her to leave stunted in the wake of his ‘abilities’.

And so he waited.

Juliet did not disappoint: she leaned across the table. “Your little sister was checked into the hospital just an hour ago,” she said. Careful not to give too many details, she said, “The body of a teenage boy was found in her car.” Juliet paused, then emphasized her next word carefully, “If she recovers, she’ll be under suspicion.” Juliet kept her gaze firmly on Gia, who was transfixed. “If she recovers, she’ll be investigated for his murder. She might go to jail. No jury likes young deaths. Now,” she shook her head decisively, “I don’t think your sister has it in her to kill anyone. She didn’t strike me as the type. But who knows what an investigation might uncover.” Juliet leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “I think you should tell us everything you know.”

In the hall, where no one but the booking officers, criminals, and Buzz McNabb could see him – Shawn Spencer let out a whoop and danced a happy jig. “Way to go, Jules!” he called out and clapped his hands in appreciation. On camera Juliet frowned a little, rubbed her forehead tiredly and stood.

She walked to the door, opened it, and leaned her face outside. “Much as I appreciate the support, Shawn, the rooms aren’t completely soundproof and we can hear you inside.” She glared. “Please. Shut up.”

Shawn was never embarrassed. Not when his dad lectured his grade ten class on safe sex (ie. no sex) or when Gus got vaguely drunk and kept on trying to burst into a song and dance number in the middle of the street (actually, Shawn had joined in). Shawn was never embarrassed, and so he just grinned cheekily and gave Jules a double thumbs up. Respecting her request for silence he mouthed: Way to go Juliet!

She rolled her eyes, but was smiling anyways, as she closed the door behind her.

*

Gia’s apparent breaking came too late in the interrogation to do much good beyond confirming Dahlia’s assertion that the three sisters had gone into debt to host the ZomCon in the hopes that they would be able to use the proceeds to finance a movie theatre. Though Juliet pushed her on the question of a loan shark, Gia remained steadfast in her refusal of owing money to organized crime, citing instead a bank loan that was on public record. She was moving into a loudly vocal denial of involvement in any murder when the state appointed lawyer made his appearance and ordered all questioning to cease and desist.

Juliet joined Shawn in watching identical Gerry and Gia walk out the station doors. From behind them, frustrated Lassiter said, “I almost had her, she was just about to break,” to which Dunlap replied, “You did good, sailor.”

Juliet and Shawn shared a sideways glanced, and then a simultaneous shudder. It was too weird, too strange and antithetical to normal human interaction, to consider Lassiter and Dunlap together together.

“Shawn,” Juliet said. “Not that I don’t appreciate your – loud – encouragement, I was hoping you could keep it down next time.”

Shawn grinned. “Can do, Jules.” He glanced rapidly about the room, taking note of the newest entrants to the police station. The grin fell off his face. “I think your ‘next time’ just arrived.”

Juliet followed his gaze. “Oh,” she closed her eyes. “Damn.”

The family of the boy known as ‘Dev’ to Shawn and as ‘Devalle Rochester’ on his birth and death certificates had just walked in.

They shared the same broad outlines of features with one another, even husband and wife – similar though not similar enough to be related, just recognizable as coming from the same general ethnic background – and though Shawn’s memory had not yet failed him, he would have been hard pressed to match the girl who stood with her parents to the  one he’d met just the day before, sarcastic and snarky and sniping at her little brother.

All of seventeen, Jessamyn ‘Min’ Rochester stood frail and exhausted, her expression a ravage of tears. Her parents fared no better.

“Honey,” her mother said, “You wait out here. We’ll be back in a few minutes.” Her father squeezed her arm gently, and Min nodded.

Juliet stepped forward to face the bereaved family, brave in a way that Shawn didn’t always acknowledge; brave in a way that Shawn so often was not himself. Lassiter had of course run away with Dunlap. In all fairness he probably hadn’t known the parents were already coming in – they’d been notified just over an hour ago, would have had to come to the police station straight from the morgue – the identification process grisly, and not an experience Shawn would wish upon his worst enemy (though said worst enemy was a jerk who had accused Shawn of cheating on his Bio exam and almost made Shawn repeat that entire year of high school, so yeah, Shawn was still a little bitter – but not that bitter).

“Mister and Missus Rochester,” Juliet greeted gravely. She was good at formalities. Temporary Chief Fenich had been drawn out of his office by some psychic sense developed by those who had spent a lifetime in the service, and stood observing. Shawn caught his assessing glance. “Please step in here,” Juliet said, gesturing toward the interrogation room doors. Where she had been harsh with Gia, seeking out buttons to push, she would be a light touch with the Rochesters. In that realm, Shawn had no doubts as to her ability.

The senior Rochesters preceded Jules into the room, leaving Min to stand awkward in the hall. Criminals awaiting processing leered and catcalled at her; stirred by some protective urge so rarely felt, Shawn crossed the room. “Hey,” he said. “Do you want to sit down?” and without waiting for her response cupped her elbow to guide her to the nearest desk. Buzz’s desk, to be exact, still wholly covered in a complex tangle of diagrams, buildings dissected to blueprint.

Though Shawn recognized Min from their brief few moments of interaction the day before, it was obvious Shawn was the furthest person from Min’s mind as she idly rubbed at the tears streaking her face. Uncomfortable when confronted with such abject misery, went digging through his pockets in search of something to serve as distraction – coming up only with a pineapple sucker. This he offered with a hesitant grin.

Min stared at it for a few long moments before saying quietly, “They always say not to take candy from strangers.” Shawn resisted the urge to groan. He’d heard enough of the Stranger Danger talk during the last case he’d had with Lassiter and Juliet.

“Shawn Spencer,” Shawn said promptly. “See? No longer a stranger.”

Against her will, Min giggled. She took the sucker but didn’t unwrap it, instead playing idly with the papers on Buzz’s desk. She seemed to see through them at first, but gradually her gaze sharpened and her breath hitched. “This is Antioch University,” she said. Her voice was cracked and rusty as if rusted with tears. “I told him not to go.” She shook her head and her eyes glinted dully. “He was so…”

Shawn had learned the hard way that sometimes the best way to get information out of a witness was to be quiet and wait. Silence begged for noise to come and fill it, and, after a prolonged eternity, Min did.

“Dev. He. He was always on the internet. I kept on telling him he needed to go out and make some real friends and he would say that all of his friends were real. And.” Min pressed one hand against her mouth and her mouth opened in an aborted sob. It hurt to look at, this face of grief. Min shook her head and swallowed the scream that Shawn could see forming in her mouth. She gulped, and drew in a long breath, and went on. “He found out about the stupid zombie convention from – somewhere. I don’t even know. Some website. Talked about the – forums. Whatever, geek speak, you know. I. I was always. I made so much fun of him. He hated it, he – hated –“ Min shook her head again. “He thought they cared about him. Whoever it was that he was talking to, he thought they were his. He thought they were friends, and they killed him.” Min looked up. She was looking at Shawn, but she didn’t see him. “They killed him.”

“Min,” Mr. Rochester called out. He and his wife had left the interrogation room, Juliet standing behind them. “Honey, let’s go home now.”

Min stood on unsteady feet, pineapple sucker gripped in one hand, and stumbled her way to her parents’ embrace. They left the station together, one unit always in contact, deprived of the one person who could make their fractured lives whole.

Shawn stared after them. It wasn’t often he felt helpless, useless, but here and now he did. He was too late to fix what had destroyed this family’s lives. What was so often a puzzle, a game, for him – wasn’t, suddenly.

But Shawn Spencer wasn’t made for serious introspective thought, couldn’t sustain the sheer depressing weight of it – his memory would never let him forget, but his coping skills would let him compartmentalize. So when he shook his head and turned to grim Juliet, he did so with an inquisitive look on his face, a bouncy, “Wanna grab a smoothie break?”

Juliet’s serious countenance lightened for a second as she glared at Shawn for his impropriety. Then her brow smoothed as she replied, “That new place? The one that makes-“

“Kiwi coconut,” Shawn nodded. He’d never understand Jules’ favourite flavours, but he would always note them nevertheless. Jules grinned.

“Lead the way,” she said, and Shawn did.

*

Sipping smoothies companionably on the ten minute walk back to the station, Juliet took a brief time out from the grisly headspace of a murder investigation to broach nervously the topic that had so dominated the last week of her life.

She said, hesitant, “Shawn? Could you, uh. Do a private consultation?”

Shawn blinked at her from around his straw. His hair looked quizzical, which was a trick Juliet hoped she would never figure out. It was too weird a talent to think about extensively.

“For my brother,” Juliet clarified hurriedly. “Not me. I don’t, uh, need one.”

Shawn grinned broadly with delight and gulped down his latest mouthful of icy mango-pineapple goodness (he’d decided to mix things up from his traditional straight pineapple flavour). “Juliet! I finally get to meet the family?”

“Shawn,” she rolled her eyes.

