~ * Prologue -1987 * ~

“Shawn, what the hell were you thinking?” Henry said furiously, glancing in the rearview mirror of the squad car to see his son hunched over, nursing a black eye and a bloody nose. “What have I told you about fighting?”

“’If you’re gonna fight, win’,” Shawn recited in a small voice.

“Exactly. And it doesn’t look to me like you won.”

Shawn sagged even further in the seat. “I tried, Dad. Really, I did!”

“What were you fighting about anyway?” Henry asked, exasperated.

“Billy Rider hit Gus. Then he stole his lunch. I couldn’t just let him Dad!”

Henry tried to suppress a smile. “So you were defending your partner, is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yeah, Dad. You know Gus. He doesn’t like fighting. Somebody has to stand up for him.”

“All right. I suppose that earns you one less week of grounding. Protecting your partner is vital Shawn. He’s got your back and you’ve got to have his.”

“I know, Dad. Why do you think I’ve got a bloody nose and a black eye?”

Henry couldn’t help it. He laughed.

~ * Present Day * ~

            “Go on, Gus. I’ve got your back,” Shawn said encouragingly.

            “Oh, like you had my back in tenth grade when Richard Bruin gave me a black eye because he couldn’t find you? Or is this like when you ‘had my back’ at the Bee? Or—”

            “Gus! I’m disappointed that you have so little faith in me!” Shawn exclaimed, pretending to be wounded.

            Gus rolled his eyes. “It’s not about faith, Shawn. It’s about history.”

            “What about in sixth grade when Billy beat me up for standing up for you? Doesn’t that count?” Shawn protested.

            Gus considered. “One out of three isn’t very good, Shawn. Why am I doing this anyway? It’s your pay!”

            Gus’s expression transformed into a frown.  “Only because you waste money!” he exclaimed, exasperated.

            Shawn waved a hand. “Ah, details, details. Gus, you’ve got to see the big picture…”

            “I’ve got to see the big picture? Shawn, the ‘big picture’ is that you spend almost double our budget on things like RC cars, a television for the bathroom, and that stupid shirt you’re wearing right now!” he ranted, waving the three fingers he’d held up for emphasis in Shawn’s face.

            Shawn sighed and pushed his hand aside. “Okay…so maybe I could cut down on a few things. But you’ve still gotta ask the Chief for a raise. I can’t do it. One glare and I’ll crumble. You know this, Gus.”  He stuck out his lower lip and turned large, pleading eyes on his friend.

            Gus scowled, unimpressed, but turned and marched up to the chief’s door, knocking loudly in spite of his own feelings on the whole subject. Following his lead, Shawn pumped a fist victoriously.

            Karen Vick turned toward the door and eyed the two men suspiciously through the glass as she continued her telephone conversation. After a moment of scrutiny, she rolled her eyes and waved them in, gesturing for them to be quiet. They slipped inside and sat down, Shawn grinning like a madman and mimicking Vick’s gestures. She glared at him and then turned away from them. “…all right, that sounds great. Send two guys out there and let’s get this over with, shall we? Good. Okay. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

            She set the phone in the cradle and turned to face them, looking wary. “What can I do for you boys?”

            Gus straightened, trying to look his most serious and important. “Shawn and I wanted to discuss our fee.” His words were punctuated by a deep and very grave nod from Shawn.

            “Mmmhmm…” Vick said, nodding slowly. “What about it?”

            Shawn and Gus exchanged a look before Gus continued, “Uh…well, Chief, Shawn and I think we may be entitled to a small raise—”

            “No.”

            Gus paused, eyebrows up. “No?”

            “No,” Karen confirmed.

            Gus frowned, opening and then closed his mouth bewilderedly. “You won’t even consider…?”

            “Oh, no, Mr. Guster. I have considered. You and Mr. Spencer have only been with us for a few months. My officers don’t even get raises until after their first year. You two are not getting anything any sooner than they do.”

            “Aw, but Chief,” Shawn protested.

            “No. No raise. Honestly, Mr. Spencer, how much money can it take to run a small psychic detective’s agency?”

            “Well there are all sorts of things we need—”

            “Then raise your customer fees, Mr. Spencer. End of discussion. Now is there anything else?” she asked.

            Another look was exchanged. “Do you—”

            “No cases. Sorry. We are in a fortunate crime drought right now, gentlemen. Even Detective Lassiter took a night off earlier this week.”  She didn’t mention that she had had to browbeat him into taking it.

            Shawn stared. “Seriously? The guy who hasn’t vacationed in like, thirty years, took a night off? Things really must be slow.”

            “Yes, Mr. Spencer. Now I have paperwork to fill out if you don’t mind…” she said, her tone indicating that it was time for them to leave.

            Gus nodded and said, “Uh, well, nice talking to you Chief.”

            She smiled. “You too Mr. Guster. Goodbye.”

            Shawn pouted as they stepped outside. “Man, we were just shut down.”

            Gus said, “She has a point, Shawn. You spend too much.”

            “Aw, Gus. Come on. We need those things.”

            “No, Shawn, we really don’t.”

            “You’re a party pooper.” He paused and then completely changed tracks. “Let’s go get smoothies!”

            Gus sighed and rolled his eyes. Some things would never change.

            Trying to wear down Karen was an immensely entertaining task. 

            Over the next week Shawn did everything from posting over two pads worth of Post-It notes with, “Shawn needs a raise!” scribbled on them on the windows of her office, to sending a singing telegram of the song “Money” by The Knickerbockers. For the most part Karen ignored him, keeping her amusement to herself.

            On his fourth try, Shawn was in the middle of hanging a banner that read, “Psychics need money too!” above Karen’s door when she came stalking down the hall, flanked by Lassiter and O’Hara, her face dark and her voice harsh. “…take every available man and get out there now. Our window of opportunity for gathering evidence is practically gone and I don’t want this monster getting away with this.”

            Lassiter nodded grimly. “Right away, Chief.”

            Shawn jumped down from the ladder, butting into the conversation. “Ooh! Do we have a new case?”

            The three of them turned to him, Lassiter and Vick glaring and Juliet glancing away, like she wished he would just disappear. Shawn’s eyebrows shot up.

            “Whoa, what’s with the third degree?”

            Lassiter turned to Vick and growled, “I don’t want him involved.”

            She glared at him, but nodded curtly, looking to Shawn. “I want you to stay away from this one, Mr. Spencer.”

            Shawn frowned. “What? Why? Come on, you guys know you need my visions—”

            “Mr. Spencer!” she said, her voice rising. “You are to stay away from this case, do I make myself clear?”

            “But—”

            “No buts! Mr. Spencer, I lost a very good man today and I don’t want you, or your smart mouth involved in his case! Now, please. Just get out.” Shawn knew that tone. This was personal. Cops had to take care of their own; he had learned that much from his dad.

            Shawn glanced at Lassiter, who was glaring intensely at him, and O’Hara, who was still avoiding his gaze, and he held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. I’m gone.” He walked between the three of them and they watched until he disappeared into the crowd near the entrance of the station.

            Karen sighed, turned to the two detectives and said, “Now go. I want whoever did this in my office this time tomorrow.”

            Outside, Shawn rolled his eyes as he hopped down the stairs of the police station. He was actually a little affronted by Karen and Juliet’s lack of trust in his level of sensitivity, but he would never admit that to himself, or anyone else for that matter. Lassiter’s reaction, on the other hand, didn’t surprise him in the least. It mostly just bothered him that Juliet and Karen shared the detective’s assumption that he would treat this as flippantly as any other case. True, his track record wasn’t much in the way of substantiating the contrary, but it wasn’t like he was an ass just for the heck of it. It was just easier for him to keep his distance from the victims when he could joke about it. Was it his fault he found death funny?

            He knew what a sensitive subject the death of an officer was, and he also knew how to exercise some restraint. He would have thought that at least the girls would have given him some credit. Well, it didn’t matter anyway.

            He glanced back at the station and pulled the police scanner out of a pouch on his bike, flipping it on, just in time to catch the end of the dispatch he was hoping for. “…officer down on Sycamore Canyon Road, between Ashley and Cold Springs. All available cruisers please respond.” A grin crawled onto Shawn’s face and he stuffed the scanner back in its pouch, shoving his helmet on. He would show them.

            A little over fifteen minutes later, he was meeting Gus at the elementary school not far down the road from the crime scene. Gus met Shawn as he was getting off his bike and said, “So what’s going on?”

            Shawn jerked his head in the direction of the crime scene. “An officer was killed up the road a little ways.”

            Gus’ eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? That’s awful.” Then he paused. “Wait. Why are we down here, if he was killed up there?” he asked suspiciously.

            Shawn’s head swayed back and forth, the way it usually did when he was avoiding an answer. “…Weeellll….I was kind of banned from the case.”

            Gus’ expression went stony. “Shawn...”

            “No, come on, Gus! We have to make sure they find everything for this case—it’s a cop.”

            “Exactly,” Gus replied, “It’s one of their own. You should just let them do this the way they want.”

            “I am going to let them do this the way they want,” Shawn said, “I’m just going to…supervise.”

            “And exactly how do you plan on doing that if you’re banned from the case?” Gus asked dubiously.

            Shawn grinned and pulled his binoculars from his pocket. “Recon.”

~ * * * ~

            “This is not ‘recon’ Shawn,” Gus said darkly. He was wedged between two branches, a stick poking him in the ribs and a leaf tickling the top of his head a few feet above Shawn in a tree overlooking the crime scene. They had snuck around in the bushes far enough back so as not to be seen by any of the officers, and then climbed it when they were sure no one was looking. They had made so much noise he had been sure they would get caught, but in the end, the officers were all far too preoccupied. Now he was in an extremely uncomfortable position, farther above the ground then he usually preferred, and almost positive that sap from the tree was getting on his brand new slacks. He focused his glare on the back of Shawn’s head, briefly contemplating what might happen if he were to lean forward and just push right in the center of Shawn’s back.

            “Dude. The back of my head is starting to burn. Could you turn down the laser vision, for like, five seconds?” Shawn said, peering intently through the binoculars from his position on one of the largest branches of the tree. He was, conveniently enough, wearing green today, which, along with a few clumps of foliage, helped hide him from view. A small gap in the leaves allowed him an almost perfect vantage point. The downside was that he was lying at a downward angle, clinging to the tree with one foot wedged between two branches, and one arm clutched around a smaller branch jutting from the one he lay on.

            “Why am I even here, Shawn?” Gus demanded irritably. “I’m not doing anything, and I’m missing work! That’s not even considering the fact that I’m in the most uncomfortable position ever.”

            “No, dude, you’re wrong. I am in the most uncomfortable position ever. There’s a little twig thing digging in right next to my—”

            “Okay! That’s enough information, thank you!” Gus said, cutting him off. “This is ridiculous, Shawn, can we just—”

            “Shhh!” Shawn hissed, pressing the binoculars more tightly to his eyes, focusing a few feet forward to where Lassiter was talking to another officer near the civilian’s car that had been left at the scene. This was perfect; he couldn’t have planned it better! Gus couldn’t help it. He leaned forward, fascinated despite himself.

            “…the car is stolen. A…Kelly Sharpe reported it missing yesterday afternoon. It’s been pretty thoroughly cleaned, but the CSI guys will do what they can.”

            “They had better,” Lassiter muttered. He narrowed his eyes at the car as he thought, and then said after a few moments, “Run through this with me, Kinsley. I want to make sure I’ve got this straight.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “All right, so Harding pulls this car over, presumably because of some traffic violation or another. Probably speeding.” Lassiter gestured at the abandoned cruiser behind the car they stood near. “It’s early in his shift, still dark out, and he gets out of the car, walks up to the window, and bam. One shot directly to the face. He’s dead before he hits the ground. The perp has probably worn gloves and he gets out of the car, takes Harding’s badge, and then vanishes. We haven’t found anything to indicate how he could have gotten away from here?” Lassiter said, obviously frustrated.

            “No, sir. There aren’t any footprints by the body or the car, and there are no tire tracks any where else. The only thing we can think is that maybe he had a partner, or I guess, he could have walked…he may have even hitchhiked. Nobody driving on this road that early would pay any attention to a pulled over car and a cruiser,” Kinsley rationalized.

            Shawn snorted. “Right. The guy is going to murder a cop and then just take a jaunty little stroll back to town.”

            Gus’ glared. “How do you know that’s not what he did? They said they haven’t found anything else!”

            “Pssh,” Shawn muttered. “That doesn’t mean it’s not there. That just means they’re missing it.” He shifted, and cursed as he lost his grip, nearly slipping from the branch. There was a lot of loud rustling as he yanked himself back up and he clung frantically to the branch, trying not to breathe too loudly, making himself as small as possible. He heard Lassiter say, “What was that?” in an extremely suspicious tone and Gus whispered, “Oh crap.”

Lassiter was peering suspiciously at the tree when Kinsley shrugged and said, “Probably a cat. Those things are constantly climbing stuff like that.”

“Yeah…” Lassiter muttered and drew his gaze away from the tree. He couldn’t help being suspicious. Having Spencer around all the time had started making him jumpy. You never knew when he was going to pop out of nowhere, and attack you with some blasted “vision” or another. He shook his head to clear it and tried to focus on the task at hand again. There was a lot of work to be done.

Shawn and Gus remained still and silent for several minutes, afraid moving might get them caught. When Shawn finally heard Lassiter’s voice retreat back toward the cruiser, he relaxed.

“Jeez, Shawn! Are you trying to get us arrested?” Gus hissed.

Shawn suddenly looked over-the-top excited, and Gus knew he was about to be mocked. “Oh yeah, Gus. Didn’t I tell you? It’s my life’s dream to go to prison with you. Aren’t you excited? Let’s just jump out of the tree now, and tell them it was us!” he exclaimed enthusiastically.

Gus glared. “Shut up, Shawn.” Shawn rolled his eyes again and put the binoculars back to his eyes, starting a methodical search of the scene, looking for any clues that the cops might have missed or anything else of interest. After nearly fifteen minutes of careful observation, punctuated by Gus’ pestering, Shawn pulled the binoculars away from his eyes and marveled, “You know, I think they got it all this time. I can’t find anything even remotely interesting.”

            Gus eyed the back of his head pointedly. “You see? They don’t always need you interfering, Shawn.”

            “Just most of the time.” He paused and then sighed, letting his arm drop. “Dude. This case couldn’t get any more straightforward. Let’s get out of here.”

            “Finally,” Gus said, “So no more interfering after this, no matter what, all right? You promise?”

            Shawn waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, just one more thing, and then no more interfering.”

            Gus sighed. He didn’t even know why he bothered anymore.

            The next afternoon, Gus picked Shawn up at his house, still unclear about exactly what they were going to be doing, and what they were looking for. So he tried asking Shawn.

            “What exactly are we doing today, Shawn?” he posed suspiciously.

            “We’re going to offer Rebecca our condolences on the death of her husband.” He sounded proud of himself.

            “Shawn, you are not going to go and bother this man’s widow!” Gus exclaimed emphatically.  “That’s terrible!  I won’t let you do it.” He glared stubbornly.

            “Gus, come on! I just want to ask the woman a couple of questions. I won’t say anything inappropriate, scout’s honor.” He raised his right hand, giving Gus a puppy-dog eyed look.

            Gus snorted. “I would believe you if I thought you knew what inappropriate was.”

            “I think I know what’s inappropriate in this situation Gus,” Shawn said condescendingly. Gus simply snorted again and kept driving. Shawn narrowed his eyes at him and then continued, choosing to ignore him. “All I’ve got to do is lay on the charm and she won’t even know she’s being helpful,” Shawn said. “Now pull over up here. I want to get something.”

            “Get what?”

            “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

            Gus pulled into a parking space with a jerk, glaring at Shawn out of the corner of his eye. Shawn shot him a pouty face and then grinned, bounding out of the car without so much as an explanation.

            “What are those?” Gus demanded warily when Shawn returned a few minutes later, laden down by an enormous bouquet of lilies and red roses.

            Shawn glanced at him and said obstinately, “Well Gus, I believe they’re called ‘flowers’.”

            Gus glared at him as they headed out of the parking lot. “What exactly are you planning to do with them, Shawn?” he asked in an accusatory tone.

            “They’re for Rebecca,” Shawn explained delicately. “To express our sympathies.”

            “You got her flowers?” Gus said incredulously.

            “Yes Gus,” Shawn replied patiently. “I was under the impression that that’s what you do.”

            “You don’t even know this woman!” Gus exclaimed.

            “So? Gus, haven’t you ever watched the news? The Pope will bring you flowers if your tragedy is well enough publicized.”

            “That’s an exaggeration,” Gus said irritably.

            “Not really,” Shawn replied in an infuriatingly cocky tone.

            Gus scowled and said, “I don’t approve of you conning a widow.  I hope you know that.”

            Shawn looked scandalized. “Gus, I’m not conning, I’m helping!”

            “Yeah, helping me to an early grave,” he mumbled.

            “I heard that.”

            “Good for you,” Gus muttered resentfully. “You were supposed to.”

            Shawn sighed. “Just give me a half an hour with her and the house Gus. I just want to make sure I’m not missing any psycho-crazy-killer-wife vibes.”

            “Oh my gosh! Shawn, you are not going to accuse this woman of killing her husband!” Gus cried.

            Shawn rolled his eyes. “Of course not. That would be stupid. She’s not going to let me snoop around their house if I accuse her of murdering her husband.”

            Gus’ expression was disbelieving. “I can’t believe you, sometimes, Shawn. I really can’t.”

            Shawn smiled. “Aw, Gus, thanks.”

            “That wasn’t a compliment.”

            “I know.” He grinned.

            Gus shook his head and said dully, “So where is this place?”

            Shawn grinned again. “Grand and East Valerio.”

            It wasn’t long after that when they pulled up in front of a modest suburban home and Shawn got out of the car, grinning cheerfully. “Come on Gus, let’s do this!”

            Gus sighed heavily and climbed out of the car, shutting his door and locking it behind him. He shot Shawn a warning look as they approached the front door and Shawn smiled with mock sympathy, reaching out a hand to touch Gus’ cheek. Gus swatted it away and Shawn smirked, knocking on the door.

            He was just beginning to get impatient when the door opened slowly and a blonde woman who looked thoroughly exhausted, eyes red-rimmed from crying, peered out at them. She caught a glimpse of the bouquet and said quizzically, “Do I know you?”

            Shawn smiled gently and said, “No, ma’am I don’t think so.” He extended a friendly hand and continued, “My name is Shawn Spencer. I’m the Head Psychic at the Department. This is my assistant Gus. I knew your husband and I just wanted to bring these and offer my deepest sympathies.”

            Gus could barely hide his appalled expression and he jabbed Shawn in the ribs. He couldn’t say he knew him! He had never met him in his life!

            Shawn managed to ignore Gus and the wife accepted the bouquet of flowers, looking slightly surprised, “Oh…well, thank you Mr. Spencer…um, would you like to come in?”

            Shawn nodded. “If you don’t mind,” he said apologetically.

            She opened the door further, allowing them access, and they stepped inside, Shawn’s sharp eyes quickly taking in everything he could. Gus murmured his thanks and she closed the door behind them before heading towards a doorway on their left and gesturing for them to follow. In the kitchen, Shawn preformed another once over and smiled when she turned back to them, the flowers now in a vase. “I’m sorry, Mr. Spencer—”

            “Shawn.”

            “Shawn,” she conceded, setting the flowers on the table. “Did you say you were the department’s head psychic?”

            He smiled and nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”

            She sat down at the table staring at her hands, murmuring thoughtfully, “Walter never mentioned knowing a psychic…”

            Gus took the opportunity to silently hit Shawn on the arm and he swatted him away, glaring before moving to sit at the table. “It is kind of a weird thing to say to people,” Shawn said with a smile.

            She looked up with a weary smile and said, “Yes…especially since Walter didn’t believe in psychics.”

            Shawn nodded and chuckled a little, “People tell me that all the time.”

            She smiled shyly and said, “I’m sorry, I’ve never met any psychics before.”

            Shawn held up his hands. “Hey, no big. Most people haven’t.”

            “How did you know my husband?” She asked curiously.

            “I ran into him a few times at the station. I didn’t know him that well, but…” he glanced at his hands and Gus couldn’t help admiring his acting skills. “He was a really great guy.”

            “Yeah,” Rebecca whispered and Shawn put a hand over hers as she began tearing up.

            “It’s okay…uh…”

“Oh!” She said, “Rebecca.”

 “Rebecca,” he finished softly.

            She smiled and wiped her eyes futily. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be.”

            They were silent for a few moments while she collected herself until she finally broke the silence.  “Thank you, I appreciate all of this…” she said, gesturing to the flowers.

            Shawn smiled softly and waved off her thank you. “It’s no problem. I just want to do everything I can to help. That’s actually why I’ve come today. I wanted to ask you a few questions and see if I could walk around your house a little and try to get a few readings that might help the police with your husband’s case. I’m not actually on the case, but I’d really like to do what I can to help.”

            “Do you really think you might find anything?” she asked hopefully and Shawn had to hide a grimace. He wasn’t sure he would find anything, and he really didn’t want to get the woman’s hopes up.

            He shrugged and said vaguely, “I really won’t know until I can get a feel for the spiritual residue in your home.”

            She sighed and after a moment said softly, “Okay. If it will help you find who killed my husband, then yes. Whatever you need, Shawn.”

            He tilted his head, a sad smile gracing his lips and said softly, “Thank you.” He then leaned back slowly and looked around, “So may I…?”

            “Yes, please. Go where ever you need to.”

            Shawn nodded and got to his feet, turning in a slow circle, his eyes closed. Rebecca watched, fascinated as he turned, the expressions on his face changing like slides. “You have two children,” he finally stated quietly and she stared.

            “Yes...”

            “Anna is…six...? Seven…? Seven. She’s a little ballerina,” he said with a smile. Both Gus and Rebecca looked impressed. “Stephen is ten and totally rocks at baseball. He’s got, what, seven trophies?”

            “Shawn, wow, you really are—” she breathed and Shawn held up a hand to quiet her, his eyebrows diving to shadow his eyes.

            “You were all close. Your whole family. No one from the family is responsible…” Shawn said boldly.

            “No!” Rebecca exclaimed, looking appalled by the very idea.

            Gus frowned. It annoyed him when Shawn made these wildly unsupported claims. It annoyed him even more that Shawn was usually right.

            Shawn stuck his hands out in front of him and began wandering back out into the front hall towards the living room. A quick peek from beneath slitted eyes made sure he didn’t run into anything. “I’m being drawn this way…” he whispered dramatically. Rebecca and Gus followed, both curious to see where this was going.

            In the living room, Gus realized where Shawn had gotten all of his information. He must have gotten a glimpse in here where the walls were covered in pictures of Anna in ballet gear and Stephen in baseball pictures. His trophies were all on the mantle beside a couple of wedding photos and a photo that looked like Officer Harding’s graduation photo from the Academy. Gus couldn’t help being impressed by the way Shawn’s mind worked. Not only could he remember an insane amount of detail with just seconds of reference, but he could make connections and deductions from those pieces of information that, often times, turned out to be correct.

