The Penguins are Stealing My Sanity

by dragonmactir

To uncover abuse at a local parochial school, and exonerate Lassiter from charges of false arrest, Shawn and Gus are forced to expose a nasty secret.

Title: The Penguins are Stealing my Sanity

Fandom: Psych

Rating: M+, for profanity and implied sexual violence

Warnings: Contains references to sexual abuse of minors by the priesthood. Some Shawn/Lassie innuendo but not serious slash.

Spoilers: Tried to stay away from spoilers, though there are offhand references to scenes from certain episodes, including "Forget Me Not"

Characters: Shawn, Gus, Lassiter, O'Hara, Chief Vick, Buzz McNab

Disclaimer: The parochial school mentioned in this story is entirely fictional, and no resemblance to any existing Santa Barbara parochial schools is intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

Santa Barbara, 1987

"That was quite the show, young man. Our Lord and Savior tells us not to rejoice in the downfall of our enemies, but when you laid that lad from Holy Oaks out in the second round I had to recite the Lord's Prayer to myself to stop from cheering. I wish our other weight divisions had done as well, but that's the way it goes."

"I got lucky, sir," the boy said. "He had a glass jaw."

"But you found his knockout button in good, short order, lad. How's the nose?"

"It's fine. Didn't break this time."

"Good, good." The young priest was clearly stalling. "Lad, I think you can guess I didn't call you in here today to talk about a boxing match."

"I didn't think so, sir."

"I, ah…I understand he's gone for a good long time this go-round."

"Fifteen to twenty."

"That's a shame, lad. It must be hard for you."

The boy shrugged. "I'm used to it. He's always in jail."

"But this is prison, lad. It's a new ballgame, if you'll forgive me."

The boy shrugged again. "He deserves it."

"He's still your father."

"And he still held up the First National Bank with a sawed-off shotgun, and he still shot the security guard. He's just lucky the poor guy lived or they'd never let him out."

"Is it just that simple for you, lad?"

"If he'd been around more, maybe I'd care more."

The young priest shook his head sadly. "Harsh words, lad, and I don't think you don't care. You're a good student, aren't you? You've got a stellar record all through school, no major disciplinary issues. It seems like you've been able to cope with your family situation up until now. I'm just worried that, with the added stresses - that little baby sister of yours, your mother having…trouble…that maybe you could use a little help getting along. I'd hate to see you burn out, lad - every child is special, but only once in awhile does an educator have the honor of watching a true star rising. I'd like to help your ascent if I can. Tell me, what goals have you set in life?" He moved behind the chair where the boy sat and locked the office door.

"I want to join the police force, sir."

"That's a worthy goal. A good boy will make a good cop, lad, and I think you're a very good boy." The priest laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "A very good boy." The hand slipped down onto the boy's chest.

The boy jerked in his chair. "Easy, lad - easy. You know, I've always thought you were very, very special…"

Santa Barbara, Present Day

"Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster, come in, please."

"Hey, Chief-arino, what's shakin'?" Shawn Spencer said, and bounced into Chief Karen Vick's office with his hands jammed into the pockets of his worn-out jeans. Burton Guster followed more sedately.

Chief Vick rolled her eyes but didn't comment. "Mr. Spencer, I have a case for Psych if you want it."

Shawn blinked rapidly. "Of course we do. Why wouldn't we?"

"You haven't heard what it is, yet."

He held out his hands, fingers spread wide. "Chief. Psychic. Remember?"

She smiled disbelievingly, not the first time Shawn had seen her express skepticism about his supposed "gift." He also knew she wasn't going to try and "out" him as long as he continued to solve cases for the SBPD.

"Well then that saves us a good deal of time, doesn't it?" she said. "Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara are already on their way, I suggest you hop in that cute little blue car of Mr. Guster's and high-tail it out of here. Good day, gentlemen."

"Yes. Right. Of course," Shawn turned back toward the door but spun on his heels and returned to a seat in front of the chief's desk. "One thing, though - the spirits aren't always all that specific in the impressions that they send me, so I really think I should ask for particulars before we go. After all, Lassie and Jules are more than capable of taking care of things for the few minutes it'll take Gus and I to catch them up. Well, Jules is anyway."

Chief Vick chuckled softly. "I thought you might feel that way. What do you need to know, Mr. Spencer?"

"Well, just the basics. You know, Chief - who, what, when, why, and most especially where."

"I see. Well, it seems there's a suspicious situation at Saint Joseph's Parochial. Several teachers have come forward saying that they suspect various students may be suffering the after-effects of abuse, but the Department of Human Services didn't manage to find anything when they spoke to the parents. Now the school suspects that there may be a child abuser on the premises, which of course raises something of a PR issue for the church, given all the publicity in late years regarding just this sort of thing. The Archbishop has decided to let us handle it instead of doing an internal investigation, in the hopes of showing the diocese that they are handling the issue proactively. These are highly sensitive investigations, and while I know that I have my best on the job," she said, with a sideways jerk of the head, "I also know that my best don't necessarily have the most tact."

The look she shot Shawn across the desk spoke more clearly than a genuine psychic intuition: We both know I don't mean O'Hara.

"I want you to help Detective Lassiter wrap this up as quickly and as quietly as possible. If there is someone playing dirty at that school, find them, but try not to damage the kids any more than they've already been damaged."

"I read you loud and clear, Chief. Gus and I will be the filet of sole of discretion." Shawn rose and started to follow Gus out of the office again but again spun around at the door. "I'm sensing a personal connection to this case. Did Detective Lassiter go to St. Joe's?"

Chief Vick nodded. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Spencer, he did. Graduated Salutatorian, if I remember correctly."

"What's that, like a junior ROTC thing?"

"It's like an…honors student, just missed out on Valedictorian…thing, Mr. Spencer," Chief Vick said in exasperation.

"I've heard it both ways."

"Go to Saint Joseph's, Mr. Spencer."

"Going. Right now."

As they walked out of the station together, Gus whispered to his friend. "Dude, how did you know Lassiter went to Saint Joseph's? Have you been snooping through police files again?"

"I'm hurt at the supposition, Gus. It was the merest logical extrapolation. First, he has intimidated in the past that he went to Catholic school."

"The word is intimated, Shawn."

"I know you expect me to say that I've heard it both ways, Gus, but come on, this is Lassie we're talking about, everything he says is intimidating."

"You know that's right."

"Second, an investigation into a potential sex offender when DHS has already bowed out isn't exactly a great case. Either Lassie-pants is in hock with boss-lady or he asked for the investigation. He hasn't screwed anything up too badly lately so I don't think it's the first."

"How do you jump to the conclusion that Chief Vick didn't just assign them the case? Maybe no one else was available."

"Gus, please. There are a dozen junior detectives who could be assigned a potentially nowhere case like this. And if you think it's too sensitive for the inexperienced, Lassiter still wouldn't be my first choice. You saw how anxious Vick was for us to wrap this up quick before Carly-Bear has a chance to cause any massive emotional scarring by drawing his service pistol on an uncooperative ten year-old."

"Lassiter wouldn't do that," Gus said doubtfully.