“Right, right,” Shawn held his hands up, smoothie tilted at a hazardous angle. “I hear you. Strictly professional meeting. About – don’t tell me, let me ask the spirits –“

Before he could go into full spastic vision mode, Juliet sighed and cut him off with, “I already told you he’s having marital problems. He and his wife separated a few weeks ago and he’s been crashing with me to get away from all their familiar haunts. He’s really… depressed.” And depressing, Juliet didn’t add. Shawn picked up on it anyway.

“Be careful with him,” Juliet warned.

For once Shawn allowed a genuine smile to make it to his face. He brought the hand holding the smoothie to his chest in a dramatic gesture, somewhat ruined when a chunk of mango flew out the top of the lid and splatted against his chin. He brushed it off negligently. “Jules,” he said. “This is your brother. I will be carefuller than a hen with a nest full of eggs.”

While Jules was busy blinking over that bizarre simile, Shawn brushed past her and entered the station, only to walk into a charged atmosphere.

Buzz stood outside Fenich’s office door, and his face lit up with relief when he saw Shawn and Juliet. “You guys, they’ve been looking for you,” he said. “You should get in there fast.”

“What’s going on?” Juliet asked.

Buzz looked grim. “They’ve identified the five dead bodies. They were all security guards at the convention.”

*

Not just security guards, the majority of the dead bodies were retired cops. Some of whom Fenich had personally known, which explained the severity of his expression as he planted his fists on Vick’s death and stood, looming as he growled, “I want this case closed yesterday.”

Though his father was nowhere in the room, Shawn still snapped to attention just as if Henry had caught him at some illicit dealing, as he had unconsciously done even at his most rebellious. Across the room, Lassiter did the same.

Fenich slapped dossiers down on Vick’s desk and photos slid from the folders opened by the force. Five weathered faces unblemished by neither garish zombie make up nor a hole between the eyes stared at Shawn: Shawn blinked fast like a camera’s shutter closing, and had their faces stored forever in his brain.

“Who would kill all of the security guards at the zombie convention?” Juliet wondered.

“All the guards? They only hired five guys?”

Lassiter nodded. “Apparently the budget didn’t extend further than that.” He scowled. “Maybe it was a revenge killing. Someone who got injured by the mob decided to take it out on the guys who fell down on the job.”

Fenich scowled. “None of these officers failed at their jobs,” he said. “Five men against a mob is not a reasonable ratio.” Lassiter flushed at the rebuke. “Find the killer,” Fenich ordered, and Shawn fought off the urge to snap a salute.

Lassiter and Dunlap quickly exited through the door, Juliet hot on their heels, but Shawn himself was held up by his cell choosing that moment to ring. Glancing quickly at Fenich in apology, Shawn flipped it open.

“Shawn!”

Shawn groaned. “Hi, Dad.”

“I’ve been stuck with this kid for five hours straight. How do I even feed it?”

“You mean her, Dad. Not it. And how should I know? I’m not the one out of the two of us who had a kid.”

“You always seem pretty damn sure you can do everything better than me. Prove it.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Dad. I’m not taking over babysitting duty from you.”

“Shawn-“

Shawn growled and, without looking at Fenich, tossed his cell at the retired chief of police. Fenich caught it out of startled reflex. Henry’s voice continued to come through, tinny at a distance, and Shawn waved a jaunty goodbye as he exited Vick’s office and headed for the main set of doors, leaving Fenich bemused behind him.

Shawn’s imminent escape was thwarted, however, by a hesitant Buzz McNabb, who called out, “Uh, Shawn? Could you, uh, give me your opinion on something?”

Buzz was standing beside the mess that was his desk, a mess Shawn hadn’t even tried to untangle. Always fond of the awkward police officer, Shawn veered from his course to the door to Buzz’s desk. “What up dude?”

Buzz waved over the blueprints for Antioch University. They were many, they were varied. Buzz lowered his voice. He said, “Shawn, I’m not sure, but I think – I think someone organized for the mob to happen. Because there’s no way they all would have run out just that one set of doors. Not when there were so many entrances all around the auditorium.” If possible, Buzz’ voice went even lower. “All the other doors were locked. All the other doors were under guard.”

Shawn blinked. “You mean –“

“Yeah,” Buzz nodded. “According to witnesses on the scene, the few who actually noticed, all the other doors except for the one the mob ran through –“ the one that trampled Chief Vick, that almost trampled baby Iris and Commander Dunlap – “they were all guarded by the security officers.”

*

The deaths didn’t make sense.

Shawn was back at the Psych office, transparent dry-erase board brought out for easy charting purposes. The files he’d memorized earlier that day from Lassiter’s collection of files were quickly recreated in miniature, the pertinent details of name, profession, and shorthand account of events written in Shawn’s chicken scratch handwriting.

Tattoo guy was Edouard Delphin, and Lassiter’s noted his unwillingness to cooperate with police questioning, especially regarding his antagonistic relationship with the dead Ted Stevens.

Ted Stevens’ fiancée, Bianca Mitchell, gave a statement that was matter of fact in that painful way that spoke of shock rather than a lack of feeling.

Gerry and Gia’s statements were near identical. Dahlia’s was slightly hysterical in nature, though coming across as inherently truthful.

They were the only ones Shawn could think to be suspicious of – though truthfully Mitchell and Delphin could only be linked to the first death, that of Ted Steven, which was arguably not a murder at all. Shawn frowned, massaged his temples, drowned himself in thought.

He scrawled a quick succession of questions across the board:

Why would someone aim a gun filled with blanks at Ted Stevens?

Who was Ted Stevens’ shooter?

Was the one who shot Ted Stevens the same one who shot the five security guards and murdered Devall Rochester?

Was the killer of the five security guards the same as the killer of Devall Rochester, who had been killed via strangulation as opposed neat bullet holes?

What was the motivation for the deaths of the seven men? Were they all the same motivation?

Why was there a discrepancy between Dahlia’s story of the loan sharks and Gia’s avid disavowal of owing money to anyone other than a bank?

Why would someone have engineered a mob to burst out of Antioch University?

What was the purpose –

Just as Shawn was writing the latest question of his brainstorming session, the office phone rang. Eyes rolling, huffing in annoyance at the interruption, Shawn didn’t bother picking up. The machine was there for a reason, after all. As soon as the familiar message had cycled through, Gus’ equally familiar voice filled the Psych office.

“Shawn. Shawn. I know you’re there. I already tried your dad’s and your apartment. Shawn. Shawn. Pick up. Shawn.”

For some reason, Gus always thought just repeating Shawn’s name multiple times in a row would be enough to compel Shawn to answer the phone. Shawn grinned to himself and flopped down at his desk chair. Getting Gus into a monologue was always fun.

Gus went on: “Shawn, why the hell did your dad’s old police chief answer your cell phone? And what the hell did he say about Chief Vick?” Gus sighed. “I go away for a few days and things go crazy. Seriously, Shawn, pick up now.” Shawn grinned and shook his head childishly. “You’re shaking your head right now, aren’t you, Shawn. You’re such a child.” If possible, Shawn’s grin grew.

“I’m not going to stop talking until you pick up,” Gus said, and Shawn was almost tempted to see how long Gus could keep up a stream of narrative before his well of words running dry – but then he remember this was Burton Guster, he who in the 1980’s had the largest vocabulary of any sixth grader in all of Santa Barbara – if he was well and determined to talk, nothing would hold him back.

Shawn stood, crossed the room to Gus’ desk, and picked up.

“Gus,” he said, and a wave of relief so strong it shook him where he stood rolled over him when he heard Gus say in his ear, “What’s going on, Shawn?” There was nothing like hearing your best friend’s voice when nothing was making sense. All the things that had been subtly wrong these last few days were suddenly put back into balance.

“Gus,” Shawn said again. “You’re seriously not going to believe this one.” Shawn considered himself a veteran nutsheller, but even his skills at paraphrase were stretched by the latest case. It didn’t help that Gus frequently asked for pauses in the storytelling to expand upon this or that point, notably that of what exactly was up with Vick being in the hospital and Fenich in her office, as well as the weird romance between Lassiter and Dunlap (“That’s just messed up,” Gus said, and Shawn was beyond happy to concur). Some points Gus paused Shawn at to say, “There is no way that is actually her name,” to which Shawn had to threaten to produce actual documentation he was telling the truth. He would have managed it too, somehow, the way he always managed to be right.

By the time Shawn had caught Gus up to the current events of the story, his voice was sore and he was rummaging through the small refrigerator they kept at the office for a bottle of water. He found instead apple juice and popped the cap with a quick twist of the wrist. Taking a gulp, he swallowed and said, “I’m brainstorming now to figure out where to go next, but it’s a mess. Usually something jumps out at me, but there’s nothing this time.”

Gus was quiet for a second, and then the sound of rapid fire typing came through the phone line. Shawn paused in disbelief. “Gus…” he trailed off. “Are you surfing the net while I’m talking to you?”

