Profile

Summary: It isn't until after Shawn disappears that they realize he fits the profile. And it was well known by then what would happen to him during the span of his captivity. Unfortunately, there are no leads. Ultra Shawn whump.

Rating: M, for graphic depictions of wounds, beatings, rape, and torture. Seriously, it's pretty hardcore, and all of it is nonconsensual, so if it's a problem for you, don't fucking read this.

Disclaimer: If I truly owned Psych, I could never hurt Shawn like this.

1

A man lay on the cold slab in the SBPD morgue, skin pale and lifeless. A thin white sheet covered his genitals, but did nothing to distract from the aftermath of his torture.

His short brown hair was greasy and tangled, as though it had been used for leverage by the cruel hand that had detained him. Scruffy facial hair covered his cheeks and chin, but the stark bruises were still visible across his jaw. Deep dark rings shadowed the deceased man's eyes, which were forevermore closed to his surroundings.

The man's body was similarly decorated with bruises. Some were the obvious result of fists against flesh, concentrated around his ribs. Long welts made by some weapon were visible on his legs and shoulders, but the majority of them lay across his back. His wrists were practically flayed, a sign of restraint and struggle. The worst of the bruises were around his throat: the imprint of chains were clearly seen, and several spots of his tender skin had been split due to the pinching metal.

Pieces of broken glass had been discovered in the lacerations on the soles of the man's feet. Whether the victim had attempted escape or was forced to walk over the debris was unclear. There was also a quantity of dry dog food discovered in his stomach, only partially digested. Humans were not meant to consume that product.

But what sickened the detectives assigned to the case the most was the violent sexual abuse. The man had been forcefully penetrated repeatedly, and likely on more than one occasion, leaving behind extensive damage to his anus and rectum.

As far as anyone could tell, the man had been in captivity for at least a week, no more than two.

Shawn whistled lowly as Woody reported the injuries of the deceased. Lassiter and Henry shot him disapproving looks. It was certain that Gus would have as well had he not rushed to the restroom to purge his stomach of his recently imbibed Berry Berry smoothie. Juliet and Chief Vick frowned, obviously perturbed.

"And this is the second victim?" Lassiter confirmed, raising an eyebrow. "Same manner of death?"

"Gunshot to the back," Woody nodded. He pointed a gloved finger to the victim's chest to bring attention to it. "No exit wound here, either. The bullet penetrated the heart after passing through the spinal cord. No chance of survival."

"So we have the start of a profile," the Chief mused, thinking back to the first mystery. "Both victims are white males near their thirties, dark haired. As far as we know, these two have no connection?"

"None," answered Juliet. "No witnesses to their disappearances. Within two weeks of being reported missing, both are found less than a mile from their homes, dead."

Lassiter cut in, "They were both dressed in the same clothes they had been last seen wearing, but no trace of their captor had been left behind. The clothes and the bodies were washed with industrial cleanser. No way to get any DNA."

Chief Vick gave an aggravated sigh. "So no leads."

The detectives shook their heads.

At long last, Shawn Spencer spoke up from the other side of the table. "It was a police officer," he said.

Sharp glares were cast toward him.

"Excuse me?" Henry asked, folding his arms over his chest. "Did you say—?"

"A police officer," Shawn nodded without looking up from the body. He didn't seem to notice the offense he had caused. "A left-handed one."

The others looked down to the cadaver as though searching for some message scrawled out on his chest. Expectedly, they found none and regarded the younger Spencer again.

"Do you hear yourself, Spencer?" Lassiter demanded incredulously. Even he had a difficult time processing the latest idiocy of his impromptu coworker.

Shawn looked up innocently. "The spirits are saying the killer is a left-handed police officer," he shrugged. "Have they ever been wrong?"

Before anyone could bring up one of the several instances in which the spirits were wrong, Woody brought attention to himself. "Actually," he said, holding up a finger, "that does make sense. As you can see, the wounds are mostly dedicated to the right side of the body. That is consistent with a lefty. The bullet is nine-mil. Standard police issue."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "But that doesn't mean it's a police officer."