            Shawn’s eyes opened and he turned in a slow circle, taking a better look around. “Hmm…” he murmured. “I thought I had something, but… Where did Walter spend most of his time?”

            “Well,” Rebecca said slowly, “When he wasn’t working, he was either with the kids, or with me. So probably here.”

            Shawn nodded slowly. “All right. Do you mind if I take a quick run around the house? This is probably where I’m going to get the most information, but I just want to be sure.”

            Rebecca shook her head, “No, please. Go ahead.”

            Shawn bowed his head and took off to look around. He went through each of the rooms as quickly and as carefully as he could, searching for anything or anybody that might be connected to Officer Harding’s death, but in the end, he couldn’t find anything. He came back down the stairs and went to Rebecca. “Well, I don’t know if anything I’ve seen will be of any help to the investigation, but hopefully something will help them find out who did this. Gus and I will go now, and get out of your hair. Thank you for allowing me to look around your house.”

            Rebecca shook her head, “No, thank you for using your abilities to try to help my husband. It means a lot to me.”

            They said their goodbyes and Shawn shook his head at Gus as they climbed back in the car. “Well, I didn’t find anything. It’s gotta be a random killing. That’s about as boring as it gets.”

            “I don’t think the death of a police officer is what I would call ‘boring’, Shawn,” Gus admonished.

            “That’s not what I mean. It’s just not an interesting case. Oh well. More free time for us!” Shawn grinned and kicked back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head.

~ * * * ~

            Shawn checked up on the case a few times after that, simply because he couldn’t “just let it go” (not that Gus would ever find out), but it was clear to him that he wouldn’t find anything of any use. It was about as simple as cases came. Some guy was out driving around in a stolen car when he got pulled over, and he panicked, killing Officer Harding. The badge thing was probably just some stupid idea he got after the fact, stealing it just to show off to his thug friends. It was terrible, but a random act, which made it almost impossible to find the perpetrator. Because of that, after just two weeks, the case began running out of leads. Three weeks, and Lassiter and O’Hara had chased every scrap of a lead they could find and they had reached a dead end. The case went cold, and it was slowly relegated to the back burner as other more pressing things began to pop up.

            It was four weeks after the murder of Officer Harding when they finally caught a break.  Of sorts.

            “Gus! Wake up!”

            Gus woke with a start, sitting up and looking around blearily. “Shawn? What are you doing in here?” he demanded.

            Shawn tossed a wad of clothes at him and said urgently, “Get up, Gus! We’ve got a crime scene to go to!”

            Gus groaned and flopped back down, putting a pillow over his head, muttering, “Unme mree wamoone Dwhan.”

            “Gus! Come on, this is big! We have to go!”

            Gus pulled the pillow away from his face. “Shawn, it’s seven-thirty in the morning. Go away.”

            “Gus, another cop was murdered. Now get out of bed or I’ll drag you out!” he said and Gus stared at him.

            “Another cop?” he whispered. “Oh my gosh.”

            “Yes! Now get dressed. I’ve got smoothies in the kitchen. You have ten minutes before I come back and dress you myself,” he threatened.

            Gus ignored him, but quickly climbed out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

~ * * * ~

            The crime scene was even more of a madhouse than the last one had been. The new victim had been killed along another stretch of road in an eerily similar manner to the previous officer. There were at least half-a-dozen squad cars, parked on either end of the 70 foot stretch of road that formed the crime scene and traffic was being re-directed either way so that the road could be shut down as they processed the scene.

            Gus and Shawn parked alongside the road a little ways away from the crime scene and then walked the rest of the way. When they reached the line of squad cars in front of the crime scene tape they were stopped by an officer.

            “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?! This is a crime scene!” he yelled, quickly moving between them and the tape.

            “Well, duh,” Shawn muttered, and then exchanged a meaningful glance with Gus before looking to the officer. “Dude, didn’t they tell you I was coming?”

            The officer looked baffled. This was evidently not a reaction he was used to getting when denying someone access to a crime scene. “Nnnooo…” he replied uncertainly.

            Shawn sighed huffily, throwing up his hands, and Gus crossed his arms, looking annoyed. “How do you people expect me to help you if I can’t get into the crime scene? Jeez! ‘psychic’ does not mean ‘can magically pass through crime scene tape’! You know what, that’s fine. If you guys don’t want my help then—”

            “All right!” the officer burst. “You can go in, but so help me, if this is just a prank or something, I will nail your ass to the floor of the jail cell I throw you in, understood?”

            Shawn smiled, immediately appeased. “No problem, dude.”

            The officer nodded and, glancing around, lifted the tape so they could slip underneath.

            Having infiltrated the crime scene, they began walking around casually, Gus keeping an eye out for Lassiter while Shawn took everything in. Shawn was careful as he looked around, knowing he might not get another opportunity to look at anything else related to the case if they got caught. The scene was set up similarly to the scene of Officer Harding’s death. The squad car of the murdered policeman sat behind a silver minivan, which Shawn would have bet his life was stolen.

There were reflectors set up around the van, and one of the back tires was flat. Evidently, who ever had killed this officer had been waiting for him. The officer’s body still lay sprawled between the two cars, nearest the van’s flat tire, the coroner bent over doing his initial evaluation. Shawn could tell, even from this distance, that the cause of death was probably the gunshot wound that had taken out a huge chunk of the man’s jaw. Evidently, the person in the minivan had gotten him to stop and look at the tire, and then when he was distracted, had fired a shot.

Shawn managed to sidle up to maybe fifteen feet away from the body when he noticed that the officer’s badge was missing. The cases were related. Unfortunately that wasn’t exactly something the police were going to miss.

“Dude!” Gus hissed suddenly, “Lassiter’s coming!”

They immediately crouched down and quickly slunk around to the other side of the downed officer’s cruiser, peeking out through the windows to see where Lassiter was headed. He strode off toward the end of the crime scene where they had entered and they relaxed a little. It was then that Shawn glanced down at the body again and it hit him like a ton of bricks.

He knew the victim.

            Shawn was still staring at the man’s body in shock when Gus tugged on his shirtsleeve and said, “Shawn, let’s get out of here. That was a close call.”

            Shawn shook himself out of it and turned to him hissing, “What are you kidding me? I just found a huge clue!”

            Gus stared at him. “What? Where? What is it?”

            “Over there, the dead guy—I know who he is!”

            Gus glanced at the dead man before realizing what he was doing and he choked, gagging when he saw the mutilated face of the deceased. He quickly looked away and had to bend over, covering his mouth to stop himself from vomiting right there. As he tried to stem his gag reflex, Shawn kept talking excitedly, still staring avidly at the body.

            “We saw him at the scene of Officer Harding’s death! He was that guy who was talking to Lassiter—Kipley—Kringle—uh—uh—Kinsley! That’s it! I can’t believe this! There was no reason to think another officer might get murdered. Holy cow, Gus, do you know what this means?!”

            Gus looked up, glaring at him and said, “No, Shawn, not really. To be honest, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

            Shawn rolled his eyes and said frustratedly, “Gus, two police officers don’t get murdered, get shot in the face, get killed on duty, and have their badges stolen and not have their cases be related. The odds of that happening are like, a ka-zillion to one!”

            Gus seemed to be coming around to Shawn’s way of thinking. “So what do we do about it?” he said, “The police are bound to notice the connection between the two cases if it’s that obvious.”

            Shawn bit the tip of his thumb, his eyes focusing intently on the hood of the cruiser while he thought. “I don’t know, I don’t know... We have to get more information about these guys.” A smile crept onto his face and he said, “We’ll have to pay a little visit to the police station tomorrow when they’ve got everything organized. All I need is one good look at the crime scene board.”

            Gus had a feeling they were about to encounter big trouble.

~ * * * ~

            Shawn strode into the Santa Barbara police station the next afternoon, grinning   cheerfully. He waved at Elaine as he and Gus passed the desk, making a beeline for Karen’s office. Stopping at the office door, he pressed his face to the glass, squishing his lips and his nose in a way that made him look like some sort of demented pig. It took a moment or two, but Vick finally glanced up from her paperwork and froze, staring. He grinned, the corners of his squashed mouth turning up disturbingly and she coughed, covering her mouth as she attempted to glare at him. After a moment, it appeared that he wasn’t going to just go away so she heaved a sigh and waved for them to come in. Shawn pulled himself away from the glass, still grinning, and lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe the glass of the saliva and facial oil now smeared on it in a creepy ghost version of his face. Karen rolled her eyes and shielded them from the display, having no desire to see the twenty-nine year old’s bare stomach. When he finally opened the door he said merrily, “Hi Chief!”

            She was unimpressed. “What are you doing here, Mr. Spencer?” she asked wearily.

            “Oh...” Shawn scoffed, “Just wanted to say hi! It’s been awhile.”

            “It’s been two days, Mr. Spencer,” she replied wryly.

            “And doesn’t it just feel like eons?”

            She sighed. “No, not really, Mr. Spencer.” She got to her feet and leaned on the desk. “Look, if you’re just here for a social visit, I don’t have time for this. Another officer was murdered yesterday, and I have a lot of work to do.”

            Shawn put on his best “astonished” face. “Another officer? Seriously?” He gasped in horror and then said, “Not Lassie?”

            Karen’s face darkened and she snapped, “Get out, Mr. Spencer. Now.”

            Shawn covered his mouth guiltily. That had been the wrong joke to make. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

            “Are you losing your hearing? Read my mind then.” She tilted her head forward glaring furiously at him and Shawn nodded slowly, his eyebrows near his hairline.

            “Ooh. Okay. Now is a bad time to ask for a raise. Gotcha. Going now.” He pointed to the door, smiled sheepishly, and he and Gus scuttled backwards out of the office.

            When the door had closed behind them Gus hissed, “Dude, why’d you do that?”

            Shawn grimaced. “The Lassie thing was kind of reflex. I do that, Gus. You know, that whole ‘speaking without thinking’ thing. Yeah, I do that all the time. That was one of those times.”

            “Well you need to learn how to stop it,” Gus said. “Now how are we supposed to sneak a look at the board?”

            Shawn glanced back at Karen’s office. She had stopped glaring in their direction, distracted by a telephone call. “We do it now!” he exclaimed and shoved Gus off to the side of the hall, behind a pillar. Gus made a sound of protest and Shawn covered his mouth with a hand. “Shhh! Dude, this is a covert operation!” Gus rolled his eyes as Shawn glanced back and forth down the hallway and then crouched down, slinking off in the direction of Lassiter’s desk. They managed to sneak up to the pillar across the hall from his desk and ducked behind it, Shawn pressing dramatically against it, like he were in some kind of action movie. Gus followed his lead, his movements only slightly less theatrical. Shawn tended to rub off on him.

They both moved as one, their synchronization from having spent far too much time together, and peeked around either side of the pillar. Lassiter was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, facing the board, an aggravated expression carved into his face. O’Hara was sitting on the edge of her own desk, looking at a file, and reading parts out to Lassiter. “…no connection. That’s all we’ve got,” she said reluctantly.

Lassiter sighed frustratedly and ran his hands down his face. “An entirely new crime scene, and we have nothing to show for it. This just gets better and better,” he muttered.

“Maybe we should call Shawn,” Juliet said hesitantly. Shawn grinned and nudged Gus, delighted.

“No. Absolutely not. I don’t want that clown screwing around with this case. I might snap and do something I wouldn’t regret,” he said darkly.

Juliet rolled her eyes. “You know, I don’t think you’re being fair to Shawn. His dad was a cop. He probably knows better than any civilian how sensitive this case is.”

“Yes! Thank you!” Shawn whispered.

Juliet looked up and he and Gus pulled back behind the pillar. They heard Lassiter say, “What?”

“Oh, nothing…” she said. “I thought I heard something.” She paused for a second and then said, “Why don’t we go check and see if CSI is coming up with anything?”

Lassiter sighed and then agreed, “All right, yeah, let’s do it.”

Shawn stared at Gus. Their luck was almost too good. That or Juliet had see him and was lending a subtle helping hand. Either way he didn’t care. He was getting what he needed.

They waited until Lassiter and Juliet had gotten down the hall and then quickly hurried over to look at the board. Gus kept a nervous look out, while Shawn scanned the board for anything useful. There were photographs of each of the officers along with lists of facts about the crime scenes and various suspects, some already crossed off but no apparent winners among the bunch.

So Shawn, of course, noticed something right away.

“Dude!” he whispered. “These guys were in the same graduating class!” He pointed to the dates and the Academy names listed on the sheets. And then he remembered.

“Holy cow, Gus! The graduation photo!” he exclaimed, now more excited than ever.

Gus raised an eyebrow. “You lost me Shawn.”

“Birds eat your bread crumbs, Hansel? The graduation photo at Harding’s place! These two were separated by one guy! Gus…Gus, we’ve got to look this guy in the middle of the dead-cop-sandwich up. He could be involved!”

Without warning, Gus grabbed him by the sleeve, hauling him behind a pillar. “Not now we’re not,” he hissed and pointed to where Vick was now striding down the hall.

Shawn watched her go and then glanced back at her office. Gus could practically see the cogs turning in his head.

“No. No way, Shawn.”

“Come on, let’s go!” Shawn said, ignoring him as he quick-stepped down the hallway.

Gus glowered after him, following reluctantly and glancing around anxiously. This was a really bad idea.

Shawn casually sauntered up to the Chief’s door and he twisted the knob, walking right in. Gus followed, trying to be inconspicuous. Shawn closed the door behind him, waggling his eyebrows at Gus, and moved to sit in the Chief’s chair. Gus glanced apprehensively at the door, staring down the hallway. “Shawn, we’re going to get caught.”

Shawn scoffed, waving his concerns away with his left hand as he shook the mouse to wake up Vick’s computer. “Dude, relax. No one ever looks in here. It’s like some force field or something. I only need a minute or two anyway. Just sit down, relax, and keep an eye out. We’ll be long gone before she gets back.”

Gus fidgeted nervously. He didn’t like it, but he would do it. He could tell Shawn was on to something big.

Shawn spent a couple of minutes trying to find the program he wanted, but finally got fed up and just picked one. He grinned when the Law Enforcement Information Network screen blossomed on the screen. Sweet.

“Shawn, hurry up!” Gus hissed. “I don’t like being in here!”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Oh, give it a rest Gus. She’s not coming back yet.” He glanced at the desktop calendar. “She’s going to be in a meeting for the next half hour. Now would you relax?” Gus sulked, falling silent.

Shawn closed his eyes, thinking back to the photograph as he put his fingers to his temples, trying to remember the list of names that had been printed at the bottom. Peter Hughes. That was it. He typed the name into the database’s search engine and waited eagerly for it to complete the command. When the results popped up, Shawn’s lips puckered, and his eyebrows floated upward, the way they tended to when he was surprised by a turn of events.

Officer Hughes was dead.

Now completely engrossed, Shawn scrolled through the page, scanning details, when one in particular jumped out at him: ‘Manner of death: Homicide; Single shot to the face’. He spun the chair around, pounding the desk with the flats of his palms. Gus’ eyebrows shot upward.

“What is it? Did you solve the case already?”

“No, but it just got a whole heck of a lot more interesting,” he said, looking excited. “Come look at this!”

Gus moved around the desk, bending over to peer at the screen. “What am I looking at?”

“This is Officer Hughes’ file. He’s the officer who played the role of ‘turkey’ in our dead officer sandwich.”

Gus made a face. “Shawn, that’s really inappropriate, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, sorry. Can’t help it. Anyway. Check this out.” He scrolled back up the page and pointed to the “Manner of Death” he had just read to himself.

“No way…” Gus whispered, astounded.

“Way,” Shawn confirmed. “And look at this. This guy died in San Bernardino last week. How insane is that?”

“No way!” Gus repeated, astounded even further.

“I know, crazy, right? Wanna know something even freakier?”

“Not really, but I know you’re going to tell me anyway,” Gus said.

“You got it. In that picture—the graduation one?—yeah, Officer Kinsley is the last guy in the first row.”

“I don’t get it,” Gus said, missing the connection.

“Hold on—let me check these other guys in the first row. If I’m right…” Shawn typed in the name of the officer who came before Harding in the photo and waited impatiently for the search to complete itself. When the page loaded, he scrolled down and he and Gus stared at the stats.

Dead.

They exchanged a heavy look and Shawn immediately began typing in the name of the next officer. Dead. The next: dead. The next, and the next, and the next, all the way down the row of eleven officers. All of them dead. Shawn checked the final officer in the row, the teacher, and he and Gus were shocked to discover that he was still alive. “All right,” Shawn concluded, “So there’s some crazy guy out there, killing the students in this class.”

“How did the police miss this?” Gus asked in disbelief.

“Dude, haven’t you been looking at the dates of their deaths? They died months, weeks, years apart and they all lived in different cities. No one would have even known there was a pattern.”

“What the hell do you think you are doing, Mr. Spencer?”

Shawn and Gus froze.

Gus was just beginning to open his mouth to spew forth the first excuse he could come up with, when Shawn, wearing his best, ‘Where the hell am I?’ face, stammered pathetically, “I…I don’t know.”

Karen sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Spencer, I don’t have time for games right now.”

Gus shook his head, catching on quickly. “No, no, Chief. He was in a trance. I followed him in here, and he just started typing things into the computer. It was—”

“He what?”

“Gus?” Shawn said weakly. “What am I doing here?”

As Karen rushed over to check her computer, Gus helped Shawn out of her chair and into another, in front of the desk. Shawn recovered a little as she began looking through the files, and he and Gus watched expectantly for her reaction. Her face went from angry, to bemused, to dawning realization, and then to white-faced horror. She looked up, her gaze intense upon Shawn and said, “Are you telling me there is a serial cop killer running around out there?”

Shawn nodded gravely. “That’s what the spirits seem to be indicating.”

“How did we miss this?” she whispered, aghast.

“Well,” Shawn said gently, “I think if you look at when the officers died, you’ll find that they’ve died with long gaps in between them over the last five years or so. Not to mention the fact that they were murdered in different cities and not all of them are even cops anymore. Whoever this guy is, he’s got this act down. I don’t think anyone would have made the connection.”

Karen sighed heavily. “I suppose…is there anything else?”

Shawn put his fingers to his temples for a moment and then with a gasp, opened his eyes. “I see a photograph. These officers all graduated in the same class. The photo from their graduation is what this psycho is using to pick his next victim! It’s perfect.”

Karen nodded, scribbling down the information. When she had finished, she paused, and said seriously, “Mr. Spencer, I’m grateful for this information, so grateful that I’m going to overlook your trespassing into my office, how’s that sound?”

Shawn smiled weakly. “Sounds super, Chief. I suppose now is a bad time to ask if I can help with the case then, huh?”

She smiled and got to her feet. “Sorry, I can’t let you do that. If you get any more information, I would love to hear it, but I can’t put you on the case officially. I hope you understand.”

Shawn sighed dramatically. “I guess. I promise to come straight to you if I have any more visions.”

“See that you do. Straight to me, Mr. Spencer, and not my office,” she added pointedly.

Shawn grinned. “My pleasure.”

~ * * * ~

“See, Gus!” Shawn exclaimed, as they headed out of the station toward Gus’ car. “You were worried for nothing. Chief loves me!”

Gus raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t exactly say that, Shawn. If she likes anyone, it’s me.”

Shawn snorted and said disdainfully, “You, Gus? You’re the one she caught sitting in her Magic-Springy-Bounce-Up Chair slurping on a pineapple smoothie.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who broke into her office this afternoon. And how do you think she’d feel about you if she found out about how much time you spent in there while she was off on that trip with Lassiter, having her baby? Huh? What do you think about that?” he said. “I think that’s ten points for me, Shawn. Swish!” He mimed lobbing a basketball into an invisible net.

“Oh,” Shawn scoffed, scandalized. “You wouldn’t tell her about that, would you?”

“I would if you try to make this into a thing. I’m wild, Shawn,” he added as he unlocked the car. “You never know what I might do.”

Shawn let out a bark of laughter. “’Wild’. Oh, that’s comedic gold, Gus. I’ll tell you what, if anyone ever calls you ‘wild’, I owe you a grand, and a foot massage.”

“Oh, you’re on.”

They started to climb into the car and then Shawn stopped, banging a hand on the roof. “And they have to say it in front of me, dude, or it isn’t valid.” He nodded, satisfied with those parameters and completed the journey into the car.

Gus frowned at the space Shawn had previously occupied. “What? Shawn, that’s not fair!”

Their bickering continued the entire way home.

When Gus arrived at the Psych office the next morning at ten, Shawn was already there, having hauled out the glass board where he liked to play Numb3rs with his cases. He had already put up sheets of paper with the information for all of the officers in order of their deaths, along with a little United States map that had large red dots over the cities where the officers had died. Most of the dots were focused in California and the surrounding states, but one was as far away as Texas. Along with all of this, there was a badly drawn picture of a group of probably forty stick figures (mostly just heads) with the first row’s faces X-ed out with red Sharpie. Shawn had drawn a large arrow beneath the picture pointing to the teacher at the beginning of the row, who was the lone survivor of this cop killer. As he put his things down at his desk, Gus said, “How long have you been here, Shawn?”

Shawn shrugged, stuffing half a McGriddle in his mouth. “Half-hour, maybe,” he said through the mouthful. Gus rolled his eyes and moved over to inspect the board, his expression morphing to impressed.

“You did all this in a half an hour?” he said with disbelief.

“Sure, why not?” Shawn said. “Dude, try this. It’s awesome.” He thrust a McFlurry which appeared to have French fries stirred in it at him and Gus grimaced. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be Shawn. He operated on an entirely different level than most people, not to mention the fact that he possessed a stomach of steel.

“No thanks,” he said, pushing it away, and pointed to the arrow under the drawing. “What’s this arrow for? Is this guy important?”

“Gus, everybody in that row of the picture has died. He should have been the first to go. There’s something up,” Shawn said.

“Wait,” Gus said, remembering their conversation from the previous day. “You mean the teacher? You think the teacher did it?” he said incredulously.

“It’s a little suspicious Gus.”

“Shawn, he’s a cop. A retired one by now probably. You cannot accuse a cop of being a serial cop killer. That’s like jumping into a pool full of hungry sharks, Shawn! Don’t be stupid.”

“Come on, Gus! How many other people would have access to these specific people? And how weird is it that he didn’t get murdered? I mean, seriously. Even if he is a cop, there are just way too many coincidences. Look, I think my dad knew him, we’ll go and ask him about this guy and get a feel for him, okay?”

Gus made a face, reluctant to agree, but the plan sounded reasonable, and if he couldn’t convince Shawn to drop it, maybe his father could berate him into dropping it. “All right, fine, let’s do it,” he finally assented.

~ * * * ~

When the door to his father’s house swung open, Shawn grinned, Gus looked uncomfortable, and Henry immediately sighed. “Hello, Shawn. To what do I owe this little visit?”

“No reason, Dad, I just wanted to come hang out,” he said with a crooked smile.

Henry’s eyebrows went up skeptically. “Uh…huh.”

“So can we come in? It’s sort of rude to leave us standing here, don’t you think?”