“It’s called Google, Shawn,” Gus said snootily. “Honestly, who says ‘surfing the net’ nowadays? It’s not the nineties.”

“Don’t be a Rickrolled link,” Shawn said impatiently. “What are you googling?”

“The Santa Barbara ZomCon,” Gus said. “I think I saw some advertisements early last week, but I was – busy thinking about this trip.”

Overly, fakely casual, Shawn asked, “How is that going anyway? Having fun with the brother?”

“Found it,” Gus ignored the question in order to crow his victory. “The ZomCon, run by the Dead Sisters. Shawn, I’m emailing you the link.”

“You know, I can use Google just as well as you,” Shawn pouted.

“No, you can’t,” Gus replied, calm. “You get distracted. You click on every link, and then on every link on the first page you go to. It’s like a weird compulsion. An internet disability. I’ve considered getting you a helper or something, before I decided it was a good thing you couldn’t navigate the internet without someone holding your hand the entire time to keep you focused.”

Shawn pouted harder. It wasn’t fair for someone to know him so well and then not even be there in person. Stupid Brenton. Stupid Connecticut.

“I’ve gotta go,” Gus said. “Answer your phone from now on, huh?”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mother Burton.”

“I’ll be back Wednesday morning,” Gus reminded him. “Bye Shawn.” He didn’t wait for Shawn to reciprocate with a farewell, but rather hung up right away.

Shawn stuck his tongue out at the receiver.

His laptop was in sleep mode, and Shawn woke it up with a few keyboard taps and checked his email quickly. True to his word, Gus had left the link www.zombies_in_santa_barbara.com in Shawn’s inbox – along with the cautionary note of, “Don’t navigate away from this domain name, Shawn. You’ll lose track of time and when I come home you’ll still be stuck to your computer, probably on Youtube, clicking mindless video after video. Don’t make me come home to that, Shawn.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “You’re such a drama queen, Gus,” he murmured to his absent best friend, and clicked the waiting link.

*

Possibly Gus had had a point, Shawn had to admit three hours later, when dark had overcome the persistent sunshine of Santa Barbara and only the glow from his computer screen lit up the office. Shawn pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and ground them down. His eyes were sore, watered when he refused to blink. He had gotten caught up in the website.

There was something about hyperlinks that just suited Shawn’s ADD personality. Always something new, just a double-click away – there was something addictive about that basic characteristic of the internet. Shawn for the most part kept his weird love for links subdued, wishing to leave the overt geekiness for Gus.

The ZomCon’s website was a professionally done job; Shawn didn’t want to contemplate on the costs involved in setting it up and keeping it running – it hadn’t yet been edited since the zombie mob of yesterday, and so Shawn navigated its multiple pages with quick scans. For the most part it was promotional information – where to go, when, what kinds of contests to enter, what kind of prizes – unrelenting curiousity made Shawn look up the Family Contest that Vick, Iris and Dunlap had entered, where he found out the prize would have been a month’s worth of candied brains. The announcement for the opening zombie rally, which had gone so sour and turned the cheering crowd into a rushing mob, proclaimed that it would start the convention off with a ‘BANG!’

Shawn squinted at the wording. It was odd. It almost seemed to hint at the shooting.

Flash. Min’s face twisted in mourning as she said, “He found out about the stupid zombie convention from – somewhere. I don’t even know. Some website. Talked about the – forums. Whatever, geek speak, you know. I. I was always. I made so much fun of him. He hated it, he – hated –“ Min shook her head again. “He thought they cared about him. Whoever it was that he was talking to, he thought they were his. He thought they were friends, and they killed him.” Min looked up. She was looking at Shawn, but she didn’t see him. “They killed him.”

There was a forums section; Shawn clicked on it. They didn’t offer much except for Dev’s excited postings. Shawn identified the fifteen year old, now dead, fanboy with little trouble. His screen name was zombiemaster1993, and he had the largest posting record of any forum member. Shawn scrolled through some of his comments, but there was only so much misspelled “OMG this is gonna be SO AWESOME” that he could bear to make himself read.

The only one responding to Dev’s postings was someone with the title of ‘Administrator’ and screen name ‘Dead Girl 1’. “Gerry,” Shawn murmured to himself. She had been the dominant twin. She would have named herself number one out of the three sisters. She invariably thanked Dev for all his enthusiasm and said something about wanting to meet him at the ZomCon. Shawn rolled his eyes. It was an obvious play on a teenager’s hormones. Shawn squinted at the screen. But why would Gerry need to cultivate a teenager’s hormones to the point where he would be dying to go to the ZomCon to meet her?

Flash. The afternoon of the ZomCon, when he’d just met Dahlia and she was dragging him to get a wristband – seeing Dev, talking to a  hot zombie, thinking fondly Way to escape your sister’s clutches.

Flash. Buzz’s uncharacteristically serious face as he said, “I think someone organized for the mob to happen. Because there’s no way they all would have run out just that one set of doors. Not when there were so many entrances all around the auditorium.” If possible, Buzz’ voice went even lower. “All the other doors were locked. All the other doors were under guard.”

Shawn blinked. He slowly grinned.

He’d cracked the case.

*

All days in Santa Barbara were sunny, but the morning following Shawn’s revelation seemed particularly bright. Shawn walked into the station with a bounce in his step, jaunty as a pirate with fresh plunder.

The sleep-deprived mass of Santa Barbara’s finest greeted him blearily in Chief Vick’s office, as did Geranium and Hydrangea de la Morte, though they were less bleary and more glaring. Gerry – Shawn could tell her apart from her twin by the tense set of her shoulders, the way she stood as if she’d had martial arts training, and the fine lines around her mouth and eyes that spoke of stress Gia had no exposure to or knowledge of – spoke first, asking brusquely, “Does our lawyer need to be here?”

Shawn bounced in place. “That depends,” he said.

Gerry rolled her eyes, bit out, “Depends on what?”

“On whether you want to plead guilty,” Shawn let a dramatic pause build, then broke it with, “To murder!”

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Gerry said, and motioned to Gia. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Not so fast,” Fenich said sternly. “You’ve been under suspicion for recent murders. You’ll stay put.”

Shawn tossed a quick grin at his dad’s old chief before launching into full spastic vision mode, pressing one hand to his forehead and jerking his body around the Chief’s office. “I hear the voice of Devall Rochester!” Shawn flailed his arms wide. “What’s that? All you wanted was to go to the zombie convention?” Shawn crooned to the air beside his head. “Of course you did. You’d met such a nice girl online.” He looked directly at Gerry and let his gaze harden. “Such a nice girl. You thought you were friends.” Gerry paled. “And what do friends do for each other? That’s right. Favours.”

Shawn pointed at Gerry de la Morte and said, “You knew how far in debt you and your sisters were getting! You knew you needed a quick, cheap way of getting publicity, and a lot of it. You staged the fake shooting!”

Gia clutched her sister and shook her head frantically; Gerry patted Gia’s hand stoically.

Shawn went on. “You loaded the gun with blanks and told Devall it was just a gimmick! You got him to jump up on the stage and shoot Ted Stevens. Only you didn’t know that Ted Stevens had a fatally weak heart, or that the shock of having a gun pulled on him would trigger not a bullet but a heart attack.” Shawn shook his head. “Once Ted was dead, there was no containing the panicking crowd. You’d arranged everything beforehand with the other security guards to cover all the entrances so that no one would run before you could explain the publicity stunt to the crowd – but with a dead body, there was no easy way to get rid of the fear, was there?”

Gerry didn’t answer, but Shawn wasn’t expecting her to.

“There you were with one dead body and a riot that injured who knows how many. No way you could have handled the lawsuits or the insurance claims, was there? Not with your shoestring budget. So the only thing you could do… was cover your tracks.” Shawn tsked. He leaned forward. “You killed those five security guards. You killed Devall Rochester. You were at least partly responsible for the death of Ted Stevens.”

Gerry didn’t break her gaze, didn’t look away, just stood proud and tall. She tilted her chin upward.

Gia meanwhile was going quietly into hysterics, clutching at her twin. “No,” she said. “You’re wrong. Gerry didn’t do any of those things.” Gerry’s grip on Gia’s hand tightened, and Gia cut herself off, with a final, “You don’t have any proof.”

Shawn hid a wince, because in that statement at least was a smidgeon of truth – Shawn didn’t have proof, not in the traditional sense, aside from the circumstantial evidence he’d cobbled together of Dev’s internet postings and Buzz’s report that there was no way the mob could have formed without some sort of external manipulation. But that was part of his plan – Shawn wasn’t looking to be proven completely correct. He was looking, instead, to provoke; to read in Gerry and Gia’s reactions the true goings-on of the last few days.

With the weakest part of his case exposed, Shawn waited for Gerry’s denial of any and all involvement. Lassiter and Dunlap glared back and forth between Shawn and Gerry while Juliet hid a covert yawn and Fenich scowled furiously.