"Are we talking about the same Lassiter? Because if we're suddenly talking about Lauren then I agree, yes, she wouldn't do that. But we're dealing with Carlton, here."

"Juliet can keep him under wraps. And he has been loosening up a little. I think finalizing the divorce helped."

"Juliet can't keep an eye on him all the time - there'll be a lot of potential witnesses, too much ground to canvass. They'll have to divide and conquer. My problem with that is that Lassie takes the 'conquer' part a little too literally. No, we get in, we check out Lassie's Uma Malter, we solve the case, we make sure Lassie gets the credit - but that we get enough to get paid - and we earn a few boy scout points with the Chief and Lassie."

"I think you mean 'alma mater.'"

"Gus, judging by what I've gleaned over the years from Lassie's neuroses, I really don't ever want to meet his mother. He didn't even tell her that he and his wife were separated, and that was two years into it - more than, actually. I think she was about one public beating away from turning him from Head Detective of the Santa Barbara PD to the night manager of a shoddy motel on a lonely desert road."

"That's not what that means. And don't equate Lassiter to Norman Bates - we do still have to work with the man, and he's scary enough as it is."

They climbed into the Blueberry and Gus started the engine. "Salutatorian, eh?" Shawn mused, leaping topics as easily as a kangaroo. "That's impressive. Or would be, if, you know…it were Valedictorian."

"Salutatorian is very impressive, Shawn," Gus said defensively. He'd been Salutatorian of their own graduating class.

"Then how come you don't hear people bragging about it? Valedictorians brag. My God man, you can't get a Valedictorian to shut up. Salutatorians never talk about it. It's like a badge of shame. Second place is the first loser, Gus."

"Are you quoting from those stupid No Fear T-Shirts that were popular when we were in grade school?"

"It's common knowledge, Gus. You never hear Lassie bragging about having been a Salutatorian. You know he was aiming for the top spot. Poor Lassie, he always takes second. I feel kind of sorry for him, really. Man can't catch a break."

"I don't know. Youngest Head Detective in Santa Barbara history. That doesn't sound like taking second to me."

"But he was passed over for Chief of Police by a woman only a few years older. Chief Vick is awesome and Lassie respects her, but you know that's gotta hurt."

"That, and because ever since you met him you've taken every chance you could get to outshine him in the profession he holds dearer than life itself."

"Well, there's that too."

"Which is why you're suddenly interested in earning 'boy scout points' from him on this case. Admit it, Shawn. You feel guilty for hogging the spotlight."

"Well, maybe a little. Sometimes when I upstage him he gives me that look, you know - he's trying to kill me with his eye lasers but he really just looks like a sad, sad malamute."

"A malamute? Why a malamute?"

"Well, how many breeds of dog have blue eyes?"

"Huskies are less obscure, Shawn."

"'Husky' is an insulting pants' size for obese children sold at Sears. And anyway I'm thinking there's a good chance we'll be able to find some sort of yearbook or team photograph depicting little Carly Lassiter in some humiliating uniform or other, which will more than make up for taking a half-step back on this one."

"They don't sell obese children at Sears, Shawn. And what sort of uniform are you expecting? Saint Joseph uses the standard uniform of white shirt with blue pants, for boys. How humiliating is that supposed to be, especially when everyone else is wearing the same thing?"

"I didn't mean the school uniform, I was thinking more along the lines of a team uniform. He had to have been on at least half a dozen teams. I'm hoping one of them involved short-shorts or a singlet."

"Lassie's not exactly a team player. What makes you think he'd go out for sports?"

Shawn snorted. "Because they look great on a school transcript, Gus, something Lassie would have been very worried about. The jaunty, rakish angle of his nose seems to suggest that it's been broken more than a few times, which suggests he may have been a boxer. Although to be fair, there have to be a dozen people just at the station who wouldn't mind doing the honors, and let's not start counting the people he's arrested over the years. And I don't think Captain Connors did it any favors that time, either. And, well…if you really must know why I'm so sure he played sports, he told Special Agent Ewing that he wrestled in high school, remember that? During their little battle of twits."

"I admit that it would make for good blackmail material, Shawn, but I don't think I really want to see a picture of Lassie in a singlet," Gus said.

"Good comedy requires personal sacrifice, Guster. There's our turn."

Guster pulled the little car into the parking lot of a brick building that somehow screamed "parochial school" even if you missed the giant cross over the doors. Lassiter's blue Crown Vic stood in front of the doors, and both officials stood by it, and Lassiter leaned with his arms crossed against the driver's side door.

"Chief Vick radioed us that she was calling you in," O'Hara said.

"She told us to wait for you," Lassiter added, sourly.

"And you actually did? Jules, did you handcuff Lassie to the car? Because I might get jealous, you know. I'm the only one who's supposed to do that to him."

"Just get in there, Spencer," Lassiter growled. Oddly, he didn't seem particularly eager to follow them through the doors.

"Looks like you were wrong on Lassiter actually wanting this case," Gus whispered as they walked down the halls under the faint buzz and pale flicker of ancient fluorescent bulbs. "He doesn't seem to want to be here at all."

"Actually, Carlton did ask for the assignment," Juliet said. "He went to school here, apparently. It's weird. All the way here he was all gung ho, even for him - but as soon as we pulled in the lot he just shut down. Has he even come in yet?" she turned and walked backwards for a few paces.

"Maybe he's setting up a perimeter," Shawn offered. "Or maybe he's suddenly remembered the number of times he got pantsed by football players in these very halls. Either explanation would suffice, so pick your favorite."

Juliet stopped walking. "You guys, maybe we should go back. This isn't like Carlton at all, something could be really wrong."

"Juliet, he's a big boy. If something is bothering him he'll work it out. Probably with ammunition."

"I'm going back." She walked back down the hall to the doors. Shawn and Gus shared a look and followed her.

Lassiter was still leaning against the door of the car. Shawn stuck his head out the door and called to him. "Hey, Lassie - you coming? Dinner's getting cold."

Reluctantly, the detective peeled himself away from the Crown Vic and shuffle-footed into the school, arms still crossed defensively across his chest.

Interesting, Shawn thought. I might not have been too far off the mark with that joke about the pantsings. This man seriously does not want to be here right now. Of course, parochial school will do that to you. I should explore whether or not Lassie has a fear of wooden rulers, too. But later. Let's get this case over with so Lassie will stop looking like Timmy died in the well unrescued and Gus and I can grab some churros.

"We're supposed to speak to Father Adrian Malone first, he's the principal here," Juliet said. "Carlton, which way is his office?"

"Down the hall and to the right, at the end," the older detective replied. His voice sounded strange - lower, raspier, and much quieter than usual.

"Did you know Father Malone when you were here?" Shawn asked.

"Yeah. He was Dean of Students back then."

"What's he like?"

Lassiter shrugged. "He was a nice guy. Didn't know him very well, though."

"Salutatorians don't catch the administration's attention very often, eh?"

"How did you know I was Salutatorian?"

"It came to me in a dream, Lassie…and Chief Vick might have mentioned something about it."

They rounded the corner and came upon a tiny woman in a flower-print dress and a simple nun's habit, white-haired, elderly, friendly-looking. She peered up at them through rimless spectacles for a moment before exclaiming in a surprisingly powerful voice, "I remember you! Carlton Lassiter, isn't it? I never forget a former student, and those ears kind of stand out. Literally." She chuckled at her own joke.