Henry heaved another sigh and muttered, “I’m going to regret this… All right, come in.”

Shawn’s grin broadened and he bounded into the house, followed by a more docile Gus, who tried his best not to look suspicious. “So, what’s up, Shawn?” his dad asked guardedly.

“Not much. Gus and I don’t have any cases right now, so there’s not a lot to do,” he said, inspecting the pictures on the mantle in what was almost a casual manner.

“Oh really? No cases, huh?” Henry glanced at Gus, who looked away quickly. How did he get stuck in the middle of these things?

“Nope,” Shawn confirmed. “What have you been up to?”

Henry crossed his arms, eyeing his son critically. “Not much either.”

“Played any poker lately?”

“No…”

“Planning to?”

“Shawn, what are you getting at?” he finally demanded.

Shawn shrugged innocently, “What? I’m just making conversation!”

“Oh, right, and I’m the Queen of England.”

Shawn gasped. “Your majesty!” He bowed deeply and Henry rolled his eyes.

“Shawn, what do you want? What is it you’re looking for?” he asked. “Either spit it out, or get out of my house. I know you Shawn; you can’t inveigle information out of me.”

Shawn grimaced and then sighed, moving over to his dad in one big step. “Okay, so here’s the thing. I was wondering if you knew a guy named James Halloway when you were on the ‘force.” The expression on Henry’s face told Gus that this conversation wasn’t going to go well.

His eyes narrowed and he said, “Why, Shawn?”

Shawn made another face. “See, it’s kind of complicated, Dad. I just wanted to see what kind of guy he was—”

“Yes, Shawn, I did know him,” Henry said harshly. “And he was a damn good cop and when he taught, he was a damn good teacher. The cops he helped graduate were some of the most prepared rookies I’ve ever seen.”

“So he didn’t have, say, a temper, or maybe a little imbal—”

Henry glowered, “Shawn, I don’t like what you’re implying.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause I enjoy asking you if one of your buddies might have gone a little wacko,” Shawn muttered.

“Excuse me?” Henry said, and then realization dawned on his face. “Are we talking about those murdered policemen, Shawn? Is that the case you’re working on?”

Shawn looked away, his mouth thinning to a narrow line. Gus cringed. Here it came.

Henry’s face was a mixture of shock and fury. “No way, Shawn. No. Way. I will not stand aside and let you blame a cop for this madness. I can’t believe you’re even considering it, after everything I taught you—”

“Dad, he’s the only one who makes sense! You just don’t—”

“You’re not looking hard enough Shawn!” Henry snapped. “Halloway was one of the best cops I ever worked with and he may have been a hard ass, but you can not pin murder on him. I—” He waved his hands in front of him as though trying to wipe the conversation away. “That’s enough Shawn. You’re wrong. Just let this one go, do you understand me? Do you?”

Shawn grit his teeth and nodded. “Yes, sir.” It made him crazy that his father still knew exactly how to cut him down and make him feel like a foolish child.

“Good. Now get out of here. I don’t want you here right now. And I’m not kidding Shawn, don’t go after Halloway,” he warned.

Shawn nodded sulkily and he and Gus quickly exited the house. When they were back in the car he said darkly to Gus, “Let’s go. We’re going to the police station.”

Gus shook his head. “Shawn, I don’t...”

“Go, Gus,” Shawn said adamantly. Gus sighed and did as Shawn asked.

~ * * * ~

At the station, Shawn leapt out of the car and Gus followed, an ominous feeling hanging over him. Shawn was in a bad state right now and he had a feeling that whatever he was about to do wasn’t going to be good. “Shawn…Shawn!” he yelled, “Wait up! Are you sure about this? Are you absolutely sure?”

Shawn turned on him and said impatiently, “Don’t you start in on me too Gus! Who else could it be? Halloway is the most likely suspect; I don’t care what my father said. Come on, just trust me!”

“Shawn, you’re angry, you’re not thinking—”

“I’m thinking fine!” he snapped. “Now come on Gus. Don’t chicken out on me now.”

Gus grit his teeth and took a deep breath, tilting his face upward. He had a sickening feeling that Shawn was wrong and he hated it that he still felt obligated, as Shawn’s best friend, to support him. “Okay,” he finally said. “All right. But Shawn, if you’re wrong—”

“I’m not wrong!” Shawn insisted and whipped back around, hurrying up the station steps.

Inside the station, Shawn stalked through the crowd Gus tailing behind, heading for Karen’s office when he slammed directly into Detective Lassiter. He cursed, and Lassiter raised an eyebrow at him in surprise. He had never heard Spencer use that kind of language.

“Lassie!” Shawn’s voice sounded more strained than usual—less playful. Lassiter narrowed his eyes.

“Watch it, Spencer, or I’ll arrest you for assaulting a police officer,” he said grimly.

Shawn forced a laugh, “Oh, you’re funny.”

“Did I make a joke?” Lassiter asked, unsmilingly.

Shawn faltered for a second, and then without warning, lunged forward, grabbing hold of Lassiter’s badge. Gus cringed. Uh-oh.

“Hey! What the hell are you—!”

Shawn let out a strangled cry, yanking on the badge as though he were trying to pull his hand away from it. “I’m stuck! Oh, I’m stuck!” he wailed.

Lassiter grabbed him by the shoulders and began bodily trying to force him off. “Let go of me, Spencer!”

Gus backed away from the scene, retreating to the edges of the room, to watch and see how Shawn would play this one up. Police officers and suspects were starting to stop and stare and he could see O’Hara and the Chief looking suspiciously in their direction.

Shawn yelped again, this time the sound only half contrived as Lassiter pulled hard on his arm, trying to shake him loose. “I can see him! I can see the murderer!” he shouted as loudly as he could. This started a strain of muttering around the spectators, though Gus stayed silent.  This would not end well.

“What is going on Detective?” Vick demanded as she and O’Hara strode up.

Lassiter growled and said in a petulant tone, “He won’t let go of my badge! Get him off of me, Chief!”

“Hang on,” Karen said, holding up a finger and Lassiter scowled. “What was that Mr. Spencer?”

“Ohhh,” Shawn moaned, “I see him! His name is…” He paused dramatically, glancing around the room and for a brief second met Gus’s eyes, who shook his head just the tiniest bit.  His expression soured and he looked back at the detectives.  “…James Halloway!”

Gus looked to Vick and he knew instantly that they were in big trouble. He tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, pressing up against the wall.

“What did you just say?” Chief demanded in a dangerously quiet voice.

“James Halloway,” Shawn repeated. “I’m getting a strong vibe from him.”

Karen strode up to him and pulled him level to her by the front of his shirt, startling him, and she grit, “You do understand that you are accusing a retired, decorated cop of murdering his own Academy students, do you not?” Out of the corner of his eye, Shawn saw Lassiter’s expression harden and the grip on his arm tightened like a vise. He could barely suppress a wince.

He nodded, however. He had to be right.

Karen shook her head in disgust and muttered, “I thought you understood, Mr. Spencer, but I was obviously wrong. I want you to get out of my station, and I don’t want to see your face around here for a while. You’ve crossed the line this time.” She let go of his shirt roughly and he stared after her, stunned. Okay, this hadn’t gone as planned. “Escort him out, Detective,” she added, her voice hard as stone.

“But sometimes I can’t control—!”

Lassiter cut him off with a sneer.  “With pleasure,” he snarled, and Shawn hissed as he wrenched him around by the arm, and began forcing him out the front door. Gus followed behind, cringing away from the furious glares aimed in his direction.  His hands were slightly up, but when he looked at Karen with an apology written across his face, she glared and looked pointedly at the door.

When they had gotten outside, Lassiter gave Shawn a good shove and he stumbled, nearly falling into a car. “Hey! You can’t—”

Lassiter stepped up to him again, forcing him back against the car and pointing a finger in his face. “I can do whatever I want now Spencer. You’ve made yourself a plague among the S.B.P.D. You’ll be lucky if you ever work in this city again.” He smiled nastily. “It was nice knowing you, Spencer. Oh, wait. No, it wasn’t.” He thumped Shawn hard on the chest with the backs of his hands as one last slight and then turned and stormed back into the station.  He paused as he reached the doorway, then turned around.  “I always knew you were a fake,” he said bitingly, “but the funny thing was, I never actually realized you were that stupid.

“Congratulations, psychic,” he said with the tiniest hint of delight.  It did nothing to mask his disappointment.  “I have never failed to underestimate you.”

   Shawn watched him go with disbelief. “I can’t believe this. The guy is a suspect and I’m the one getting ripped a new one! Gus, can you believe this?!”

Gus was quiet and Shawn looked at him curiously, barely hiding his apprehension.

“Gus?”

“Shut up, Shawn,” he said without looking up from his feet.  “Just…shut up.  For once in your life, figure out when you need to stop talking.”

Shawn stared at him, mouth open in slight horror, stomach twisting into knots.

“But…”

Gus looked up sharply and caught Shawn’s eyes with a fierce look.  His own were angry, disappointed, and, underneath all that, ashamed and embarrassed. “No, Shawn. I think you went too far this time. I’m done.”

“What?” Shawn said blankly. He shook his head as if to clear it, as though he had misheard his friend.  “Don’t be ridiculous. This will blow over tomorrow and—”

“No, Shawn,” Gus said forcefully. “Can you even hear yourself right now? You are so busy trying to ‘stick it to your dad’ that you’re not thinking clearly. I mean, what the hell, Shawn?! You just burst into a police station and accused one of their own of being a murdering traitor! A serial killer, Shawn! How could you not expect that reaction from them?!” He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the dumbfounded look on Shawn’s face and trying to calm himself. He hadn’t been this angry at Shawn in a long time.  And worse, at himself.  Shawn always did things like this and then acted like he was in the right—well, he was done with all of it, he just went along with too many of Shawn’s plans that he knew were bad ideas. He knew it was a stupid idea when they went to the police station.  He knew exactly how they would react.  And what did he do?  He went along with it.  Every, single, time he followed Shawn’s lead, whether or not he agreed with it.

He hated what being Shawn’s friend did to him sometimes. He couldn’t help it. He burst.

“I’m sick and tired of getting caught in your crossfire, Shawn! You may not get embarrassed, and it may not bother you that you’re rubbing salt in those people’s open wounds, but I do! You never consider the fact that I suffer because of your idiotic ideas and your half-cocked plans, and I go along with them! I—I just—” His anger seemed to fizzle a little and he held up a hand. “I can’t be around you right now, Shawn. I’m too angry. You need to stay away for a few days. I’ll see you later,” he muttered, and turned, leaving Shawn standing alone in the parking lot.

Shawn stared after him, floored. Gus yelled at him all the time, but usually they were fine after a couple of minutes. If Gus was feeling particularly childish, maybe a few hours. But this…Gus really didn’t want to see him at all for a considerable chunk of time. Shawn would never admit it, but the very idea bothered him, hurting somewhere inside that he wasn’t familiar with.

He rubbed his hands over his face, suddenly angry with himself. Gus was right. He wasn’t thinking properly, and he had done something he honestly knew better than to do just because he was pissed at his dad, and now he was paying for it. No amount of charm was going to get him out of this one.

He looked for his bike, then realized he hadn’t taken it because, hello, duh, Gus had given him a ride.  For a second he stood still, head in his hands, trying to figure out what he was going to do.  Not about home—he would walk.  It would suck, but he would walk the several miles home.  But about everything else.  What do you do when you’ve completely ruined your own life?  He laughed hollowly, then started the hour-long walk back to his apartment with a vicious kick to a crumpled soda-can sitting in the parking lot of the station.

 How stupid could he get, seriously? He had finally gotten the police to give him a decent amount of lee-way and respect, and with one (really lame, he might add) vision later, he had screwed himself out of everything he had earned.

Even worse, he had proved Lassiter right. He had just given them all the more reason to think he couldn’t handle “sensitive” cases because he was too much of an immature, impulsive clown. Oh, wait, he wouldn’t be handling any cases so even that didn’t matter. ‘Way to go, Shawn,’ he thought darkly, ‘Now you’ve proven Dad right.’

Not to mention the fact that he had managed to make even Gus angry.

He was really on a roll today.

Supremely annoyed with himself, he was thinking about how sucky it was that he had to make Gus angry when he didn’t have a ride home, when the sky, which had been gradually darkening, began to release a few drops, a few more, and a few more, until suddenly, it was pouring. Shawn cursed loudly and threw his arms up aggressively at the sky yelling, “Oh, come on! I didn’t say it couldn’t get any worse! Seriously!”

An older woman with a plastic baggy over her head and a shopping cart shuffled past him, giving him a strange, slightly apprehensive “what’s the loony going to do?” look. He glared at her.

“What are you looking at lady?” he snapped, and pushed his now sopping wet hair off of his forehead. Lovely, now he was shouting at little old ladies. He was very tempted to yell a spiteful, “Now it really can’t get any worse, HA!” He restrained himself.  No use tempting fate.

But when he arrived home nearly an hour and a half later, soaked through, miserable, and shivering from the cold, standing on his doorstep was his father, dry, spitting mad, and waiting for him.

Shawn’s stomach dropped out of the bottoms of his shoes. He squeezed the keys in his hand anxiously and managed to say in a slightly higher pitched voice, “Hey…Dad…”

Henry turned to face him, and Shawn couldn’t help shrinking away from the cold fury in his face.

“Guess who called me ten minutes ago, Shawn,” he said in a tightly controlled voice.

Shawn shrugged weakly. “Oprah?”

He continued, ignoring Shawn. “James Halloway. And do you know what he said to me?”

Shawn didn’t say anything, knowing it would likely get him into more trouble at this point.

“He told me,” Henry continued, still speaking in that tightly controlled tone that Shawn knew would erupt soon, “that a detective called him this evening and asked for his alibi for the morning of the fifth. He said the detective mentioned something about a ‘stupid psychic’ claiming that he was responsible for the eleven murders of officers from one of his Academy classes.” Henry paused, stepping forward to tower over Shawn, before continuing in a quietly, “Do you know of any other ‘stupid psychics’ in Santa Barbara, Shawn?”

Shawn shook his head wordlessly. Dammit. How could he have managed to screw up this badly?

“Me neither. What the hell were you thinking, kid? I tell you to back off, and what’s the first thing you do? Go straight to the police with your half-baked little theory! How could you do something so stupid, Shawn? I taught you what the relationship between officers is like! Were you trying to commit professional suicide? Did you get bored of this job, just like all of the others, and just want to go out with a bang? Is that it, Shawn?”

“No, I—”

“Because I can’t see any other reason for you to act so foolishly. You do realize that you are essentially finished with this little job of yours, right? You managed to single-handedly destroy this whole endeavor and any credibility you may have managed to build up. Not to mention the fact that I endorsed this madness Shawn! My reputation is going right down the drain with yours. Do you ever think about the consequences of your actions?

“I thought you had done everything in your power to disappoint me when you started this whole scam, but I was wrong.” He clapped Shawn on the shoulder, and he winced, shrinking away like he had been punched. “Way to go, kiddo, you’ve hit the all time jackpot of disappointment.”

“Dad, I—”

Henry held up his hands. “I don’t want to hear it, Shawn. I don’t want the excuses or the apology or whatever it is you have to say. You really screwed up this time and there is nothing short of a miracle that’s going to get you out of this. I hope you’re happy with yourself.” He shook his head, disgust written in every line of his face and Shawn knew he had hit rock bottom.

Henry brushed past him, and Shawn flexed his hands, muscles in knots as he loosened his fists. There were deep, red indentations from his fingernails in his palms.

He flinched, but he should have been expecting it (why didn’t he ever expect it?) as his father called back one last time. “I’m going to warn you now, Shawn. Life here won’t be easy for you, now that you’ve pissed the police off. You might want to consider a move. Run away again, Shawn.”

With that last brutal dig, Henry got in the cab of his truck, and drove away.

Shawn stared rigidly at his door, a foot above the scruffy Welcome! mat, stare hollow.  He breathed in through a tight chest, shoulders tense and neck stiff, the clenching and unclenching of his fists his only movement. He felt like he had been run through with a dozen rough edged blades, his insides completely reduced to hamburger meat. His dad was the one person who knew exactly which blows would hurt the most. And he hated it—hated it so much—because this time, he was right.

He turned, leaning against the door to his apartment and sliding to the ground, staring out at nothing, his insides churning and aching. And as he sat there, staring into the growing darkness, his anger began to grow and throb until he was having a hard time breathing because his chest was so tight, his vision impaired by the vengeful burning behind his eyes. He was furious, mostly with himself, but there was always a little room for his dad when he was angry.

He had let himself get out of control. His dad had gotten under his skin and his resentment had made him irrational. He knew better. That was what really killed him. There were some things he knew you just didn’t mess with and the police and their comrades were one of them. And Gus, Gus had warned him, he had done exactly what Shawn needed him around to do, and he had ignored him, so consumed by his anger that he hadn’t even listened to Gus’ rationality. Gus was supposed to be his failsafe and he had been in such a state that he had overridden him.

And because of it, he was on the verge of losing everything he had gained in the last few months. He had found a place where he felt needed, at home, fulfilled even and he was going to lose all that.

He had to solve this case. For the sake of the dead cops, yes, but even more so that he could get his life back.

~ * * * ~

Shawn didn’t even wait until morning to start his investigation anew. As soon as he had gotten himself enough under control to focus on driving, he had leapt on his bike and zoomed off to Psych Headquarters. Once there, he had ordered take-out from a Mexican restaurant, along with a case of Mountain Dew, and he had sat down in front of the board, intent on deducing who the killer was if it took him the next two weeks. He stared at the board, flipped it upside down, looked at from the wrong side, scribbled hundreds of nonsensical theories and connections on it, and seven and a half hours later realized that he had absolutely no idea who a suspect could be, let alone who had defintely done it.

By that time, he was starting to get jittery from all of the caffeine, and despite his best efforts, he was having a hard time concentrating, drifting off occasionally and doing things like using mousse found in one of his drawers to style his hair in a variety of wacky ways (including a faux-hawk), using the glass markers to draw silly faces on his reflection in the mirror, and individualizing each of the stick figures on the replication of the graduation photo. Unfortunately, these things didn’t give him the pleasure they usually would have, instead only serving to make him more frustrated with himself.

In between all of these distractions, he spent time on the internet, researching the graduation class, James Halloway, and anything else he could even think of that might connect to that particular class. It was going on six o’clock in the morning when he finally gave up on that route too. There just wasn’t enough information about the class on the internet. There was nothing that insinuated that there might be more sinister motives behind any of them. He chugged down another two Mountain Dews at seven-thirty, hoping that at least having to pee every five minutes would help keep him awake.

He returned to staring at the board, trying to come up with someone or some clue he was missing. He knew there was a clue somewhere…he just had to find it. It was at eight oh-seven, as he stared zombie-like at his drawing of the photograph (which was now beginning to swim before his eyes) when he realized where the information he needed was going to be. He needed to get all the information on the class, including the people who had been dropped from the program for one reason or another, and the only way he was going to get that was by going to the police station.

And wouldn’t they just be thrilled to see him.

It was then, staring dazedly at his toes—it was anyone’s guess as to where his shoes had gone, he certainly had no idea—that he received his first brilliant (meaning incredibly risky and stupid) idea: he needed to sneak into the police station.

Two minutes later he was struck with the second fantastic (horribly, horribly bad) idea: stealing his father’s old uniform would provide enough of a disguise that he could manage to pull off the first plan.

And Shawn grinned to himself, suddenly feeling wide-awake. He knew what he had to do, and now it was just a matter of doing it.

He arrived at his dad’s house in record time.

He parked his bike nearly five blocks away on some small side street, not wanting to give his dad any opportunity to find him out. He would almost certainly literally die if Henry ever found out what he was about to do. When he got within two blocks of the house, he ducked into the neighbors’ backyards, careful to stay low and move quietly. In its own way, the idea of infiltrating his dad’s house and actually taking one of his prized possessions was exhilarating and absolutely terrifying all at once. He was sure he could do it, but at the same time, there was that seed of doubt that his dad always managed to plant in him, and he was afraid this might be one of the times when he was caught off-guard. In view of the situation, he was particularly careful, doing everything he could possibly think of to keep Henry from being any the wiser.

Upon reaching the perimeter of his father’s house, Shawn hid between the fence and the neighbor’s bushes, keeping sharp eyes focused on the windows, checking for any sign that Henry was there. He finally spotted his dad in the kitchen, puttering around, and Shawn took the opportunity afforded him when Henry turned his back and sprinted for the bushes along the side of the house. He practically slammed up against the exterior wall, miraculously managing not to make any noise and he froze, his heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears while he waited, half expecting his dad to come out, waving a spatula and screaming about what a disappointment he was. When he didn’t come for several minutes, Shawn risked the tiniest peek in the window. He nearly groaned aloud when he saw him seated at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and filling out the crossword. This could take forever.

Shawn stayed, uncomfortably squashed between the bushes and the exterior wall of the house, craning his neck every once and a while to check and see that his father was still seated at the table, completing the crossword. Around the half hour mark, he began leaning heavily against the house, his eyelids growing painfully heavy, and he kept having to jerk himself awake to check the window. He had been half-standing, half-crouching there for almost an hour when he was startled awake, pulling the now tingly side of his face away from the house, as the sound of his dad’s truck roaring to life came from the front of the house. He quickly shook himself awake, slapping his face a couple of times, before moving toward the front of the house to get a look.

Henry was just pulling out of the driveway as Shawn peered surreptitiously around the corner of the house and he allowed himself a small grin. Perfect. Now he just had to get inside, quick like a bunny, grab the uniform and get out before his dad got back. He waited until Henry’s truck had been gone around the corner for almost two minutes before he risked running up to the front door. He yanked a spare key he had made a while back for just such emergencies out of his back pocket and quickly unlocked the door, slipping inside. He was awake again, nearly giddy from the adrenaline rush.

Finally inside, he wasted no time in getting to Henry’s bedroom, where he remembered seeing his father put the box containing his uniform into the storage space at the top of the closet. He was careful to remember exactly each and every detail of the spaces he passed through so that he could make sure he left no traces of his presence behind. The box was on the left side of the closet, beside a box that Shawn was pretty sure held a few mementos from his time on the ‘force.

He got it down, opening it as delicately as he could and pulling the uniform out. It was in pristine condition. Shawn was pretty sure it got a regular trip to the cleaners just to keep it extra spiffy looking, although why, he would never quite understand. He quickly recapped the box and then placed it carefully back on the shelf, tucking the uniform beneath his arm. Excellent. Mission half accomplished. He retraced his steps back to the front door, careful to get rid of any hints of his presence and once outside, locked the door behind him before sneaking off the same way he had come, clutching the uniform like a baby to his chest.

 Oh, this was all going to be too easy.

Holy crap, this was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Shawn had parked at the department store down the street from the police station and changed in one of the dressing rooms. That was where he was currently standing, staring at his reflection. It wasn’t going to be difficult because of the uniform, because the uniform fit disturbingly well. Sickeningly well. He scowled at himself.  Gross.