As it turned out, Shawn needn’t have worried over Gerry’s refutation of his accusation. She patted Gia’s hand once more, then gently removed its clutching grasp. Gerry said, calm and without tremor, “All right, I confess. I did it all. I’m responsible for it, all of it.”

Gia choked out, “Gerry,” but her twin didn’t look her way.

“Detectives, arrest her,” Fenich barked out, and Lassiter quickly moved in with his cuffs.

Shawn leaned back and watched the action, smug grin on his face. He loved closing a case.

The day only got better when, an hour and a half later, Fenich stalked out of Vick’s office with Shawn’s cell phone held outstretched. Shawn paused his rifling through of Lassiter’s desk – not for clues, this time, just for fun. “Your father,” Fenich said wryly, and Shawn sighed long-sufferingly. “It’s good news,” Fenich added, and Shawn’s interest perked up.

“Shawn,” Henry said, “Get down to the hospital. Karen’s awake.”

*

They arrived at the hospital a triumphant, if exhausted group. Henry met them in the waiting room with Iris Vick held in his arms. He looked vaguely harried, and even more sleep-deprived that than those of the group who had gotten next to no sleep. Mr. Vick had yet to be contacted, to everyone’s chagrin – they weren’t looking forward to telling the man his wife had been hospitalized, though now of course would be able to say that she was recovering, and would be fine in the long run.

“Only two at a time,” Henry told the newly arrived group, handing Iris to Dunlap and waving Vick’s sister and daughter through to her room. “She’s been asking for you.”

While Juliet, Fenich, Henry and Buzz milled around the waiting room, biding their time for their turn to come, Lassiter cornered Shawn with an uneasy look on his face.

“Spencer,” he said, terse, tense. “I’m not unaware of your – propensity for first dates.”

Shawn gasped. “Shut your mouth!”

Lassiter looked pained. “Propensity,” he grit out, “Does not mean what you think it means.”

“Oh,” Shawn grinned. “What does it mean again?”

Lassiter looked as if his next words pained him from the inside. He closed his eyes. “It means,” he said, then had to stop and gather the will to actually say it, “that you’re – good. At them. First dates.”

“Right,” Shawn said. “Well, I wouldn’t say ‘good’, exactly, it’s more like the first date is an art form and I’m a master artist.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “Be that as it may,” he said through clenched teeth, “I – need – your… advice.”

Shawn blinked. “On… first dates? Dude, Lassy, you and Dunlap have been out plenty of times. Believe me. We’ve all noticed.”

The tendons in Lassiter’s neck stood out in sharp relief when Lassiter clenched his jaw. He said, stiffly, “We haven’t exactly been – dating.”

Shawn stared at him in incomprehension for a few brief moments before understanding kicked in. As did disgust, his face twisting as he said, “Oh, right, okay, that was. That was actually WAY too much information. More than I needed to know. EVER.”

“Get over your panic attack, Spencer,” Lassiter glared. “She’s letting me take her out on a date. It has to be good. Give me your best material.”

Shawn stared helplessly at the determined detective. “Hoboy,” he breathed to himself. “This is going to take a while.”

*

It did take a while, for Shawn to pound it into Lassiter’s head that all women were different and that no one set formula existed for the ‘perfect first date’ – such a thing was mystical in nature. Lassiter growled and demanded Shawn’s input on this first date, then; and so, cloistered from the rest of the group, Shawn and Lassiter hammered out the bare bones outline of the first date Lassiter would take Dunlap on, ever. It involved boats, sails, and shellfish. Shawn figured they would be safe sticking to a nautical theme.

Though the whole incident weirded him out incredibly and thoroughly, it was kind of fun seeing what made Lassy-face tick, romantically speaking, Shawn had to admit. Lassiter went the cliché route more often than Shawn would have guessed – was a traditionalist, which Shawn might have guessed were he ever to have thought the situation out.

Of course their prolonged plotting ensured that they were the last two of the group to make it in to see Vick, and that they had to make the trip together. They jostled for position in her doorway, neither wanting to let the other go first to greet her, yet conversely neither ready to approach her so frail in her hospital bed.

Vick laughed at them. She was pale and small, face bruised; but she had slipped easily from the coma that her doctors had retroactively named ‘healing’ and her physical ailments were quickly on the mend. She was going to be just fine, Shawn noted with relief, glad to have not been made a liar. He had promised Iris, after all, that her mother was going to pull through.

“Mr. Spencer, Detective Lassiter,” Vick greeted them, and they stepped forward in tandem.

Shooting sideway glares at one another, Shawn took one side of Vick’s bed and Lassiter the other. There wasn’t much you could say to your injured boss. Awkwardness necessarily abounded. Shawn managed a very sincere, “I’m glad you’re all right,” and magically produced a pineapple – from where, Lassiter couldn’t see – to set on Vick’s headboard.

“I’ve been told the culprit for all this chaos has been arrested,” Vick said. She smiled. “Good work, you two.”

Lassiter preened.

Shawn frowned. Despite being so sure he’d cracked the case just hours earlier, he was no longer as satisfied. It had been too – easy. Shawn was suspicious of easy. Nothing ever was done with ease in his life; always required effort of some magnitude, which was why Shawn so rarely involved himself with any endeavour. He preferred by far the slacker’s existence.

But he accepted the praise, as was his practice, and made amiable small talk with Vick until her nurse came into the room to shoo him, and Lassiter, away.

*

The group dispersed after, though Dunlap and Iris stayed behind for an extra visit and Henry said to Shawn, “Come over for dinner tonight. Steaks.” Given Gus’ absence, Shawn nodded. Grumpy company was better than no company.

Exiting the hospital, a familiar voice called his name. Dread tingled up his spine. Shawn turned around.

“Shawn!” Dahlia was all big eyes, tangled hair, hospital smell. She was wan and weary, looked more like a zombie standing in front of Shawn now than she had just two days before. “Shawn, they told me my sister-“

It was just his luck that he’d walk past just as Dahlia de la Morte was being discharged by the hospital. Shawn had thought they would at least hold her for a psychological evaluation before letting her loose. She’d found out the boy dead in her car was a murdered by her sister, after all.

“Dahlia,” Shawn said. He tried his best to be gentle, but it was difficult for him – he was used to cutting gentleness with biting humour, sarcasm, mockery. Distilled, it was too unwieldy an emotion. “I know. Your sister’s been arrested. I’m sorry, but it’s all true. She confessed.”

“No,” Dahlia shook her head. “There’s something wrong. Shawn, you have to fix this.”

Shawn guiltily reflected that she probably would not be coming to him if she knew he was the reason for her sister being tossed behind bars.

“Gerry didn’t do any of the things they’re saying she did,” Dahlia said insistently. “She couldn’t have. She’s a pacifist.” Dahlia shook her head, frantic. “Shawn, she didn’t.”

Shawn looked at her desperate face, felt her clutch at him with needy fingers. He was about to gently let her down when –

Flash. Shawn had asked, “All the guards? They only hired five guys?” and Lassiter had nodded. “Apparently the budget didn’t extend further than that.”

Flash. The five photographs of the security guards falling out of the folders Fenich slammed against Vick’s desk. Older men, some distinguished, some run down – faces unfamiliar.

Flash. Dahlia pointing out the ZomCon security officer when they first met – lanky body, unstooped. Even under all the face paint, Shawn could tell: the security guard Dahlia pointed out hadn’t been one of the five dead. One of the five listed on the official payroll.

Shawn frowned and patted at Dahlia’s hands where they clutched him. “I believe you,” he said. He had a sinking sensation in his gut. That feeling when he had made a very, very big mistake. “This case isn’t closed yet.”

Where Dahlia had not known of Shawn’s involvement in her sister’s arrest, Gia most certainly did, and was proving herself to be infinitely intractable. She sat in the Psych office, face scrubbed clean of makeup and eyes rubbed red, voice colder than glaciers as she said, “I don’t know what you expect to hear from me that you haven’t already gleaned from your ‘spirits’.” Her voice dripped with scorn, and Shawn hid a wince.

Dahlia said, “Stop it. Gia, that’s not helping. Just tell us what we need to know.”

Shawn had taken Dahlia back to the Psych office straight from the hospital, and gotten her to call up Gia. There were undercurrents that the youngest of the de la Morte sisters knew nothing of in this case – that Gia might know, that Gia might tell.

“He made a mistake when he accused Gerry,” Gia said. She shook her head. “Dolly, I don’t know why you think you can trust him, but I won’t.”

A few months ago, Shawn would have jumped up and down in frustration over Gia’s words. He would have launched himself into an elaborate fake vision, tailored to convince Gia of his ‘spiritual’ abilities. But, loathe as he was to admit it, Shawn had grown a modicum of maturity lately – and so he leaned forward, earnest, and said, “I don’t always know why the spirits choose to reveal the things they reveal. They don’t stick around to explain things. I do the best I can interpreting, and I know I made a mistake here. Please. Let me fix it.”