"Hello, Mother Mary Catherine," Lassiter said, a little reluctantly. "You're still teaching here?"

She laughed. "No, not these days. But I still come in twice a week to help tutor the kids with learning disabilities, like you. You're a cop now, aren't you? I see your name in the papers sometimes when I think to look at them."

Lassiter blanched noticeably when the old nun mentioned learning disabilities, Shawn was interested to note, and there was that tantalizing "like you." "Yes, Ma'am. I'm a detective with the Santa Barbara PD."

"Head detective, in fact, Mother Mary Catherine," O'Hara supplied brightly. The old nun turned a speculative eye on her.

"You his wife?"

O'Hara's bright smile faltered. "I'm…his partner, Ma'am. At the force, that is. I'm a - I'm a detective, too."

"Good. You're much too young for him." She turned back to Lassiter. "Anyway, it's good to see you've taken the right path, young man. Given what you came from, none of us was entirely sure you wouldn't end up in prison or worse. If you'll excuse me, now, I have a half dozen dyslexic kids who need help with their reading. It was good to see you again, young man." As she started to walk away she jabbed a bony finger into the small of Lassiter's back. "Don't slouch!" The police detective's posture straightened instantly.

"Gus, what's 'dyslexic' mean? Is that the one where you can't get them to eat?" Shawn whispered. He hung back as the detectives moved on.

"That's anorexic, Shawn. Dyslexia is a reading disorder wherein the brain cannot process certain symbols, like letters and numbers."

"Oh, that's the one where they read everything backwards, right?"

"That's a common misconception, Shawn. True dyslexia is far more complicated than that. It's more about being unable to separate sounds and words and relate to the symbols on the page that make up written language, kind of like having a mental stutter. It can be a devastating issue throughout life."

"Dude, that just sounds like illiteracy."

"It's not illiteracy, Shawn - it's not about being unable to read, it's about reading being inordinately difficult. Dyslexia can cause speech and comprehension issues and has a powerfully negative impact on self-esteem. And dyslexics aren't stupid or uneducated, or unable to be educated. They have a genuine disorder that requires special attention to overcome, preferably while they're still kids. Why are you so interested? This can't have anything to do with the case, can it?"

"Probably not. But I think Lassie has dyslexia. Possibly anorexia, too, I'm still not ruling that out. And tourettes. He's a twitchy little man."

"Lassiter does not have tourettes. Or anorexia, for that matter. But what makes you think he's dyslexic?"

"'Cause that tiny nun with the bullhorn voice is teaching dyslexic kids how to read," Shawn said.

"Now that she's retired, yes," Gus said. "She was a full-time teacher when Lassiter went here."

"Uh huh, but she also said that she was now just teaching the kids with learning disabilities, 'like you.' 'Like you,' Gus, 'like you.'"

"There's more than one learning disability," Gus said severely. "Though I have to admit dyslexia seems the most likely candidate. If it's true than my respect for his accomplishments just went up a whole hell of a lot. But if you're so interested in Lassiter's personal details, why don't you just ask him?"

"Dude, what? And get my arm twisted and my shoulder slammed into a brick wall? Again? That hurts, you know. Man has scary strong hands. Fingers like C-clamps."

"Shawn, Gus - you guys coming?" O'Hara called. She and Lassiter were waiting for them fifty paces down the hall at the principal's door.

"You guys go ahead," Shawn called, with a wave. "Gus and I are going to stay out here for now, see what vibes we can pick up on from the hallways. Lots of things go down in school hallways."

"You don't want to hear what the principal has got to say about all of this?" Juliet said. "Could help us narrow things down a lot."

"If I need any information I'll read it from Lassie's big milky coconut head later," Shawn said disinterestedly. The police detectives shrugged him off and left them standing in the hall.

"So do you have a plan, or are we just going to stand out here waiting and doing nothing?" Gus asked.

"Gus, have you seen a trophy case that big since ever?" Shawn said, and pointed out the long wall cabinet by the principal's door. "And I see picture frames."

"You're more interested in prying into Lassiter's past than you are in helping suffering children escape an abuser," Gus accused. "Besides, the man graduated like twenty years ago. What are the chances you're going to find anything?"

"Come on, Gus, a case this big in a school this small? They've got to have every trophy they've ever won since the school opened."

"Which still doesn't mean Lassiter ever actually won anything."

"Have faith, my dear Guster - what he lacks in physical prowess he more than makes up for in sheer aggression. He won something, it's just a matter of finding it."

He scanned the pictures of baseball teams and wrestling squads, the names engraved on brass plates at the base of cheap trophies. "And we have a bingo," he said, pointing out a team photograph. Guster peered at the teenaged boys in baseball uniforms and didn't have much trouble picking out the lanky form and jug-handle ears of the Head Detective. "How disappointing," Shawn continued. "I was so hoping for that singlet. Hey dude, there's a trophy with Lassie's name on it. Told you." He elbowed his friend in the side.

Guster read the placard. "You were right, Shawn, Lassiter was a boxer in high school. Apparently he took a regional championship in the bantamweight division in 1987."

"Bantamweight? Really? Judging from that picture I'd have guessed flyweight. Maybe mosquito-weight. Seriously, that is one tall and scrawny kid - are you sure he's not anorexic?"

"Doubtful. Boxing would typically require a physical strength that serious anorexics wouldn't be able to muster. And boxing in addition to wrestling and baseball? No, I don't think so. Although anorexia isn't an unheard-of problem for boys on the wrestling squad or probably boxing, either - cutting weight to stay in the lower divisions, you know."

Shawn turned his attention back to the team photo. "Look at him, Guster - little teenaged Lassie-pants. Wasn't he cute? Like a Saint Bernard puppy, all long legs and big paws. And huge floppy ears."

Gus shook his head sadly. "Shawn, this sudden obsession with Lassiter is really starting to freak me out. You're not, like, getting the hots for him or something are you?"

"Guster, there is nothing strange in being attracted to a mature, good-looking older male," Shawn said in his most effeminate and offended tone. "Seriously, though - he's a friend. You don't get curious about your friends?"

"Not this curious. And I hardly think that a short-term cessation of active animosity qualifies the man as a 'friend.' Particularly not when he threatened to shoot you repeatedly not too long ago, a threat that I'm pretty sure still stands."

"Oh come on. He's our brutha from anutha potentially psychotic mutha."

"How about we get to work trying to find a child abuser?" Gus said. "I hope you have some ideas on that score."

"Not a one. Probably about the only thing we can do is find a kid who'll tell us what's been happening to them. Unless one of the priests has some porn stashed in his office, which would be circumstantial at best but probably enough to secure a confession."

"Depending on what kind of porn, Shawn, it could very well be enough for a jail sentence on its own."

"Maybe, but we'd want to make sure there's no doubt in any jury's mind that it isn't just a case of looking but not touching. Besides, I think it's a pretty outside shot that there's anything like that to be found here, outside of some Playboys in the boy's locker room, maybe. If they were concerned enough to call in the cops, then they've probably already come up empty on a quiet little investigation of their own."