A weak smirk crossed his lips as he tried to avoid thinking about what his next moves were.  Sneaking into his dad’s house had been incredibly dangerous, but in an entirely different and less bone-chillingly terrifying way. This…this could quite literally be the end of his life as he knew it. He could be charged with breaking and entering, impersonating a police officer…and not to mention the fact that none of the officers who he’d made friends with would ever speak to him again. It was one thing, pissing off his father, but having everybody he knew thinking he was some sort of criminal really shook him.  The idea was absolutely terrifying.

And pretty damn funny too, but it was probably in his best interest to keep that to himself.

He took a deep breath and put his father’s hat on, pulling the brim down low. “All right, Shawn. This is it. This is the turning point, dude. Don’t screw this one up.” He slipped a pair of dark sunglasses on to complete the disguise and gathered up his clothes, heading back out into the store. He got a few curious looks as he moved back out into the Santa Barbara sunshine and he smiled winningly in return, teeth gritted just a little too hard and fingers crossed, but no one ran up screaming, “Fake! Thief! Fraud!” much to his relief.

He paused briefly in the parking lot to stow his clothes with his bike and then started the short walk to the police station. He walked with purpose—something his dad (damn it all) had taught him as a kid: act like you belong and no one will think you don’t—knowing, with as much certainty as he could muster, that that would keep anyone from stopping him. It was difficult, almost painfully so, not to be jumpy and to keep from glancing from side to side. It was strange, how nerve-wracking it was, going somewhere he was now so familiar with.  Somewhere in the last twenty-four hours, it had become some alien enemy’s fortress. He had stared down the barrel of a gun more than once and it had never been so daunting.

He laughed then, because it suddenly struck him as hilarious what he was about to do, then covered his mouth, grimacing.  That had come out a lot more maniacally than he’d meant it to.

He slowed as he came to the steps he usually bounded gleefully up and took a deep breath, pulling the hat more snugly onto his head. Come the hour of reckoning.

He licked his lips nervously and started up the steps. There was a blast of cool air as he stepped through the doors and he hesitated for half a second, balanced precariously on one foot before the other landed, looking at the station through new eyes. New, more paranoid eyes. No one paid any attention to him, however, and he started to smirk as he took a good look around, before quashing it.  Ten bucks said Lassiter, at least, would recognize the all-knowing “I’m totally getting away with something right under your nose” look.

The grin faded.  It was surreal, not having anyone smile at him or roll their eyes, and he headed deeper into the station, marveling at his newfound anonymity. He let out a long breath, the seriousness of the situation coming back full force.  There was no doubt that he would be thrown straight into jail if he was caught, and there wasn’t a soul right now who would so much as pay his bail.  It was an incredibly sobering thought.

He was still contemplating the exceptionally depressing idea when he turned around and ran smack dab into Lassiter.

They fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, Lassiter cursing heavily as Shawn bit his tongue, choking down a truly snotty, truly Shawn-esque response.  This was so bad.  So bad.

He didn’t look up, his hands immediately jumping to keep his hat in place, heart leaping into his throat as he stared at the top of a familiar hairline, bent as the detective swore into the floor, trying to struggle back to his knees.

.

“Dammit!” Lassiter snapped, head jerking up so he could glare at whatever rookie that had just run into him. “Watch where you’re going!”

Shawn backed away on his hands, scrambling to a standing position, nearly falling over his own pant cuffs as he refused to let himself look up, his eyes glued to the floor in front of Lassiter’s feet, his hand flying to his sunglasses and the hat.  Shit. “S—Sorry, sir,” he stammered, pitching his voice slightly higher.  He started edging around Lassiter, staring at, of all things, Lassie’s shoes.

Don’t look don’t look don’t look don’t look I’m just a poor little rookie afraid to death of the evil scary detective just let the pathetic noob slink away in shame just please don’t look don’t—  

A hand grabbed him, fiercely and viciously around his wrist.  He froze, and for just a second, went a little whiter.

Shit.

Shawn continued looking at the floor, his face frozen, eyes staring straight ahead, but he knew he was caught when the hand tightened.

Lassiter sneered.  “You would see better if you took those sunglasses off,” he snapped, voice commanding, and Shawn nodded quickly, realizing the detective hadn’t actually figured it out.  Yet.  But Lassiter continued to glare at him and he knew he was going to figure it out in a second if he didn’t do something.

Shawn whipped off the sunglasses, looking down at the floor simultaneously.  “Yes, detective, sir, I’ll keep that in mind, sir.  Sorry, sir.” he mumbled, voice as embarrassed as he could make it (and it wasn’t hard because, seriously, he’d completely missed Lassiter coming up behind him.  How the hell had he missed fricking Lassiter coming up behind him?).

Lassiter, however, had already turned away.  “See that you do,” he said, eyes sliding away from the petrified rookie.  He’d said his piece, and the rookie, if body stance could be believed, had learned his lesson.

Shawn stared.  Wait—what?  No way.  No way.  He’d just handed himself to Lassie on a silver platter, and the guy hadn’t so much as taken the time to look closely enough to notice.

The smirk that blossomed on his face literally hurt his cheeks.  He swept the sunglasses back on his face dramatically, still grinning.

And two steps later he realized that the keys he needed, the keys to the Records Room, the keys that would solve all his problems—yes, those keys—had been hanging, quite conveniently, from Lassiter’s belt.

His expression turned to vague horror.  Holy crap, if he got out of this alive, and there was still that enormously large possibility hanging over his head and present every time anyone looked at him suspiciously or took a second to glance at him a second time that he wouldn’t, he was going to kill himself.  He’d undeniably earned it.

Shawn pivoted sharply on his foot, setting back down the hall in the direction Lassiter had gone.  Only one thing to do now about his mistake:

Fix it.

He spotted Lassiter almost immediately. The detective had stopped in the middle of the hall and was speaking with Juliet. Great. Shawn didn’t hesitate, just sped up, putting an eager look on his face. If he did this right, Lassie wouldn’t realize what had happened until it was all over. He’d have to pray Juliet didn’t either.

“Sir, sir! Excuse me, sir,” he called and Lassiter was half turned to him when Shawn’s foot shot out from beneath him like he had slipped in something, and he staggered into Lassiter, sending them both crashing onto the floor again.

His hat slipped backward and he shoved it back down, skillfully loosing Lassiter’s keys and stuffing them into his pocket with one hand, sputtering apologetically, “I’m sorry, sir! I’m so clumsy! I’m so sorry!”

He held out his hand to help him up and Lassiter slapped his hand away, snapping, “Just get the hell away from me!”

Shawn nodded, glanced up to see Juliet eyeing the two of them curiously, and took off without another word.

He sprinted all the way to the lobby bathroom, catching a few curious glances which he ignored as he banged into the bathroom, shutting himself in the first available stall. That should keep them from suspecting anything and from following him.

Feeling the keys in his pocket, a delirious sounding laugh spilled from between his lips and he sagged against the cool tile wall. He had gotten them. Not exactly how he had planned to get them, but he had gotten them.

He clasped a hand around the keys and knew he had to get to the records room ASAP. It wouldn’t be long before Lassiter realized his keys were missing and came hunting for him. He breathed deeply then opened the stall door with a confident hand. It nearly clocked a startled officer and he almost laughed (he had to stop doing that) but covered it with an embarrassed cough and an apologetic sort of head duck. Jeeze, he was on a roll today.

Slipping back out into the lobby, he wiped sweaty palms on his trousers and caught a glimpse of that strong Irish hairline he was always pointing out and he quickly hurried off to do what he had to so he could get out of here. He had had his fill of harrowing moments for today, thank you very much.

Shawn headed down the hallway toward the records room, fighting off the urge to glance over his shoulder to look for Lassiter. Because that wouldn’t be suspicious at all. May as well shout, “Hey! I’m getting away with something!” if he wanted to do something to give himself away.

Besides, he thought, striding confidently, almost cockily, down the hall, he had this one in the bag. The smile on his face grew.

An officer burst out of one of the doors along the hall and Shawn jumped, flattening himself against the wall instinctively. The officer chuckled as he jogged past and called back, “Eh, relax, rookie!”

Shawn stood there staring after him for almost a full minute, waiting for his breathing and his heart beat to stop going so fast. Okay, so maybe he was a little high-strung. He started down the hall again, moving more quickly this time, eager to get it over with.

When he finally reached the Records Room door, he unlocked the door and slipped inside, relieved that he only needed a few more minutes and he would be home free. “All right…now where the heck do I find this stuff?” he muttered to himself, pulling off his sunglasses to scan the labels on the shelves. He found the backup file for Harding and Kinsley’s case in the H’s and he pulled it out, crouching on the floor so he could spread out a little and get a better look at things more rapidly.

He found a lot of the fact sheets and photographs he had already seen along with a lot of detailed notes, photos and diagrams of the crime scenes. Most of the papers were filled with a lot of information that Shawn already knew. It was a lot of stuff he had already thought of, considered, and then discarded. He had gone through almost half the box when he let out a frustrated huff of breath. He wasn’t finding anything. He had to find something, or he was screwed. He had to break this case. It wasn’t an option for him anymore.

He flipped through a few more useless sheets, nearly jumping out of his pants when he heard a key turn in the door. His eyes widened, and he stuffed the papers back into the box hastily, shoving the lid on. He scrambled to his feet as the door swung open; a dark figure moving into the room and he did the first thing he could think of. He grabbed the top shelf of the case, gave himself a foot up on a lower shelf and heaved himself on top of the thing as quietly as he could. The figure paused in the center row and Shawn closed his eyes, pressing his face to the grating of the shelf, praying, “Don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t look up.”

The figure, now revealed to be an officer Shawn wasn’t familiar with, continued moving down the aisle toward him and his hands tightened around the shelving.

Just when he was sure the gig was up and he was caught, the officer turned to the opposing shelf and knelt, rifling around in a box on a lower shelf. Shawn was almost dizzy with relief and he watched with baited breath as the officer found what he needed, replaced the box, and headed out, without so much as a glance in his direction. He stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him and Shawn let out a long shaky breath. Two close calls. Or three. He didn’t know—did the second one count if he purposely ran into someone? Whatever. He unclenched his hands from around the shelf, wincing. His hands were tense and stiff from holding on so tightly. He waited another minute and then swung a leg over the edge, dropping to the ground with a little grunt.

Glancing down at himself, he groaned. His dad’s uniform was covered in dust. He did his best to brush it away, but he knew there was no way he could bring it back to his dad’s without a trip to the cleaners first. He bit a knuckle to keep from cursing and bent down to open the box again. He was busy pulling out and arranging papers he had already looked at when one poking out near the back of the box caught his eye.

He pulled it out and his heart did a little skip and started a conga line in his chest. It was a new list of suspects. It included the names of every guy who either didn’t make the cut or who had been dropped from the program. It was a surprisingly short list with just thirteen people having left the program—his dad must have been right about Halloway’s teaching ability.

He bit his tongue to stem the surge of anger that suddenly washed over him. Of course his dad had been right, the bastard. But now was not the time or place. He was too close. He couldn’t afford to lose it right now.

He read over the pages critically two or three times until he was absolutely sure he could recall all of it without a second thought, and then set it aside to finish looking through the rest of the papers. He started near the back, hoping he might get lucky again.

Outside, he heard a familiar voice rising above the noise of the station. It was faint, and muffled, but Shawn could still hear the anger in it.

Lassiter had discovered his keys were missing.

He smirked but immediately started flipping through the papers more quickly. The last possibly-useful piece of information he came across was a list of aliases connected to the first couple of murders through various means (such as in the case of a car left at one of the scenes that had been rented under one of the names). The S.B.P.D. must have put the list together when they realized that the cases were connected. He memorized the names and the information about them, cringing when he heard someone—Lassiter, it had to be Lassiter—storm past the records room grumbling angrily.

Shawn replaced everything in the box and heaved it back on the shelf, before moving to the door, pressing his ear to the heavy metal. Lassiter’s voice was muffled but understandable. “That little punk is going—”

“Detective!” came Vick’s voice, her irritation evident. “What are you doing?”

“Some rookie took my keys!” he snapped, “I’m going to—”

“You’re going to calm down,” Vick said firmly. “Are you sure you didn’t…” Their voices got harder to hear as they moved away and Shawn had to resist doing a victory dance. He gave it about five minutes before Lassiter came storming back this way, having checked the rooms at the end of the hall. Now was the time to make his smooth getaway.

Shawn took a deep breath, put on his sunglasses, and smiled widely to himself, hand on the doorknob. He’d done it. He’d absolutely, fantabulously, not to mention super awesomely, done it. Who was the man?

Shawn twisted the doorknob and jerked. Oh, yeah. He was.

And there, on the other side, was Juliet, her own hand raised in readiness to open the door that had just been yanked from her fingers, her mouth open, her jaw slack, and her eyes fixed, huge and unblinking, at his face.

And she recognized him.

Shawn reacted without thinking. Which wasn’t generally a good thing, but she was already in the middle of shouting, “SHA—” her expression still shocked and he didn’t have time for it anyways.

He grabbed her wrists, swung her around so they’d traded positions, he in the hall and she in the open doorway to the records room, and then pushed. The ‘A’ in the middle of his name turned into an undignified sort of half-scream.

“Sorry Jules,” he said, and slammed the door shut. He turned, breathing hard, and caught sight of an officer, staring at him, mouth open.

“She’s nuts,” he said in explanation, holding the door closed as the handle shook furiously under his strong grip. There was the sound of muffled shrieking coming from behind the door at his back.

The officer frowned, but it wasn’t until he started reaching hesitantly for his radio that Shawn knew he had wasted enough time.

“Gotta go!” he said cheerfully, almost maniacally, and ran for it.

He leapt over a chair and was dodging a pair of startled rookies when a very shrill, “SHAWN SPENCER!” split the air.

For one second all eyes were on an irate, harried-looking Juliet, hair over her eyes as she burst from the records room, and Shawn used the distraction to its full extent, nearly taking out another officer whose full load went flying, papers exploding out like very large confetti.

“SHAWN!” she screeched again, already running for him, and this time the station exploded into action.

Shawn ducked a pair of hands, jumping back, but still sprinting. He threw himself backwards onto a desk, sliding across it on his rear. He landed on his tailbone with a yelp, pens, papers, and a picture of someone’s wife and two kids landing in his lap, but he was already back on his feet and running before anyone could grab him. The door, and freedom, was ten feet away.

“Don’t you dare—!” Juliet yelled, but what exactly he didn’t dare, he figured he’d already done. He glanced back for a second, half turning, but didn’t slow.

Three feet. Three feet to freedom. Leaping, his strides somehow lengthened, and he turned back once more, keys jangling loudly in his right hand.

Lassiter, emerging from a back room, confounded at the chaos suddenly ruling the station, turned just in time to be smacked in the chest by his own ring of keys. He had half a second to stare uncomprehendingly as a madly sprinting rookie, who he suddenly realized looked very, very familiar, burst out of the front door, and into the blinding sunlight.

The rookie, framed for a moment in the door, half turned his head, and that smirk was unmistakeable.

“MR. SPENCER!” roared Karen Vick from behind Lassiter, but he was already gone.

And by the time they had reached the outside of the station, Shawn had disappeared.

~ * * * ~

That was not what he had been trying to do.

Shawn roared down the street on his motorcycle, police shirt flapping wildly as he attempted to unbutton it and take it off with one hand. The hat was currently being squashed under his right thigh and he could only hope it would still be in good shape by the time he got to the Psych office. He tugged fitfully at the collar of his white undershirt and turned a sharp right.

Holy crap, that was not what he had been trying to do.

In and out. Simple and easy, a good plan, really. What had he done? Turned the entire station on its head. He cursed himself viciously. There was also the worrying matter of whether or not he had just resisted arrest. He thought back. No one had actually said, “You’re under arrest!” Sure, they had yelled, “Stop!” a lot, but that wasn’t exactly clear. Stop what, exactly? Arguably, they could’ve just wanted to know how his weekend had gone. “Stop! We want to talk about your day!”

Shawn snorted angrily at himself, stopping at a crosswalk (because getting stopped now for a traffic violation would have more than likely spelled death for the truly screwed psychic). Yeah, right.

It had been funny, at first. He could still manage a smile at the look on Lassie’s face when he’d lobbed the keys at him. But crap, if he thought he had to solve the case before to get back in their good graces…

Shawn screeched to a stop in front of the Psych office. He hopped off the bike, already striding toward the door, juggling his keys in one hand and his dad’s hat in the other. It was definitely squashed. He grimaced. He’d deal with that later.

More concerning was the fact that he needed to figure out this case, and fast. They knew who the next target was (thanks to him, of course, but he doubted anyone remembered that now) and it was only a matter of time before they either caught the guy red-handed or the serial killer figured out they were onto him and disappeared.

He had to do it first. His entire life depended on him finding this guy first.

The seriousness lasted halfway through his recopying of the information onto separate pieces of paper. He was taping them to the board when he was struck, suddenly, by the fact that he had broken into the police station, gotten the information he needed, shoved Juliet into the records room (and hadn’t that shocked, “I’m going to kill you,” look just been adorable?), thrown a pair of keys at Lassie, and escaped the entire S.B.P.D. police force in their own territory.

Shawn couldn’t help it. He grinned.

~ * * * ~

Gus was in the kitchen grilling a piece of chicken for dinner when the phone rang. He wiped his hands on a towel hanging over his shoulder and picked it up. “Hello, Burton Gust—Chief?”

“Mr. Guster, is Mr. Spencer with you?”

Gus frowned. Karen sounded angry. “No. I haven’t talked to him since yesterday at the police station.”

“So you’re not aware of the little stunt he pulled today,” she said, and the fury bubbling beneath the words made Gus stop. His eyes narrowed.

“What? What happened?”

“He snuck into the station today, impersonating an officer. We haven’t ascertained yet whether or not he did anything else.”

Gus exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to his forehead. Idiot. What was Shawn thinking?! “Chief, I—”

“We haven’t filed an official arrest warrant, but if we happen across him, he will be arrested and charged,” Karen continued grimly. “I’m going to call Henry and—”

“No!” Gus cried vehemently. She couldn’t tell Henry. If she called Henry now, when he was already so angry… He would do something rash, something that would destroy Shawn.  For a moment he saw exactly what that would mean, Henry pushing Shawn into the station, snarling “tell them or I will” and… Shawn would be gone after that.  Simply gone.

 “No, you can’t do that, Chief,” he said again, just as strongly. He was furious with Shawn for doing something so idiotic and so risky, but he wasn’t about to go ruining both their lives and careers because Shawn had gone and done another stupid thing.

Karen sounded annoyed. “Why is that Mr. Guster?”

“Look, Chief, please. You have to understand, if you ever want to see Shawn after this—and I mean ever—you can’t tell his dad about this. You can’t. Trust me, I’m—I’m so mad at Shawn right now, I would tell you where he was if I knew, because I want him to learn a lesson just as badly as you do. But turning him over to Henry is not the way to do it. So please. Don’t involve him.”

Karen was quiet for several long seconds before she said slowly, “All right, Mr. Guster. I’ll keep him out of it. But this is the last straw. If Mr. Spencer—”

Gus glowered at his chicken as he pulled it off the stove. “Believe me, if I get a hold of him, he’s going to get a serious piece of my mind. I’ll pass yours on with it.”

Karen sighed heavily. “I really don’t want to do this, Mr. Guster, but he’s leaving me no choice.”

Gus nodded, cutting the chicken viciously. “No, no, I understand completely, Chief, and I apologize in advance for his complete and utter idiocy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Guster. Good evening.”

“Good evening, Chief.”

Gus grit his teeth as the dial tone took her place and began punching in the number for Shawn’s cell. He waited impatiently as it rang, still mutilating his poor chicken dinner, still too angry to actually eat it.

“Hello?”

“It’s Gus,” he snapped and his gaze darkened when Shawn exclaimed delightedly, “Gus!”

“Chief just called me Shawn. Can you guess what she had to say?”

There was a stunned silence, followed by a click, and a dial tone. Gus threw the phone down furiously.

Shawn had screwed up and he knew it.

~ * * * ~

           He had nothing.  A boardful of information he’d stolen at the risk of his own life (or something equally dramatic), a pissed off best friend, a pissed off whole world, actually, and so far it had given him a whole lot of nothing else.  Awesome. 

“Man…” he muttered disappointedly and flopped into his chair. He had hoped the connections would just hit him once he had the new information, but it seemed it was going to take more work than that.

Shawn eyed the aliases, teeth bared as he squinted, looking back and forth between that list and the list of suspects next to it, hoping to see some sort of connection.  There were only three in all, from Ben Larnin to Tony Cedd to Tristan Nuar.  The first names were normal enough, but the last names sounded like the guy had been pulling Scrabble pieces from a hat and had picked aliases that way.  He looked back and forth between the two lists, hoping that whoever had been killing the victims had been dumb enough to somehow connect the aliases to themself.  Who knew? If he whipped his head back and forth between the two for long enough, one of the suspect names might actually jump off the list and start dancing for him.

It wasn’t actually far from the truth.  He really needed to get some sleep.  Later, he told himself, and went back to studying the list. Sleep or no sleep, however, the alias list was a bust.  There was no relation between the two.

He stared at the board for another long moment before forcing himself to his feet to take the suspect list down. He was going to eliminate them one by one. Several of the names were already crossed off, presumably from the police investigation, but Shawn trusted those about as much as he trusted his dad.  He stared at the list a bit longer, and at the notes he had rewritten from the originals.  Lousy bunch of losers. According to their academy evaluations he had a bunch of slackers, a couple of kids who just couldn’t handle it, and—ooh, a guy with sociopathic tendencies.  How lovely.

Sighing, he sat down heavily in his chair and scooted it in, tucking the phone receiver between his ear and his shoulder. This was going to be oodles of fun. Glancing down at the list of names, he dialed the first number.

“Hi, can I please speak to Matthew Rhodes? Uhhh…sure, I guess I can hold.” He groaned internally and let his head fall back against the chair. Where was Gus when he needed him for lame stuff like this? The line clicked back to life and he sat up. “Hello? Out of town. Really. In Italy. For the last month, you don’t say. Well thank you anyway, I appreciate your help.” ‘NOT.’ He jabbed the disconnect button with his thumb and dialed the next number, trying not to think about the NintendoDS in Gus’ bottom drawer.

“Hello! Thomas Keel. I wanted to confirm that Mr. Collins received our package on the morning of the fifth. It was sent with specific instructions not to be left in any hands but his. Oh. He was at Disneyland with his kids that weekend. I see. Thank you for your help.” He let his hand fall on the disconnect again and slouched, propping one foot up on his desk. This was so lame. He dialed the next number using a chopstick that was lying on his desktop, seriously contemplating retrieving the Nintendo.

“Billy Barnes speaking. Is Carl Gaines available? I’m calling because a patient we recently diagnosed with HIV identified him as one of her recent partners and—” Shawn pulled the phone away from his ear as the woman on the line began screaming about how she knew he had been cheating while on business in Vegas last weekend and Shawn said loudly, “Thank you for your time!” and slammed the phone down. Oops.

Ten minutes later and three more suspects down and Shawn was lying on the floor beside his desk, idly picking at the fuzz on the carpet.

