Someone Tried to Kill the Vampire!

Summary: When a piano tutor is attacked and hospitalized, Detectives Lassiter and Juliet are on the case. Since the elderly man is in a comatose state, they go to the scene of the crime: his apartment. Enter Shawn Spencer, psychic detective, who is astonished to learn what had happened. "Someone tried to kill the vampire!" (Warnings inside.)

Rating: T, *sensitive themes!* for depictions / mentions of child pornography, sexual abuse, and the use of adult language.

Disclaimer: If I owned Psych, you'd know about it. Trust me.

"Victim's name is Garrick Moore," Detective Juliet O'Hara informed her senior partner, Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, as they ascended the flight of stairs leading to apartment 223. "Sixty-eight years old, retired piano tutor. He was allegedly attacked last night around midnight. Neighbor heard the commotion and called police, who arrived to find the perp gone and Moore unconscious."

"So he's alive," Lassiter said, tucking his sunglasses into his suit pocket. "Did police get his statement?"

"No," she replied, ducking under the yellow tape with a nod of thanks to the officer who lifted it for her. "He's currently in a comatose state in the ICU."

"Damn," Lassiter muttered irritably, following behind her.

As they entered the apartment, the detectives immediately cast their eyes about, searching for any discrepancies. Photographers were already on the scene, bulbs flashing blindingly in the dimmed room.

The curtains were drawn across the windows, so there was no chance that anyone could have seen the attack. The room was an utter disaster. Books from the overturned bookcase were strewn across the floor; broken glass from what was once an ashtray lay near one leg of the coffee table, which seemed to have been knocked aside in the struggle; the couch cushions had been dragged onto the littered floor and smeared with blood, perhaps used as a shield during the attack; the television was smashed and dangling from its cord over the edge of the mahogany desk against the yellow-papered wall.

"All right," Lassiter raised his voice slightly to address the room, "what have we got?"

"Nothing appears to be stolen, Sir," an officer spoke up. "Keys are still hanging on the wall hook, his wallet's on the table full of cash."

"So not a robbery," the detective confirmed. "It was likely a personal assault. The perp was someone who knew the victim. Dust for -"

"This place," said an obnoxious voice Lassiter had come to know and despise, "is so familiar!"

"Spencer," he growled, resisting the urge to wheel around and pull his firearm.

"Lassie!" Shawn greeted, standing in the doorway. "Jules."

Juliet smiled politely at him, then motioned that she would be talking to the officers searching the other rooms for clues and left Lassiter to deal with the nuisance. Lassiter gave an aggravated sigh and regarded Spencer. Shawn was still standing the doorway, squinted eyes casting about the crime scene.

"Where's Guster, Spencer?" Lassiter asked. He was partially curious, but mostly he was fishing for some reason to put the 'psychic detective' down, as usual.

"Hm?" Shawn raised his eyebrows innocently. "Gus? Oh, he's trying to sell butt cream - or something."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Listen, Spencer, this is a crime -"

"Really, why is this place so familiar?" Shawn groaned, clenching his fists. He took a small step forward. His eyes locked onto the piano situated across the room. Its glossy-finished wood shined under the light of a lamp, a Mozart music score still opened, and the bench at sitting position. As though the victim had been practicing and then had gotten up to answer his door.

"Spencer, are you listening?" Lassiter narrowed his eyes at Shawn as he stared slack-jawed at the piano, brows knit together.

Juliet returned then. "The other rooms are untouched," she said. "Garrick Moore apparently -"

"Aha!" Shawn exclaimed suddenly, startling most of the room's occupants.

"Are you getting something?" Juliet asked, much to Lassiter's chagrin, searching Shawn's face.

He tore his eyes away from the piano and looked at her, practically glowing. He began to bounce on the balls of his feet, raising his fingers to his temple in his signature vision-having gesture. "I'm sensing an attack here," he said breathlessly.

Lassiter rolled his eyes again impatiently. "Yes, Spencer," he smiled sarcastically. "Well done. You've had a vision of something we've already established hours ago!"

Shawn ignored him, lowering his hand to clench it into a fist. He danced forward a bit, but then backtracked to stand back in his original place at the doorway, growling excitedly. "I know what happened! I know what happened!"

"What?" Juliet said anxiously. "What happened?"

Shawn planted his feet and pointed dramatically at the scene. "Someone tried to kill the vampire!"

In between the lines there's a lot of obscurity
I'm not inclined to resign to maturity
If it's all right, then you're all wrong
Why bounce around to the same damn song?
You'd rather run when you can't crawl

I know you know that I'm not telling the truth
I know you know they just don't have any proof
Embrace the deception, learn how to bend
Your worst inhibitions tend to psych you out in the end

I know, you know
I know, you know

Lassiter and Juliet stared at Shawn, confusion and disbelief etched on both their faces. Shawn continued to observe the crime scene, obviously pleased with his revelation. He pumped his fist at his side a few times, grinning madly.

Juliet broke the silence, shaking her head slightly and holding out her hands. "I'm sorry...Vampire, Shawn? Really?"

Still grinning, Shawn faced her. "Yeah," he nodded. "Garrick Moore, piano teacher. He's a vampire. A monster. He probably drank the wrong person's blood and someone tried to get even. But answer me this," Shawn held up a finger with a serious expression. "Was he staked through the heart? Or beheaded? Because those are the only ways vampires can be -"

"Okay," Lassiter interrupted loudly. "That's enough, Spencer. Get out." He jerked his thumb toward the door to punctuate.

"But -" Shawn started.

"McNab!"

"Yes, sir!" McNab appeared just behind Shawn, who gave Lassiter a disappointed look as he ordered the junior officer to escort him off the premises. McNab apologized, but did as he was told, and Shawn went grudgingly. Juliet shook her head at Shawn's antics.

"Now then," Lassiter heaved a sigh of relief at the psychic's antics. "Down to business."

"Right," Juliet ducked her head in agreement. "It appears that nothing was taken. The back rooms were untouched. That just leaves -"

"Hold on."

She frowned at her partner's interruption and followed his line of sight. His piercing blue eyes scrutinized the desk on the far side of the room. Lassiter raised his hand to point at it.

"O'Hara," he said. "What does that look like to you?"

Juliet peered more intently, and then recognition dawned on her features. "It looks like a secret compartment."

"Yes, it does," he agreed. The head detective picked his way through the mess and crouched in front of the desk. Juliet followed him closely and watched as he fiddled around, hands searching for the latch. He found it when he pulled open the first drawer and pressed a hand toward the back. With a click, the secret compartment fell open, revealing a small space crammed full of -

"VHS tapes?" Juliet frowned.

Lassiter pulled a face. "Who uses video cassettes anymore?"

"Never mind that," she said. "What's on them?"

He pulled the top one out and read the label, written on the black plastic in silver Sharpie: "H.V. 1987." Lassiter exchanged a look with Juliet. "This could be why he was attacked: Someone could be looking for these. Appears to be some sort of code. And it was probably recorded in '87."

Juliet pulled a cassette out. "They're all different," she pointed out. "This one says T.R. 1976."

Lassiter pulled out a handful and raked his eyes down the labels. "All out of order. He doesn't seem to have a system. There also appear to be several years missing."

"These letters must be initials," Juliet said. "We can play them back at the station, see if we can figure out what's on the tape."