"Chief Vick said that they called us in first," Gus objected.

Shawn scoffed. "Please, Gus - you think the Catholic church is eager to court any more bad press on child abuse in the priesthood? No, either they came up empty but are still seriously concerned, or they already know that nothing was going on but want the police to say so themselves. Give the parents an objective third party to put their minds at ease, or whatever."

"So we're most likely here on a wild goose chase," Gus said. "Wonderful."

"Really, Gus? You're going to take that tone? I consider that whether we catch a dirty priest or we find out that there's nothing to worry about, it's a win."

Gus jerked his head in reluctant agreement. "But everyone's assuming it's a priest. Maybe it's a nun."

"I'm not going to rule out the possibility, Gus."

The principal's door flew open and rebounded hard against the brick wall, almost shutting again on Lassiter as he stormed out, looking like a small angry bull with his head lowered between his hunched shoulders. Shawn could hear Juliet, sounding flustered, making some lame explanation in the office.

"What the hell does he think he's doing?" Gus asked.

"I don't know, but that was his 'let's nail this asshole' face," Shawn said. "Maybe Lassie's already solved it."

"Shawn…how could he have figured out who the perpetrator is in just one talk with the principal? He's a good detective but…he's not you."

"Maybe he already knew something about this case. Maybe that was why he wanted to take it."

Juliet stuck her head out nervously. "Guys, where did Carlton go?" she asked.

"Down the hall."

"I think we should go after him. I've got a bad feeling…"

Another loud bang from another hall, and Lassiter's voice shouting almost incoherently, and Juliet scrambled toward the sounds of altercation, gun drawn. Shawn and Gus followed, after an exchange of glances.

Lassie's lost it, Shawn thought. He couldn't possibly have an arrest already.

It was worse than he thought. When they reached the room they found it a full of terrified third-grade students, watching with tea-saucer eyes as their teacher, a grey-haired, pleasant-looking priest with square-rimmed spectacles askew, struggled vainly in obvious terror and confusion beneath the Head Detective, who not only had a knee on the older man's back but had drawn his gun on him as well.

"Officer needs assistance," Juliet spoke into her police radio, and gave the code and her location. "Kids, please go into the hall and wait down at the end. Gus, could you help them out please?"

Guster quietly ushered the scared kids out of the room and down the hall. Shawn stayed, watching the scene. Juliet, he noticed, had her gun slightly raised. It wasn't pointed at anybody, but the barrel was aimed rather more in the direction of her partner than his suspect. "Carlton? Talk to me. What have you got?"

"A fucking piece of shit pedophile," the man growled.

"Please…what's going on?" the priest pleaded. "I don't understand."

"Sir, I need you to just stay calm and don't resist. We'll get this sorted out, I promise," Juliet said. "Carlton, I need more than that. What do you know? What evidence have you got?"

The older detective seemed to wilt slightly, and Shawn's heart fell. He's got nothing. Good God, he's angling for a charge of false arrest, maybe even police brutality. On a priest.

It wasn't the first time the bombastic police detective had pounced too soon, but it was the first time Shawn had seen him act on the basis of no solid evidence whatsoever. Worst of all, despite having been called to the carpet by his more level-headed partner, he didn't seem to be willing to back down. Indeed, in short order he seemed to suffer a resurgence of anger and he slammed the priest's head down on the tile floor.

"Carlton, calm down," Juliet demanded. The barrel of the gun rose slightly, its aim just a trifle closer to directly on the detective. "Carlton, don't make me do something I don't want to have to do."

Shawn heard the sirens outside, and a few moments later the sound of pounding feet in the hall heralded the arrival of a very surprised Officer Buzz McNab, who loomed in the doorway with his hand on the butt of his sidearm. "Detective O'Hara?" he asked doubtfully.

"Shawn, stay back please. McNab, back me up," Juliet said, and edged into the room, eyes locked on Lassiter. McNab followed, still clearly uncertain whether he was here to arrest a priest or his commanding officer. The police officers circled cautiously closer, until O'Hara was close enough to lay a gentle hand on Lassiter's arm. "Put the gun down, Carlton, come on."

He looked ready to resist, but O'Hara was obdurate and eventually he returned the Glock 17 to his shoulder holster. McNab took him by the shoulders and gently pulled him off the downed man. "Come on, sir - you look like you need to sit down for a minute."

O'Hara helped the priest to his feet. "I'm Detective Juliet O'Hara. I apologize for my partner's…er…mistake."

"Young lady, that seems entirely too gentle a word for it," the priest said, his voice shaking. Shawn couldn't help but feel sorry for the man, but he also had a hard time believing that Lassiter had acted wholly without justification. Chief Karen Vick stuck her head around the doorjamb, startling everyone.

"I heard the call and thought that it seemed entirely too soon for trouble to have arisen," she said, and her eyes scanned the strange scene suspiciously. "Is everything under control in here?"

"Yes, Chief," O'Hara said, too quickly. "Yes, we've got it under control."

"Now, I'm not so sure of that myself," the priest said. "This man attacked me, right in front of my students. They weren't even my high school students, they were elementary. They must be scared to death. I think I may have to press charges."

"What ever happened to turning the other cheek?" Shawn said softly, almost to himself.

"Young man, if it were just my safety at stake, I would leave it lay," the priest said, with a disapproving glare. "But this man is supposed to be an officer of the peace, a servant of the public safety. This district has traditionally been a low-income area, and there is a lot of crime and mistrust. We teach our students to trust the police, but how can they when they see things like this?"

"The last thing you're teaching them is trust, you sick sonofabitch," Lassiter growled.

"Enough, Detective," Chief Vick said, favoring her officer with one of her patented "you're in enough trouble" stares. "You had better have a very good explanation for this, and you'd better have it quick. What grounds do you have for an arrest?"

"He's a child abuser," Lassiter insisted.

"But what evidence do you have, Carlton?" Chief Vick said patiently. Shawn was interested and slightly alarmed to note that she'd used his first name. She's not going to try and talk this guy out of pressing charges, he thought. "Do you have a witness?"

"I - no, Chief."

"Physical evidence?"

"No." The detective hung his head.

"So judging by the rumpled condition of this man's clothes and the fresh bruise springing up on his forehead, and the general state of shock I see on O'Hara's and McNab's faces, you charged in here and roughed this man up for absolutely no reason. Is that a fairly accurate assessment?"

Lassiter shuffled and stared at the floor.

"You will answer me when I ask you a question," Chief Vick demanded.

"Yes, Chief - I guess that is…fairly accurate," Lassiter confessed reluctantly.

"I see. Your name, sir?" she asked the priest.

"Father Sean O'Bryan," the priest said. "I teach social studies at the elementary level here and political sciences to our upperclassmen. I also coach several extracurricular sports. I'm also one of the school's guidance councilors, though most any of our teachers will turn a hand to counseling a troubled youth. Perhaps this poor man could've used such a hand."

"Well, Father O'Bryan, I must express my apologies for the behavior of my officer. If you wish to press charges, that is your right."

"I don't exactly wish to, you understand, Chief Vick - I feel it is my duty."