“…Reunion of the Cheese of the Month Club. Yes. We like cheese, that’s why. Is Mr. Walker around? …Hi, Mr. Walker! I’m from the Cheese of the Month Club and we were wondering if you had gone to the Festival scheduled for the weekend of the fifth. Just released from jail? Well, congratulations and I’m sorry for bothering you…”

Another ten minutes later and Shawn had been put on hold again. He was back in his chair again, but upside down and he had begun to fall asleep despite the blood rushing to his head. It wasn’t until the phone slipped from his loosening grasp and landed with a loud CLACK on the floor that he started, nearly toppling onto the floor. He blinked groggily, wiping drool from his cheek and picked up the phone just as the line came back to life.

“Uhh…yeah, yeah, I’m still here. She’s been at her sister’s. Uh huh. Okay thanks.”

“Hi, this is Tom Cruise—no, no; no relation. That’s all right, I get that all the time. I’m looking for Grant Snyder, is he—a mental institution? Oh.”

“…for Brett Siegfried. On vacation in Spain, riiight…”

“…in traction. Oh my.”

“A coma. Fantastic.”

“Dead. Really. Well thanks so much for being no help at all.  You know this guy was actually my best shot?  Psychopathic tendencies and all, you jerk.” Shawn slammed the phone down and began steadily pounding his head on the desk. Well, that had been a colossal waste of time.

He sighed and rubbed his now aching forehead. How could they all have alibis? How?! It was a statistical nightmare. If he had been a police officer during those calls, he would have had a lot harder time believing some of the alibis. But no one had any reason to lie to him and besides, he didn’t have time to make 100% sure the alibis were air tight. He would worry about that later. Right now, all he needed was a plausible suspect. Not even plausible. He would be pretty happy with “remote possibility” right now.

Stuffing his mouth with some old Skittles he’d found in the bottom of his desk drawer—he didn’t think about how long they had been there, that would just ruin them—he heaved himself to his feet and went to the board, erasing some of the stuff he didn’t need.

As he thought, he scratched his chin (which was getting pretty scruffy—he hadn’t shaved since yesterday morning) with the butt of the marker, staring through the empty space.

Finally he began writing the suspects names down, separating them into two columns:

Good Alibi

Matthew Rhodes – Italy

Jared Collins – Disneyland (jerk)

Carl Gaines – business-Vegas

Cheryl Meyers – honeymoon

Hal Grimsley – grandfather (lies! all lies!)

Gail Clements – sister’s (hot, or not?)

Brett Siegfried – Spain

 Better Alibi

Ben Martin – broken hip

Randall Walker – jail

Grant Snyder – loony bin (hehehoho!)

Chuck Wayne – traction

Trevor Law – coma

Humphrey Bell – dead (lucky bastard!)

He then backed up, eyeballing the two lists critically and scratching his chin thoughtfully with the pen. It took him two minutes to realize he was scratching it with the marker tip and he rolled his eyes, snapping the cap on and not even bothering to do something about the lines now drawn all over his chin like some horrible attempt at giving himself a cleft.

He now had seven suspects, most of whom he honestly didn’t believe would really have done it. Like the honeymooner. Who would lie about that? And why would someone choose their honeymoon as an alibi for murdering an old collegue? It was just dumb.

Biting his lip, he opted to just cross Cheryl and Gail off the list. All the aliases had been male names, and besides, violent as these murders had been, he had a hard time believing any woman would go to such extremes. The majority of killers who committed murders with this level of violence tended to be men. No offense to lady serial killers. He was sure they were pretty badass too.

That left him with five viable suspects.

He grimaced and stuffed another handful of rock hard Skittles into his mouth. He was really, really tempted to just eeny-meeny-miny-moe it.

Something about the suspect list was really bugging him, but he couldn’t quite decide what it was. Aside from the fact all of the bums had alibis. Which definitely irked him. He really didn’t have time for this, he needed a nice, obvious suspect.

He considered making more phone calls to better verify some of their alibis, but the last experience had left him scarred for life, and he was going to avoid that like the plague (or Lassiter) if he could.

He growled and ran his hands over his face. He needed to do something else, think about something else, or he was seriously going to stab himself in the eye with the board marker.

...Wasn’t the worst idea he’d had all day.

Shawn’s head ached. So did his eyes. And he was so tired he could barely stand up. He needed a break from all of this thinking. Usually this kind of thing wasn’t so hard. He also usually had other people to steal connections and ideas off of. He needed to clear his head; get a fresh perspective.

So he played darts.

All the while, the suspects lurked in the back of his mind, mocking him with their brilliant little alibis. He crossed off Grimsley halfway through the game because honestly, he had heard the kids whining in the background as they talked and that was an obscenely large ruse to pull off every time somone asked him for an alibi. He was shooting the last dart when he crossed Siegfried off too. He remembered seeing on his sheet that he hadn’t lived in Santa Barbara since the time he was in the Academy. That didn’t jibe with the stalking habits he knew the killer had to employ to get his victims alone. So that left Gaines, Collins, and Rhodes.

Collins he hadn’t talked to. He had talked to his wife, which meant the ‘kids and him at Disneyland’ alibi was probably very likely truth.

He felt kind of bad for getting Gaines into trouble and besides, Rhodes had the alibi that allowed the most time for killing.

That was dissatisfying too though. The guy had been dropped from the program because he couldn’t take it, but he worked in business mergers now and judging from his salary, had good reason to be thanking the Academy for booting him, not killing his old classmates one by one.

Shawn flopped back into his chair, his face fixed intensely as he thought, a pen dangling from his lips. There was a sharp rap on the window and he jerked, turning.

Lassiter glared in at him and his eyes widened. He scrambled out of his chair, locking the front door just as the knob started to turn. “Shawn!” came Juliet’s voice, and she sounded peeved.

He ignored her, moving to the window and yanking the blinds down, avoiding looking at Lassiter. “Spencer!” he snapped. Shawn ignored him too, sliding down the wall beside the window and pulling his knees to his chest, closing his eyes. They really were after him. He had really done it this time.

After a minute or two of quiet, he decided to check and make sure they were gone. He pulled back the blinds ever-so-slightly, peering outside and froze when his gaze met the ice cold blue eyes of Lassiter.

He pushed them back in place and scurried backwards, deeper into the office, pretending he couldn’t hear Lassiter shouting angrily and banging on the front door.

He really needed to solve this case.

Shawn hid in the back of the office for half an hour, until he was sure they had gone. He laughed a little, because the idea of being a fugitive was kind of funny, but the sound was a pale comparison to his previous laughter. The more time that passed, the more difficult it became to laugh everything off.

Grumbling to himself about needing Gus around, he moved to the board and let his eyes sweep over the information, waiting for the clue that would break the case to strike him. Still nothing.

Shawn made a face and realized just how dark the office was getting. Behind the blinds, the sun was sinking low in the sky. That made it two full days in which he hadn’t slept. Unless of course, one counted his half-nap on the side of his father’s house. He was pretty sure he didn’t. The first day hadn’t been so bad. He had actually been sort of energized by the time daylight had come around. But now…he was having to concentrate harder and harder to think through the fog invading his brain. Scrubbing his face with his hands, he forced his thoughts back to the suspect list and the aggravation of not finding anyone who could have committed the murders. He had gone through almost a dozen suspects, all of whom were either completely incapable of having committed the crimes, or who were people like the grandfather of four or the honeymooner, who were simply highly unlikely. The one guy with the best possibility for having done it was the one person with the best alibi—he was dead!

It was annoyingly inconvenient.

Shawn sat up suddenly, staring down at the suspect list which lay innocently on his desk. The dead guy was his best suspect. ‘But he’s dead, Shawn,’ he thought pointedly, attempting to be sensible, and his other side did the little head sway of uncertainty.

‘Yeah…but he’s the best suspect.’

‘Dead!’

‘Also psychotic!’

‘Still dead!’

‘Sociopathic tendencies!’

‘Dead!’

‘Oh, come on. What kind of lame alibi is that?’

‘A pretty good one. There are other suspects…’

‘Oh, yeah, like the one on her Honeymoon?’

‘He’s dead! Meaning, ‘couldn’t have possibly done it’!’

‘Now that’s not very creative. What did Dad teach you?’

‘I don’t want to talk about Dad.’

‘’Never take anything at face value.’ That’s what.’

‘…Oh, fine. Check the guy’s obituary.’

‘Thank you!’

Shawn smirked  triumphantly at the list and woke his computer up. It was time to see exactly how dead Mr. Bell was. He Googled, ‘Humphrey Bell, death,’ and immediately got several results. One headline in particular stood out: ‘Mentally Ill Man Dies in Car Crash’. He raised an eyebrow at the screen. That sounded like his guy.

He quickly skimmed the beginning of the article and the age confirmed the identity for him. It was his guy. Scrolling down, he spotted an image of the wreck and almost laughed. Which was totally inappropriate, but come on.

The wreck was a disaster, the car completely totaled, and it had apparently exploded. It was completely charred, and in the front seat was a blackened figure. Reading the article, Shawn discovered that the body had been burned beyond recognition, but they had attributed it to Humphrey Bell, owner of said car.

The date of the crash was the clincher. Humphrey Bell had died just twelve hours prior to the murder of the first cop.

Shawn shoved his chair back, jabbing a finger triumphantly at the computer. “You did it, you sneaky bastard! You’re the killer!”

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, hitting the number two for Gus’ speed dial without thinking. The phone rang twice and then—

“Hello, Burton Guster.”

“Gus! You won’t believe what I found!”

“Shawn?”

“I figured out who it was, Gus! I snuck into the police station and got the suspect list for the case, because, you know, I needed it, and holy cow, Gus! The stupid list was full of dead ends! But then, there was this guy, and get this—he’s dead, but dude, he totally did it.”

“Shawn!”

“There was this really suspicious car wreck, and the body was burnt to a crisp. But dude, it was the day before the first guy died, how convenient is that? And—”

“SHAWN!”

“Dude, what?”

“Shawn, what is wrong with you?!” he demanded and there was a stunned silence on the other end of the line, so he barreled on. “They want to arrest you Shawn! Chief Vick almost called your dad. Do you even understand how badly you’ve screwed up this time? What the hell were you even thinking? I can’t even believe you called me after what you did today! I sure hope you have a remarkable apology in mind, because I can’t see how you’re going to get out of this right now.”

“Gus…I…”

“Call me when you’re ready to make amends,” he said harshly and hung up.

“…Crap.” Shawn smacked himself in the forehead with the phone. He had gotten excited and had forgotten that he was still in exile. He sat still for several minutes, tired again after remembering that he had figured out who had committed the murders, but that he now had to prove it, beyond any doubt, or he would never get the police to listen to him.

Deciding to start fresh, he took everything off the board and wrote in block letters at the top: HUMPHREY BELL. Following that came the list of aliases and then the names of the victims, the states and cities they died in, and then a list of questions.

Where is Bell?

What alias is he under?

When will he strike again?

What evidence do I need?

Will I get a Chimerito or a Burrito from Taco Bell?

…Or Both?

He stepped back from the board and picked up the smiley face stress ball from Gus’ desk, tossing it from hand to hand idly.

All right, that would do. Now for dinner.

He grabbed his keys (after peeking out from behind the blinds to be sure Lassiter and Juliet weren’t still waiting outside to jump him), headed out, locking the door behind him. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing around nervously as he turned toward his—his bike. His bike was gone. He froze, heart sinking in his chest as he stared forlornly at the spot where he had left his bike, realizing that they must have taken it. It was so unfair he wanted to scream, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He’d be arrested if he even tried to put up a fight over it. He growled, planting his palms over his eyes and pulling at his hair. And he’d been so sure that things couldn’t get any worse.

Sighing heavily, he started the journey to Taco Bell.

~ * * * ~

The answer to the last two questions he’d written on the board turned out to be “Both.”

Shawn stood at the counter of the Taco Bell (the place was empty except for himself and a couple of teenagers lurking in one of the back booths) drumming his knuckles idly on the counter as he waited for his food. He was re-reading the large advertisement hanging beneath the menu that read, “Mix and Match: Two Tacos, Two Burritos, and/or Two Enchiladas for Five Dollars!” for the fourth time when the bell on the door rang and he half-turned, glancing at the new patrons out of the corner of his eye. He was already turning back toward the counter when he froze, his brain finally processing what he had just seen.

His head whipped back around so fast his neck hurt and for a split second he simply stared in horror at Juliet and Lassiter, who were staring right back at him, their looks of astonishment quickly dissolving into something much more hostile. Lassiter’s eyebrows began dipping, his mouth starting to open, and Shawn decided that was his cue leave.

He bolted, the sound of Lassiter furiously yelling his name muffled as the door swung shut behind him.

At the counter, the cashier held up a bag and called, “Thirteen? Order number thirteen?”

It was as he was walking home, empty handed, that Shawn received the epiphany he had been hoping for so desperately all day. He was thinking about how he would give anything to go back and get the food he had ordered—even if it was all wrong—and he was picturing himself sauntering back up to the counter and hugging the bag when the sign hanging beneath the menu struck him with perfect clarity (of course, how else would he see anything?) and something in his brain clicked into place.

Mix and Match. He could see the list of victims in his head and he could see the list of aliases beside it and he suddenly realized that he’d been comparing the wrong things all day. It wasn’t Bell’s name that had been rearranged or hidden in the aliases, it was the dead officers’ names! He had scrambled them up so that they formed new names—his aliases. Ben Larnin had come from Anne Briln, Tony Cedd had come from Cody Dent, and Tristan Nuar had come from Stuart Ran. It was brilliant.

He had to be given kudos for such a clever idea (disturbing in a sociopathic “taking the identities of the victims” way, but still clever) but it was going to be his downfall.

He would have to thank Bell later for the creepy sociopathic tendencies that had just screwed him over.

Shawn burst into the Psych office, grinning madly, leaping over several bottles and other miscellaneous objects that had found their ways into the middle of the floor, almost colliding with his desk in his haste. He immediately yanked out a piece of paper and began scribbling down what he had figured out.

A moment later he held up the list he had created and couldn’t resist doing a little victory dance. He had just cracked this thing wide open. He wasted no time in recalling the name of the officer who had just died. Working hastily, Shawn began forming a list of names that could be created from the letters of Officer Ethan Kinsley’s name and within ten minutes had a list of names, of which one he was absolutely certain Bell would be going by in Los Banos.  Stanley was definitely the first name, but the last few letters (e, h, n, k, and i) could be mixed up into a number of possibilities.  Khein, Kehni, so on and so forth, and the weird, pulled-out-of-a-hat last names suddenly made sense.  But he had the first name for certain, and he could wing the rest.

“Yes!” he cheered, “Who’s the man? I’m the man! Road trip!”

He began rushing around the office, gathering up pieces of paper, a wad of clothes so he could change at some point, and Gus’ spare car keys from his desk and stuffed everything into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. He would need to “borrow” Gus’ car, since his own ride had been confiscated (illegally he might add) by the police.

Glancing back into the office from the door, he smirked half-heartedly. Gus would murder him if he saw the mess he had created in the last twenty-four hours. But that was nothing new, and the car thing would probably make him angrier. He would forgive and forget when Shawn had solved this case.

He hoped.

~ * * * ~

Stealing Gus’ car was appallingly easy.

Because he lived in an apartment, his car wasn’t in a garage. And despite the fact that he had parked directly in front of his apartment, his blinds were drawn, and the sound of a car leaving was anything but unusual.

The sun was just beginning to set as Shawn headed out onto the road, MapQuest directions on the seat beside him and a sense that he really could do this that he hadn’t had in what felt like forever (but was probably really only a couple of hours).

He was only an hour into the trip when he had to pull over.

He had fallen asleep—just for a second—but it had taken a car honking at him (he had begun to drift into the opposing lane) to wake him up.

That had been a jarring indication that he needed a little stimulation or he wasn’t going to make it.

So he stopped at the gas station. The attendant eyed him warily as he walked up to the counter and distributed an armful of Red Bulls, one in hand and already half empty. It didn’t even occur to him the sight he must make, eyes bloodshot with heavy bags beneath them, a two and a half day long beard overtaking his chin which still sported a blue drawn on cleft that peeked through the scruff. That wasn’t even considering how he probably smelled. He grinned at the attendant and said, “Hey.”

The attendant’s reply was wary. “Hey.”

“I haven’t slept in two days,” Shawn said by way of explanation, still grinning.

“Uh huh.” The attendant shook his head with an expression that clearly read, “I don’t care. I don’t want to know, you lunatic.”

“Don’t forget this one,” Shawn said, and put the empty can on the counter, grinning like he had made some absurdly funny joke.

“I got it,” the attendant replied wryly, and thrust a paper bag with the remaining full ones at him, an indication that Shawn was to leave. Now.

Shawn appeared oblivious to the hint, waving gaily as he exited the store. At first, the energy drink didn’t seem to be helping, but a few miles further along and it kicked in. He suddenly felt more awake than he had in days, and it felt like his senses had all gotten superhero type boosts. He turned up the music, rolled down the windows, and began singing along at the top of his lungs.

After gulping down two more of the drinks, he had to take a break at a rest stop, leaping out of the car in his haste to empty his bladder. It was shortly after returning to the road that he really began to get antsy. So he did the only thing he could think of to entertain himself.

He called people.

~ * * * ~

Gus was watching MythBusters when his phone rang a little after ten o’clock. He ignored it for a minute, focused on the experiment the hosts were currently in the middle of that involved a pig carcass and a wire cable, but the phone continued ringing insistently and he sighed, turning to glare at it.

He didn’t receive a lot of calls, and maybe it was just his imagination, but the ringer always seemed that much more annoying when it was Shawn on the other end. And right now, it was annoying the hell out of him.

Finally the machine picked up and he heard his ‘business tone’ say, “You have reached the home of Burton Guster, I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave a brief message and your name and number, I’ll get back to you just as soon as I can.” There followed a beep and then—

“Gus! I know you’re still mad at me and you’re probably sitting on the couch, glaring at your answering machine while some Discovery Channel show plays in the background, but dude, you gotta hear me out.”

Gus scowled, anger bubbling up within him. Every time he finally started cooling off a little, Shawn seemed to decide that was the best time to do something else entirely retarded and his ire rose again. Just hearing his voice right now was really starting to… He caught the end of something Shawn was saying and his frown deepened. He sounded strange. He was talking really fast and—what on earth was he even babbling about?

“—Lassie and Jules were there and I thought I was screwed because the jerks took my bike and I was on foot, but they didn’t chase me, and so I didn’t get my dinner, but I did finally figure out the last clue when I got back!” He laughed and Gus’ eyes narrowed. He recognized the tenor in Shawn’s voice. He had been drinking caffeine. And a lot of it, judging from the rate at which he was speaking. Scowling, he got up from the couch and snatched the phone off the hook, catching another fragment of Shawn’s endless stream of prattle: “…now I’m on my way there and everything will go back to—”

“Shawn!” Gus barked into the phone. “What are you doing drinking caffeinated beverages? Haven’t I told you a thousand times—”

“Gus!” Shawn exclaimed delightedly. “So you are there! I knew you would be—”

“Shawn,” Gus said tersely, cutting him off. “What are you doing drinking caffeine?”

Shawn’s amusement radiated from the phone receiver. “I was getting tired,” he replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You were mad, so I couldn’t get you to stay up instead, which is really inconvenient, I have to tell you, Gus.”

It infuriated Gus, the fact that Shawn seemed to completely forget the fact that he was angry with him, but he also understood that under the influence of caffeine, Shawn was on a completely different plane of reality. “Shawn, it’s almost eleven-thirty. Why wouldn’t you be tired? And why would you even need to stay awake? What are you doing?” he asked, suddenly very suspicious.

“Talking to you, duh,” Shawn retorted, and Gus simply knew that he was being purposely evasive, trying to aggravate him and make him drop the subject. Well he wouldn’t do it.

“Where are you, Shawn?” he demanded. “And how much caffeine have you had exactly? Does this have anything to do with breaking in to the police station like you mentioned before?”

The grin in Shawn’s voice infuriated him. “I don’t remember how many—” Well that was a blatant lie. Shawn remembered everything. “—and, no, this doesn’t involve the police station. At least it doesn’t yet. Eventually it will. Probably the FBI, too.”

Okay, what? “What the hell does that mean, Shawn?!” he cried.

Shawn snickered and there was the sound of a can opening. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you in on it when I’ve got everything all laid out. I promise. Have I ever left you hanging, Gus?”

“Only all the time, Shawn,” he snapped. “Put whatever it is you just opened away. You can’t have any more caffeine! You’ll—I don’t know—combust or something!”

There was the sound of exaggerated slurping, and Gus’ eye twitched. Sometimes he really, seriously considered murdering his best friend. “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Shawn said, sounding sincere. Gus knew he was anything but. “Relax, Gus, what’s the worst that could happen, I get a little hyper?”

A little hyper? That was the exaggeration of the century. Gus had seen Shawn after drinking just one Starbucks Espresso. He had been off the wall. It had been absolutely impossible to keep up with him, and when the caffeine had finally run its course five hours later, he had crashed so hard he had been nearly comatose. He shook his head. Shawn could not be alone for the next twenty-four hours. “Where are you? I’m coming to get you, Shawn.”

Shawn giggled. “I don’t think so, Gus. I’m kind of far away.”

“Far away? Shawn, this isn’t a joke! Where are you?” Gus demanded, now vaguely concerned.

Another burst of snickering. “Don’t worry, I’m fine, Gus. I feel great!”

‘Yeah, for now,’ Gus thought dryly. “Shawn, seriously—!”

“I’m on the road. Oh, and I borrowed your car thanks talk to you later bye!” he said in a rush and then there was nothing but dial tone.

Gus froze, Shawn’s final words having not quite registered. When they did, he ran to the window and pulled back the drapes, confirming the statement. Cursing, he tried calling Shawn again.

The line was busy.

~ * * * ~

Lassiter sat at his desk, hunched over the Harding/Kinsley file, rubbing his eyes wearily. Technically he wasn’t supposed to be working on said case anymore because, as of the minute Spencer had revealed the fact that it wasn’t just two officers, but thirteen in five different states, the Feds had snatched it up before he had even had a chance to absorb the enormity of the information. He still had a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that so many officers had died and no one had noticed the connection.

No one but Spencer.

That pissed him off even more than the Feds taking the case; Spencer provided good information, almost without fail, but he had no respect for the people who actually put their lives on the line to do what he took for a good game. He didn’t have to work, to spend late nights agonizing over files and facts, spend days going from house to house, business to business, to get statements and to confirm or refute alibis. He would never admit that Spencer was psychic, but he certainly had a gift of some kind that spoiled him. It was an injustice for something to come so easily to someone who obviously didn’t appreciate the hard work others had to put into what he shrugged off so easily. He didn’t deserve—

“Coffee?”

He looked up to see O’Hara, looking fatigued yet still composed, holding out a steaming Styrofoam cup. Lassiter knew he, on the other hand, was disheveled and probably very harassed looking. At this hour, who gave a damn what he looked like? “Yeah, thanks,” he muttered, and took the proffered cup, taking a long swallow. The warm, strong-tasting liquid felt good, refreshing, and he sighed silently, feeling better to some extent.

