OK, so Shawn Spencer's fans won't like this. But his assitude of the past season has ticked me off so much I had to write this while it was still fresh in my head and demanded to be put to 'paper'. I don't personally know any cops, really, but I would NEVER behave the way Shawn does toward them. Frankly, enough's enough, and I had to get it out of my system and hopefully get back to Playbills Don't Pay Bills before my muse gets a hatchet and splits my skull open.
"Everybody pay attention to me now!"
Shawn Spencer had wrapped up the investigation, loudly demanding that the dozens of reporters and TV reporters zero in on him as he spread his arms and dramatically declared that Justin Marks was indeed the killer of the docent of the Santa Barbara Museum of Modern Art. The man was being handcuffed and hauled away by Detective Lassiter, and the psychic was apparently feeling rather puckish.
"And please, ladies and gentlemen, note that the floppy-eared detective leading Justin Marks away now did not solve this crime! Just as he has not solved any crimes in…well, let's face it, ever! Or at least, not since I became the head psychic of the Santa Barbara Police Department."
Lassiter only glanced briefly at Spencer, rolled his eyes, and shoved Marks on through the door and out toward the car. He wasn't in the mood. The TV reporters swung their cameras back toward Shawn, who grinned happily.
"So you would say you're the police department's savior?" one of the reporters – a representative of Santa Barbara's less-than-reputable Mirror - asked, grinning.
"Well, I wouldn't say that out loud, really, but without me, I doubt the SBPD could ever solve a crime," Shawn nodded. "But the word 'savior' isn't really a good one, and I believe it's being used elsewhere, at least until after November, so I don't think it's the best term…so maybe…knight in shining armor?"
"Shawn…" Gus said, elbowing him in the ribs.
"And my associate, Chocolate Crèmsicle Onastick here would agree," Shawn nodded, still grinning.
The reporters snickered amongst themselves, having enjoyed the show immensely, but Shawn noticed a young redheaded woman in the back of the group, waving her hand.
"Yes, yes…miss? You had a question?" he called, smiling warmly at her.
"I do, actually," she nodded.
"Okay. And I'll psychically answer your question, too…yes, I am pretty damned magnificent, and I know you're very impressed with my hair, but I'm seeing someone now, so I'm off the market. Sorry!"
Her auburn colored eyebrows lifted, and a coldness settled in her eyes. "You're quite the psychic!" she said, and only Gus caught the sarcasm in her voice. She glanced around and saw that two local news cameras were still filming the well-known psychic. She smiled sweetly at him, and Spencer grinned back, pleased to still be the center of attention, particularly from a gorgeous, statuesque redhead with a Southern drawl.
Gus knew that sweet, frost-laced drawl. He had heard it before. It meant T-R-O-U-B-L-E.
"I am indeed," Shawn smiled, only a little patronizingly, ignoring Gus's now frantic pleas with him to please for God's sake shut up now!
"I do have another question, if you don't mind, Mr Spencer."
"Oh? Good. Go ahead." Shawn gave Gus a little shove, and the pharmaceuticals rep sighed heavily, knowing it was hopeless now. Shawn was wandering into high speed traffic now, like a really, really stupid armadillo.
"I should lead up to it first…I understand you scored a one-hundred percent on the DET back when you were fifteen?"
"I did," Shawn laughed. "I scored better than Detective Dipstick, who just took Marks away. I suspect he's currently pistol-whipping him…Lassie's like that. Kind of a psych-…"
"A one hundred percent? That's very impressive," she interrupted. Gus stepped away, out of camera range, but was heard mumbling, "He doesn't even hear the train coming…"
"Isn't it, though?"
"So why aren't you a cop?" she asked.
Shawn shrugged. "I'm just too…cool to be a cop."
"Too cool? Really? My father was a police officer. A damned good one."
"Oh. Well…that's nice," Shawn said, a flicker of unease finally crossing his face. "I'm sure he was a… uh… credit to the…uh…force…"
"He scored well on the DET, too. About a ninety-four percent. Spent fifteen years as a detective with the LAPD homicide division. He was killed by a drug dealer when I was sixteen. Shot three times while saving the life of a terrified nine-year old girl that the punk was using as a human shield."