Shawn had seen the anger drain out of Lassiter's tense form, but at these rather sanctimonious words it all came flooding back. He lunged forward with his hands outstretched, as though intending to throttle the priest, but he didn't make it. McNab grabbed him around the shoulders and held him, though it proved a struggle despite the younger officer's greater size.

"Please, sir," McNab pleaded. "Don't make this any harder."

"McNab, cuff him and take him back to the station for holding," Chief Vick said. "Then come back here and assist Detective O'Hara in cleaning up this mess. I was worried, Carlton, when you said that you wanted this case, that you'd do something tactless and make the police look like heartless fools. I was not worried that you'd pull something this abysmally stupid. You have only yourself to blame. McNab - be sure to check him thoroughly. I'm sure he's carrying more than just the one sidearm."

Shawn followed the Chief into the hall as McNab began a hesitant pat-down of his senior officer. "I am sensing that there is something troubling our lanky comrade, Chief, something deep and dark and dangerous. I think I can help."

"You needed a psychic vision for this, Mr. Spencer?" the Chief said lightly, not slowing her steps. "I hired Psych to investigate a possible pedophile, not the Mysterious Case of the Defective Detective. Frankly, I think Carlton has been angling toward a nervous breakdown for awhile now, and it's entirely my fault that I didn't remove him from active duty. But it's too late now for Monday-morning quarterbacking. The only way to keep something like this from becoming a massive public relations nightmare is for Carlton to face the music on it, and me, too. I am going to have to spend the rest of the day drafting a formal apology. If I'm lucky, I'll receive a reprimand from the DA's office and the mayor - I may very well lose my job. If there's a child abuser here, Mr. Spencer, find them. We're going to need that bust more than ever now."

Shawn stopped dead in his tracks. "I will, Chief. Count on it."

"Good. Good day, Mr. Spencer."

McNab walked past Shawn as he stood motionless in the middle of the hall, leading a handcuffed Lassiter. The tall patrolman gave him a miserable look in passing. Shawn understood perfectly - despite the detective's lack of charm, McNab looked up to him and rather idolized his superior, even to the point of seeing him as something of a father figure.

"Don't worry, Buzz-ter," Shawn called out. "I'll clear this all up, I promise."

"Leave it alone, Spencer," Lassiter roared, with a slightly surprising lack of gratitude under the circumstances.

"Carlton, when will you say that you love me?" Shawn cried out in mock emotional pain. "Come on, Lassie, I'll have you out of hock with the boss in eight hours. Twelve, tops. Maybe two weeks, depends on whether my Netflix delivered the Taxi and Welcome Back, Kotter collections or not."

Lassiter swore colorfully. "He's only trying to help, sir," McNab said as they left the building.

"What happened with Lassie?" It was Gus, who walked around the corner too late to see Lassiter being led away. "Was he right about that priest?"

"What happened with the kids?" Shawn asked absently.

"Father Malone, the principal, sent them home. He was pretty upset about this, Shawn, and I can't say I blame them. Who takes down a teacher in front of their third-grade social studies class?"

"A driven man, Gus, a driven man. Potentially driven insane, but I still think there's got to be some justification for it. He got arrested, by the way. Poor McNab, he may never recover."

"Day-um. Not that I don't understand it, but geez, harsh."

"We'd better go check on Jules," Shawn said. "Pulling your gun on your partner must be a moderately traumatic event."

Juliet was still in the social studies classroom, now seated in one of the student's chairs. She looked pale and shaken. Father O'Bryan, by comparison, seemed calm and collected. Shawn took a moment to give him the once-over.

That's a mighty flashy ring for a man of the cloth, he thought, spying the large sapphire on the priest's right hand. But a lack of adherence to his vow of poverty isn't grounds for arrest - if he was even required to take one.

"Father O'Bryan, I'm Shawn Spencer, head psychic for the Santa Barbara Police Department. I'm working with Detective O'Hara here to resolve certain…issues here at the school."

"Oh, yes. You mean the suspected child abuse? I hate to say it, young man, even though I'm glad it's the truth, but there's nothing in it. Kids these days, they've got problems we never dreamed of when we were growing up. A little moodiness and self-esteem issues, slipping grades…well, they're just not as likely to mean anything like that anymore. In fact, they're probably more likely to indicate drug abuse than child abuse."

"Detective Lassiter didn't seem to think there was nothing in it."

"Detective Lassiter? Was that the poor man's name? I feel very sorry for him, he's obviously a troubled soul."

"I agree. But then, we all have our troubles. Father O'Bryan, I'm sensing that you've taught here at Saint Joseph's for…quite some time."

The man nodded. "Yes. Over twenty years."

"A good long career. Countless innocent lives have passed into your hands, and you've…touched…so many."

Father O'Bryan clearly bridled. "What are you implying, young man?"

"The golden apple award on your desk - those are only given to teachers who have made a special effort, who have stood out among their peers. You're a good teacher." And crazy-guilty, if only I can prove it.

The priest's metaphorical feathers smoothed out. "Oh. Yes, quite an honor. And quite the surprise. I didn't even know I'd been nominated."

"Sir, I know you've suffered quite a traumatic experience today, and I'd like to give you time to rest and recover your senses, but will you please stick around? I or Detective O'Hara will wish to talk with you later. My senses are telling me that you may be able to help us shed light on certain unfortunate circumstances, but I need do explore what I'm receiving, first, and the good lady detective doubtless needs a minute or two at least to collect herself."

"What? Oh. Yes, yes of course. I'll be here."

"Detective O'Hara, may I speak with you privately?"

"What? Oh. Okay, Shawn." Juliet followed him into the hall. "What is it?"

"First of all, how are you? That was a very much not good scene, and I can tell you're feeling it."

"I'm…I'm okay. I guess. Damn Carlton, we really didn't need this."

"What happened in the principal's office? He was definitely a man on a mission."

"Nothing happened. Or next to nothing. We hadn't even gotten through all of our inquiry. Carlton was reading through a list of current staff members and just stormed out. He didn't even say anything to me."

"He's got a personal history with the good Father," Shawn said, more than half to himself.

"Beg pardon?"

"It's not important. Not yet, anyway. I'd like to speak with Father Malone, would that be possible?"

"Of course. He's in his office. Probably planning to sue the PD."

"He should be feeling pretty grateful, actually. Lassie's little meltdown will take a lot of attention off the whole 'perverted priest' issue. At least providing we don't find one. If we do, I rather think the reverse will be true, don't you?"

"That wouldn't be my primary reason for wanting to put the collar on a dirty priest, but it would be a nice side-benefit."

Shawn chuckled. "'Put the collar on,' that's a good one."

"Huh?"

"Put the collar…on… He's a…priest. Priests wear…collars - look, never mind. Gus and I have got to talk to Father Malone. Jules, why don't you wait for McNab outside, eh? You're still looking a little peaky, I think you need some air."

It was a testament to how upset she really was that she didn't object to being ordered about by a civilian. "Yeah, I think I will. Good luck, Shawn."

"Come on, Gus - let's go to the principal's office. How strange to think we're not in trouble this time."

"Not yet. But I doubt he'll be too happy to see us after what Lassiter did."