"Good idea, O'Hara."

Relegating Juliet to the duty of boxing up their evidence for transport, Lassiter went to find the officer in charge. After exchanging details, he left the officer to clear the scene and collected his partner. He was actually very excited to see what was on the tapes.

On the way back to the station, he and Juliet stopped for some coffee. All the while they discussed what sorts of secrets they'd discover. Perhaps Moore was a spy, or a vigilante. The tapes could have contained recorded sessions of interrogations of international criminal masterminds. Or, as Juliet suggested, they could be recordings of his piano students over the years. Lassiter shrugged off her comment and excitedly deduced, based on the evidence, that Moore was the criminal mastermind who recorded interrogations of renowned government agents for information. Or, as Juliet also suggested, they could be recordings of illicit love affairs over the years. Neither managed to convince the other.

After arriving at the station, Lassiter had an officer carry the box to the video room while they filled out some customary paperwork. As much as the head detective and his partner would like to skip the process, they simply couldn't (they, unlike a certain psychic, were professionals). They'd just have to get it done as soon as possible so that they could see what was on the tapes. This sort of stuff was so tremendously exciting!

"Detectives," Henry Spencer greeted as he approached them.

"Mr. Spencer," they replied in unison as they passed.

"Hey, whoa," Henry said, holding up his hands to stop the pair.

They turned to face one another, the detectives' eyebrows raised.

"You two are working on the Moore case, right?" Henry asked.

Lassiter took his signature posture, chin out and hands on his hips, as Juliet folded her arms across her chest. "Yes, why?"

Henry raised his hands surrenderingly at their defensive airs. "I just want to know his condition."

"He's in the ICU," Juliet said. "Comatose. You know him?"

"Well, sort of," the man admitted, running a hand over his balding head. "It's just that he was Shawn's piano tutor. I haven't seen him since then, but you know. Some people just stick with you."

"Whoa, wait," Lassiter held up a hand. "Shawn Spencer? Piano?"

"He was five," Henry said. "Shawn hated it. He called Moore a vampire who drank from his body and liked bad grape juice. I mean, I can't understand why. He had such great potential with the piano, and Moore was a nice man. Good with kids."

Lassiter broke out into a malicious smile. "Interesting. Thank you, Henry." Then he spun on his heel and marched to his desk, already thinking of ways to use the information against the younger man.

Juliet nodded thoughtfully. "You say Shawn had potential for the piano?"

"He could play Beethoven's Fifth," he replied. "Memorized."

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. Henry gave her a nod and turned to leave. After giving herself a moment to feel impressed, she went to her own desk to do her paperwork. Soon enough she had finished, even before Lassiter (who may have been distracted by a crank call or two), and made her way to the snack table to grab a few things for the two of them. They had no idea how much was on the cassettes. There could be days' worth of video to go over.

Ten minutes later saw the pair sitting in the video room. Juliet had her notepad and pen ready, and had already put all the tapes in order by date. Lassiter sat in the more comfortable chair, coffee mug in one hand a glazed donut in the other. He had eaten the entire pastry before Juliet had even pressed play for the first video.

"G.N. 1969," Juliet said, making her way to her seat.

The tape began with a shot of the empty room. Nothing appeared to have changed. It was still the same couch, the same coffee table, even the same ashtray, all in the same position. Well, they assumed they would be had the struggle not occurred and put everything out of place.

They only had to wait a moment before a man entered the shot. There was a quiet murmuring of voices, presumably a conversation.

"That's Garrick Moore," Juliet pointed out.

Moore was a portly young man, in the video, with a full head of dark hair that was slicked back. He wore a golden watch on his right wrist, signifying that he was left-handed. He wore a red turtleneck that clashed with his high-waisted jeans, and a pair of yellow socks.

"This video is actually pretty high quality," Lassiter commented. "You can pick out even the most minute details. You can see everything clearly...See that loose thread on his ugly sweater, O'Hara?"

"Come on in, Georgie," said Moore in a reedy voice.

Lassiter and Juliet both leaned forward with bated breath. Juliet's hand professionallly scrawled out 'Georgie' next to the label of the video on her notepad.

As Moore sat heavily on the floral-patterned couch, he patted the cushion beside him. A pre-teenage boy with horn-rimmed glasses and tidy blond hair entered the shot and sat timidly beside him, hands fidgeting in his lap. Moore struck up a pleasant conversation by asking Georgie how his day had been. The boy spoke with a stutter, hands moving to toy with the hem of his untucked polo shirt.

Lassiter groaned in disappointment and sat back. "It's his student!"

Juliet smiled smugly. The smile quickly disappeared when Moore placed his finger underneath Georgie's chin, tilted his head back, and pressed his own lips against the child's. Lassiter choked on his coffee, eyes bulging.

"He's - a - pedophile!" Juliet gasped out in horror.

"Damn it!"

As Moore's hands snaked up Georgie's shirt, Lassiter fumbled for the remote and finally found the stop button. The screen turned blue; the VHS player clicked loudly before falling silent. The detectives sat in stunned silence for a long moment. Their eyes slowly turned to the box of video cassettes.

"There are thirteen," Juliet said softly. "All of them are different...That's thirteen kids, Carlton."

"Despicable bastard," Lassiter growled, clenching the remote. "And he fooled us into thinking he's the victim. He must be feeling pretty clever in that coma of his."

Juliet shook her head. "We have to find the victims. Whoever attacked Moore must have been one of his students in these tapes. Or the parent of one, at least. It must have been for revenge."

"Well, we have their initials," Lassiter said. "And Georgie's name. So we're about halfway there. Moore must have kept some sort of record of his students over the years. I'll get a search warrant."

Juliet sighed. "We have to keep watching the videos."

Lassiter gave her a disgusted look.

"To see if we can get their names," Juliet continued forcefully. "Hard evidence. And to see exactly...how far Moore goes. We were assigned to this case, after all. We need to obtain justice for these kids. All thirteen of them."

Lassiter cast a sidelong look at the box again, then deflated. "You're right. And then, once we nail this bastard, we can pull the plug." He extended the remote and pressed play. The detectives steeled themselves for the horrors that were sure to come.

Several hours later in the video room, Lassiter and Juliet were just finishing up "skimming" the tenth tape. It was a young boy of about twelve, whose name was Nathan. The garbage can that had been situated by the table was now placed between the detective's chairs. Both had already emptied their stomachs more than once over the course of their vigil, but they refused to quit. The victims were counting on them for justice.

Juliet took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "There's three more videos."

Lassiter took a slow and careful sip of his cold coffee. "If they're the same length as the others," Lassiter said at last, "we could finish them within the next hour and a half. No sense in leaving them for tomorrow. I might not get up, if that's all I have to look forward to."

"Right," Juliet nodded. She ejected Nathan's tape and went to the evidence box. "Well, we can assume, since there's no girls in these videos, that he was only interested in prepubescent boys. The years that are missing could be years that he taught girls, or ones he didn't teach at all."

"Good observation," Lassiter said. "Disgusting, but intuitive. Next tape."

"S.S. 1982," Juliet read before pushing the cassette into the player's slot. She sat down and picked up her pad just as the tape began.

The room was the same as ever. Moore entered and sat down on the couch, inviting his student to come sit beside him. A young boy flounced in, but rather than sitting down, he cast his gaze about the room.