"Oh…" Shawn swallowed, his unease growing. He glanced at Gus, who gave him a 'I tried to warn you' look. Gus made an 'explosion' gesture with his hands, blowing his cheeks out and shrugging helplessly.
"So I have to say, Mr Spencer, when I hear somebody dissing the cops, it tends to kind of piss me off. Those people you enjoy putting down actually still have the sworn duty to protect your life and your property, even to the point of sacrificing their own lives to do it, don't they?" she said, her smile cool and her green eyes narrowing. "They can't even take their opinion of you into account. They just have to come in and save you, no matter what."
"Hey, listen, I never put the cops down…" Shawn said, hackles rising just a little. Or maybe it was just fear. The cameras were still on him, and the image showing on the screens was getting less and less attractive by the minute. Gus could almost hear Shawn's ego starting to hiss as it deflated, and it was getting louder and louder.
One of the TV reporters raised an eyebrow. "You just did diss them, Mr Spencer," he said. "You said that Detective Lassiter has never solved a case in his life."
"Uh…well…in…in the past six years…but I was…"
"A mendacious statement made by a man for whom 'truth' is a notion unexplored and thus unknown. Tell me, Mr Spencer…you passed the DET with a one hundred percent, but here's a question you don't get on that test…" the redhead continued. "What do you do when you hear gunfire?"
"What kind of question is that?" Shawn asked, his irritation growing.
"Well, you appeared to be inferring to us all that you're a better detective – and even a better cop, considering your test score – than the actual police officers and detectives with the SBPD, so I think it's a perfectly good question to ask any cop. You passed the DET with a one hundred percent. That would make you…superior, right? To all cops?"
"I'm not a cop!" Shawn snapped, becoming annoyed but wise enough not to take all the bait she was wiggling in front of his face. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Colleen Shay, Santa Barbara Sun," she said. "An actual newspaper," she said, glancing at the reporters from the Spencer-worshipping Mirror. "And you still haven't answered my question. What do you do when you hear gunfire?"
"I…uh…"
One of the TV reporters snickered. "I can tell you what he does. He screams, wets his pants and runs away. I saw it myself once. Only it wasn't gunfire – it was just a truck muffler backfiring. His friend there just fainted dead away."
"When did you see that?" Shawn snapped, glaring at the reporter, who only grinned at him. Gus looked affronted, but had enough sense to hold his tongue.
"I've got it on tape, if you want to see it."
Shawn's eyes widened in horror. "Well…uh…no thanks…"
Shay spoke again. She did indeed have a pleasant Southern accent, and an assertiveness about her that was rare among most Southern women. "So you passed the DET with a one hundred perfect at fifteen, make fun of the police, belittle the work they do, mock the risk they're taking with their very lives to protect you, strive to deprive them of the credit they deserve, and yet you expect them to just accept being treated that way? Why, exactly?"
"Well…I…I solve crimes!"
"All the crimes? In Santa Barbara? Or California in general?"
"Well, not all the crimes…" Shawn floundered.
"Just the big splashy ones? The ones that look interesting to you, maybe? The ones that will get you plenty of media attention, like this particularly unfortunate murder that didn't involve a lot of blood, since you and your friend tend to scream and faint when you see blood – that's also on record, by the way. Just a poisoning of a rather snooty but otherwise fairly decent woman. High society. Money. Shiny sparkly things to look at. Snarky comments to make about other people, including the already overworked, underpaid detectives that had to do all the grunt work while you flailed around and demanded the cameras be on you at all times. I believe you accused four other people of being the murderer before you finally stumbled on the actual murderer, and I believe Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara were the ones who actually found the evidence pointing to Mr Marks. I also have info from a very reliable source that all four of those suspects of yours have issued complaints to the police about you entering their homes without their consent and eating all the food in their refrigerators and pantries."
"Well…that's…they were…um…just…lucky…and we were hungry…"
"Oh, there you go ahead, dissing the cops. Saying they're just lucky, rather than hardworking, honest and extremely good at their jobs, which is what you ought to say, instead of taking credit for their work. Hey, why doesn't the SBPD just change its name to the SSPD – Shawn Spencer's Police Department, since you seem to be in charge and run all the investigations…right?"