"Oh, Negative Nelly, how I've missed you," Shawn said, and opened the door to let Gus pass.

Inside the office they found a beefy, white-haired septuagenarian with a florid face and bright blue eyes.

"Gus, dude - is that Father Malone, or Irish McIrishman? Say whaaat?" Shawn whispered.

"Show some respect, Shawn. The man is a premiere educator and a priest."

"How do you know he isn't our pedophile?" Shawn argued.

"I know because you know, Shawn. You've already decided it's Father O'Bryan, probably based more on your sudden and if I may say so disturbing obsession with Detective Lassiter than any real proof. But if we can put a pedophile behind bars and give Lassie the justification he needs to get out of jail and keep his job, then I suppose I'm willing to pursue it."

"Excuse me, boys, but…do you often make people wait around for you while you have whispered conversations?" Father Malone asked.

Shawn cocked his head curiously and thought about it. "Actually, we do. Particularly today."

Father Malone chuckled. "Can I help you boys with anything?"

"I am hoping so, Father. I am Shawn Spencer, psychic detective working with the SBPD. This is my associate, Chesterfield McFistycuffs the Fourth. We were originally brought on to investigate your suspicions regarding the possibility of child abuse, but I'm afraid this unfortunate business with our colleague Detective Lassiter has got my senses in an uproar. I'm afraid I may not be able to achieve the clarity I need to devote myself fully to the underlying issue."

"Ah, yes, the cute little blonde detective mentioned you, and I've read about your work in the papers. God granted you a wonderful gift, my son, and I hope you can put it to work for us in this matter - and not just about the abuse. If there's any way you can clarify exactly what happened with Carlton today, I'd certainly appreciate that, too," Father Malone said glumly. "That was certainly 'unfortunate.' I just don't understand it. He was such a good boy while he was in school, never any trouble. Well, never much trouble, at any rate. So quiet. It's always the quiet ones."

"So you remember him from his days as a student here," Shawn said.

"Oh, yes. He was an excellent student, and in difficult circumstances which made it all the more impressive. I was Dean of Students then and mostly only dealt face-to-face with the troublemakers, but he was what you might call a unique kid. He stood out."

"What sort of difficult circumstances, exactly?" Shawn asked. Father Malone gave him a suspicious look and he raised a placating hand. "Detective Lassiter is more than a colleague, he is a close personal friend, and I feel that if I can untangle the turbulent psychic impressions surrounding his outburst today, then I will be able to resolve both of your concerns. I don't know yet if the circumstances are connected or only that the search for the solution to one will lead me to the answer of the other, but I know that I must ask for personal details you might not, under ordinary circumstances, feel comfortable giving me. For instance, I am sensing a connection to wrestling, and yet I also sense that there are no trophies or photographs on display in your collection that link Carlton to that sport."

Father Malone nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, Carlton was on the wrestling team in his high school years. He won a few trophies but we don't keep personal awards unless the recipient donates them to us. The team photos are probably in the yearbooks, we'll have copies stashed somewhere about, most likely in the library archives. Is that important?"

"It might be, and I'll want to take a look at those yearbooks later. However I think that now what I really need is to look in your student records from those years. Would that be possible?"

Gus yanked his arm. "Shawn. Is this really the time?"

"It's the only time, Gus, have faith."

"I…suppose it's okay, given that you're working with the police and all," Father Malone said doubtfully. "We've been trying to computerize our records, but the going is slow and we haven't made it back as far as the eighties yet. You can dig through my filing cabinets, the years are labeled."

"Thank you, Father, so very, very much."

Shawn found the drawer marked 1985-1989, opened it, and began thumbing through the years.

"Do you know what years Lassiter was here?" Gus asked.

"Well, that boxing trophy was for 1987, and since it's the only trophy he saw fit to donate to the school I'm thinking that what I'm looking for will be in that file, if it exists at all."

"What does donating a trophy have to do with anything?"

"Gus, when an ultra-competitive and ever-so-slightly egotistical man like Lassiter doesn't want to display his own award, then there's a problem with the reward. I just need to figure out what."

Gus's face took on a speculative look, and then his eyes widened as a possible explanation occurred to him. "You…you really think the answer is here, don't you? It isn't just about being obsessed with finding out Lassiter's personal history. You think he's got some sort of connection to this…this child abuse case. A personal connection."

"I think it's a very strong possibility, as evidenced by the fact that he attempted to make that priest's face a part of the flooring."

"But if Lassiter was…" Gus gulped "…abused while he was a student here, why wouldn't he have come forward? If not at the time, then here today when Chief Vick asked him if he had a witness?"

"Being abused by a trusted adult is a traumatic event, Gus. It's possible that he was intimidated into silence at the time, and maybe he even repressed the memory."

"Lassiter was a boxing champion, Shawn - wouldn't he have been able to defend himself?"

"Not necessarily, Gus," Shawn said, and continued to scan file markers. "For one thing, a 'good boy' doesn't punch out his teachers. For another, I think maybe our perp would have been relatively young, quite fit, and in a higher weight division than Lassie at the time - and, just maybe, his boxing coach."

He pulled a file and opened it, his eyes scanned the pages within with practiced efficiency. "Look at this, Gus - a disciplinary report for fighting in the hallways, and here is a copy of a letter that good old Dean Malone sent his mother regarding the sudden plummet of Lassie's political science grade."

"What does that prove?"

"Nothing, taken on its own. Taken as a whole, it becomes quite suggestive. Up until the D- in twelfth-grade poli-sci, Lassie had a 4.0 grade average and no disciplinary record whatsoever."

"I'm not saying you're wrong, Shawn," Gus shrugged, "but the truth is, good students have meltdowns. Too much stress and raging hormones, it's a volatile combination. You're going to need more."

"He managed to hold it together in all of his other classes," Shawn said mildly. "Including his special tutoring with Mother Mary Catherine for - wait for iiiiiit - dyslexia."

"Well, there's your difficult circumstances that Father Malone mentioned. A lot of dyslexics are of high intelligence, but it's not easy to make good grades when you're fighting a reading disorder."

"Yeah, but they knew about the dyslexia for years and years, Gus - it's not what caused the meltdown, no way."

"Father Malone handled the issue," Gus said. "Ask him about it."

Shawn nodded and poked him in the shoulder. "A very. Good. Idea, Gus." He stood up and turned to the elderly principal, who had returned to his desk across the room. "Father Malone, I sense that I am close to a major breakthrough. The incident with Carlton in the hallway his senior year. I sense that it was highly out of character. Shocking, in fact. So much so that it raised certain suspicions in your mind at the time, suspicions you were never able to substantiate because he wouldn't talk to you about it. The other party involved in the fight…a student?"

Father Malone blinked. "Er…no. A teacher, actually."

"Father…Sean O'Bryan."

"That's right, son. Carlton just attacked him for no good reason one day after class. Of course, that was when we found out he was failing political science, which we determined was the reason for the outburst."

"But you didn't believe that, did you, Father Malone?"

"It…seemed a fairly flimsy excuse for his actions. But he wouldn't tell us otherwise, and there were certain issues in his life at the time that probably explained both the falling grades and the change in demeanor."

"But only one grade fell."