Shawn groaned dramatically and turned to his father for backup. Seeing the scowl hardening his father's features, he immediately averted his gaze to Juliet instead. She returned the look, but did not offer anything substantial. He turned to the Chief expectantly.

Chief Vick exhaled heavily. "We'll look into it, Mr. Spencer," she said resignedly. "In the meantime, stay off of this case. And that certainly means that you will not go around harassing my left-handed officers."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Shawn grinned, entertaining the idea only in his mind. "Besides, Gus and I have important things to do today."

Lassiter visibly brightened at that.

Shawn turned to leave, but then stopped and spun around. "Right!" he exclaimed. "I just remembered. I need to report a stalker."

Juliet looked surprised, but the Chief and Henry merely arched an eyebrow. "A stalker?" they repeated in unison.

The psychic nodded. "Someone's been following me for the last three days. He shows up outside my house, at that diner I eat at, and at my office."

At this even Lassiter appeared a little interested, and vaguely concerned.

"All right," Chief Vick said. "Then we'll file a report. You'll give a description of this stalker, and—"

"It's Chucky."

"Who?"

"You know," Shawn prompted meaningfully. "It's Chucky. The scary doll."

The demeanor in the room instantly changed.

"Out, Mr. Spencer," Vick said, frowning severely as she tried to keep herself in check. "I don't want to see you in my station for at least the next day, understand?"

"But—"

"Mr. Spencer."

Shawn hesitated, looking affronted, and turned to the others as though looking once more for help. He found no sympathy. For a moment he considered blatantly ignoring the Chief's orders and telling her about the stalker anyway, but then shut his mouth and stormed out. He stopped to collect Gus from the restroom, then hauled his friend out of the station.

Once the psychic had left, Henry, Lassiter, and Juliet awaited their orders.

"Detectives," Chief said at last, "follow up on the last place this gentleman was seen. I want an eyewitness."

"Yes, Chief," they said, quickly taking their leave.

"Henry, I don't want your son on this case, or on any in the next few days," she said. "Unless we absolutely need his help."

"Not a problem," Henry nodded, completely agreeing. Sometimes he thought his son needed to spend a night in lock-up. His disregard for authority and his antics had just about driven even the patient Juliet up the walls.

Shaking his head, he followed the Chief out of the morgue after thanking Woody. It was nearly quitting time, anyway, so Henry decided that he would go upstairs, finish up his day's report, and clock out. Once he was home he could cook those sirloin steaks he'd gotten. His mouth watered at the thought, but he forced it to the back of his mind for the next hour so he could finish his job.

On the drive home, Henry contemplated inviting Shawn and Gus over. If he didn't invite Gus, then Shawn more likely than not wouldn't come. But there wasn't enough steak for all three of them, so he'd just have to convince his son that the dinner would be worth the lecture that Shawn knew he was planning.

It was a free, hot meal, after all.

Henry arrived at his beachside home at about five in the evening, and was eager to get his cooking started. Once the steaks were sizzling on the grill and some vegetables simmering on the stove, the elder Spencer pulled out his cell phone.

The line rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.

With an aggravated sigh, Henry hit the end button and redialed his son's number.

The line rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.

"What's the point of having a phone," Henry said irritably after the beep, "if you never answer the damn thing? Pick up, Shawn. I need to talk to you."

He waited a moment, but when it became clear that Shawn was not going to call him back, Henry dialed a new number.

This time it only rang twice.

"Mr. Spencer?" Gus greeted.

"Yeah," he answered gruffly. "Tell Shawn to answer his phone."

"Uh…Shawn's at the Psych office. I dropped him off about thirty minutes ago—Sir," he added respectfully.

"Fine," he said, then hung up.

Henry, more irked than ever, dialed the office's number. Hopefully Shawn had put the phone on its charger right side up.

The line rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.

"Damn it, Shawn!" Henry groused. "Fine, ignore me. See how it feels when I ignore you!" And he hung up, annoyed to no end.

Now he had to figure out what to do with an extra steak.