“How is it coming?” O’Hara asked, her tone sympathetic and as innocuous as possible.

He grimaced. “I’ve been over it a hundred thousand times, and I can’t find anything,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Maybe you should go home. Sleep on it. We’ve been working long hours on this one,” she suggested and Lassiter thought he detected a hint of hopefulness in her voice. They had been working since eight o’clock that morning, and they had stayed until beyond midnight the night before. And the night before that. Actually, he wasn’t sure they had gone home before midnight since the last murder had occurred. Realizing how little sleep he had been getting seemed to bring on the fatigue even more. Maybe O’Hara was right. They had been working non-stop and she, at the very least, deserved a break. A clear head might also help him see something he had been missing. “All right,” he agreed, and cracked a small smile. “Let’s go home, O’Hara.”

The relief on her face was well masked, but still evident. “Yes, sir.”

They gathered up their individual belongings, and then headed out toward the parking lot, side by side, a comfortable silence settling between them. They were halfway down the hall when they heard a bewildered-sounding voice saying, “Shawn? Shawn Spencer?”

The sound of the fake psychic’s name made Lassiter’s blood boil. That insolent little upstart had crossed the line. He knew that he had done something wrong, that he had screwed up, and he refused to admit it. He was probably calling just to further rub in the fact that he could run circles around the entire S.B.P.D. without a second’s thought.. He turned sharply to find Buzz McNab still sitting at his desk, evidently having stayed to catch up on his paperwork, but now with the phone cradled at his ear. “Shawn,” he said quietly, “I’m really uncomfortable with talking to you right now…” He glanced around the room as he spoke and when his eyes landed on Lassiter, he froze, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Lassiter stalked forward, gesturing for Buzz to hand over the phone. He did so, practically throwing it at him in his haste to obey.

“Spencer?” Lassiter growled into the phone. “Why the hell are you calling here?”

“To talk, duh,” Shawn replied, voice immensely amused. “I would think even you could deduce that, Lassie.”

“Oh, harhar. This coming from the psychic whose ‘seeing eye’ has apparently been gouged out,” Lassiter replied acidly, hand gripped so tightly around the reciever that it hurt. He would not put up with being insulted by the little punk any longer.

“So I forgot to put in my spiritual contact. Even on a bad day my eye works better than both of yours.”

He swelled with fury. “Spencer, I swear I’m going to—”

“Carlton!” Juliet said sharply and many a cop would have quailed under the ferocious glare Lassiter turned on her. “Give me the phone,” she said carefully, refusing to back down.

He sneered and then roughly shoved the reciever into her hand. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” She watched as he stepped away, hands clenching into fists, which made poor Buzz flinch just slightly, and lifted the reciever to her ear. “Shawn?”

She winced at his exclamation of, “JULES!”

She met Lassiter’s dark gaze and said in as measured a tone as possible (she may have been disguising it well, but she was still angry with him too), “Yes, Shawn, it’s me.”

“I miss you, Jules,” he said. “I have to tell you though, you’re absolutely adorable when you’re angry.”

Juliet’s expression soured. “That was nowhere near funny, Shawn,” she said icily. “What were you thinking? If that was your idea of an apology for what you did on Wednesday, you were way off your mark.”

She bristled furiously when he replied, “Now that you’ve got that off your chest—my turn to talk!” With that he began yammering, almost so quickly she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She was opening her mouth to insert some scathing end to the conversation before hanging up on him when she caught a bit of what he was saying.

“…I’m on a roadtrip now. I’ve got two more hours to go so I hope you’re up for a long conversation!”

She frowned, her eyes narrowing as she listened as intently as she could to the seemingly endless flow of words. It was like he had been wound up and let loose and now he was just spewing whatever blather first popped into his head. There was something wrong. She looked up at Lassiter and he frowned when he saw the expression on her face was not anger.

“Listen to this,” she said and put the phone on speaker.

“…those trucks with all the holes in the sides and they’re usually carting pigs or something like that, and every time I see one, the only thing I can think is, ‘Gee, there goes my breakfast.’ Does that make me morbid? I mean, what else are pigs good for? Unless, of course, they’re Wilbur or something, but really, even then, Charlotte was the really cool one, wasn’t she?”

Lassiter’s face settled somewhere in between anger and confusion. “Spencer,” he said, and received no response, except for the continuing stream of chatter. “What the hell is wrong with him?” he demanded of O’Hara and she shrugged, now concerned despite herself. Lassiter tried again. “Spencer. SPENCER!”

Shawn finally paused. “What? Something wrong, Lassie?”

“Spencer, are you drunk?” Lassiter grit.

That got a laugh. “No, I don’t drink much. It works too fast. Surprised?” Strangely enough, Lassiter wasn’t.

“Are you on drugs?” he tried again.

Another laugh. “Do I seem like the kind of guy who needs drugs to have fun?” he replied.

Again Lassiter had to concede the point. “Then what the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, somewhat annoyed that he wasn’t going to get to nail him for anything illegal.

“Why does everyone think there’s something wrong with me?” Shawn asked mildly. “I just drank a few Red Bulls to stay awake. I was tired and sleepy-Shawn equals really-bad-driver-Shawn.”

“Oh, sweet mother of pearl. Who on earth allowed you to get a hold of energy drinks? If there was even a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a law passed that said you could not drive under the influence of caffeine, I would make it my life’s work to get it done. Where is Mr. Guster? Isn’t he your babysitter or something?” Lassiter demanded exasperatedly.

“He’s currently out of the office,” Shawn replied vaguely. “Really, Lassie, do I mean that much to you?”

“No, but the safety of the general populace does! Now I am ordering you to pull over and find somewhere to stay! I don’t think I want you driving under normal circumstances let alone like this!” he burst.

“Shawn, you need to listen to him,” Juliet interjected. “You’re not thinking properly and—”

“I’m thinking perfectly, Jules! I’ve never thought so clearly in my life—and let me tell you, that’s saying something.” Lassiter snorted derisively. He found that hard to believe. “I’m almost halfway there anyway, and in the middle of nowhere. There isn’t anywhere to stop, even if I thought you guys were founded in your doubts in me. Which I don’t. I may have to stop for a pee break though. I’ve had three more since the last time I went.”

Lassiter heaved a long-suffering sigh and said, “Where exactly is ‘there’, Spencer?”

“Where I’m going.”

Lassiter grit his teeth. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Do I? You know, that reminds me of this one time, when Gus and I were in high school, and Gus said the same thing. We were talking about girls and…”

Shawn took off on another ramble fest and Lassiter let his head drop. It was absolutely infuriating that he could manipulate conversation so easily.

Ten minutes passed, and Shawn continued to talk, speaking without seeming to breathe, taking minute breaks in which he swigged Red Bull, mainly to piss Lassiter off, he was sure. He ignored any and all attempts to break into his monologue. By that time, the night officers who were in the station had begun gravitating toward the phone, drawn in by the strangely fascinating topics that the “phone guy” kept chattering about.

Finally, Lassiter could stand it no longer. He slammed the phone down on the hook, (which was really unnecessary, but it made him feel better) and held it there grimly, as though it would somehow shut up the blathering psychic more effectively. There was an outcry from the little following Shawn had accumulated. “That’s enough!” Lassiter barked, removing his hand from the device. “Get back to work!”

“I’m really worried about him,” Juliet said, glancing at the phone. “He’s acting really strangely...”

Lassiter glared at her. “As if that’s some kind of novelty.” He glowered at the slowly dispersing crowd and was straightening his coat when the phone rang. He rolled his eyes, but picked it up—just in case.

“Santa Barbara Po—”

“That was really rude, Lassie, I—”

Growling, Lassiter slammed the receiver down again. It rang again. He glared daggers at it, and pressed the disconnect button. Fifteen seconds later, it rang again. He pressed it again. Fifteen more seconds, and another ring. He pressed the button. …Another ring. He snatched it off of the cradle and snarled, “Spencer, find someone else to bother!”

“…I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number,” the voice on the other end of the line said meekly and Lassiter had to resist the urge to smash the receiver into his forehead, instead opting to thrust it at O’Hara. She accepted the phone without question, and immediately began soothing the unnerved caller.

Sometimes, he wished he could just strangle Spencer, and be done with it.

~ * * * ~

In Shawn’s defense, it was getting very late, he was hopped up on half-a-dozen Red Bulls, and he had already called the other people he knew.

It was going on one o’clock in the morning when Henry’s phone rang, waking him. He grumbled sleepily, stumbled out of bed, and headed for the kitchen where his phone was located. He was two feet away when the machine picked up and his voice grunted, “Henry Spencer. Leave a message,” and the machine beeped.

“Yo. Dad. What’s up?”

Henry’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the phone. What on earth would make Shawn call him at this hour? He had a feeling it wouldn’t be anything good.

“Hey, I’m on the road. Just thought I’d let you know, since you probably couldn’t care less. And just FYI, I’m in Gus’ car so you don’t have to freak out about me driving ‘that piece of junk’ as you like to call it. Aren’t you thrilled?”

Henry stared stonily at the phone. When Shawn was in high school, he had been hostile and sarcastic like this. People told him that he would get over it, that things would be better when he got older, that he would appreciate everything Henry did for him in no time. Well, they had been wrong. Shawn was still as stubborn and jackassed as he had been in high school and he was already twenty-nine. So far he was keeping his childhood promise never to grow up. It made Henry furious.

A beep brought Henry out of his thoughts. The machine had hung up on Shawn after the message had begun to stretch to five minutes. There was a moment of silence and the phone started ringing again. Henry grit his teeth and waited hardheadedly for the machine to pick up. His son was being an idiot.

“Yeah, sorry, that’s going to be annoying. Oh, well. So where was I? Oh yeah, I was telling you that I’ve gotten a lead in the case, hence the road trip. Wait, what’s that you say? I’m being an idiot? I should go home? I have no right to be chasing this down? I should have told—oh wait, they’re still mad too. Huh. Fancy that.

“Well, sorry, Dad. Can’t stop. I’m already over halfway there. I should be there in an hour or so. So I’ll just chat with your machine until then, ‘kay? Great, thanks.” Henry’s hands clenched into fists. He had done everything in his power to raise a decent, upstanding cop, and what had he gotten out of it? A delinquent. A half-crazed, irrational, childish, stupid facsimile of a man. He had tried Shawn’s entire life to redirect his obstinacy into a more productive outlet. Instead, he took off on wild goose chases like this one.

Henry sat there, glaring loathsomely at the phone through the better part of six acerbic messages before he finally couldn’t listen to his son’s idiocy any more. He yanked the phone cord out. He loved his son, very much, but it was painfully hard to try and deal with him when it seemed like all he wanted out of life was to do everything in his power to be a disappointment and a nuisance. He hoped against hope that Shawn wasn’t going to do anything completely reckless and get himself hurt.

Or worse. Killed.

It was ten to two when Shawn drove into Los Banos and he couldn’t help being relieved. The caffeine had begun to wear off a little and coming to replace it were a pounding headache and hands that were beginning to shake. He couldn’t wait to crawl into a soft bed and just sleep for a couple of hours.

He resigned himself to staying in a hotel and pulled into the first one he spotted, too ready to be out of the car to really care where he stayed. Grabbing his backpack, he staggered inside and up to the extremely bored-looking desk attendant. Under normal circumstances, he would have flirted shamelessly with her because she was fairly pretty and he had just been in a car for almost five hours, but right now he was too bushed to really pay any attention. “I need a room,” he blurted, sagging heavily against the desk and the attendant looked up, startled.

Her eyebrows dove downward and she said uncertainly, “Um…okay. What kind of room?”

“Just a single,” Shawn said, and held out his credit card.

The attendant stared as she slowly took the card from his quivering hand. “…I don’t mean to pry, sir, but are you all right?”

Shawn tried to flash her a winning smile, only succeeding in turning up one side of his mouth. “Fine. Just really tired. I think I may have had too much caffeine, too.”

“Oh…” she said, still eyeing him doubtfully. She ran his credit card and then set a key and a bill on the counter with it. “Just for tonight, sir?”

He nodded. “With any luck. Thanks.”

“Thank you.”

He took the key and his card, folding the bill and putting it into his pocket. Glancing at the number on the key, he waved at the desk attendant, who watched him all the way to the elevator.

Inside, Shawn paced, unable to stand still. He was exhausted, but holding still for more than a few seconds made the tremors in his hands even worse. For the first time since having started his caffeine regimen, Shawn admitted to himself that Gus may have been right about the whole ‘drinking caffeine is a really bad idea’ thing. Getting out on the fifth floor, Shawn located his room and was fumbling with his keys when he saw a pair of eyes peering out at him from the room next door.

“Do you mind?” he muttered in annoyance. The other door clicked shut quickly and he pushed his way inside his own room, dropping his backpack on the floor and immediately collapsing onto the bed. There were always creepy people in places like this, and they were always the ones still up at this hour.

He was so worn-out he expected to be asleep within seconds, but he lay there…and lay there…and lay there, and continued not to sleep. Finally he moaned and opened his eyes to look at the clock. He had been lying there for over a half an hour. This was some form of really heinous torture; he couldn’t sleep but he was so tired he thought he might implode. He stared at the clock, his eyes burning with the extent of their weariness, for ten more minutes before he finally forced himself to climb off of the bed. Well, if he wasn’t going to sleep, at least he could clean off. He felt like he hadn’t bathed in days. Which, when he thought about it, was actually a fact.

Pulling his change of clothes out of his backpack, he shuffled into the bathroom, shedding his clothes as he went. He turned the shower on, good and hot, and got in, nearly flinching away as the water first hit his skin. But as he allowed the water to wash over him, he exhaled slowly, realizing for the first time that he’d been breathing quickly, practically hyperventilating, and he grimaced. Gus was definitely right. Caffeine=Very Bad For Shawn. The feeling of the water beating on his scalp lessened the pain in his skull and he sighed. It was really annoying that something that could produce such wonders as he had previously experienced could also lead to something as hellish as all this. He could barely stand up or even lift his arms to wash his hair, but sleeping was practically an impossibility. It was an injustice as far as he was concerned.

When he had finished washing, he stood in the shower, hands pressed to the wall to keep himself from falling over, just letting the water pour over him. He stayed like that until his arms began to tremble and he had to move, or risk falling over and possibly winding up unconscious and naked in a hotel bathroom where no one knew exactly where he was. And as fun as that thought was, he decided to save that adventure for a different trip.

He stepped out of the shower, dried off quickly and put on his clean t-shirt and boxers, taking the jeans with him out into the room and tossing them on the bed before flopping down beside them. He groped around for a minute and then, staring dimly at the glowing screen of his cell phone, set his alarm for 9 a.m. He would finish this tomorrow. He would get his proof, return to the station in Santa Barbara, make amends for his mistake via solving the case, and then promptly collapse on Chief Vick’s desk of complete and utter exhaustion.

Smirking, he curled up, head on one pillow, another clutched to his chest, and tried to sleep because tomorrow promised to be a long day and he would likely need whatever energy he could get.

~ * * * ~

Sleep evaded him.

He wanted it so badly it hurt, but he tossed and turned restlessly for hours. His eyes burned mercilessly in his skull and a sharp pounding headache thumped agonizingly just behind them and all he wanted was to slip away from it for a few hours, but his body refused to allow him the comfort. The caffeine had done its job, and now it was torturing him.

Several times during the night he got out of bed, pacing frantically back and forth until his legs began to turn to jelly and he had to lie back down or find himself lying involuntarily on the floor. It was literally the worst night he had ever experienced in his life.

At nine o’clock his phone went off, and it took him a minute or two to come out of it enough to realize what the awful racket was. He wasn’t clear on whether or not he had actually fallen asleep or if he had just zoned out so far that he had lost track of what was going on around him. His head was still killing him and he was having trouble mustering the energy to move at all, let alone get out of bed to get the phone, which had fallen on the floor sometime last night while he had been thrashing around. When the incessant beeping started to make the pounding in his head worse, he shoved himself out of bed and grabbed it, mashing all the buttons at once to shut it up. Slumping back against the bed once it was quiet he looked at the clock on the bedside table out of the corner of his eye and grimaced.

He didn’t want to be up. Really, really, really, really didn’t want to be up. He felt like crap. The feeling reminded him overwhelmingly of a hangover. The same sensitivity his body had for caffeine applied to alcohol, and it didn’t take much to get him completely smashed. The hangovers the next morning were debilitating in exactly the same way this was. He was just lucky he wasn’t dizzy too.

That was, he wasn’t until he stood up. Then the room decided to take a quick spin around itself and he practically collapsed onto the bed, his stomach lurching as he waited for the whirling to stop. A moment later Shawn got tentatively to his feet, knowing that moving slowly seemed to help. As he pulled on his pants, he thought, ‘Note to self: Gus has still gotta come to work, angry or not.’

~ * * * ~

Down at the desk, Shawn handed the new desk lady with a name tag that read: “Manager, Lois,” his keys, backpack slung over his shoulders, and pulled out the scrap of paper where he had written the ‘Stanley’ alias he believed Bell would be using. He had written down a last name too, but he had “accidentally” spilled a little of his energy drink on the scrap because he wasn’t sure of the last name and it would be easier to fudge if he didn’t have to go around asking for a Stanley Might-Be-This-This-Or-This. There were only three hotels in all of Los Banos, so he was hopeful that he could get the evidence he needed and then be on the road again before noon. Once he had settled all of this he could eat and then sleep for the next week.

 Holding up the scrap for the woman to see he said in a sheepish voice, “I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for an associate, but I accidentally spilled my drink on this paper where I wrote his name and number, so all I’ve got is a few numbers and ‘Stanley’.  A Stanley Khein?  Ehnki?  I can’t tell,” he squinted at the scrap. “I think it has a K, an E, maybe an N in the last name? Do you know if there’s anyone here by that name?”

Lois gave him a look, but accepted the scrap grudgingly and peered at it over her eyeglasses, “Stanley, hm? Let me look, dear.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much, this is really important and I feel like a total idiot, but…”

“I understand.” She paused as she looked through the list of guests on the computer and then with a smile, pointed to the monitor and said, “Ah hah, here we are! Stanley Kehin. Here, I’ll write the number of his room down for you.”

Shawn stared, thunderstruck, as she wrote the number down. Okay, apparently his luck had improved vastly overnight. Bell was in the exact same hotel he had stayed in? What were the odds? …Actually, the odds were one in three, but that sort of killed his amazingly-awesome-new-luck theory.

“Here you are, dear,” she said, handing a post-it-note to him.

He took it, trying to shake himself out of his shocked stupor. “Thank you, thanks so much. I really appreciate this,” he said.

She smiled. “No trouble at all dear.”

Shawn headed back to the elevator to go scope out the room he was going to have to find a way to sneak into, and glanced down at the number.

It was the one right next to his. The one where the guy had been staring at him as he had gotten in last night. He spazzed out for a second, hissing, “No freaking way!” He had looked into the eyes of a cold-blooded cop killer for a split second the night before. Unbelievable. Now he knew the odds of that happening were ridiculous.

Something struck him and his jaw dropped.  He had recognized the guy’s eyes.  He’d been totally creeped out because, oh, that’s right Shawn, you’ve freaking seen those eyes in a newspaper article detailing his death.  That wasn’t good.  How had he missed something like that?  How?

He didn’t realize he was frozen until a room maid nearly ran into him.  “Sorry,” she said cheerfully, and didn’t sound like she meant it.  Shawn shook himself out of it.  Now was not the time to analyze why his powers of perception were apparently failing.

He needed to get his room key back. Not to mention figure out exactly how he was going to get Bell’s key. He went back to the lobby, smiling at Lois again and she returned the smile. “Now what is it you need?”

He grinned. “I’d actually like to get my room key again, if that’s possible.”

“Forget something?”

“I did,” he said sheepishly, and she bent to get the key. He tapped Gus’ car key idly on the counter, glancing around the lobby as he waited for her to find it.  It wasn’t until he looked out into the parking lot that he figured out what he was going to do. He knew how he was going to get the key to Bell’s room.

 “Here you are, dear,” she said, holding his room key out for him to take and he accepted it, simultaneously hitting the Emergency Alarm button on Gus’ key chain with the hand in his pocket. Outside, Gus’ car began making an unholy racket with alarms, bells, whistles, blinking lights…the whole works, and he and Lois looked up.

“Oh, what on earth is it now…?” she muttered and put a hand on Shawn’s arm apologetically. “I’m sorry, I have to go see what this is about, I’ll be right back.”

Shawn smiled, waving her away. “Oh, no, no problem. Go on.” He watched until she had disappeared out the doors of the hotel and then with a quick cursory glance around the lobby, rushed around the counter, and grabbed one of the spare keys from the hook under the counter labeled with Bell’s room number.

He quickly resumed his place on the other side of the counter, taking on his most casual pose as he surreptitiously hit the Emergency Alarm button again, shutting it off. A moment later Lois came back in looking exasperated and said, “I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what happened.”

He smiled. “No problem. Am I good to go?”

She nodded. “Yes, dear. Just bring the key back down when you’ve gotten what you forgot. Thank you for your patience.”

“Thanks for your help.” He flashed her one last mega-watter and then turned and walked back to the elevator, a smirk taking over his features. At this rate, he would be eating lunch with Gus in Santa Barbara.

Upstairs once again, he set up camp in his room, leaning up against the backboard, waiting for the sound of Bell leaving his room. Thank God for the paper thin walls of hotels. He sat there, staring at the wall, analyzing his reflection in the small television screen, picking at his nails… After fifteen minutes of listening to Bell watch TV, Shawn’s head had begun dipping precariously as he drifted off and he decided he needed to speed the process up a little. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the front desk.

“Hello, Los Banos Days Inn, how can I help you?”

Shawn used his best imitation of a panicking woman. “There’s been an accident—an accident—it’s an emergency! Please, please, ask Stanley Kehin to meet me at the Starbucks up the road, please, I’m begging you, it’s an emergency!”

“Oh—oh—okay! Just hold on a minute dear, I’ll get him—”

“No, no just tell him to meet me! The Starbucks, please!” Shawn promptly hung up, and waited for the sound of a ringing phone in Bell’s room.

Not even thirty seconds later he heard it, and smirked. The phone was picked up after just one ring, a muffled conversation took place, and then Shawn heard the sound of Bell’s door opening and closing. He grinned to himself, waited a moment, and then went out into the hallway, backpack over one shoulder. He was getting the hell out of here as soon as he had what he needed. He glanced down the hallway and then pushed his way into Bell’s room. It was identical to his own room, except reversed. There were clothes piled beside the bed, two suitcases stacked in the corner, and a duffel bag poking out from under the bed. He promptly decided that was his best option and knelt, already pulling it out and open.

Jackpot.

Inside he found a gun, and more importantly, the badges of the officers Bell had murdered. Shawn unshouldered his backpack, rooting around in it for something to use to pick up one of the badges, finally just using yesterday’s boxers. He wrapped the badge in them and then tucked the bundle inside his bag. The smile on his face blossomed.  This was it.  The end to all his problems—no one could stay mad at him (okay, Lassiter could, but that was his default setting anyways) now.