"This one's younger than the others," Lassiter murmured. "He can't be any more than five."

Juliet pressed her lips together into a firm line, jotting it down. This boy was much smaller than most of the other students. They ranged from nine to thirteen. Somehow Juliet felt even more empathetic for this child. The smaller they were, the more disgusting this man's deeds were. This boy had neat brown hair and wore a smart-looking button-up blue shirt over his khaki pants. His tiny feet were clad in what looked like Roo's.

"Come and sit -" started Moore, patting the seat again.

The boy interrupted him, spinning around and looking directly at the camera. Lassiter and Juliet both blinked in surprise. None of the other children had ever noticed that they were being recorded. The kid stepped closer and pointed up to the device, sticking a finger on his other hand into his mouth.

"Now, don't -" Moore said.

The child's face suddenly lit up, and he bounced excitedly. "I'm on TV?" he asked, waving both hands. "Who watching me? Hi!"

"No, you're not on TV," Moore said quickly, almost snappishly. "The camera isn't on. Come and sit down over here so we can -"

"It's on," the kid said, turning to him. He pointed to the camera again. "Light's on!"

Moore sighed loudly. "Okay, you're right. It's on, but just ignore it, okay? Come and sit -"

The boy ignored his tutor and approached the camera. "I'm five and a half!" he announced proudly. "Oh! And my name is Shawn Spencer!"

There was a crash as Lassiter's coffee mug hit the floor and broke into pieces, splashing hot brown liquid all over the floor and his shoes. His hand remained hovering near his lips as he stared in horror at the television screen. He glanced towards his partner to make sure his ears had not deceived him, and judging by the emotions flitting over her face, jaw dropped, he was sure they hadn't.

Suddenly, they both sickeningly remembered the obvious signs:

Shawn stood in the doorway of the apartment. He didn't blatantly disregard the crime scene tape as he usually did. He danced forward as though to put himself in the center of the room for maximum attention, but then he stepped back, still excited. "Someone tried to kill the vampire!...He's a vampire. A monster."

Henry stopped them when they got back, inquiring after the man who taught his son to play piano all those years ago. "Shawn hated it. He called Moore a vampire who drank from his body...Good with kids."

"I'm five and a half! My name is Shawn Spencer!"

Juliet and Lassiter exchanged a doleful, dreading look, then looked back at the tape. Shawn was sitting beside Moore, talking animatedly as the man placed a hand on his thigh and handed him a glass of dark liquid.

Juliet looked into the interrogation room, arms folded across her chest. "You ready?" she asked, looking as though she weren't.

"As ready as you are," Lassiter replied, arms crossed in the same manner. His eyebrows were drawn together, and he looked as unprepared as Juliet.

But they both took deep breaths and went inside anyway.

Shawn Spencer, psychic detective, looked up and broke out into a grin. "Hey, Jules! Lassie."

"Spencer," Lassiter greeted, clearing his throat and taking his seat.

Juliet sat down as well, placing her arms on the cold metal of the table to show that she was receptive and nonaggressive. "Thank you for coming, Shawn," she said sincerely, keeping eye contact.

Shawn's grin faded a little, though it was hardly noticeable. He leaned forward. "You're welcome, Jules," he stage whispered, casting a quick glance in Lassiter's direction. "Although I think we have an audience." When he didn't get the reaction he was testing for, Shawn sat up a bit and said in his normal voice, "I know I said that I knew what happened at the crime scene, but let me just say that I wasn't there long enough to get any details. It was all very vague, blurry. Kind of like looking through one of those little telescopes with all the colors and when you spin the thing on the end the colors make awesome shapes and patterns."

"That's a kaleidoscope, Shawn," Juliet said gently. "And we're not here to ask you about that, but if you have any visions, we'll listen."

Shawn's eyes flickered between Juliet and Lassiter, and his mouth made a small "o" shape as he realized something. "Is this about the prank call last night? Because that was all Gus's idea, I swear. I was totally against the -"

"Wait, no," Juliet said, shaking her head minutely and holding up her hands. Lassiter scowled, just managing to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

Shawn stopped and stared at Juliet, at a complete loss. "Then why am I here?"

"Shawn, please listen to me," Juliet said. He leaned forward, eyebrows raised to show his compliance. "We are not against you. You are the victim here. Nothing you say will leave this room, and you can end this whenever you want to."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Jules," Shawn said seriously. He was obviously confused by their behavior. "I'm the victim?" He laughed almost nervously. "That's ridiculous. The only crime that's ever been committed against me is my dad's genes. Genes as in DNA, not pants. Although those could be a crime in itself. Or the time I was shot by -"

"Spencer," Lassiter said suddenly. "There's no easy way to tell you this, so I'm just going to come out and say it. Garrick Moore, your piano teacher, is not a vampire. He's a pedophile, and you're one of his victims."

"Carlton," Juliet hissed, giving him a look.

But Shawn only laughed. "No, Lassie," he disagreed. "Mr. Moore was a vampire. But he never left any marks because he...had magic...vampire powers..." As he spoke, his eyes grew distant and the smile disappeared. He suddenly grimaced. "Oh..."

"Shawn?" Juliet said, looking at him worriedly. "Are you all right?"

"Oh," he uttered again. Then he smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You'd think that I'd be able to piece that together on my own after all these years. Now that I think about it, pedophilia is a much more accurate name for what went down, you know? Wait, does this make me David Lyons in ER? Which one of you is Scott Grimes?"

"We understand if you need some time to process this, Shawn," Juliet said. "But we do need your statement. It will help in the trial against Moore."

"Isn't he in a coma?" Shawn asked, eyes immediately sharpening.

"Yes," Lassiter answered. "But when that son of a bitch wakes up, he's going to prison for the rest of his life. I'll make sure of that."

Shawn nodded. "Okay. Yeah, I can tell -" He suddenly jumped out of his seat, looking at the detectives with wide eyes. They looked back at him, alarmed, but remained seated. "No. No, I can't tell you," he said, voice rising in volume and in pitch. "Not until you tell me how you knew about this. If Moore is in a coma, there's no way he could have told you that I was his student. And I'm sensing that he's not the type of man who would keep records of this stuff lying out."

"Yes, Shawn, you're right," Juliet said in a placating tone. "We found some tapes in a secret compartment in his desk. There were thirteen VHS tapes, and you were in one of them."

"You watched it?!" Shawn's hands flew up to his artfully-arranged hair. The uneasy expressions on their faces was answer enough for him, and he groaned loudly and sank back into his chair. "Damn it." He dragged a hand down his mouth and took a breath, held it, and then released it slowly. Without looking up from the tabletop, he asked, "Have you told my father?"

"No," Juliet said immediately.

"But we will have to," Lassiter said. "He's connected to this case as well, being your father. And we'll have to get ahold of your mother."

"No," Shawn shook his head, staring at the table still. "That's no good. My mom wasn't there. She was abroad that summer for work. She never met Moore."

"Okay," Lassiter conceded.

"Shawn, why didn't you tell your dad?" Juliet asked. "He was a detective, right? He definitely could have done something."

Shawn narrowed his eyes. "Jules, I just realized the man was a pedophile like, two minutes ago. I always thought he was a vampire before that." He laughed a little. "Of course my dad wasn't going to listen to that nonsense."

Juliet and Lassiter both nodded.