"Yes, that's true. Strange, I know, but it isn't entirely uncommon for one class or teacher to give more trouble than others. Father O'Bryan was new that year, Carlton had taken political science from his predecessor in previous years. Sometimes the change in teaching styles proves too much."

"You mentioned 'issues' again, and I'm sensing you don't mean Lassiter's dyslexia. No, that was pretty well in hand by his senior year of high school. The universe is telling me the issues were personal, perhaps family-related?"

"He…came from a rather low-income family, and he was the oldest child. His mother was…'over-bearing,' to put it mildly, and not exactly affectionate. His father…his father was a petty crook, spent most of Carlton's childhood in jail over minor offenses. 1987, though, that was a bad year - DeWayne Lassiter went to the state penitentiary for armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder. He's still in, last I knew. It was shortly afterward that Carlton had his mini-breakdown, if that was what it was."

Shawn laughed. "Gus, Lassie's dad's name is 'DeWayne,'" he said.

"He's also a convicted criminal, Shawn," Gus said severely. "Could we stay serious here for a minute? We're trying to catch a bad guy and vindicate a colleague, remember?"

"Of course. Father Malone, my psychic senses keep leading me back to that boxing trophy in the case outside. If I might ask, who was Carlton's boxing coach?"

"Father Sean O'Bryan," Father Malone said promptly. His eyes bored into Shawn's, and the detective realized that Malone had suspected the truth all along. He just needed proof.

"What other sports did Father O'Bryan coach?"

"Swimming, soccer, and lacrosse."

"Did Carlton go out for any of those?"

"No."

"Thank you, sir, you've been most helpful indeed, and I assure you, we'll have this all sorted out in very short order. You don't have to be afraid for the children any more."

The man stared into his eyes a moment longer, then nodded in evident relief. "I pray it is so, my boy. Make it happen."

Shawn nodded back and turned and left the office. Gus followed and soon realized that his friend was headed for the front doors. "Shawn, aren't you going to talk to Father O'Bryan?"

"I don't think that will be necessary. Jules and McNab are working the interview angle with the kids and staff - they can handle it. Let's go get some churros and then head back to the station to wait for them."

"Really? Do you mean you got enough out of that to catch O'Bryan out?"

"No, but I got enough to get the rest of what I need."

Three hours later

O'Hara and McNab came in together, and both of them looked down-hearted and defeated. "What did you get, Jules?" Shawn asked as he slid off the hard plastic seats in the reception area to follow them into the Bullpen.

"Blockaded. By the time we started our interviews the parents had found out what happened, and almost all of them refused to let us talk to their kids. A few of the wealthier ones even lawyered up. If we had any chance at all of finding out what was going on at that school, Carlton destroyed it for us. Please, please tell me you had better luck?"

"Not really. But I have a good feeling - the psychic vibes are building, and I think the spirits are destined to sing to me soon. Are you going in to talk to Chief Vick? She's in a pretty bad state, I've been afraid to get too close."

"I've got to," Juliet said, though she looked apprehensive. "Oh, this is such a mess. If you could make the spirits hurry up, that would be wonderful."

"It won't be long, Jules, I'm sure of it. In fact, I'm sensing that I'll experience a strong surge of psychic vibrations in the Chief's office, so I'll follow you in if I may."

"Please do. I usually have Lassiter to take the brunt of Karen's wrath, so this is scary for me."

"Never fear, fair lady, I will be your human shield as we face the dragon."

They opened the door to the Chief's office. "Talk to me, O'Hara. Tell me I'm not going out in a hail of bullets." The usually unflappable policewoman looked like she'd already come under considerable fire.

O'Hara took a deep breath. "The parents are stonewalling us, Chief. They won't let their kids talk to us because they're afraid we'll do something to traumatize them. We got a few interviews with staff members and a preliminary investigation of the premises, but we came up empty. I'm not giving up - there's something to this, I know there is. I've just got to have a little more time."

"We don't have time, O'Hara. The DA is out for blood - Carlton's and mine, and he might not want to stop there. We need an arrest warrant for someone and we need it now or this whole department may go up in flames. Mr. Spencer - anything to add? Please?"

Shawn shook his head. "I'm sorry, Chief, I - " he jerked suddenly. "Oh my."

"What? What is it?" a faint gleam of hope dawned in the Chief's eyes.

"I'm getting something. There's a witness we can flip. There is someone we can get to testify to what Father O'Bryan has been doing to the children of Saint Joseph's Parochial for the last twenty-odd years."

"That's great. Who?"

He spun in a jerky circle, arms outstretched, face set in a grimace. "I-I-I-I-I-I-I don't know! I don't know! The vibes just aren't strong enough. I have to find a conductor, clarify the signal. Follow!"

He ran out into the hall and grabbed a wire coat hanger off the cloakroom rack by the Bullpen entrance. He struggled for a few minutes until he managed at last to straighten it out and break it into two pieces, which he bent into dowsing rods. "I need complete silence," he said. "Let the spirits guide me - take me where the signal is strongest."

Using small twitches of the muscles in his fingers and palms, he made the wires wave and cross in the air. He pretended they were dragging him, up the hall and down the stairs to the main holding cells. "It's so powerful! Like a riptide!" he shrieked.

O'Hara, McNab, and Chief Vick followed him down the stairs, along with half the department. The wires kept swinging back and forth until he reached the cell where Detective Lassiter leaned against a back wall, arms crossed over his chest. "It's here! Here! Here they will speak to me!"

He looked up, then did a double-take. Half a dozen rather scary-looking men stood huddled in the far corner of the cell, as far from the jailed detective as they could get. Lassiter shifted position slightly and they jumped. "Dudes, really?" Shawn asked them incredulously.

"You didn't see him when they brought him in," a burly, bearded man in biker's leathers said. "Man looked like he was about to kill somebody. With his teeth."

Shawn shrugged one shoulder. "Anyways…" his body jerked again. "Oh! Oh, they're back! The spirits are back! Our witness…is not…a student! He's not a student!"

"One of the staff?" O'Hara asked.

"No! No, I'm sensing…I'm sensing that he was a student, but no longer. It's a man! A man who graduated from Saint Joe's! He was…he was one of the first victims - maybe the first victim."

"What are you doing, Spencer?" Lassiter growled. Chief Vick held up a hand to quiet him.

"He's a strong presence, I can feel it - strong, and courageous. A man of great integrity. He hasn't come forward…why? Why hasn't this strong, brave, honest man come forward? He wants to, I can feel it. He wants the guilty to pay for what they've done. Oh, it's so painful, what is he waiting for?"

"Calm down, Mr. Spencer - what else can you discern about this man? What is his name? Where do we find him?" Chief Vick asked.

"He's close. He's so very close. I can't tell you his name but for some reason I'm suddenly hungry for Milk Bones and rawhide. I see…I see a rooster. A cock fight. Why would there be a cock fight at a Catholic school?"

"An illegal gambling ring?" McNab suggested. It wasn't a bad venture by McNab's standards but it wasn't going to help anything.

"No, wait, it's not a rooster. It's a…it's a bantam. What? A bantam is a rooster, what are you trying to say to me? A bantam…a bantamweight."