Gia’s glare was unrelenting, until suddenly it wasn’t, the ice in her eyes melting. She shot a quick glance at Dahlia, then bit her lip and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, and actually sounded as if she meant it this time. “There’s nothing I can do. Gerry didn’t kill those men. There’s no way. Especially not that boy – Devall – she thought he was sweet. He’d been emailing her for weeks. She –“ Gia’s eyes filled with tears, and she sniffled abjectly. “She liked him. She wanted to give him something fun to do.” Gia gathered composure and shook her head again. “No. No, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you any more than that.”

Shawn scrutinized her closely while Dahlia gave a despairing groan from beside her sister. Gia’s face was stiff with resolve, and she reached one pale hand to clutch at Dahlia’s wrist convulsively. Her grip must have been painfully tight. Dahlia didn’t seem to register pain, just sliding her own hand up to twine her fingers with her sister’s.

Shawn could recognize when someone said that they could not do something and meant that they would not. Shawn could recognize the difference between inability to commit an action and unwillingness. Gia teetered between the two extremes, as if she had made a decision but the choice she had arrived at had been the only one possible for her at the time.

Shawn couldn’t help but wonder what would necessitate the selling out of a twin sister. What was Gia so afraid of, what was Gerry so afraid of, that one would go to jail and the other would let her?

Dahlia smiled tremulously at her big sister, and Gia smiled back through falling tears. 

What was Shawn missing?

*

Shawn had shooed the sisters from the office hours ago, tiredly thinking it was going to be yet another in a long string of late nights, when his cell rang angrily. Caller id told him his father was on the other end, and Shawn hesitated before picking up, though he did pick up.

“Shawn, were you even going to call me tonight?”

“Hello to you, too, Dad,” Shawn said. He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“I thought I made it clear, it’s only common courtesy to call and let me know if you’re not going to make it when I invite you to dinner. I cooked steaks, Shawn. Steaks. Two of them. What am I supposed to do with the extra one?”

Shawn moved from rubbing his eyes to rubbing his forehead. There is not enough Advil in the world, he thought to himself, and said, “Sorry, Dad. Something came up. I’ve been busy.”

“Oh, yeah?” Henry Spencer’s voice shifted from annoyed to interested in the skip of one blink to the next, as Shawn had known it would. Though constantly grumpy, Henry was nothing if not involved in all aspects of his son’s life. It had taken a while for the father and son to reach an amicable relationship, though even before Shawn had (however grudgingly) allowed Henry into his life, Henry still managed to keep tabs on his wayward kid. Now, he no longer needed to be quite so covert in his information gathering. “What have you been busy with?”

“This latest case,” Shawn said. “It doesn’t sit right. It was – too easy.”

“Oh, not this again,” Henry groaned.

“Hey,” Shawn said. “The last time I said a case was too easy, it really was, so no groaning from you.”

“All right, all right,” Henry said. “Talk me through it.”

Shawn shook his head, not in denial but rather in bafflement. “It’s just too neat. Gerry de la Morte confessed without even a shred of evidence backing up my accusation. She didn’t have to do that. It’s almost as if she’s covering for someone, but who?”

There was a pause over the line before Henry said, “Forget about who, think about why. Why would an innocent woman take the blame for multiple murders? She won’t be getting out of jail for the rest of her natural life. Think about what would be worth that to her.”

“Yeah…” Shawn trailed off, thinking. “Dad, I’ll call you back later. Thanks.”

“Shawn! Wait.”

Shawn rolled his eyes, but held off on hanging up. “Yeah?”

“I wasted a steak tonight on you. Come over tomorrow night for dinner. And don’t forget again.”

“Yes, Dad,” Shawn said, sighing long-sufferingly, and hung up.

It was looking to be a long night ahead of him, and he wasn’t going to do his best work on an empty stomach. While reading his dry erase board for some hardcore brainstorming, Shawn called up the local pizza joint for a pineapple-mozzarella pie. Waiting for it to arrive, he quickly sketched out the chain of deaths.

First, Ted Stevens. The five security guards followed, having been killed at roughly the same time by the coroner’s best estimate – strange, now that Shawn thought about it. For them to have been killed at the same time, they would have had to have been all together. Either that, or there would have to have been five separate shooters. Shawn wasn’t sure which was the more unlikely possibility. Last, Devall Rochester.

The list of questions Shawn had been working on the day before was still up there, though some had been at least in part answered by Gerry’s confession to Shawn’s wild conjecture. Shawn squinted at the list:

·         Why would someone aim a gun filled with blanks at Ted Stevens?

·         Who was Ted Stevens’ shooter?

·         Was the one who shot Ted Stevens the same one who shot the five security guards and murdered Devall Rochester?

·         Was the killer of the five security guards the same as the killer of Devall Rochester, who had been killed via strangulation as opposed neat bullet holes?

·         What was the motivation for the deaths of the seven men? Were they all the same motivation?

·         Why was there a discrepancy between Dahlia’s story of the loan sharks and Gia’s avid disavowal of owing money to anyone other than a bank?

·         Why would someone have engineered a mob to burst out of Antioch University?

Well, the first question had obviously been answered – publicity stunt. The answer to the second question was Devall; the answer to the third question was “No,” at least in part. Gerry had gotten Dev to shoot at now-dead-Ted, but she hadn’t been the one to kill the security guards or Dev himself. What was the motivation for all the killing?

Shawn frowned and squinted, squinted and frowned. No matter how he contorted his face, the answer didn’t magically pop into his head. Gerry’s motivation had been publicity and money.

Or had it been? She wouldn’t have confessed if that was all there was to her plotting. She was protecting someone else. Her sisters?  Shawn shook his head. Gia, maybe, but Gia wouldn’t have let Gerry take the fall for her – and Dahlia had no clue what was going on.

Next question, and it was a good one. Why was there a difference between what Dahlia had told him of loan sharks and what Gia claimed of bank loans? At this point, Shawn was more likely to believe in what Dahlia had told him as opposed to what her sisters had claimed – and the loan sharks did make more sense than the bank loans, because what bank would finance a zombie convention, anyway?

On the board, Shawn scrawled, Organized crime money-lenders. Protecting their investment?

He capped the pen and stood back, reading down his list of questions again. He’d re-read it twice more by the time the pizza arrived, and he resolved to take a break, taking out a slice and phoning up Gus.

Gus picked up on the third ring, and immediately said, “Shawn, you better not be eating that pineapple and cheese pizza you always get when I’m not there.” Shawn looked down at the slice of pizza in his hand guiltily. Gus huffed. “You know that’s my favourite. I don’t know why you always order it when I’m out of town.”

“Okay, that’s just freaky,” Shawn said. “First of all, how do you even know it’s me calling?”

“Caller id, duh.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Second of all, how do you know about the pizza?”

“I left the webcam on in my laptop and pointed it at your desk,” Gus said, wry. Shawn sat up with alarming alacrity, and Gus chuckled. “I’m kidding, Shawn. I’m not Big Brother.”

“Yeah, well,” Shawn grumbled.

“I just know you is all.”

And Shawn had to smile, because it was true. If there was one person he was known to, it was Gus.

Nutshelling the day’s events took more than half an hour, especially with Gus’ frequent interjections saying, “No way that happened, Shawn!” and “Oh, that is just disturbing,” to Shawn’s revelation of what Lassy and Dunlap had been getting up to if not dates.

“I could not agree more,” Shawn grinned, and grabbed another piece of pizza. Gus made a pained noise when he heard Shawn’s chewing noises. “Anyway! So, I’m working through the case right now. I just don’t know why Gerry is covering for whoever is the actual killer.”

“You’re sure it’s not her sisters?”

Shawn shook his head, knowing that even if Gus couldn’t see the motion, he would still know what Shawn was doing.

Sure enough, Gus went on. “Go back to the dead guys then. The kid, Devall, he was killed because –“

“He knew too much,” Shawn answered promptly. “He and the five security guards all knew too much. They were liabilities – they could have brought the gun that shot blanks at Ted Stevens to police attention and gotten – whoever – in trouble.”

“Right,” Gus said slowly. “Then, what about Ted Stevens? Why was he the one shot at in a room full of hundreds?”

Shawn blinked. “Huh,” he said.

*

Flash. The zombie mob was running toward him and Lassy, and they managed to stop only one hysterical woman. She was hysterical with panic. “In the auditorium,” she gasped. She was paler than the face paint she wore. “We were having our first rally when – oh god, when – he just jumped onto the stage, and he had a gun, and he pointed it at me and then at the man next to me, and then he pulled the trigger – oh, oh,” she moaned and began to hyperventilate.

Flash. Now dead Ted, short and slight, arguing with Edouard Delphin – “Your zombie blood is a health hazard,” he snarled and the larger man barked a sharp laugh.