"Shawn hated it. He called Moore a vampire who drank from his body," Henry shook his head slightly with an annoyed expression.

Lassiter opened his mouth to say something, but Shawn beat him to the punch. "So, am I free to go? Or do I have to sit in here until..."

"No, no," Juliet said. "You're free to end this whenever you want. You're the one who calls the shots. You can just let us know whenever you're ready. You don't even have to tell us directly, you can write your statement, if you're more comfortable with that."

"Really, Jules?" Shawn pulled a face. "If writing made me comfortable, I'd probably be the most famous author on the planet." He pushed himself back from the table, giving it a quick rap with his knuckles. "I'll be in touch." The pseudo-psychic gave the detectives a farewell point as he exited the interrogation room, then practically fled from the station.

Lassiter and Juliet remained seated for a long few seconds.

He was the first to break the silence. "That...was the most uncomfortable thing I've ever done."

Juliet gave him a sympathetic look. "I can't imagine how Shawn must feel right now. He's been in denial all these years."

"Yeah," her partner agreed quietly. "I think...I think I actually feel bad for Spencer," he said incredulously.

She smiled sadly and patted his arm. "We need to call Henry in. He's upstairs."

"This won't go well."

"No, it won't."

Upon arriving at the Psych office after finishing his route for the day, the first thing Gus noticed was that Shawn's Norton wasn't parked. It was lying on its side in its usual parking spot. The salesman gave a startled look around, but didn't see his best friend. Then he noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

Instant worry bubbled up inside him, and he moved to enter the building. There was a baseball bat in the umbrella stand just inside the door, which he would be using. "Shawn!" He whispered harshly, hand lashing out and connecting with the aluminum weapon. "Shawn!"

There was no reply. Unless, of course, you counted the sounds of a struggle. Someone grunted - unmistakably Shawn.

That did it.

Gus didn't even need to make a split-second decision. It was instinct that sent him flying into the main room, bat held over his head and high-pitched warrior cry rising from his belly. He was going to defend his best friend from the evil assailant, the -

"What the hell are you doing to my printer, Shawn?!" Gus uttered, dropping the bat to his side.

Shawn was sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, surrounded by papers. In his hands was Gus's desk printer, which he was shaking violently. Flecks of black ink stained the floor, and Shawn's hands and face.

Shawn, with a frustrated shout, raised the printer and then slammed it hard against the floor. The device broke apart before Gus's shocked eyes. "It's not working!" he said. "I need the stupid printer to print, but it's not working!"

"Maybe it's not working 'cause you broke it, Shawn!" Gus retorted angrily. He firmly laid the bat to rest leaning against the wall beside him, eyebrows scrunching together. He'd had just about enough of Shawn's complete disregard for other people's property.

The pseudo-psychic looked up at Gus, mouth opening to snap back, but only a short, strangled cry came out. His best friend's anger immediately defused as Shawn lowered his head to rest in his hands, shoulders trembling.

Gus was momentarily stupefied. Shawn never cried. He hated crying. Something was seriously wrong. When Shawn let out a muffled sob, he moved quickly to his side. "What's wrong?" He pulled Shawn into a rare hug, his own face contorting as he struggled to hold back tears.

Shawn couldn't reply for a long moment, but then pulled away and blinked tearfully at Gus. "Why are you crying?"

"I'm a sympathetic crier, Shawn."

Shawn broke down again and returned the embrace. "I know!"

As Shawn cried in his arms, Gus struggled to get enough breath to ask, "What's wrong?"

"I can't talk about it, man," Shawn bawled into Gus's shirt, dampening the Downy-scented fabric. "I just...I really want a pineapple smoothie."

"I could use a smoothie," Gus choked out, nodding. He would pay for a one-way ticket around the globe if it would make his best friend feel better right then. Because he had only ever seen Shawn really cry like this three times: after his mom left, after the huge blow-out with his dad that resulted in his leaving without goodbye, and after Gus woke in the hospital from a blow to the head during a "stake-out" gone wrong when they were young. Gus hated to see Shawn suffer like this.

When Shawn didn't move, Gus patted him on the back and stood, pulling Shawn up with him. "Come on," he grunted, "smoothies aren't going to get themselves!"

Shawn nodded, his head hanging low and shoulders drooping as though a great weight had settled on them. He coughed harshly and rubbed his stubbly cheeks with a hand, wiping away some of the tears. Gus dabbed his own eyes with his sleeve and led Shawn out of the Psych office. He wouldn't mention whatever was hurting Shawn until he was ready.

Gus was sure that whatever had happened had to do with the papers scattered across the floor, which he ignored because Shawn did. He hadn't gotten a good look at them, entirely too focused on his boy. But he was sure that the answers were in those papers.

With a guttural roar of rage, the metal chair was slammed into the wall, narrowly avoiding Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara as they scurried out of the door. Juliet quickly pulled the door shut, trapping the rampaging Henry Spencer inside the interrogation room. The partners shared a wide-eyed look and exhaled, ears ringing.

In the observation room on the other side of the glass, Chief Vick turned on the intercom. "Calm down, Henry," she demanded, watching as he crossed the room to retrieve the battered seat. "This was not your fault."

"Not my fault?!" Henry screamed, wheeling around to glare at his reflection in the one-way glass. He stormed toward it, facing the spot where he knew Karen would be standing, dragging the chair in his wake. "I'm the one who signed Shawn up for the lessons! I'm the one who ignored him when he didn't want to go, who brushed him off when he tried to tell me why!"

He spun and slammed the chair into the wall again, jarring his arms. Henry hardly registered the pain. "I should have known that calling him a vampire was just his way of making sense of his situation!" he continued, storming toward the table in the center of the room. "He was only five! Of course he didn't understand what that bastard was doing to him!"

Henry's hands latched underneath the tabletop and he lurched forward, grunting half in surprise and half in pain when the table didn't move. Suddenly realizing that the table was bolted down so that it couldn't be flipped, Henry grabbed another chair. He swung it up and then brought it down with a deafening crash.

"I'm going to kill that son of a bitch!" Henry screamed, repeating the move.

Karen sighed. She was partly relieved when her phone rang in her pocket. She was at a loss as to what to do with Henry in such a state, and considering her detectives were still barricading the door, she was sure they were, too.

"Chief Vick," she answered, eyes never moving from Henry's red-faced rampage. She listened to the speaker for a moment. "Thank you. My detectives will be over shortly."

She shook her blonde head sadly at the elder Spencer's temper, then poked her head out of the observation room door. Lassiter and O'Hara were both pressed against the interrogation room door, looking in through the small window. Chief Vick cleared her throat to get their attentions, and they turned to her.

"You can't expect us to go in there, Chief," Lassiter said quickly, eyebrows raised. "The man's clearly -"

"I don't expect you to," Karen interrupted, smiling tightly as both visibly relaxed. "What I do expect you to do is go to the hospital to question Mr. Moore. After getting the details of his attack, arrest him. You know the charges."

A smug smirk appeared on all of their faces.

"You got it, Chief."

She watched them disappear around the corner, then took their place at the door. Henry had righted his chair, one leg slightly bent from the force of its beating, and had taken residence in it. He sat hunched over, elbows on his knees and hands supporting his balding head. He was finally calm. Chief Karen Vick cautiously entered, but he paid her no mind even as she approached.