Behind him, a key slid into the lock.

All the color from Shawn’s face drained.  Oh shit.  Shit shit shit shit shit shit SHIT.  Why hadn’t he been paying closer attention?  Why?  He was so screwed.

He glanced around, saw nowhere good to hide, and bolted behind the door, backpack in hand, just as it swung open. He flattened himself against the wall.

Humphrey Bell didn’t look like a serial killer from behind.  Shawn peered out the gap between the door and the wall, taking in his dark, thinning hair.  It was less greasy than he had expected, like he actually shampooed it, and he was wearing a hoody.  It was hardly fear-inspiring.

But Bell was moving way too slow for anyone’s comfort, muttering angrily to himself. He was an inch away from Shawn.  An inch, and the fake psychic could actually smell his aftershave.  Shawn’s heart beat in his throat.

Don’t turn around, don’t turn around, don’t turn around…

Bell didn’t turn around.  He walked forward another slow step, and Shawn watched the way his eyes darted around the room.  He was paranoid (the phone call had to have made him jumpy) and the psychic really didn’t like the fact that, standing almost directly behind him, he could tell, even from here, that Bell was nearly a head taller and had probably fifty pounds on him.

Not cool.

Bell finally moved completely past the door, and Shawn pressed himself as flat as he could against the wall, trying not to breathe as Bell glanced right and left, still cursing softly under his breath. Now was the time to make his move.

Shawn snaked a hand out, catching the door as it swung shut, trying to silently slip past the closing door.  He glanced back at the room, and it was then, his back half-turned away, eyes taking in Bell and the beds in front him, that he realized his deadly mistake.

            He hadn’t shoved the duffel bag back under the bed.

All attempts at inconspicuously sneaking out were done.  He banged the door against the wall but Bell had already seen the duffel and had turned, catching sight of the fake psychic making a break for his door.  He screamed something truly disgusting, but Shawn was already out in the hall, legs pumping.

He smashed into the side of the hall with a choked cry when Bell body-slammed him.  Bell forced him to the floor, face scraping along the wall as the bigger man shoved his head into the hotel carpeting, his already muddy brain swimming with the force of the blow.

Shawn lay stunned, staring dazedly up at the ceiling panels sliding past his vision, choking as his shirt collar tightened under his chin.  A second later the door jamb of Bell’s hotel room met his gaze and he was pulled into the darkened room.  It wasn’t until Bell jerked him up by the shirt collar, grasp tight on the shirt on his back, that Shawn realized he had been dragging him by the shirt down the hall.  He blinked, vision clearing and the ringing dying in his ears.

            “What the hell are you doing here?” Bell demanded, slamming him up against the wall. Shawn’s head smashed into the plastic-like walls, his mind reeling.  “Who are you with?   WHO ARE YOU WITH?” 

Shawn’s thoughts spun.  “I—”

He couldn’t think of anything. Nothing. His mind was a complete blank. Shit.

Bell snarled, shoving Shawn’s head harder into the wall.  The backpack was suddenly ripped from his shoulders and he could hear the sound of Bell rummaging through the pack, one hand still on the psychic’s head.  Bell suddenly cursed.

“You little thief,” he hissed into his ear.  He shoved the police badge into Shawn’s line of vision.  “WHO ARE YOU WITH?” he half-screamed, spittle flying as he dug into the smaller man’s back.

Shawn let out a strangled sound as the pressure on his head increased, grinding the side of his face against the wall. And it was then, staring at the desk a foot to his left, that he got one last, desperate idea.

“Okay,” he said, forcing his hands up in a surrender-gesture.  “Okay!  I give.”  Bell backed off slightly as the psychic started to turn.

Shawn glanced at the desk, then back at Bell.  His mouth shot into a triumphant smirk. “Raining on your parade dude,” he said, and grabbed the ice bucket, swinging as hard as he could.

There was a loud CATHUNK and Bell dropped heavily to the ground. Shawn whacked him again for good measure but was already moving, dropping the bucket on his head as he leapt over the prone figure.  He fumbled for the duffel bag (no point in being sneaky now) then grabbed it, already leaping for the door.  He sprinted down the hall.

It didn’t hit him that he’d done it until the doors to the elevator had closed and he was halfway through the second floor.  Holy crap, he had done it. He had gotten his evidence. He started dancing around, singing in falsetto, “Iyeeeeee am the chaaaaaaampioooooooooon, and youuuuuu are the looooooooooser, ‘cause Iyeeeeeee am the chaaaaaaampiiooooooooon…of the world!” A moment later the doors to the elevator opened in the lobby and he was standing quietly in the center of the elevator, hands folded composedly and very tightly around the handles of the duffel bag.

Lois had one second in which to yell “Your room key!” before Shawn had shot past her.  He was out the front door before she realized he had thrown it in the middle of the floor, and she shook her head bewilderedly, bending to pick it up.  They got the weirdest people at these hotels.

Shawn pulled Gus’ keys out of his pocket as he ran, and an ecstatic whoop could no longer be contained. This was as good as it got. Everything would be back to normal soon and he wouldn’t have to defend himself anymore. He flung the door to the car open and jumped inside, grinning like he hadn’t in days. One road trip more and he would be redeemed.

            Shawn would never know how he made it back to Santa Barbara alive.

Whatever insomnia the Red Bulls had caused the night before seemed to have vanished as soon as he started driving and it was brutal, trying to stay awake as he raced home. He drank a left over Red Bull from the night before but it nearly made him sick, head pounding worse, if that were even possible. He drove recklessly—Gus would have murdered him—and arrived back in half the time it had taken him to get to Los Banos.

He had to try twice for the front doors of the station when they doubled in front of him.

Karen was standing at Lassiter’s desk, listening intently as he explained a theory when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of something bright orange headed in their direction. She turned to see Shawn striding grimly toward them, carrying a black duffel bag between tightly clenched hands.

He looked, quite frankly, like hell. His hair was in a state of disarray she hadn’t thought he could honestly reach, his cheeks were scruffy, and even his clothes hung awkwardly on his body, somehow more deranged looking than usual. But it was still easy to push aside the concern as her anger flared.

Beside her, Lassiter growled and stepped forward, catching one of Shawn’s wrists in his hand as he reached them and yanking hard, which turned out to be unnecessary, because Shawn’s hand came free with almost no trouble at all. Disconcerting as that was, Lassiter ignored it and the large bruise he could now see had recently blossomed along the side of Shawn’s face, snapping handcuffs onto his wrist. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“I know my rights, thanks, and I’d rather not.” He tossed the duffel bag on to Lassiter’s desk with the uncuffed hand, then raised his fingers to his temple. “I’m getting a strong indication that you should open the bag.” Juliet tried very hard to be angry with him, but between Shawn’s serious demeanor and his appearance, she struggled as anger and worry battled inside her.

Lassiter grabbed the hand and pulled it behind his back, handcuffing it too. “What makes you think we’re going to listen to you, Sp—”

“All right, Shawn, what’s going on?”

Gus came jogging up and Shawn turned his head to look at him, tired smile growing.  “Everyone was about to suddenly forgive—”

“Shawn!” he cut him off, finally getting a good look at his face.  He reached forward, grabbing his chin and wrenching his head around further so he could inspect the violently purple and red colored swelling on his face.  “What happened?”

Lassiter frowned, hands still on the cuffs around Shawn’s wrists.  “You don’t know?” he demanded before the psychic could answer.  “Where the hell have you been?”

Gus’ expression soured, but he studiously ignored the detective, jerking Shawn’s head again so his best friend was forced to look at him.  “What happened?”

Shawn forced his eyes back to Karen.  “Would you just look in the bag?”

Gus abruptly let go, stepping back as his arms crossed.  Shawn’s world spun for just a second as the hand he’d been leaning on was taken away.  “I don’t know where the heck you’ve been, but your stupid distractions won’t work.  I can’t believe you would…”

Shawn stood, watching his best friend rant himself hoarse, as the world started tipping itself to the left.  He had no idea he was leaning to follow it, though Gus had trailed off, his expression turning to confusion.

“Spencer?” Lassiter asked suspiciously from behind him as the fake psychic slowly listed left.  What was he up to?  If he thought this would make him let go of the cuffs on his wrists he had another think coming.  Karen’s eyes were nearly as hard as her Head Detective’s as she tried to figure out what the unpredictable man was doing.  Gus exchanged a weirded-out look with Juliet.

The world suddenly jerked 90 degrees and Shawn realized, abruptly, that he had been standing on the wall the entire time instead of the floor.  His body rushed to fix the mistake, but with a visual snap the scene had righted itself and Shawn realized he was sagging heavily, knees bent nearly to the ground, arms wrenched awkwardly up and behind him as a startled Lassiter gripped his arms.  “Spencer!” he snapped, but it wasn’t as angry as it was disquieted.  A second later Gus had grabbed his other arm, looking equally taken aback.

“Thanks,” he mumbled dizzily, body still hanging heavily in their arms.  “That was pretty weird.”

A pair of nimble fingers suddenly grasped him under the armpits, small, feminine hands (and they could only belong to Juliet because he was staring directly at a concerned Karen Vick), and they curled under his arms.  All three immediately pulled him back and he was dragged, feet sliding along the hardwood floor, whereupon he was dumped, unceremoniously, into a chair.  A second later Gus was kneeling in front of him, pushing his eyelids back with his thumbs.

“What in the world happened to you?” he muttered as he inspected first one eye, then the other.  Shawn shook his head, half-heartedly trying to dodge out of the irritating poking at his eyes but unable to push him back, arms still cuffed behind him and now pressed against the chair back.  The position was uncomfortable enough as it was.

“Dude, stop,” he said.  “I’m fine.”  Gus raised an incredulous eyebrow at him but backed off, glancing almost imperceptibly at Karen, who was eyeing the psychic with irritation and concern.

“If that was supposed to be an escape attempt, Spencer,” Lassiter broke in, “you’re losing your touch.”  He sounded irrated, but nowhere near as angry as before.

“What happened to you?” Juliet asked and it was impossible to fight off the concern.  Her anger, much to her annoyance, had dissolved somewhere in the last minute.

Shawn shook his head again, the dizzy spell passing.  He ignored her, instead locking gazes with Karen. “Open the bag, Chief.”

Karen inspected him warily. She didn’t really want to humor the psychic—he had been causing a lot of trouble lately—but she had also never seen him so serious…or so disheveled. “Mr. Spencer, I don’t think I have to tell you, but if this is some kind of joke—”

“Open the bag, Chief,” he repeated, the dark smudges under his blood-shot eyes a glaring contrast to the psychic’s usual care-free appearance. What on earth had he been doing the last few days? She sighed and reached for the bag, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.  She pulled it to her, already pulling back the zipper. All of them, except for Shawn, leaned forward, peering curiously inside.

“Oh my gosh…” Juliet whispered. Gus echoed her sentiment, turning to gawk at Shawn.

“What the—how the hell did—” Lassiter began spluttering.

Karen’s head turned sharply to look at him, voice quiet but tightly controlled. “Mr. Spencer, where did you get these?”

Shawn shrugged. “Led to them psychically. I had a vision about the killer’s name and whereabouts too, if you’d like them.”

“Now, Mr. Spencer,” Karen said, tapping a sheet of paper on Lassiter’s desk, suddenly impatient.

Shawn leaned forward, jangling the cuffs at his back. “I’d love to, but what with the arrest and all—”

“Take them off,” Karen ordered and Lassiter, looking extremely disgruntled, did as he was told.

Shawn smirked, but it was a shadow of his usual good humor and he slumped against the back of the chair, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Write the information down, Mr. Spencer,” Karen said firmly and set a notepad and a pen in his lap. She watched keenly as he obeyed with some difficulty, rubbing his eyes and blinking heartily. It seemed to take a great deal of effort for him to do anything, his hands trembling violently as he held the pen unsteadily, trying to force his hand to write.

She took the sheet of paper from him when he was finished, still eyeing him warily over it.  She glanced at it briefly, eyebrows raising as she saw the almost unintelligable scrawl.  Her eyes met his as she looked up. “I don’t know what exactly happened to you, Mr. Spencer, and I’m not entirely sure I want to know, but if all of this information checks out—”

“It will.”

Karen pursed her lips but nodded. As she turned away to hand the information off to Juliet, Gus scowled at Shawn and said, “I told you that drinking all that caffeine was a bad idea. Jeez, Shawn. Don’t you ever listen?”

“I had to stay awake,” Shawn said petulantly. “What else was I supposed to do?”  It did nothing to help his case that when he looked at Gus, it took a couple of seconds for his eyes to focus.

“Oh, I don’t know—go to sleep?”

“And not let the spirits lead me to this evidence? Right, Gus.” Gus glowered at him and Lassiter smacked Shawn over the head, making him wince. “Hey! What was that for?”

“That was for being a total moron. You could have told the ‘spirits’ to hold their damn horses,” Lassiter snapped. “Look at you. You’re a disaster, Spencer. Your hands are practically trying to shake their way off your body. Or did you not notice that because you haven’t slept in God knows how long? How long has it been since you slept?” he demanded angrily.

“I—” he suddenly broke off, looking confused.  “I—”  He bit his lip, staring at his lap, then suddenly looked up, awe spreading across his face.  “I can’t actually remember,” he said, sounding absolutely fascinated by the thought.

Juliet looked surprised, voice faltering on the phone as Gus rushed past her, and even Karen had to forcibly turn herself back to what she was doing.  Lassiter simply looked taken aback as Gus dropped to his knees, peering at his friend again, an anxious look on his face.  “You’re not kidding, are you?” he asked, voice urgent.

Shawn’s head whirled.  “What?  It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Gus demanded.  “Shawn—” he forced himself to stop talking, standing abruptly as Lassiter started speaking again, that peevishness back in his voice.

“What about food?  Have you even eaten anything?”

Shawn grinned sheepishly, “Since when?” Lassiter glowered and then a split second later, realization dawned on his face.

“You never got your food yesterday. When exactly was the last time you ate, Spencer?” he demanded.

“That’s a good question, Lassie.” It only irritated Lassiter more that he could tell he was being honest.

Karen heaved an enormous sigh as she turned away from the desk, giving up on pretending she wasn’t paying attention. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mr. Spencer. O’Hara,” she said, the younger woman having gotten off the phone just a moment before. “Will you get the man something to eat?”

“Coffee, too?”

Shawn lifted his hand, opening his mouth to reply when Gus broke in, saying decisively, “No. Absolutely not. No caffeine.” Shawn pouted, but it was more for effect than anything.  He was pretty sure any more caffeine would kill him.

“All right, Mr. Spencer. I want you to tell me everything you know, starting with how you got this bag,” she said, gesturing.

“I told you,” Shawn said, “I was led to it. Psychically.”

Karen sighed. “Can you please be more specific?”

Shawn’s head swayed. “Not really. I was kind of in a trance. I don’t really remember what happened last night.”

“Oh, for the love of—you were driving around in a stupor last night?” Lassiter exclaimed.

“In a trance, Lassie. A trance.”

“Induced by caffeine,” Gus muttered and Shawn shot him a dirty look over his shoulder.

“I’m getting something about…Los Banos?” he continued.

“You drove to Los Banos?!” Lassiter bellowed. Karen shot him a look and he reigned in his temper, waving his hands disbelievingly at the ceiling.

“Okay… And this name?”

“It’s an alias.”

“Another alias? And how does this help us, Mr. Spencer?” she asked dubiously.

“He’s using it right now.” He put his fingers to his temples, then flapped them around unenthusiastically without getting to his feet.  He was too tired for the usual flamboyant psychic charade. “I’m getting something about scrambled letters? And the dead officer’s names? …I don’t… Ohhhh… He takes on the name of his last victims, but he mixes up the letters to form a new name…that’s where the connection is.”

“I’ll be damned…” Lassiter muttered, pulling out the two lists to look at them side by side.

“And the location?”

“I see him…in a hotel. Room…45…no, 543. Yes, that’s it. That’s where you’ll find him,” Shawn said certainly. “The Los Banos Days Inn.” His brow furrowed and he poked the bruise on the side of his face. “Ow!” Then his eyes flew open and he said, “I may have been in a fight with him. That would explain some things.”

“You WHAT?” Gus and Lassiter roared simultaneously over Shawn, and he flinched.  Karen was staring open-mouthed at him when Juliet returned, looking uncertainly at the two men breathing fire over a pointedly unconcerned psychic, busy inspecting his nails.

“I found some donuts,” she said apologetically, “And Buzz had a smoothie that he said he couldn’t finish.”

Shawn tilted his head back, smiling up at her. “You’re a doll, Jules,” he said as he accepted the food (and there was no doubt she had just inadvertently saved him from the lecture of the century).

She rolled her eyes. “Just eat, would you? You look awful…”

“All right, we need to get this information to the Feds,” Karen said, getting to her feet. “Lassiter, I want you to call them and let them know what we’ve found out. O’Hara, I want you to find as much as you can on this—” she looked at the notepad Shawn had written on, “‘—Humphrey Bell’. I want to know everything, so when we take this stuff to the Feds, they’ll accept it, understood? I’m going to…”

Gus peered over O’Hara’s shoulder as she wrote down the name and she glanced up at him. He backed off a little muttering, “Sorry. Just curious. Would you…mind if I tagged along?”

O’Hara cracked a tiny smile. “No, I think that would be okay. It’s not going to be that exciting, though.”

Gus grinned, “Trust me, all of this is exciting.” She smiled again.  “Shawn, are you—”

The psychic was nodding off, head bobbing sporadically.  “Shawn,” said Gus, then sharper, “Shawn.”

Shawn jerked, barely managing to save the food and the smoothie cup in his hand. “Uh,” he interjected, swallowing the large bite of donut he had just taken and raising the drink, ignoring the look his best friend was giving him. “You should all know that Humphrey Bell is supposedly dead too. That might be kinda important.”

The three officers stopped, turning to stare at him. “Excuse me?” Karen said, disbelief coloring her words.

“Um, yeah.” Shawn wiggled his fingers near his temple. “That just came to me. He’s not dead, but yeah, he’s been legally declared dead. Something about a car crash. It was really shifty though.”

Karen sighed and said, “I’ll check it out.” And then she paused, looking Shawn over conscientiously, noting his violently trembling hands and the dark circles around his eyes. He was slumped in the chair, like it was an extensive effort just to sit up, and it seemed like he was having trouble staying awake long enough to even eat the food he so obviously needed. It seemed to be helping at least a little, he had perked up as he practically shoved it down his throat. Apparently the last few days had been rough on him.

Rolling her eyes, she stepped forward and put a knuckle under his chin, tilting it upwards. He blinked at her slowly, torpidly, still chewing and she said, “Mr. Spencer, I think we have everything we need from you. As soon as you finish that donut—” She nodded to the last bit clutched loosely in his hand, “—I want you to go back to the Overtime Room, and get some sleep. We’ll come and get you if we need you.”

Shawn started to protest, and Karen snapped her fingers, shutting him up. “Did I make that sound like it was an option? Because it’s not. And don’t forget, I do give you your paychecks, so I can order you around.”

Shawn couldn’t think of a snappy retort to that, so he stuffed the last bit of donut in his mouth and nodded. Karen gestured for him to get to his feet and he obeyed, turning and starting to shuffle down the hall. She watched him, making a face when he looked back, raising a finger. “One question, Chief. …You’ll tell the Feds I helped, right?”

She crossed her arms, trying to smother a smile and pointed sternly. He grinned and held up his hands in surrender, turning and shambling off down the hall. Karen let a small smile crack her features as she moved back towards Lassiter’s desk.

Shawn smiled to himself as he walked, running a hand (which was shaking a little less, thanks to the food) through his hair. He had done it. Everything was going back to normal. He had solved the case, and now he was finally going to get the nap he so richly deserved. He hadn’t anticipated the sympathy he had gotten because of what a wreck he’d made himself, but he had a feeling that it had helped immensely in getting him back on their good sides. He grinned to himself and glanced back to see them all bustling around, wrapping up the case, and it was all thanks to him.

Oh, yeah. He still had it.

He turned back around and there, as calmly as though he were all alone, stood Humphrey Bell, Shawn’s backpack dangling traitorously in one hand.

“Hello, Shawn,” he said and threw the psychic’s driver’s license at his chest.

“Had to ruin everything, didn’t you?”

Shawn’s mind went blank for the first time in his life.  He stared up at Bell, but his brain couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing, couldn’t even register what he was looking at.

“Oh, hey Shawn,” Buzz said, walking past him.

Shawn’s brain restarted with a sputter and he jerked his eyes back to Buzz.  The young officer’s eyes moved from Shawn to the man standing in front of the pyschic, and Shawn knew that was it, it was all over, and—

Buzz kept walking.  His eyes went back to the paper he was holding in his hand, flicking away from the serial killer in their police station, and Shawn realized, much to his horror, that no one, not a single person, knew what Bell looked like.

Except him.

  Bell wasn’t smiling when Shawn looked back at him.  He was staring, unmoving, seemingly unperturbed by the milling police officers walking past them, and his gaze said he hated the man in front of him more than he had hated anything in the world.

Shawn’s breath caught in his throat. He was so completely and utterly screwed.

Bell put his hand in his hoodie pocket, jerked his head and said gruffly, “Move.” It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand the implications of the hand placement, or the puckering of the material as what could only be a gun pointed upwards towards Shawn’s chest. The psychic immediately turned and started walking back the way he had come, Bell moving up behind him. They walked past the others, and Shawn wanted nothing more than to do something—anything—to get their attention, but he knew, without any doubt, that he would be dead before they even turned around. They reached the end of the hall and Bell jabbed him in the back with the gun, muttering, “Inside, now.”

“Hey, hey, easy on the merchandise,” Shawn muttered, and then grimaced as Bell jabbed him again, growling.

They moved into Karen’s office and Bell shut and locked the door behind them before giving Shawn a shove. “Sit down, there, in the chair.”

Shawn obeyed, sitting down in Karen’s chair, his hands up non-threateningly. His first thought was that if Bell didn’t kill him, the Chief would. How was he going to get himself out of this one? He was in deep trouble, and he didn’t have the cavalry coming to his rescue any time soon. They were right outside, completely unaware of his current predicament. Bell was psychotic, and dead-set—okay, bad choice of words— intent on getting revenge. This was the man who murdered, in cold blood, eleven officers because they had graduated when he couldn’t.

Only, he hated Shawn more, now.

Bell cocked his gun, and Shawn suddenly realized that if he didn’t do something right now, his insides would be splattered all over the Chief’s office in a matter of seconds. How was it that no one ever looked in this stupid office?! How?! He was going to die because people were afraid of the Chief, or something ridiculous, and now he was babbling because he was dead and—

Outside, someone dropped something, cursing, and for a split second, Bell glanced over his shoulder.

It was enough.

Shawn lunged forward, grabbing the gun and yanking. Bell immediately whipped around, the back of his hand slamming into Shawn’s cheek, his high school ring cutting into it viciously. Shawn cried out, dropping the gun with a clatter, his hand reflexively moving to clutch the now bleeding gash.