For once, Shawn was at a loss. He looked at Gus to assist him, but his friend had taken a seat, crossed his arms and was keeping his own counsel. Colleen Shay was still studying him, and Shawn looked like a deer in the headlights now.
"I think I know what you are, Mr Spencer."
Shawn tried to glare at her in an intimidating way, but she apparently wasn't impressed or cowed, and Shawn had never been described as remotely intimidating anyway. "And what am I?" he asked, voice laced with acid.
"A spoiled, perpetually angry, morally vacant, arrogant, egomaniacal pronoid narcissist with penis envy. You're not remotely tough, so you can't be a bully, but oh, you do have the snark, don't you? You're just a little kid, teasing the lions at the zoo. Oh, and by the way, stealing – even stealing food – is wrong. Just in case you didn't know it."
Even the reporters from the Mirror looked a little amused. The TV reporters were particularly tickled, and several of them started snickering. Shawn looked appalled, and consulted Guster. "Wh-what's a pronoid? Is that some kind of amoeba?"
"No, Shawn. It's not an amoeba. It's actually a pretty unflattering word," Gus muttered, scratching the back of his neck. This was getting awful.
Colleen Shay moved closer to Shawn, who backed away, unprepared for her sharp personality. "And you want to know the real reason why you aren't a cop, Mr Spencer?"
"Please, tell me," he snapped, growing more and more annoyed.
"Because you can't be a cop, Mr Spencer. Even if you passed the DET a hundred times with one hundred percent scores every time, you'd still be a cowardly, self-centered little boy who wets his pants when he hears a truck's backfire. Written tests don't make cops. Grownups – brave, dedicated men and women – make cops. So the next time you consider making fun of a police officer – including any of the cops that have the misfortune of having to deal with you every day – remember that it's only a simple matter of them believing that the law is impartial that keeps them from allowing people to pump your increasingly pudgy body full of lead or beating you into a wet, bleeding pulp, which is what you very clearly deserve. Next time you belittle them, or delight in ragging on any of them, consider all the times your sorry, tiny-penised, pasty little body wasn't ripped to shreds because someone like Detective Dipstick came to your rescue."
Shawn folded his arms across his chest, his face becoming more and more flushed with every word from Colleen Shay, and he glanced across the room, wishing he saw a friendly face now. But even the Mirror's reporters were looking less friendly. At best, they were looking a little embarrassed, while the others were looking rather hostile.
The door to the conference room opened then and Lassiter stepped back in. "Spencer. We're leaving. Would ya mind getting your ass in the damned car?"
"Uh…"
Colleen Shay raised her eyebrows at Lassiter. "Detective Lassiter, could you answer a question for me, please?"
He sighed and stepped into the room, removing his sunglasses. He looked exhausted and more than a little frazzled – the investigation had been a lengthy one, full of a dozen false leads and four enraged suspects that were threatening to sue because Spencer and Guster had consumed everything in their refrigerators. The museum curator was complaining of several small items having gone missing while Spencer and Guster were 'investigating' the murder of the docent. All things being equal, Lassiter was looking forward to going home, putting an icepack to the back of his neck, drinking a bottle of McAllan's, and watching Dirty Harry with his girlfriend.
"Listen, if there's another complaint about Spencer taking something from the museum, we've developed a policy of holding him upside down and shaking him every time he leaves any place of business, including museums, libraries, petting zoos and amusement parks. We have a really tall cop back at the station who does it now. Sure it hurts his back a little, but he doesn't mind doing a public service and we've recovered quite a few th-…"
"That's not the question, though that is very encouraging," Shay nodded. "My question to you is this, Detective…when you hear gunfire, what do you do?"
He stared at her for a second, then shrugged. "I run toward it."
"Why?"
Lassiter sighed. "Because it's my job to."
"Thank you, Detective."
She looked at Shawn, who mumbled something under his breath, grabbed Gus's arm and stalked out, letting Lassiter open the door for him. Colleen Shay looked back at the local TV news cameraman, who grinned and gave a thumbs up. "Got that all on tape?"
"Yep. It'll be a classic!"