"Mr. Spencer," she said softly, looking at him sympathetically. Lord knew that if someone touched her daughter they wouldn't live to tell the tale.

"I know," he said gruffly. "I know."

Gus glanced at Shawn surreptitiously, sucking at his straw slowly. Shawn's eyes were locked on his pineapple smoothie, slurping noisily. He didn't seem to notice, or at least didn't mind, that Gus had been casting glances at him for the whole drive to their favorite smoothie joint all the way across town, and while they had ordered from the drive-thru and then parked in front of the bay.

Eventually, though, Shawn had run out of smoothie. He lowered his plastic cup with a satisfied sigh, squinting a bit as he looked out over the beach. Then he turned to Gus, who engaged eye contact without lowering his acai berry blend. When Gus raised his eyebrows questioningly, Shawn said, "I'm okay now. Thanks, buddy."

Gus nodded, and his lips finally detached from the straw. "You wanna tell me about it?" he asked cautiously.

The pseudo-psychic pursed his lips thoughtfully and looked out of the windshield again. "Hmm...You remember my vampire piano tutor I told you about?"

Recognition flashed over Gus' face, and then was quickly replaced by confusion. "Yeah."

Shawn shook his head disappointedly. "Turns out he wasn't a vampire, after all."

Gus regarded him for a very long moment. "And you're upset about that?"

His friend made no acknowledgement of the question.

"Shawn," Gus tried again, "isn't that a good thing? What could be worse than being a vampire?"

Still no reply. Shawn seemed to be incredibly fascinated by a small hole in the hem of his shirt. His fingers fiddled with the plaid fabric so as not to look at his best friend.

Gus tsked loudly and gave Shawn one of his trademark annoyed looks. "What was he, if he wasn't a vampire, Shawn?"

Without looking up, "A pedophile."

For a moment Gus thought he had misheard. But when Shawn finally cocked his head and made eye contact, he could see the deep hurt that laced Shawn's eyes, the turmoil he was feeling. The embarrassment over it having happened to him, despite the fact that it had been out of his control.

And then it clicked.

At the same moment his jaw slackened and his eyes widened, Gus' hand released the smoothie, which tumbled to the floorboard and splashed everything on the way down - his pants, his shoes, the pedals, the mat. Everything seemed to freeze in time. All Gus could do while his breath hitched and heart stopped was stare at his best friend in the entire universe with an expression composed of shock, horror, and devastation.

What felt like an eternity to Gus was only a few seconds.

When Gus had dropped the smoothie, Shawn had jolted forward as though to catch it, but missed. "Gus!" he uttered. "This is a company car!"

He snapped out of his stupor then. "You must be out of your damn mind, Shawn," he said. Shawn blinked at him, quite surprised. "Forget about the car! You tell anyone else about this?"

There was silence for a moment, but Gus didn't push it. He could tell that Shawn was still reeling from the fact that Gus hadn't cared about the spilled smoothie, and if Gus hadn't been feeling so suddenly righteously furious, he might have been, too. But as it was, he had been angry with the piano tutor when Shawn told him it was a vampire. By all rights, a vampire shouldn't be teaching anyone piano. It was unnatural.

What Gus didn't understand was how he hadn't managed to piece it together himself. They way Shawn had shuddered all those years ago when telling him about it should have been enough to clue Gus in. What kind of best friend was he? Sure, they had both only been six when the vampire tutor was discussed, and they had never really spoken of it again, but when Gus had been given the talk about grown-ups touching him inappropriately, he should have remembered, should have informed his parents so that they could tell Henry, who could then inform the police.

Gus was not stupid enough to ask Shawn why he hadn't figured it out. It had been a traumatic experience, and Shawn tended to push those sorts of things to back of his mind. He hadn't brought up his mother's leaving after he had cried over her. He hadn't mentioned Yang since she had been put away, and he wasn't going to be the one to bring it up unless he had to. Shawn might have already subconsciously known what had happened. But he didn't want to bring it forward.

But why had it come forward now, of all times? It was almost thirty years later.

"Actually," Shawn said at last, determinedly not making eye contact, "Jules and Lassie told me about it. Kind of sad, huh."

Ah. So Lassiter and Juliet had somehow found out about it, and discovered what had happened to Shawn in the process. He suddenly felt sick. If the detectives had found out, then that meant the man responsible had to have told them, but that didn't seem like something a pedophile would do - at least not after thirty years of keeping it a secret. Some sort of evidence must have been found, and Shawn had been identified.

That only made Gus want to throw up more.

He leaned back in his seat, lamaze breathing. For a moment he was at a complete loss, but then another horrific idea hit him. "Does your dad know?"

"God, I hope not," Shawn exclaimed, raising his eyebrows as though the thought had evaded him until then as well. "He'll be so pissed at me, dude."

Gus' face scrunched in confusion. "At you?"

"Oh come on, Gus!" Shawn threw a hand up erratically and ran it through his carefully-constructed hair, ruining it - a testament to how agitated he was. "I told him that Mr. Moore was a vampire! Of course he wasn't going to believe me. How was he supposed to know that vampire meant pedophile?"

The pharmaceutical salesman shifted uncomfortably with an uneasy expression. "I don't think your dad would be mad at you, Shawn. You're the victim."

"Yeah, well I was the victim when Garth Longmore shot and kidnapped me, but that was my fault, apparently."

Gus pulled a face. "But that was your fault. You went there in the middle of the night. Without backup!"

Shawn tsked loudly. "Man. I just know he's going to be mad at me, Gus. It's in his baldy old nature."

His best friend shook his head, tsking just as loudly. "What'd you tell Lassie and Jules?" Changing the subject seemed like a good thing at the moment.

"Nothing, yet." Shawn had taken to fiddling with the hole in his shirt again. "I have to give them a statement about what I remember."

"Just tell them you don't remember much," Gus suggested. "Give them the basics and leave the rest to them."

"Yeah, that's the plan. They have it on video."

"What?!"

The hole in Shawn's shirt tore a little, but he didn't seem to take notice. He wiggled a finger through it.

"Man," Gus sighed, thoroughly put out. "I can't believe this...Dude, you gotta tell someone."

Shawn pulled a face. "I am. I have to give my statement, Gus."

"No, I mean someone professional, Shawn." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "Like a therapist."

The psychic detective moaned loudly. "Gus, don't be a...don't be...argh! Just don't be that guy!"

"Shawn -"

"No, Gus! No!" Shawn turned in his seat so that he faced away from his friend, then childishly covered his ears with his palms. Gus pressed his lips together and gazed at him, half in annoyance, but also sorrowfully. Shawn continued quietly, "I don't need to talk about it. It was almost thirty years ago. I'm fine."

Gus said nothing. For a long moment, they sat unmovingly. Then Gus opened his door and climbed out, snagging Shawn's cup from between his thighs and then fishing his own from under the seat. The berry acai blend still dripped pitifully, and the black man regarded the mess solemnly. He would clean it up, but the stain would remain. Even if he did his best with stain remover and it disappeared, he would still see it because he knew it was there, knew that it had happened.

He raised his dark eyes to Shawn, who had calmed and sat back with his eyes closed, then went to throw away the cups. There weren't any recycling bins that he could see, but he didn't particularly care then. He dropped them in the nearest bin and went back to the Blueberry.