“Prove it,” he husked, voice raspy. He was one of a few who hadn’t covered himself in fake blood and brains, wearing instead leathers and a taunting smirk. Meaty arms crossed over his chest, tattoos visible snaking up and down his biceps, completely bald and more than slightly badass, he was a sight to be reckoned with. Now dead Ted looked ridiculous and hysterical in opposition.

Flash. Edouard Delphin, covered in tattoos, smirking at a hot zombie now familiar as Gerry, Gerry draped over Dev – Shawn hadn’t realized the kid was Dev, not at first, only saw him from behind – Edouard Delphin passing a bag of blood and – a glint of metal, something else, a gun? – to Dev.

Flash. Edouard Delphin, covered in tattoos, familiar tattoos. The kind of tattoos a local gang had used fifteen years ago, before it had migrated to a larger city and been absorbed into the long arm of the Mob. Shawn hadn’t been looking closely at the tattoos, but now that he took the time, he recognized them.

*

“Dude,” Shawn said to Gus. “I think they targeted Ted. I don’t think he was just a random face in the crowd. Dev was pointing at some lady first, and shifted his aim after. I don’t think they meant to kill Ted, just scare him – revenge.”

“You didn’t say any of the de la Morte girls had a problem with Ted,” Gus said, confused.

“Yeah,” Shawn said. “Because they didn’t. It was the other guy. Do me a favour – Google Edouard Delphin.”

Gus sighed long sufferingly, but Shawn could hear him typing over the phone connection anyway. “All I’m getting is some guy who sells – oh, gross.”

“What?”

“He sells animal blood over the internet. He says it’s for ‘authentic decorations’ and ‘other personal use’. That’s sick. It can’t be safe.”

Shawn rubbed his face. He’d been doing that a lot lately. He said, “Gus, Gus. If a bank wouldn’t loan them the money because their scheme was too wild, why would a loan shark? They wouldn’t be sure of getting their money back. Only a loan shark who’s also a zombie fan would do it.”

“In other words, only Edouard Delphin,” Gus said grimly.

“This is starting to make more sense,” Shawn muttered. “But not complete sense.”

“Does anything ever make complete sense with you?”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Hanging up now,” he said.

“Wai-“

Whatever Gus had been about to say was cut off when Shawn flipped his cell closed. It buzzed an angry text message Shawn ignored a few seconds later. Shawn was busy erasing some of the questions off of the board and adding others:

·         Why would Gerry de la Morte be covering for Edouard Delphin?

·         Why would Gia be covering for Gerry covering for Edourard Delphin? (That was a grammatically confusing sentence; good thing Gus wasn’t around to mock it and demand a rewrite.)

·         Who was the sixth, fake security guard Dahlia had pointed out days ago?

Shawn closed his eyes and worked backward.

Flash. Dahlia pointing out the security guard, voice playful, days before any of the following violence would touch her – days before her sister’s incarceration could leave her hysterical in the waiting room of a hospital, clutching at Shawn in desperation.

Flash. He and Dahlia eating candied brains later that same day. The security guard behind them, eating brains as well.

Flash. The security guard with – Eduouard Delphin.

Shawn frowned. For the second evening in a row, he said, “I just cracked the case.” This time, he was right.

*

“I just cracked the case.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “Yesterday, Spencer. Stop riding that wave of glory.”

For once Santa Barbara hadn’t dawned bright and glorious; was instead overcast, grey, downright depressing. Shawn had woken up late, the previous night’s pizza putting him in a cheese-and-carb coma, and had trekked his way as soon as possible to the station.

“No,” Shawn insisted. “I wasn’t completely on base yesterday.” If at all possible, Shawn avoided using the words ‘I’, ‘was’, and ‘wrong’ together. “The spirits spoke to me last night. They told me to dig deeper! There’s more here than meets the eye!”

Lassiter smirked. “We have a confession from the lead suspect. I don’t know what else you think you can get out of Geranium de la Morte, Spencer, but trust me. We have enough.”

Shawn shook his head wildly. “No, that’s what I’m saying! It wasn’t her. She wasn’t the murderer. Murdereress. Murderess?” Shawn paused for a beat before realizing Gus wasn’t there to chime in with the correct word. He moved on. “She’s taking the blame for someone – you remember Edouard Delphin?”

“Give it up, Spencer,” Lassiter said. “The case is closed. Go back to your boring life and let us process all the paperwork you seem to generate as a matter of course.”

Shawn tore at his hair in frustration. This was a major deal given how much time and effort he put into his hair on a daily basis. “Lassiter,” he almost howled. “I am serious!”

“Whatever,” Lassiter shook his head and leaned over his aforementioned paperwork.

Fenich’s sharp, “Detective,” made Lassiter straighten with alarming alacrity, the Irish detective snapping to military-precision attention. Shawn hadn’t seen Fenich arrive – for all he knew, Fenich had been in Vick’s office overnight – but the old man stood with clear and forbidding eyes. “Listen to the kid,” Fenich said sharply. “Always follow the hunches. The two of you – go.”

At the word ‘go’ Lassiter was gone, heading straight for the main doors. Shawn took the time to shoot a grateful ‘thank you’ to Fenich from over his shoulder as he loped after Lassiter.

It was a vaguely familiar scene, echoing only a few days’ earlier when Shawn and Lassiter had argued over the efficacy of taking Lassiter’s car to Antioch University – only this time there was no argument. Lassiter threw himself into the driver’s seat and Shawn ran for the passenger’s side, passing Juliet and a tall man he barely took notice of as he went.

“Shawn!” Juliet cried out, but Shawn couldn’t be stopped to talk.

“Follow us!” he cried back. “With backup!”

Then he was in Lassiter’s car and the car was moving, without even time for Shawn to buckle his seatbelt in place before Lassiter was hurtling them down the street.

Approximately two and a half minutes later Lassiter said, “Where exactly are we going?”

Shawn rolled his eyes at the urgency evinced in Fenich’s presence leading to the haplessness in directions now. “Left on the upcoming street,” Shawn said. “The spirits propel us forward!”

A muscle in Lassiter’s cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw. Shawn watched in delight. He resolved not to let on the real source of his directions: MapQuest.

*

Edouard Delphin’s business address was also his home address – and this address was a rundown house on the outskirts of Santa Barbara, its front and back yards bounded by a rickety picket fence with peeling paint and dying vegetation in what could passably be called ‘gardens’. It was the type of house someone had loved, once, and put work into – and then abruptly stopped caring, or died, or gave up.

“Stay in the car,” Lassiter said, consternation streaking his face with lines, as if he’d just now remembered that Shawn wasn’t a fellow officer and that it was more than mildly inappropriate to drag Shawn into a possibly dangerous situation.

“Sure,” Shawn said agreeably. Lassiter shot him a suspicious look but got out of the car and headed for the back of the house. Shawn picked up the car’s radio and quickly told Juliet the address they were at – she’d done a pretty good job of guessing, and would only have to reorient herself slightly to be back on track to their location. Shawn then waited until the count of twelve, keeping time under his breath, before easing his door open and walking stealthily up to the first window next to the front door.

He peered in. Where the outside was neglected, the inside was decrepit and depressing. Broken furniture and what looked to be a new television set up on a packing crate dominated the scene. Suddenly, Edouard Delphin crossed his line of view with a gun in his grip – Shawn hastily ducked.

He strained his ears and could hear through the thin glass and possibly thinner wood Edouard saying, “It’s all wrapped up now, Jim, stop worrying.”

Another voice said, “Eddie, I don’t know. I think we should get rid of those girls too. Who knows when they’ll talk.”

Shawn grinned. Bingo. These two were the bad guys, no doubt about it.

“We’re not going to do any more killing,” Edouard said firmly. “The body count for this damn thing has already gotten too high. It’s reminding me of the old days.”

Before Shawn could eavesdrop anymore incriminating information, Lassiter’s voice broke through the two criminals’ as he shouted, “Freeze!”

Shawn winced. Lassiter probably had his gun out. Shawn could tell by the tone of voice Lassiter used at any given moment whether or not Lassy had drawn his gun. He knew Edouard had a gun in his hand. He wasn’t so sure about this Jim – the sixth, and fake, security guard? – but he wouldn’t bet against the way his luck had been going lately.

Silence had dragged on too long. Shawn risked a quick glance up through the window. It was ugly: Lassiter pointing his gun at Jim, who was indeed the fake security guard; Edouard pointing his gun at Lassiter; and Jim – thankfully gunless – with a thunderous scowl on his face.

“I told you,” Jim said. “I told you we should have just killed them all.”

“I’m going to take that as confession enough to put you under arrest,” Lassiter said. Despite the tense situation, his voice didn’t waver and his hands holding the gun didn’t shake. Shawn almost had to admire the guy. 

“I’m just gonna shoot you in the head now,” Edouard said companionably. “Unless you point that gun away from my brother, that is.”

Shawn shook his head. What was it with all the brothers and sisters these days? Everywhere he turned, there they were, siblings confronting him with their – family-ness. It was enough to make an only child sick.