"A boxer!" O'Hara cried out. Shawn struggled to repress a smile.

"Yes! Yes, he was a boxer. I'm sensing he was very good at it. He won a trophy, a regional championship. I'm sensing a year, I'm sensing 198...7!"

"So, we check school records for a bantamweight championship boxer from 1987 and interview him. Good work, Spencer," Chief Vick said approvingly.

"I don't think you have to go through that much trouble, Chief," Shawn said. "He's close. He's so very close. I can smell him. He smells like coffee and gun oil and English Leather aftershave. Coffee and…cream. A lot of cream. And sugar. Three sugars - no, four."

Buzz McNab's face registered surprise and recognition. Shawn wasn't surprised. He'd fetched Lassiter's coffee nearly every day for years.

"Detective Lassiter takes his coffee with three creams and four sugars," he said in confusion. Shawn could have added that he also wore English Leather aftershave and was always faintly redolent of gun oil, but that would be cheating.

"…Carlton?" Juliet said. She was looking at her erstwhile partner in shock. In his cell, Lassiter's normally pale face had turned blotchy and grey. Shawn sincerely hoped he wasn't going to give the man a heart attack or stroke, but plowed on relentlessly.

"I'm sensing a secret shame. The boxing coach, a man he admired…took advantage of that trust, and of a sensitive family situation, to molest him. He ensured his silence by convincing him that no one would believe him, that they'd say he was making it all up, that he was acting out because he was hurting and over-stressed. And of course, when it comes down to it, no matter how good you are all your days, the sins of the father are hard to overcome. He might even have felt that somehow he'd brought the abuse on himself, that maybe if he'd been a little bit better, watched over his siblings a little closer, worked a little harder in school, shone just a little brighter, then maybe his father wouldn't have held up that bank. And he felt alone. So very, very alone. Special. Not in a good way."

Lassiter dropped onto the bench seat, hard. He looked winded, like he'd taken a hard hit to the stomach.

Shawn stepped forward and pressed himself against the bars, eyes fixed on the detective. "He wasn't alone. He might have been at the time, but there have been others in the years since. Maybe not many, not all at once. That was how he stayed under the radar all these years - he'd pick one special child, single them out, use them, and then cow them into submission because no one would ever believe them. He didn't fool everyone. Father Malone suspected from the beginning - good boys like our man don't cold-cock teachers on a whim. But he couldn't prove anything. No one would talk, and no one would listen."

"I ran records for a search on Saint Joseph's this afternoon," Chief Vick said. "Father Malone has instigated investigations in the past. Nothing ever came of it, and I was afraid we were chasing shadows for a paranoid old man."

"He wasn't paranoid. He was sharp, and sly as a fox. But Father O'Bryan was always just a little sharper. Wasn't he, Lassie?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said. His voice was choked and quavery.

"You do know what I'm talking about, Lassie," Shawn said gently. "You don't want to, but you do. You pushed the memory away so hard you nearly forgot it altogether - nearly, but not entirely. Father O'Bryan molested you, your senior year, just after they finally sent your father away to prison for good. Just after you won the regional boxing championship in the bantamweight division. You won a lot of sports trophies in high school, Lassie, but you didn't want that one - it was tainted, like your memory. Like you."

"That's a lie," Lassiter growled.

Shawn shook his head. "It's the truth. And you're a servant of the truth, Lassie, aren't you? It was always your goal, you wanted to be a cop. You wanted to drag your family name out of the gutter, put it on the right side of the badge for once. You wanted to protect people from men like your father, men like Father O'Bryan. And that's what we need you to do, Lassie. O'Bryan's victims, they're kids. They're scared, scarred kids. But you're a man, Lassie. You're probably the bravest man I've ever met. Those kids need you to be brave for them, right now. They need you to protect them, so that he can't hurt them or any others any more."

Police and prisoners all were staring, transfixed, at the crumpled figure on the holding cell bench, and more than a few eyes were glistening with tears. The biker pulled a bandana out of his back pocket and blew his nose honkingly.

"Come on, Lassie," he said in a sobbing voice. "For the kids."

Shawn saw three perfectly round tear-spots on the concrete floor beneath Lassiter's hanging head, but when the detective raised his eyes to meet his they were dry and determined.

"All right, Spencer," he said, and his voice was gun-metal hard again. "How do we bring this sick bastard down?"

Six weeks later

"Everyone, if I could have your attention please," Chief Vick stood in the middle of the Bullpen with her hands raised. "I have good news. No less than twenty-three additional witnesses have to date stepped forward, willing to testify in our case against Father Sean O'Bryan. In light of the impending criminal trial and with the evidence stacking up, the judge has seen fit to dismiss all charges brought against Detective Carlton Lassiter and the Santa Barbara PD by O'Bryan."

A loud cheer. Shawn, seated on the head detective's desk eating a bowl of Baskin Robbins with a tiny plastic spoon, let out a shrill whoop.

"In addition, Father Frank Malone has petitioned for and received a special commendation from the Archbishop, thanking Detective Lassiter for his courage and integrity in coming forward, inspiring others to do the same. I agree wholeheartedly with the sentiment expressed therein. I don't think I have ever witnessed a greater display of true courage."

More loud cheers, and a few wolf whistles. Chief Vick smiled and held up her hands for silence.

"Since the charges have been dismissed, Detective Lassiter will now be returning to full active duty. I am honored to be the first to say, 'Welcome back, Detective.'"

She turned to the lanky man hanging back in the shadows of the reception area and held out her hand. He stepped forward reluctantly and shook it, to renewed cheers and catcalls. Lassiter blushed red to the tips of his ears. Colleagues surged forward to shake hands, clap shoulders, and give hugs, which he returned awkwardly. Buzz McNab caught his superior officer up in a crushing bear hug and was persuaded to release him only by O'Hara's gentle urging.

"Come on, let the man get back to work," she said. She pulled the patrolman away and smiled at her partner, but didn't try to hug him or talk to him about what he had been through, what he was going to go through at the trial. She was learning.

"Spencer. Off my desk, now," Lassiter said, and swatted at him with a case file. Shawn hopped off obediently.

"Lassie, did you ever know that you're my hero?" Shawn blurted. The detective shot him a black look. "I'm not going to burst into song, I'm serious. I have always admired you, your work ethic. Your arrest record. Your penmanship. But I have never felt prouder to say that I have the opportunity to work with you." He held out his hand. Lassiter looked at it for a long moment, waiting for the punch line, then returned the offered handshake. Shawn smiled. "See you later, Lassie."

Gus met him by the cloakroom. "That was nice, Shawn. Really nice."

"Yeah, it was. You know, it's good to have the old boy back again. Place isn't half as fun without him." He stopped in front of the cork message board in the reception area and pulled a folded paper from his pocket. He tacked it to the board and walked away quickly. Gus glanced at the paper, retched, and hurried after his friend.

The sound of muted laughter in the halls brought Carlton Lassiter to investigate. A bevy of young officers, many of them female, were gathered around the message board, pointing at a picture posted there and giggling. He stared at it, then ripped it down and wadded it up. Damn that Spencer. Where in the hell did he find a picture of me in my high school wrestling singlet?

FINI