Gus didn't know what to say, so he remained silent, heart bleeding.

Like the best friend he was, Shawn seemed to sense this and turned to him, apology readable in his eyes. The corners of Gus' lips twitched upwards slightly, and Shawn grinned.

"Can I get a lift to the police station, buddy?" he asked. "Oh, but first we need to stop by Psych. I need to get some things."

"I hear that." Gus nodded and started the car.

"I don't understand," said Garrick Moore in his reedy voice, touching the red-splotched bandage around his head with a confused wince. His battered and bruised face stood out starkly against the whiteness of the gauze. He was wearing rumpled clothes with a few blood stains and tears in the fabric. They were the ones he had been wearing when he was attacked. His right arm was held securely in a sling. Otherwise he was fine, aside from a few bruises. "I already gave you my statement at the hospital, you know?"

Lassiter bared his teeth. "That's right," he said, feigning realization. "Oh, only that was for the attack. This is another matter entirely, you sick son of a bitch."

Moore blinked rapidly at the tone and content of his address, thoroughly flabbergasted and now a bit nervous. "Detective," he chuckled slightly.

"Shut up." Lassiter stepped around the table and leaned intimidatingly over the older man, glaring. "See, the thing is, we found those interesting tapes in that secret little compartment of yours."

Moore's mouth dropped open a bit, and he paled considerably. "I-I can explain, De -"

"Oh, I'm sure you can," Lassiter crooned. "Perhaps you'd also like to explain to the parents of those boys exactly how and why you raped their children. I'm sure the judge will be understanding. After all, those urges are completely natural and generally acceptable in a grown man, especially one who's a teacher."

"Detect -"

"Shut up." Lassiter straightened, his faux kindness disappearing in lieu of a severe scowl, which he saved for the lowest of the low - like Moore. He reached across the cold metal table and slid the pad and pencil over to the pedophile's side. "And I know you're left-handed, so don't even think about it."

Moore stared blankly down at the lined paper, then dared a glance up at his interrogator. "What exactly am I writing, Detective?"

"Well, for starters," the dark-haired man bit out, "you'll write down the names of every child you've ever laid your hands on. In fact, why don't you go ahead and write down the names of every child you've ever even thought about laying your hands on, just so we make sure we cover them all."

Garrick Moore exhaled slowly through his nose, letting his free left hand fall into his lap. "I don't remember their names," he said, almost scornfully. "Only their initials and years, which is what is written on the tapes."

Lassiter raised his eyebrows as though he were waiting for the punchline. When none was forthcoming, he turned and looked at the one-sided mirror, where he knew Juliet and the Chief were standing. Then, with a flare of fury, the head detective wheeled back around.

"You're telling me," he said in a deathly quiet rumble, "that you lack even the decency to remember the names of your victims? You evil son of a bitch!"

Moore didn't flinch, but swallowed thickly.

Lassiter took a deep breath, readying himself to count to ten before he pulled his firearm. A sudden knock at the door was the only thing that saved Moore from the detective's wrath. He clenched his jaw and spun on his heel, then wrenched the door open upon reaching it. He was actually surprised to be met with the cool gaze of Gus, who silently handed him a thick stack of papers. Gus reached in without sparing the other man a glance, and pulled the door shut again.

In block letters on four neon green sticky notes was written, "To Lassie: Thought you might need these ;)"

Lassiter took his time peeling them off to see what information he had been given. He let Moore sweat a little behind him.

It looked to be information on a man named George Navone who worked at a veterinary clinic nearby. He was fifty-three years old, married with three daughters who were all out of the house. For a long moment, Lassiter couldn't fathom why he'd been given this load of crap, until he suddenly remembered the first video:

"Come on in, Georgie."

He quickly rifled through the rest of the pages. They all contained the names of different men. Shawn Spencer had somehow gotten all of the victim's names.

But how?!

That was a question for another time. Lassiter shook his head, then grinned maliciously as he slowly turned.

"You're in luck, you bastard," he said cheerfully, sauntering back towards the table. "Our head psychic detective managed to remember them all for you."

And for once, he didn't use Shawn's "profession" sarcastically.

After handing the heavy stack of papers to Lassiter and backing out again, Gus sidestepped into the observation room. Chief Vick and Juliet had already been there, and Shawn had tentatively asked to join them just a moment before. The women shared an unreadable look that only women seemed to ever understand, then gave him their permission.

Shawn was standing at the glass, arms folded, and looked contemplatively at the man who had raped him almost thirty years before. Jules kept shooting troubled glances at him, while Karen decidedly focused on Lassiter's interview. She smirked when it dawned on him the gold he'd been gifted with. Moore was about to be raked over the coals by her best detective.

"It's funny," Shawn murmured so quietly that the other three almost missed it.

"What?" Gus frowned, glaring at Moore. Anger like he'd only felt a few times in his life was roiling beneath his dark, smooth, cocoa-buttered skin. For Shawn, he would really go in there and strangle the man to death - as long as he got a few minutes to pep himself up for it.

Contrary to his statement, Shawn didn't appear to be amused at all. "He doesn't look anything like I remember. He used to be so...big. And strong. But looking at him now..." He shook his head. "Pathetic."

Juliet nodded emphatically despite being behind him.

But Gus knew that Shawn wasn't entirely referring to Moore being pathetic. Shawn was blaming himself for being afraid of such a disgusting monster. Gus considered calling him out on it, but then decided against it. With Juliet and the Chief present, it likely wouldn't do any good. Besides, Shawn didn't even seem to entirely realize that he'd said it aloud. Gus decided that he would let it slide - Just this once.

"Remember, Shawn," Juliet said, "you are in control of this interview. You can call for a break whenever you need it, and you can end it, even."

Shawn pursed his lips and nodded once, acutely aware that Lassiter had his finger on the record button and was waiting for his permission to begin the interview. Rather than sitting in the interrogation room, they were seated comfortably in one of the conference rooms, the blinds drawn for privacy.

The pseudo-psychic locked eyes with Lassiter quite suddenly and asked, "Have you found the others yet?"

"We've got officers working on getting in contact," he said. After a moment he added, "That information you got was pretty well put together. You did some, uh, solid police work there, Spencer."

Shawn's lips curled into a smirk. "Don't hurt yourself, Lassie. Let's get started, shall we?"

Lassiter nodded once and pressed the record button with a resounding click. "Today is November 16, 2010, and it is now 3:15 pm. Detectives Juliet O'Hara and Carlton Lassiter are interviewing Shawn Spencer at the Santa Barbara Police Station. Mr. Spencer, are you aware that you are being recorded?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." Lassiter sat back and metaphorically handed the reigns to Juliet.

"Shawn," she started. "We want to talk to you about your experience with Garrick Moore, your piano teacher in 1982. How old were you then?"

"Five and a half," he answered. "I probably say that somewhere in the video, along with my name."

Juliet nodded. "And you remember your time with him?"

"Summer of '82. Met three times a week to play baby Mozart and nursery rhymes. It wasn't because my dad wanted me to be an amazing, well-rounded musician. Mr. Moore was a babysitter, mostly. It was cheaper for me to learn piano than go to daycare. My mom was away on business that whole summer," Shawn spouted off.

"Your dad was the one who signed you up for lessons?" Juliet confirmed.

"Right."

"Did you ever tell him about what Moore was doing to you?"