“I don’t think so,” Lassiter replied. “We’re going to do this nice and slow. You’re going to put your gun down, and then I’m going to cuff you. Then I’m going to cuff your brother. If I see any sign of foul play, I will shoot, and I’ll aim to kill.”

When Lassiter spoke in that tone of voice, most people believed unequivocally that was what was going to happen. Shawn wasn’t sure where Lassy had learned to enunciate quite so authoritatively, but he would have paid money to take the same class. Unfortunately, there was about 1.4 percent who didn’t believe in Lassy’s take-charge voice, and it looked like these two were both in that category.

Reading everyone’s body language, Shawn knew Edouard and Jim were about to spring into action. Lassiter was outnumbered. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

There was only way to fix this – Shawn stood and bounded up the house’s rickety front steps. He knocked enthusiastically on the front door and, without waiting to be answered, swung it open. It wasn’t locked. It was possible that it couldn’t be locked, given the amount of rust in the door handle.

All three men standing inside turned to stare at Shawn in shock, and Shawn waved jauntily. His mind worked furiously. Distract, distract, it chanted at him. All well and good, but how?

When all else fails, go with ridiculous.

“I’m here to pick my order? You advertised real blood. Wow, are you getting it right now? Is that the deal with guns? Talk about fresh!”

Shawn was getting used to weird looks. He’d even timed the average amount of time it took for his words to be processed in someone’s head, and for that person to react – typically anywhere from half a minute to three – and acted accordingly. He dove for Edouard Delphin and his gun, leaving Lassiter to corral Jim Delphin.

Everything was a flurry of limbs. Shawn’s muscle memory of countless hours grappling with Gus as a kid kicked in. He shoved Edouard’s arms upward.

A gunshot went off.

*

Later, Buzz would be sheepish. “It just went off!”

“Good thing you were pointing it at something useless, like, oh, my head,” Lassiter grouched.

Shawn grinned broadly and clapped Buzz on the shoulder. “Good thing you have bad aim,” he said.

Neither he nor Lassiter were truly upset. It had been relieving, when Buzz and Juliet and roughly half of the SBPD’s mobile units had arrived at the scene, just in time to help get Edouard and Jim Delphin under arrest.

“You’ll find the gun in his hand,” Shawn had pointed at Edouard. “Is the same gun that was used to shoot and kill the five security guards. And that man’s grip,” here he pointed at Jim, “matches the finger marks found around Devall Rochester’s throat.”

Juliet had nodded seriously. Lassiter was winded and not up to snarking much, except for at Buzz, who perhaps deserved it for the close call Lassiter’s brain had had with a bullet. The two loan sharks slash murderers had been thrown into the backs of separate squad cars that had squealed their way back to the station. Lassiter was stoically enduring Juliet’s mother-henning, which made Shawn pout at the attention he wasn’t receiving.

It would be another hour and a half before Shawn actually managed to lay out the facts of the case, echoing yesterday’s big – false – reveal in Vick’s office to an onlooking audience of Fenich, Lassiter, and Juliet.

It had been a long day, so Shawn didn’t bother going full spastic mode in his delivery of the ‘vision’ the spirits had granted him.

“Edouard was the loan shark,” Shawn explained wearily. “The one the de la Morte girls said they didn’t have but did. His little brother was the fake security guard – he was following the youngest de la Morte girl around, Dahlia, as a way to make sure that the two older ones would do what they were told.” Shawn shrugged tiredly. “Gerry’s confession was given under duress and should be thrown out. Book these guys instead.”

Fenich nodded sharply. “We’ll get that started,” he said.

“And Ted Stevens wasn’t chosen randomly,” Shawn added belatedly. “He was Edouard’s chief rival in supplying blood. Edouard probably just wanted to play a trick on him, but didn’t count on the guy having such a weak heart and dropping dead right then. After that happened, and the mob mess, Edouard thought he had to clean up the mess by clearing off his witnesses. The five security guards told to keep the crowd from leaving specific doors, and Dev himself, for shooting the blanks Edouard gave him.” Shawn waved his arms tiredly. “It was all a mistake that turned into a massive cover up, and Gerry de la Morte was their fall girl.”

Shawn sat back in his chair. Lassiter and Jules were standing at opposite sides of the closed door, and he beamed at at them tiredly.

It felt good to have the case really, truthfully closed.

*

Juliet and Lassiter had filed out to start the paperwork to book the Delphin brothers and free Gerry de la Morte, and Shawn was about to follow in order to pester them as was his constant habit, when Fenich’s voice stopped him.

“Shawn,” the retired Chief of Police said. “A word.”

Shawn hesitated, but hung back. He didn’t want for this to turn into yet another echo of his dad’s old speeches of how he wasn’t living up to his potential, or something like that. Fenich, to be fair, had never actually delivered this speech before. He had, however, delivered more than his fair share of disappointed looks, especially as Shawn had moved into his teenager years. Fenich had been among those of his dad’s compatriots who had watched Shawn grow up from baby to almost-man, and sometimes Shawn forgot this fact.

At times when Fenich was staring at him so intently, Shawn couldn’t forget, couldn’t help but remember how Fenich had always smiled at him when Shawn had wiled his hours after school away at the station, too bored to go home where no one was there to keep him company – his mother always out to work, Gus always involved in some boring after school program.

The station had raised Shawn. It was more home to him than most apartments he had lived in throughout his adult life. The man in front of him had been more than mentor, was almost a father-figure, for all that Shawn’s own father more than fulfilled that role.

Shawn closed the office door and stood to face his father’s Chief. Fenich smiled at him, a strange light in his eyes that Shawn only distantly began to realize was pride. Fenich was proud of him.

“You did good,” Fenich said. “I knew you were going to be something special when you were just a kid, building bunkers in your dad’s kitchen. I know the last time I saw you, you weren’t on the right track.”

Shawn winced. That had been his ‘youthful indiscretion’, the arrest that still haunted his record. Fenich had been among those at the station who had visited Shawn in his holding cell, all disappointed eyes and grim mouth.

“You’ve gotten back on the right path since then,” Fenich said, firm. “It took a while, but that’s what growing requires. Time. You’ve become a good man, Shawn Spencer. A good psychic detective.” The emphasis on ‘psychic’ and the knowing glimmer in Fenich’s eyes made Shawn flush. It was obvious the old Chief was wise to Shawn’s ways, and just as obvious Fenich would let Shawn continue with his harmless charade.

“It was good seeing you again, Shawn. It was good seeing what you’ve made of yourself.”

Shawn flushed hotter, deeper, and mumbled, “Thank you.”

He didn’t know why it was easier to take the compliment, the praise from this man than it was to take it from his actual father. Maybe because Henry Spencer so rarely in Shawn’s childhood had offered praise, giving instead more responsibility or ridicule as the occasion demanded, whereas Fenich had always turned a fond eye in Shawn’s direction.

Fenich patted Shawn’s shoulder. “Now get out of here,” he instructed gruffly. “I’ve got paperwork to put in order for when your Chief gets back in.”

Shawn tossed off one of the cheeky grins he was so known for, turned, opened the door, and left.

*

Juliet was at her desk with a vaguely familiar man. Shawn scrutinized him carefully before approaching. He was the same tall guy Shawn had run past hours earlier, looking startled as Shawn sped by – he was tall, with sandy hair and a slight build. Though the rest of his features were completely unlike Juliet’s, this stranger had the same pair of eyes as Shawn’s favourite detective.

“You’d be the brother,” Shawn grinned, approaching.

“Shawn Spencer, this is Ben O’Hara. Ben, Shawn.” Juliet introduced them with a nervous grin. “Ben, Shawn’s the one who, you know,” she tapped her head. It would have been an incomprehensible gesture had it not been for the commonly held belief in Shawn’s psychic abilities. “He said he’d help you out.”

“Uh, hi,” Ben said. He had the same vibrato to his voice that Juliet did in hers, though his pitch was of course deeper by far. Ben looked Shawn over doubtfully, but said politely, “Thank you.”

“No problem!” When in doubt, bludgeon with effusiveness. Shawn draped his arm over Ben’s shoulder, despite being a good deal shorter than the other man. “I hear you’re having marriage problems. Come on, let’s talk it out in my office,” and he led Ben to the nearby men’s bathroom, leaving Juliet behind.

“This is your office?” Ben asked incredulously, staring at the gleaming ceramic and well lit mirrors.

Shawn shrugged. “I’m working my way up. I should be up for a desk soon. Chief Vick’s been hinting.” He grinned goofily, and hopped up on the sink counter. “What’s this about marital problems, man?”

Ben groaned. “Jules already told you that much, huh,” he shook his head. “Look, I know she said you’re this, this, psychic, or whatever, but it’s not something I really buy into, so – I know you’re just trying to help, and she’s just trying to help, but I’d really appreciate it if both of you could just not help.”