Bell fell to his hands and knees, grabbing for the gun, and Shawn threw himself on top of him, getting a hold of it just as he squeezed the trigger. Two deafening shots went off, raining plaster down on them, and suddenly every head in the station was turned toward the office.

At his desk, Lassiter’s hand immediately went to his holster. “What in the hell…?”

Comprehension hit almost simultaneously.  Officers, weapons drawn tentatively, finished pulling them out, rushing towards the office as those standing around Lassiter’s desk did the same.  The detective’s long legs had him at the head, but it was Gus, jaw dropping, expression horrified, who pushed forward past them, trying to get to the room where Shawn was currently trying to wrestle the gun away from Bell.

“Shawn!” he shouted, horrified.

“Mr. Guster!” Vick snapped, grabbing him by the sleeve of his coat. “Stay back.”

“What do you mean, ‘stay back’?” he cried, “We have to get him out of there!”

“Stay back,” she snapped again, but she was already turning to the other officers already at the glass walls of her office, roaring, “GET HIM OUT!”

Juliet darted past Lassiter, grabbing the door knob.  She shook it, desperately, eyes panicked as she turned back to the others.  “He’s locked it!” She jerked, turning back as a potted plant hit the floor, exploding in shards of pottery and dirt, turning just in time to see the gun go skittering under the desk. Bell slammed Shawn up against it, driving it several inches across the floor.  “Do something!” she shrilled at her senior partner.

Lassiter raised his weapon grimly, aiming for Bell. “No problem.”

“No!” Vick said, pushing his hand back down firmly. “You’ll hit Spencer!” Inside the room, Shawn managed to shove Bell off of him and he was scrambling around the desk when Bell caught him around the ankle and he fell, hard. A gasp rippled throughout the crowd of officers.

“Then I’ll break the damn door down!” Lassiter snarled and twisted, slamming a foot into the glass. Juliet jumped back, looking behind her and rushing off as several other officers joined him a half-second later, feet flying as they smashed them, again and again into the wall. The door rattled, but the tempered glass held. He cursed and tried not to flinch as he saw Spencer take one to the solar plexus and crumple against the desk, an unmistakeable expression of terror flitting across his face as he found himself unable to breathe. He slammed his foot into the door again and the tiniest crack appeared at the point of impact. He swore again and leaned back for another try.

“Hurry up!” Gus cried and Lassiter turned a nasty glare on him, only to realize that he was shouting at Juliet, grabbing the chair from her grasp.  She let it go and Gus immediately darted towards Lassiter.  “Here,” he said urgently.

“Fine,” Lassiter snapped, grabbing the chair and pulling it back in one smooth motion.  He smashed it against the door, cracks spidering out.

Inside the office, Shawn managed to dodge a blow, staggering to his feet, but Bell recovered rapidly from the miss and grabbed the back of his shirt, heaving hard. Shawn lost his balance and his head cracked, hard, against the corner of the desk. He dropped to the ground, dazed and unaware of the blood now streaming down the side of his face. At the door, Lassiter continued pounding away at the glass as the other officers kept at it, but all it did was burst out into cracks and refuse to break.

Karen was screaming at her men, Juliet darting back and forth as she grabbed different chairs and other objects to help the officers at the glass, but all Gus could do was simply look on in helpless horror as Bell lugged Shawn to his feet by the front of his shirt and threw him into the table on the right end of the room, sending Vick’s plants flying and scattering dirt everywhere. Before Shawn could gather his wits enough to move, Bell had grabbed a hold of him again and had shoved him up against the glass window next to the door brutally, rattling the frame. Lassiter reared back, startled, and froze, his gaze locking with Shawn’s for a split second. For one frozen moment, they stared at each other.

A streak of blood arched suddenly across the glass as Bell pulled him away again and flung the psychic into the desk with enough force to turn it, the heavy furniture groaning as it scraped across the floor. “What the hell is up with this glass?” Lassiter snarled, dropping the chair as his foot smashed into the glass again, the spider’s web growing more dense.

Bell flew at Shawn, forcing him even further up on the desk and dislodging the remaining items even as Shawn’s feet lost contact with the ground. He forced his arm against Shawn’s throat and his first reaction was to gasp—and he panicked when he couldn’t. He clawed at Bell’s arm, trying to dislodge him, but only managed to scratch himself as he tried desperately to get even the tiniest gasp of air. He kicked feebly, trying to get some kind of leverage—any kind, his head swimming, and Bell’s face freckled with blinding white spots. With a jolt, he realized he was dying. It was then, finally still enough to hear him, that he realized Bell had been muttering furiously under his breath throughout the struggle.

“…have to kill…! Ruins everything—always ruins everything—can’t do anything without you screwing it up… You have to die!” he hissed and Shawn felt his own hands slackening.

Outside the office, the others were beginning to kick more helplessly, desperately, as they realized that Shawn was dying, choked to death in their own station. “Damn it all!” Lassiter roared furiously.

            “Detective Lassiter,” Vick finally snapped, realizing that now they had stopped moving they weren’t going to get a better opportunity. “Shoot him.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and his wasn’t the only gun that came up, swiftly and deadly.

He fired.

The glass exploded inward, showering across the office as three or four shots went off.  Bell jerked as the bullets struck him, and he dropped, now literally dead weight, his blood smearing all down the legs of Shawn’s jeans as he slid to the ground.

For a long second, as the officers brought down their weapons, all that could be heard was Shawn’s desperate attempts to suck in air.

Lassiter immediately moved forward, kicking glass aside from the shattered door and wall, shoving Bell’s body aside as he leaned over the psychic. Shawn was gasping, his hands moving to his throat, scrabbling frantically—it still felt like there were hands there—crushing—making it so hard to breathe…!

“Shawn!” Gus cried, and Lassiter jerked his head over to see that the man’s friend had already pushed his way past the officers rushing back and forth, forcing back other people in the station and moving chairs and glass.  He reached Lassiter’s side quickly and both men each grabbed a hand, pulling them away from his throat. Shawn whimpered and had no idea that his voice wasn’t working properly as he tried to plead with them, ‘No—no—stop—make it stop…!’ He struggled to bring his hands back to his throat.

Behind them, Vick had begun barking orders, glancing furtively at Shawn when she could spare a second. O’Hara stood off to the side, staring worriedly as she talked to the dispatchers, demanding the presence of an ambulance.  She obviously wanted to join them, but it was more important right now to get the paramedics down here as soon as humanly possible.

Shawn struggled against Lassiter and Gus, desperately fighting to sit up and gain some control. Gus glanced worriedly at Lassiter and with a curt nod, they pulled Shawn into a sitting position on the desk, legs dangling off the edge.

He gasped, his rapid breathing stalling for a moment, and Lassiter gave his arm a rough squeeze. “Breathe, Spencer!”

Shawn did, with a horrible wheezing sound, and both Gus and Lassiter breathed their own sighs of relief, trying to ignore the ominous sound, simply happy that Shawn was breathing at all. And then Shawn began trying to talk.

At first, the sounds were unintelligible, masked by the breathless gasping.

“Spencer!” Lassiter barked, moving so that he could be directly in his line of vision. “Quit being an idiot! You shouldn’t talk right now.” Shawn stared wild-eyed up at him, his hand moving to touch his throat and Lassiter had to resist the urge to turn away. There were small red spots in his eyes, and after ten years on the job, he knew exactly how close that meant he had come to dying.

“Now listen to me, Spencer,” he said firmly, “Just breathe okay? Focus on that. In…and out…in…and out…”

Shawn shook his head, his breathing on the verge of hyperventilating, and words began pouring roughly out of his mouth. “I’m sorry—so sorry—I—” He gasped, his eyes going wide again as his breathing caught, but the words kept coming as soon as he was able to suck in another breath. “—I shouldn’t—shouldn’t have blamed—stupid—”

“Spencer, stop!” Lassiter said sharply. “Knock it off! It’s done, okay? Now shut up and worry about breathing, damnit!”

“…I had t—to make—right, better—no one—I—just sorry, sorry—so—”

“Shawn!” Gus grit, teeth bared, but the expression on his face was desperate as he glanced at the detective.

“Spencer!” Lassiter snapped.  He grabbed the rattled man’s arm, forcing his hand flat against the middle of his chest.  “Breathe with me,” he ordered.  “Now, feel my breath—” he sucked in a large, over-the-top breath, “In,” he said.  “Now out,” he released the breath slowly.  “Now again,” he said, and repeated the actions.

Shawn’s breathing slowed, matching the detectives as he fell silent, gasping in and out for breath.  Lassiter nodded encouragingly, making sure the psychic saw him.

“Good. Now just stay calm, all right? The paramedics will be here any second—”

Lassiter looked up, hearing Vick say, “Over there—” and he exhaled, exchanging a relieved look with Gus as he backed off to allow the paramedics access. He had to stop, however, when he realized Shawn’s hand was still firmly wrapped around his arm.

He looked at him critically before gently prying his hand off. “You’ll be taken care of, Spencer,” he said, and turned, moving to Vick for direction.

The paramedics moved in and Gus too moved back, still on the outskirts of the activity around his friend so he could keep an eye on what they were doing as he pulled out his cell phone. He’d better call Shawn’s father and get it over with. He glanced over as the medics crowded around Shawn, quickly readying him for being transferred to the gurney and then the ambulance. The whole thing made Shawn’s head spin.

“All right,” one of the paramedics said.  “Let’s get him stabilized and get out of here.” He lifted up a neck brace and Shawn freaked out.

“NO!” The word came out mangled, and barely audible, but he got his point across as he threw his arms up, shoving them away and staggering off of the desk. He managed to make it three feet,  before collapsing as everything spun wildly around him.  One of the EMTs grabbed him around the middle, but the action was too late and they both ended on their knees.  The paramedic hissed as glass dug into her knees, but Shawn was oblivious to it.

“What the—” Vick looked down, surprised, and frowned.

“What is going on?!” Gus demanded, hanging up his phone. Karen bent, putting a hand to Shawn’s shoulder and he flinched away, his arms up protectively around his neck.

“We just tried to put a neck brace on him and he—”

Karen sighed heavily, but it was Lassiter who snapped, “You idiot. He was just nearly strangled to death!”

The medic stared blankly, his mouth dropping open. “I—nobody said anything about strangulation!”

“Shut up, Bert,” the woman on the floor hissed at him, arms moving from the psychic’s stomach, but Lassiter was hardly impressed.

“Oh, right. His neck is just covered in scratches and bruising because he fell and bumped his head,” the detective said dryly. “I can see your medical education really paid off.”

“Look,” Vick said, breaking in impatiently, “Just get him to the hospital.” She turned to Shawn and her tone became gentle, almost motherly. “Shawn?” He refused to look at her, and she took his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. “Shawn. Nobody is going to hurt you. They’re trying to help, okay? They won’t put the brace on. Now please, you have to go to the hospital.”

He nodded reluctantly and her hand moved to rest on the back of his head. She gestured to Lassiter and Gus and they immediately understood, moving forward to help Shawn to his feet. His legs trembled violently, and in the end, they weren’t so much helping him up as holding him up.

“Where do you want him?” Lassiter asked gruffly, and the woman paramedic pointed to the gurney set up near the desk as she got to her feet.

They carried him over, helping him sit down and the medics moved in again, more cautiously this time. “Try not to forget,” Lassiter added derisively, “He’s been strangled.” The medics nodded, supporting Shawn’s precariously swaying form as they fixed him with an oxygen mask and bandaged the wound on his head.

“Let’s lie you back down now, shall we?” the women said with a kind smile and she assisted him in laying down. They strapped him in and she looked up at the others. “All right, let’s get him out of here.”

As they were heading out the now open doors of Karen’s office, the paramedic glanced down and was immediately alarmed by the fact that Shawn was quiet and still, his breathing slow. “Mr. Spencer? Mr. Spencer, can you hear me?” she said urgently and then stopped the proceeding of the gurney, laying her head on his chest. Around them everyone stalled, concern growing on their faces.

“Unbelievable,” she breathed, and when she looked up, a smile was fighting its way onto her features.

“He’s asleep,” she said, and grinned.

The first thing Shawn noticed when he woke up was the pain in his throat.

The second thing he noticed was Gus.

“Shawn!” he exclaimed, getting to his feet from the bedside chair. “You’re awake, finally.”

Shawn blinked groggily, his fingers running over his neck, and he remembered what had happened. “Am I…?” he started, his voice quiet and raspy. The pain stopped him from continuing.

“You’re in the hospital,” Gus confirmed, “You’ve been asleep for two days.”

Well, that explained the short beard he currently sported. “Bell?” he asked hoarsely, and this time the pain wasn’t so bad.

“Dead. They shot him, remember?” Gus shuddered. “It was horrible. I thought you were going to die, Shawn.”

Shawn thought it was wiser not to mention that he had, too.

“You were right, though. The badges all had Bell’s fingerprints on them, and there was a hotel reservation in Los Banos where Officer Lief lived. The guy was a total whack-job. He was kicked out of the Academy for being a psychotic sociopath! And you went after him by yourself, you idiot. Did you know he was crazy?”

Shawn pointed to his throat, indicating that he couldn’t answer with a shrug. Gus glared. “You did know. You’re an idiot, you know that? Apparently he had a trust fund that was cleaned out right before his ‘death’ and that was how he was financing his whole executionary lifestyle. They found—”

The door to the room opened and Henry appeared, cup of coffee in hand, already glaring stonily at them. “I see you’re finally awake,” he said darkly. Shawn smiled weakly.

Oh, he was so in for it.

“Get out of here, Gus,” Henry said, stepping inside.

“I’d really like to—”

“Out. Now.” Henry said, and there was no arguing with his tone.

Gus glanced at Shawn apologetically and then exited the room, trying not to look at the elder Spencer. Henry closed the door carefully behind him and then turned to Shawn, his white knuckled hands clutching the coffee cup the only indication of the anger he was about to unleash.

“What were you thinking?”

Shawn had dozens of answers for that, none of them short enough, and none of them something that would satisfy whatever ridiculous requirement his father had come up with. He shrugged.

“So when you called me, in the middle of the night, completely haywire because you were sleep deprived and drinking energy drinks, this is what case you were working on,” he stated.

Shawn suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. They both knew exactly which case he had been working on. It was a stupid rhetorical question.

The dam finally burst. “Shawn, what the hell could you have possibly been thinking?!” he demanded furiously, and then cursed loudly as coffee splashed from the cup in his shaking hands onto his skin. “You knew this guy was dangerous! You knew he’d killed eleven police officers! What will it take to get it through your thick skull that you cannot do this job like that? You don’t carry a gun, you’re not a threat! Shawn—I—” He slammed the cup down on the table beside the bed, using the coffee that spilled onto his hand as an excuse to let out a colorful string of curses. Then he rounded on Shawn again. “You act like I’m trying to ‘bring you down’ to ‘cramp your style’ but what you can’t seem to realize is that you make stupid decisions. And not even small stupid decisions, no, no, you make stupid decisions that could cost you your life!”

Shawn couldn’t help it. He was furious. His dad thought he was just going to sit here and take it because he was hurt, well, screw that.

“What was I supposed to do?” he demanded, ignoring the searing pain in his throat. “Everyone was pissed at me and you sure as hell weren’t going to help me—”

“No, Shawn, you’re damn right, I wouldn’t have. Because this whole mess was your fault. If you had thought for five seconds before running off and blaming the first suspect you had, who, by the way, was a cop, then we wouldn’t be in this hospital right now and I wouldn’t have gotten a call from your best friend telling me that some lunatic had nearly murdered you in the middle of a police station!”

“Oh, so I make one mistake, and it’s my fault he tries to kill me, Dad? What kind of screwed up logic is that?!” Shawn’s voice cracked, weakening under the strain of trying to shout.

“One mistake, Shawn?! You make mistakes every time you get out of bed in the morning!” Henry laughed disbelievingly. “You can’t see how stupid you really are. You nearly died! If you had just put your damn pride aside and dealt with your mistake like any normal person, and let the Feds do their job—”

Shawn didn’t hear any more as he leaned back into his pillows, gasping for breath, his eyes wide. The stress of the argument was taking its toll and he suddenly couldn’t catch his breath. The monitor at the side of the bed started beeping frenetically as his oxygen levels dropped and Henry faltered mid-rant, realizing something was wrong. He ran to the door, shouting for a nurse, and thirty seconds later she had rushed in and put an oxygen mask over Shawn’s face, tilting his head back to help open his airway as much as possible. Gus followed her in, looking worried. “What happened? Were you two fighting?” he demanded of Henry. “You know he can’t handle that right now!”

He moved to the bedside, watching as Shawn slowly got his breathing back to normal. The nurse slipped the elastic of the mask around his head. “Keep this on for a little while and we’ll see how you’re doing. Take it easy,” she ordered and he nodded, his brow furrowed as he focused on breathing.

“I was just…” Henry started and Gus turned a glare on him.

“You were just getting him worked up. That’s what you were ‘just’ doing. I know you’re upset and you might even have every right to be, but I think maybe you should come back when you can consider his health right now a priority over teaching him some lesson,” he said angrily.

Henry’s face hardened, but he turned and walked away, disappearing into the hall.

Gus sighed and glanced at Shawn.  He was eyeing him appreciatively.

“Oh, don’t you look at me like that. You were an idiot, but he can rant at you later when you’re capable of breathing without thinking,” he said.

Shawn raised an eyebrow and managed to rasp out, “You were listening?”

Gus rolled his eyes. “Your dad was yelling Shawn. Everybody in the entire wing could hear him.”

Shawn groaned.

~ * * * ~

Gus slipped out of the room around noon to get something to eat, and Shawn, somehow finding himself exhausted again, closed his eyes. He was on the brink of falling asleep when he heard the sound of the chart at the end of his bed being picked up. He ignored it, too sleepy to really care what his doctor wanted. He dimly heard the sound of the chart being put back and he assumed that his doctor had gone.

A hand fell on his arm, resting there a moment before squeezing gently.  His father’s voice was little more than a murmer. “I was worried, kiddo. I’m…sorry.”

Shawn lay silently for a second, and then finally muttered raspily, “I know. Me too.” He opened his eyes ever so slightly, looking out of the corner of his eye to see his dad staring at him, taken aback.

They gazed at one another for a moment and then Henry’s hand squeezed ever so lightly on his arm and Shawn let his eyes slip closed again. He was asleep in minutes.

~ * * * ~

Later that afternoon, Shawn’s doctor stopped in and let them know that Shawn would be free to go home within the next couple of days as long as he promised to take it easy. Gus convinced them to keep him another three days.

“Guuuus!” Shawn whined, his voice weak, when the doctor had gone. “Why did you do that?! It’s so boring in here!”

Gus rolled his eyes. “Here they can watch you Shawn. You need to take it easy, and I know you won’t listen to me. If your bed had straps like these do, maybe we could talk.”

Shawn pouted and then after a moment of thought, whispered, “What if I told you it did have straps?”

“Augh! Shawn!” Gus cried, disgusted. “I really don’t want to know things like that! Keep your creepy possessions to yourself!”

Shawn smirked. “You should hear what I do with—”

“NO! No, Shawn! Shut up! I’m not listening! La-la-la-la!”

Shawn grinned in amusement. Gus was so easy to ruffle.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Spencer. Mr. Guster.” Gus stopped mid ‘la-la-la’ and they turned to find Karen (who looked amused), Juliet (also looking amused), and Lassiter (who looked incredibly bored) standing in the doorway.

“Chief!” Shawn exclaimed and grimaced as his throat gave a little twinge. “What are you guys doing here?” he said, keeping better control of his voice this time.

Karen half-smiled and jabbed her thumb at O’Hara. “We came by while you were sleeping too, Mr. Spencer. O’Hara wanted you to be awake when she brought the flowers though.”

Shawn looked delighted. “Flowers? For me? Jules, how romantic!”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled and set them on the table beside his bed. “They’re get well flowers, Shawn, not ‘let’s date’ flowers.”

He grinned and put a hand to his mouth, saying in a mock whisper, “Right, I forgot, no one is supposed to know about our secret affair.” She merely rolled her eyes again, her smile growing. Shawn turned and grinned at Lassiter. “Didn’t expect you to be here, Lassie.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have much of an option,” he grumbled, his eyes fixed casually on the chart at the end of Shawn’s bed. His eyebrows drew inward a second later, and he looked up. “You had an episode this morning?” he accused.

Shawn made a face and let his head fall back on the pillows. “It was nothing.”

“He and his father were fighting and his throat swelled up because he was yelling,” Gus explained, eyeing Shawn disapprovingly. Shawn glared at him.

“Oh, brilliant, Spencer. Why don’t you just—”

“It wasn’t my fault!” he said irritably and winced, his hand going to his throat.

“Enough, boys. You are not helping the situation,” Karen said, glaring pointedly at Lassiter. He rolled his eyes and waved his hand dismissively, heading back toward the door.

“Take your time recovering, Spencer!” he called back.

“I will!” Shawn retorted and then grimaced again. Gus rolled his eyes and pushed him back down.

“Shawn, that’s not taking it easy,” he chastised.

“Thank you, Mom,” he muttered, but accepted the juice box Gus held out, taking a sip.

Juliet smiled. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Take it easy, okay?” She bent and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but the station’s not quite as interesting without the threat of you popping out from behind a pillar.”

Shawn smiled, and watched her go, his head quirked slightly to the side.

Karen cleared her throat and he looked up to see her watching him, an amused look on her face. “I’m glad you’re doing better, Mr. Spencer,” she said.

He smiled, “Gee, Chief…”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your little mistake though. I hope this whole experience has taught you something.”

Shawn squirmed. “Yeah, I’m—”

“Save it. Lassiter told me what you said in my office.”

The tips of Shawn’s ears burned. “Oh. How lovely.”

She smiled again and said casually, “I look forward to seeing you back at work again soon.” They shared a brief smile and then she said, “Well, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you boys later.”

“See you later, Chief,” Gus replied.

“Oh, wait!” Shawn said, and his voice was suddenly feeble. “Can I ask…just one favor?”

Karen moved back over to the bedside, her expression serious as she nodded. “All right, Mr. Spencer, what is it?”

“Do you think…maybe…I can get a raise now?” he asked pathetically.

The corner of Karen’s mouth twitched and she straightened up. “Not a chance in the world, Mr. Spencer.”

Shawn and Gus sat on Henry’s porch, looking out at the water as the sun set. “Daaad!” Shawn called, his voice still a little raspy. “What are you doing in there? You’re missing it!”

Henry called from within the house, “Just keep your panties on Shawn! I’ll be out in a minute!”

Shawn rolled his eyes, blowing a bubble with his gum and popping it with a snap. “He’s going to miss it. It’s half over,” he said to Gus.

Gus nodded. “You snooze, you lose.”

Shawn’s replying nod gave the impression that Gus had just uttered a world changing philosophical view. They gazed out at the water quietly, Shawn blowing and popping another bubble when—

“SHAWN! Where is my uniform?!”

Shawn froze, his mouth hanging open mid-chew. He glanced at Gus. “Time to go!”

Gus nodded his agreement and the two of them took off, Henry’s yelling carrying across the yard after them.