Shawn laughed. "I told him that Mr. Moore was a magical vampire who sucked my blood without leaving a trace and gave me bad grape juice. Does that count?"

"Okay," Juliet said. "Yes, that - that counts, Shawn. Can you tell me about the time Moore touched you inappropriately?"

The pseudo-psychic regarded her for a moment. "Which time?"

Juliet and Lassiter both blinked in surprise. She seemed at a loss for a moment, so her partner stepped in: "So Moore did abuse you more than one time?"

"Thirty-three," Shawn cocked his head. "Three times a week for the summer of '82. It was a wonder I ever had time to learn Beethoven."

Both detectives appeared to be at a loss. Just when Juliet found her voice, though, Shawn interrupted. "Tell you what: I'll walk you through it. I know how it works. It's a little unorthodox, but that's just my whole existence. You can still ask questions if you need to." He grinned sportily.

It looked as though Lassiter were going to refuse, but then he conceded with a half-hearted eye roll. He gestured for Shawn to go ahead.

"May 31, 1982, 11:00 am. My first meeting with Mr. Moore. He was very nice, treated me like an adult, almost. I liked him immediately. He was charming - like me." Shawn paused to demonstrate his lopsided grin that had gotten him out of many a bad situation. "After my dad left for work, Mr. Moore offered me a drink and introduced me to his piano. He played 'Ode to Joy' for me, then invited me to sit in his lap so he could show me which keys were associated with which notes.

"June 2, 1982, 11:00 am. Dad dropped me off and sent me up on my own because there was a 211 in progress. Mr. Moore let me in, offered me another drink - apple juice, I think. No, it was grape. This time I felt like there was something off about him. He kept staring at me really hard. But he was still teaching me to play, so I figured he was just weird like that.

"I sat down on the piano bench and started the scales like he taught me, and he watched me. My dad was late that day because the 211 turned into a 207 and then a 217. Mr. Moore didn't seem to really mind. We sat on the couch and watched TV while we waited. He put his hand on my leg - my thigh. Then my dad came back and we went home.

"June 4, 1982, 11:00 am. Third meeting. Mr. Moore kissed me on my head and said I'd played well.

"June 7, 1982, 11:30 am. Fourth meeting. I was late because Dad was held up at work. That was when Mr. Moore started acting a little differently. He seemed mad that I was late, but he didn't really show it. It was more like a feeling. He stared at me while I played, and stood really, really close. So close that his hip kept touching my shoulder when I moved my arm.

"Just before my dad arrived, he brushed his hands across my cheeks and kissed my nose, and asked me not to be late again because it cut into our time together. I promised to do my best.

"June 9, 1982, 11:00 am. Fifth meeting. He kissed me on the lips. Like, a short peck, sort of like a mom kiss. You know what I mean.

"June 11, 1982, 11:00 am. Sixth meeting. Mr. Moore couldn't seem to keep his hands off of me. He kept touching my head and my shoulders, and when we took a break from the piano to eat a snack, he kept rubbing my leg - my thigh. No kiss that time.

"June 14, 1982, 11:00 am. Seventh meeting. This one was only about an hour long. Mr. Moore kept his hand on my shoulder while I practiced. My uncle showed up for a surprise visit and picked me up so we could spend time together. Mr. Moore was very polite and let me leave early, and Uncle Jack and I went out for ice cream.

"June 16, 1982, 11:00 am. Eighth meeting. After my dad dropped me off, Mr. Moore seemed a little bit more strange. I think he was mad that my uncle cut our last visit short. We didn't play the piano that day. We sat on the couch and Mr. Moore explained to me that it was important that I make the most of my time with him. He said that I had the most exquisite hands for a pianist, and that I was talented and amazing. I was his favorite pupil, the apple of his eyes, and he loved my music and my hands and everything about me. He said that he was proud of me..."

Shawn trailed off, apparently lost in the memory.

Lassiter and Juliet waited patiently, feeling a little sick to their stomachs. That Shawn could remember all of these things with such clarity unsettled them. After all, he had only been five. The head detective wondered briefly whether Shawn was making up his testimony, but then decided he wasn't lying. He was much too serious about it.

Juliet finally broke the silence. "Shawn, do we need to stop?" she asked softly. Lassiter shifted forward slightly, ready to press stop on the recorder if need be.

He absently shook his head, eyes still staring off into nothingness. "No," he said. "Just recollecting things for a moment, is all."

Both detectives nodded understandingly, and Lassiter sat back again.

After another moment, Shawn picked up on June 18, where he'd left off. His recounts became increasingly disgusting, made all the more hard to hear due to Shawn's matter-of-fact detailing. Moore, as the days progressed, became more handsy towards Shawn's private areas, going so far as to having him remove his shirt and slipping his hands down the boy's pants. Moore also violated young Shawn with his mouth, though he was always careful to never leave marks.

"I noticed the camera because I'd never seen it before," Shawn said, swinging his chair back and forth on the pivot. Even though it was one of Lassiter's greatest pet peeves, he refrained from telling him to stop - or knocking him out of the seat. It was Lassiter's job, at this point, to remain silent and listen.

"The red recording light was on. My uncle had a camera just like it, back when he used to record his treasure-hunting adventures. He showed me how it worked. I asked my dad for one for Christmas, but he said I wasn't responsible enough for one.

"I don't remember much about that day. My dad told me that I'd gotten sick, for some reason," Shawn rambled.

"Can you tell us what you do remember?" Juliet prompted.

In a surprisingly accurate impersonation of Moore, Shawn said, " 'Come and sit down, Shawn. I want to talk to you. How was your day so far?'

" 'I talked to my mom today. She said she misses me and that she'll be home in a few days. Isn't that great, Mr. Moore?' Jules, you're not gonna believe it. Your eighth grade voice is, in fact, almost identical to my five year old voice. Crazy, right?"

While Lassiter merely looked lost, Juliet smiled indulgently but sweetly at him.

"Anyway," Shawn continued, "don't you have this one on video?"

"Yes," Juliet answered. "But we're more interested in your feelings and thoughts as - as this occurred."

"Ah," he nodded. "See, I would tell you, but I've dissociated myself. Plus, I don't remember much about this one. I was sick that day."

"No, you were drugged," Lassiter informed him. "Whatever he gave you to drink made you drowsy and compliant."

Shawn squinted at him. "That would explain all the fragmentation and disorientation, yes. It was wine. No wonder it tasted bad. 'Bad grape juice, Dad!' Hahaha."

"Okay," Juliet said. "Well, is there anything else you can tell us about that day? Maybe something after the recording?"

"He cleaned me up," Shawn stated. "Well, I thought he was helping me cool off 'cause I felt really hot. But I guess he was just getting rid of the evidence before my dad picked me up." He shrugged. "Then the next thing I remember is waking up in my bed and my dad hovering."

"Did you tell your father?" Lassiter asked.

"I told him that Mr. Moore was a magical vampire who liked bad grape juice."

"And what did he do - or say?"

" 'Vampires aren't real, Shawn. You're sick, and you're imagining things. Go back to sleep.' "

They waited for him to go on, but he said nothing further.

"And," Juliet started, "and the day that video was made was the last time you and Moore met?"

Shawn laughed. "No. The video was our twenty-fifth meet. There were eight more after that. But they were relatively subdued. Mr. Moore seemed bored, actually."