“Right,” Shawn pursed his lips. Time to break out the mojo. He looked Ben up and down quickly, gaze zeroing in on the tell tale details that had won him his reputation. Strange calluses on his hands, in multiple areas that suggested more than one activity – the ones on his palms were consistent with kayaking, which Shawn should know given his past as a kayak instructor – the one on Ben’s fingers consistent with – knitting? Shawn quirked his eyebrow in amusement. Threadbare shirt, obviously years old and a favourite, and shoes that had recently been shined. The dress kind of shoes, even – almost like Ben didn’t have any other pairs. And he’d been at Juliet’s for the last few days at least, making Jules look increasingly harried as time went on. Lifting one hand to his temple, Shawn closed his eyes and said, “I am sensing you… like to kayak and knit in your spare time. The kayaking you do with your buddies. The knitting you do with your wife. You came out to Santa Barbara unexpectedly, with just a single bag. You were coming home from some sort of formal event with your wife and the two of you got into a fight. You took off that very same night.” Shawn opened his eyes to look into Ben O’Hara’s gobsmacked face. Bingo. “Now that we’ve gotten my psychic-ness confirmed, let’s get down to business.”

Shawn leaned forward, fiendish grin on his face. He let a pause build between them, let tension wind its way tighter in Ben’s stiff shoulders. “Now,” Shawn drawled. “What… is Juliet’s favourite flower?”

Twenty minutes later, an increasingly confused Ben O’Hara had spilled the smallest details of his little sister’s childhood and teenage years to a grinning Shawn Spencer, down to the Barbies he and his other brothers had melted in the microwave, and mini-Juliet’s retaliatory slingshot attacks.

“Uh, but I don’t understand, how is all this going to help me get my marriage back on track?”

Shawn patted Ben companionably on the shoulder and headed for the bathroom’s door. “Understand the past to understand yourself,” he said sagely.

“But what does that even mean?”

Shawn pushed the door open and was about to exit, when he turned around and smiled at Ben cheekily. “Just treat her like a woman and then a queen and then a goddess, and finally like a woman again. And she’ll be putty in your hands.” Looking cheerful, Shawn whistled his way out the door. Ben was left dumbfounded. There was a sudden flushing sound.

“Ignore the idiot,” Lassiter said gruffly from behind him. He stood in the opened stall of one of the bathroom cubicles.

Ben gaped at him. “Have you been in there this whole time?”

Lassiter grimaced. “Yes. I now know far too much of O’Hara’s formative years, thank you very much.” He grimaced and strode forward to wash his hands.

Ben flushed, uncomfortable, and made to leave when Lassiter’s voice stopped him.

“Spencer’s never been in a serious relationship. He’s good at knowing how to start, but not good at anything else. Believe me. Anything he tells you, forget all about it.” Lassiter’s face was surprisingly intense when he was serious – Lassiter could surprisingly pull off ‘earnest’ with no trouble. He shut the tap off. “Marriage is – hard. You do the best you can. As long as it’s worth it to keep on trying, then,” Lassiter leaned forward, voice dropping. “You keep on trying. As soon as it’s too much trouble to you, as soon as you don’t want the effort, the marriage is dead. When you’re more tired than hurt, the marriage is dead.” Lassiter looked Ben up and down. “You ran all the way out to Santa Barbara, took the time to grab some space. Think about things. Now think about whether or not you want to go back and try even harder.”

Lassiter brushed by Ben on his way out the door.

*

Juliet was out on a smoothie run with Buzz, so Shawn shelved his newly acquired insider track information and headed for the exit. He was immediately accosted by an exuberant Dahlia, who looked ten times less worried than last night, a slightly calmer Gia by her side. Shawn was starting to wonder at the ease with which Dahlia always managed to find him.

“Shawn!” Dahlia squealed and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. “Shawn, they’re letting Gerry go free! We can come and get her in just a few hours. Thank you so much, Shawn. Oh, gosh, this is so amazing!”

Gia beside her grinned broadly. “We owe you,” she said.

“That’s not all,” Dahlia said gleefully. “There’s been so much publicity generated over all of this awfulness that there’s even been talk about a movie being made out of our story. We’ve already been contacted by two movie studios.”

“That’s great,” Shawn said. He thought for a second about the seven dead people whose corpses had built the foundation of Dahlia’s joy. But it wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t a bad thing for something good to come from something evil, and so the smile he gave her was real and warm. “I’m happy for you.” A thought struck him and he paused, said, “Does this mean that there’s someone who’s going to play my role? Oooh, oooh!”

Gia rolled her eyes, but Dahlia grinned enthusiastically. “Sure does! You can probably get some say in the casting, too. They’re letting us, after all. And, and!” She hopped up and down in excitement. “All of this is going to help us finance our dream. Remember? I was telling you about the movie theatre. We’re going to actually get it!” She redoubled her exuberant grip around Shawn’s neck. “This has all been such a horrible experience, but we’re getting our happy ending.”

Shawn patted her back rhythmically and resolutely did not remember Min’s tear streaked face as she recounted her little brother’s final days.

*

He’d gotten his dad’s admonitory phone call just minutes into congratulating the two de la Morte sisters, Henry’s terse, “You left me in the lurch yesterday, kid. Get over here.”

“Gee, Dad,” Shawn said, obnoxious as only he knew how to be. “If you wanted to get some bonding time in, all you had to do was ask.”

Henry growled and hung up.

Dinner at his dad’s house wasn’t an uncommon occurrence anymore. Shawn might have been weirded out about how close he and his dad had been getting over the last few years, if he’d stopped at all to think about it. Thankfully he didn’t. As his dad was so fond of saying, Shawn didn’t really think that often, unless someone’s life – usually his own – was imperilled.

Henry had gone for salmon steaks this time around, grilled perfectly and seasoned just the right amount. He had the plates set out piled with food before Shawn had even walked through the front door, and the father and son shared a pleasant meal, for given values of ‘pleasant’. There was less sniping than was usual with the two, and Shawn caught Henry up on the latest details of the case.

“Huh, how about that,” was Henry’s only commentary. Shawn grinned and stuffed his mouth full of salmon. If he wasn’t eating he would be bragging, and that was something Henry never took all that well to.

Evening faded in. The day’s light shaded to rosy sunset, and Shawn coaxed his dad out to the beachside of Henry’s property. Juliet's brief text of, Whatever you said to Ben worked - he's on a plane home right now, thank you so much! distracted Shawn for a few minutes as he plotted how to turn Juliet's gratitude to his dating advantage in the future. But the calm of the outdoors and his father's company calmed him quickly. They stared out at the waves for a few minutes, and Shawn haltingly said, “Fenich – Chief Fenich – uh, retired Chief Fenich, he said he was proud of me today.”

Henry looked at his son sidelong. He wasn’t surprised. Fenich had always taken an interest in Shawn – always asked after him, even after Henry had taken early retirement and only barely ran into the older man. “You’ve done stuff to be proud of,” he offered quietly. It was his own way of chiming in, I’m proud too.

Shawn smiled quietly. He’d heard what his dad hadn’t said.

*

Wednesday morning and the flight had come in on time. Burton Guster disembarked with the kind of tired relieved expression found normally only on the faces of those who had narrowly escaped disaster – or just been told of extremely good news.

Contrary to what he’d told Shawn, the week crashing with his brother hadn’t been a relaxing one. He’d thought he’d only have to stay out in Connecticut for a few days to get everything wrapped up, but it had taken longer – more than one higher-up had needed to meet him, speak with him, evaluate. It took so much energy being charming and responsible and smart all the time. Gus was glad that Shawn hadn’t come, and not only because he still didn’t want the pseudo-psychic to know of Gus’ plans. No, because Shawn took up a lot of Gus’ energy, and Gus had needed every iota possible just to make it through.

Still, tiredness aside, the trip had been worth it. Gus smiled to himself. It was a private, triumphant, proud smile.

Across the terminal, as Gus was going through luggage claim, he saw a familiar spiky head. “Gus!” Shawn yelled out, jumping up and down. “Guuuuus!” Gus groaned. How embarrassing. But… it was nice to be missed. He shook his head ruefully and threw what adulthood he’d managed to grow in Shawn’s absence to the wind, jumping up and down and yelling, “Shawwwwn! Over here!”

Two thirty year old men in the middle of a crowded airport on a Wednesday morning jumping up and down screaming were bound to grab attention. At the moment, despite Gus’s normal attention to public attention, Gus didn’t care.

Shawn bee-lined toward him, grinning wide enough to crack his face. Gus felt a pang in his chest at the obvious joy in his best friend’s face. He ignored it, clasping onto Shawn’s outstretched hand and bringing Shawn in for a half hug.

“Hey, welcome home, buddy,” Shawn said. Gray shadows lined beneath his eyes, and Gus knew Shawn had woken early for the express purpose of greeting Gus. The guilt stabbed deeper.

“Hey, Shawn,” Gus said. He smiled, though the smile was uneasy. He wasn’t sure if it made it all the way to his eyes as he said, “It’s good to be back.”