"How so?" Lassiter immediately interjected.

"He still touched me, but never took off my clothes again. And he mostly just listened to me play, and if I did a very good job he would kiss me. It was sort of like routine," Shawn explained. "He was bored - with me."

Juliet and Lassiter held their breaths at the look in Shawn's eyes. It was hurt. But before Juliet could say anything, Shawn seemed to shake himself.

"Our last meet was on August 13, 1982, 11:00 am. The next week I started school, and I forgot about him. Until I heard his name at the crime scene," he grinned at them and drummed his palms on the desk a few times. "This concludes Shawn Spencer's interview. Time is 5:30 pm."

Lassiter pressed stop, unable to bring himself to be annoyed that Shawn had taken the liberty of officially concluding. He could tell by the other man's body language that he had been anxious to finish for at least the last hour, but didn't want to have to come back later. He was glad for that himself, actually. It turned his stomach to hear the details of childhood trauma in anyone, even the happy-go-lucky, overall annoying psychic.

Juliet stood a second after Shawn did, yet another subtle concession of power to the victim. Shawn didn't seem to notice, too busy stretching his arms over his head with an exaggerated groan. Lassiter remained seated under the pretense of putting things away.

"Thank you, Shawn," his partner said sincerely. "I know this was hard for you. But this will make sure that Moore gets what he deserves."

Shawn gave her a lopsided grin. "Anything for you, Jules. Hey, wanna join me and Gus for dinner tonight? You can bring Lassie if you really have to."

Lassiter scoffed and gathered up his belongings as he stood. "Unlike you, Spencer, I have real police work to do. Good night."

"It's evening, Lassie, evening!"

The head detective didn't bother to respond, already out of the door.

"I'd love to, Shawn," Juliet said with an apologetic wince, "but I have to write the follow-up, and we still need to get in contact with those other boys - men."

"Rain check?" Shawn replied, backing out of the room, eyebrows raised to authenticate his question.

"Yeah," she smiled. "Another time, Shawn."

"Sweet! Good evening, Jules!" With that, Shawn spun on his heel and flounced down the hallway. Gus was waiting exactly where Shawn had parted from him on the bench outside the front desk of the station.

Gus stood as he saw his best friend approach. They stood together for a moment.

"Gus, buddy, serious Shawn moment," Shawn said at last. "I think it's time I have a talk with my dad."

"You know that's right."

Shawn almost ran after the Blueberry the minute Gus dropped him off, instantly regretting his insistence that Gus needn't wait for him. His Norton was parked in the driveway already, since Shawn had left it in favor of catching a ride with Gus the other day after dinner. He was actually surprised his dad hadn't hidden it - or broken it.

But once Gus was gone, Shawn had little choice but to actually enter his father's house. After all, his keys were inside. And so was his father.

He took a deep breath, hand on the doorknob, then burst inside.

"Dad," he called loudly, taking long, reckless strides, "you should really sit down and don't say anything at all because I'm about to tell you something really important that you might hear about later, and I don't want to have to endure one of your endless lectures about telling you important...Dad?"

Shawn stopped abruptly in the entryway to the living room, staring at the sight that beheld him. Though he was no stranger to seeing his dad drinking on the couch, he was a bit stunned to see his dad drinking on the couch looking as though the world had ended. For a split second, Shawn wondered if someone had died - and the first person he thought of who would warrant a reaction such as his father's present one was his mom.

But then the sound of the TV caught his ear, and he spared a quick glance. It was all he needed coupled with the audio to know it was a home video of his tenth birthday party. If his mom had died, Shawn was sure that that would not have been Henry's first choice of recorded memory to remember her by.

"Aw man!" Shawn groaned. "They already told you, didn't they? Crap!"

Henry blinked blearily and looked up at his son as though just realizing he was there. Then something happened that Shawn had never thought he'd see - ever. His father burst into drunken tears, rendering Shawn a deer in headlights.

Shawn's mouth dropped open to offer some platitude, some insult, perhaps, but for once Shawn was completely speechless. He had nothing to say. There was no precedent in the Spencer household for what Shawn should do when Henry cried. It was simply unheard of. Now Shawn really wished Gus had stayed.

The younger Spencer shook himself and hesitantly stumbled toward the couch, then sank down next to his father. He fidgeted awkwardly, unsure of whether he should comment on his father's hiccoughing and sobbing. He decided against it.

"He's going to prison, Dad," Shawn consoled. "I don't think anyone has to testify. I won't have to testify. Jules and Lassie promised. They have it on video, and they have my statement. He'll go away for a long time."

"He should have gone away a long time ago, Shawn," Henry retorted thickly, but with no real venom. "I should have noticed. I'm so sorry, Shawn. I'm so sorry."

Shawn turned his head and stared at him, utterly flabbergasted. "Wait," he said. "You're...not mad at me?"

This time Henry gave him an incredulous look that bordered on devastation and disgust, tearflow stopping. "Why in the hell would I be mad at you, Shawn? That bastard raped you. You were five. You were the victim, damn it!" With the curse, Henry threw the bottle he was nursing the across the room, where it shattered against the wall. Henry buried his face in his hands.

Shawn moved his gaze to the TV, where ten year old him was blowing out the candles on his home-made pineapple turnover cake. His dad was grinning behind his chair, encouraging him to get all the candles in one shot.

"I told you he was a vampire," Shawn said softly. It was not accusing.

"I know," Henry replied. "That should have made it obvious that something was wrong. I should have looked more closely. I should have asked why, Shawn. I'm a terrible father." His hands moved toward his lap, fumbling, but then he remembered that he'd thrown his drink and gave up.

"Dad," Shawn said, eyes still locked on the home video, "you don't even like whiskey. And you're not a terrible father, except when you're a jerk and you don't let me take the cases I want. But I do them anyway because I know you secretly want me to. Anyway, I didn't even realize what had happened to me until Lassie and Jules told me. I might have never found out had Georgie not tried to kill him."

Henry squinted at Shawn as though there were something to read in his face. "How'd you know Georgie did it?"

"He was the first victim, and the oldest. He's also the only one who still lives in Santa Barbara, and the others all have alibis. He works at the veterinarian clinic near the apartment."

"Did you tell the police?"

"Eh, let them figure it out. Or not." At Henry's questioning almost-glare, he explained, "Gus and I may have stopped by the clinic on the way here and helped him come up with a solid alibi. He's a nice man, Georgie. He gave me his card. If I ever get a pet monkey, he's my man."

Henry scoffed and gave his son a watery smile. Shawn returned it, then once again turned to the TV.

"...Didn't you wear that same god-awful shirt yesterday? Oh my god. You've been wearing that same shirt for years, man! You're stuck in time."

"Oh, come on, Shawn."

"No, this is appalling!" Shawn leapt up from the couch, pointing a stern finger. "I can't stay here in the same room with a man who has terrible choice in wardrobe. I have to go. See you later, Dad."

He stormed out of the living room and into the kitchen, snagging his motorcycle keys from the island's countertop.

"Bye, Shawn," Henry murmured as the door shut behind his child. After a moment of silence, he said: "Love you, son."

END.

A/N: Thanks for reading! This is complete, and it took me long enough. Ugh. So much work! Haha but I enjoyed the journey. Love this series, though I find it difficult to write very in character.