CHAPTER Four—Holy Frijoles, Batman! It's Jesus!

Note—A brief apology: I guess this is almost—a year now. Life does some weird shit, let me say. Blink, and suddenly you're alone in Italy, and it's almost your girlfriend's birthday again. Let me make it up to you with some self-indulgent Shassy, ne? Also—is it just me, or did the last episodes before the current season ended suck pretty hard? …Pirates? Really?

Also, thanks to everyone who gave constructive criticism/reviewed in general. Not sure if any of you are still around, but I found the advice on my dialogue helpful, so thanks, and a fan of Shassy is a friend of mine.

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The past few hours had been a blur, and eventually Shawn had tuned out the screaming matches. It was just approaching dawn, and Gus was softly snoring at his side, a tiny strand of drool leaking out the side of his mouth closest to Shawn. His friend's head was bobbing, and Shawn scooted away slightly, aware that sooner or later that head was going to fall onto his shoulder, and he was going to get Gus-drool all down his front.

He was still awake, himself, out of sheer stubbornness. Lassiter, the chief, Jules, and all the other lesser known forces of the police department--they'd all been through this room in the last two hours, summoned first by Lassiter's yelling, and then Chief Vick's insistence. Brandishing a notepad and her badge, Chief Vick had taken Lassiter into the hall about a half an hour ago, her eyes tired of this and demanding obedience. Shawn would have followed, at a fair clip, but of course no one had thought to remove his handcuffs. And so he was cuffed to Gus, still, his back to the door, leaving him with no way to sneak a peek at the hallway and get some sense of what was going on around him. He waited in a vacuum, time passing several times more slowly than usual…man, his jaw hurt. Lassy hadn't had to hit him…

Gus's head lolled, and Shawn watched him with grim fascination, leaning away just a little bit more. His wrist ached at the motion, and he blinked down at it, knowing what he'd find. Really. Cuff bites. He'd never be able to explain this to his father.

Gus's head was almost touching his shoulder when the door burst open again (finally, Shawn contested), and Chief Vick strolled into his line of sight, her features drawn but triumphant.

"You're on the case, Mr. Spencer. Be here at 8 am tomorrow, and someone will fill you in." Gus's head snapped up, woken by the voices, and he looked around blearily, balance off, dragging.

"Chief—" Shawn started, his voice thick, thicker than he'd expected. He must be more tired than he thought; his whole body recoiled at the idea of 8 in the morning. That must be—what? A couple hours from now?

"Not now, Mr. Spencer. I'll see you tomorrow at 8. We can talk then."

Shawn gave an exaggerated, embarrassed little cough.

"No, that's not it—" He arched his spine, bringing his and Gus's hands into view and rattling them both demonstratively.

"If you don't mind…" The Chief's mouth came open slightly, a hand coming up to rub at a twitching vein on one temple.

"He cuffed you." Her voice was dry, already knowing the answer. Her eyes widened slightly, and she peered at Shawn's face, looking scandalized.

"Did he--?" She gestured at his face, and Shawn had to wonder what he looked like.

He covered for Lassiter reflexively, making a dismissive noise.

"What, this?" he exclaimed, and he would have rubbed the spot had he been able.

"Naw, I got this playing racquetball with Gus earlier. Gus, tell the Chief about your mean serve…"

"God, what am I going to do with him…" Looking like she was about to groan, or fall over where she stood, Chief Vick turned back to the door, steps trudging.

"I am really…very sorry about this, Mr. Spencer. I don't what's gotten into him." Something of a lie in her tone, more obvious through the veil of sleep. Shawn acknowledged it with a nod, mind churning sluggishly. Too early in the morning for this…too late. Either one.

A couple more minutes of flexing his toes and trading heavy-eyed glances with Gus, and Lassiter himself was in the doorway. He looked, if possible, worse than before. His face, pale and blotchy, those hound eyes staring down at Shawn's hands with visible reluctance. He came over, movements mechanical, to release the cuffs, and as he bent over Shawn's torso there was an unmistakable smell issuing from him. Not alcohol; that would have been in-character, though very unprofessional. No, nicotine. The man reeked of it, filling Shawn's nostrils with the aftermath of sweat and sweet smoke when he inhaled too quickly, metal releasing and twinging on nerves.

But Lassiter didn't smoke.

Not a word for them, and the detective was already sweeping out of the room, taking his cuffs with him.

"See you—tomorrow, Lassy" Shawn croaked, more to test this new, unreadable Lassiter than anything else. Had he been abducted?

Lassiter didn't bother to turn around; that hadn't changed.

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Two pots of coffee and half a box of glazed doughnuts later, and Shawn was resigned to the idea that sugar high and twitching with caffeine was the closest he was going to get to human until he got at least a few more hours of sleep. It made him feel old, old in a way that might have brought panic into his throat, to realize he couldn't just pull an all-nighter out of nowhere anymore. It bore notice that the all-nighter in question hadn't been his idea, and he'd spent the time handcuffed to the dead weight of his best friend, but still--the panic, too, was pushed aside until he'd had a bit more sleep, replaced with a lazy, tired grin.

It was now 8:17 o clock in the morning. Gus had left hours ago when the two had been released (presumably to sleep), promising to call him later so Shawn could fill him in on their new case. Shawn couldn't quite blame his friend for ditching him; friendship only went so far, and while this hadn't been as bad as Mexico it also hadn't exactly been their best night.

He'd had his own peek at the real case file now, Chief Vick having set up everything so he could see it as promised, and he trusted his mind to hold onto the details perfectly; just like any other time.

The information that interested him most was this—Bargussi wasn't the first killing involved in this case; not by a long shot.

Jules had been right. This case was bad—too bad for the sunny streets of Santa Barbara. Something like this—a shiver went down his spine as he acknowledged the words 'serial killer,' and applied them to this case. This was a serial killer, and the MO was even clearer now that he'd seen the pictures, four altogether with Madame Bargussi.

The stigmata was there, in various forms, dug into each of the victims. The variations were slight, but different enough to be—possibly meaningful. No one was really sure, and there were theories pasted all over the pictures. One victim, an older gentleman who had 'read auras' (whatever that meant), had not had his feet crushed like Bargussi, but was missing several toes. Another woman had all of her toes, but had had her torso stripped and a long line carved into her ribs (the police marked the biblical passage where a Roman soldier had scored Jesus's side similarly). The third was perfectly intact (excepting the stigmata and the staking, of course…), but had had her hair shorn off. The latest case was the only one that had contained a message, the biblical passage Matthew 10:34. There it was; someone had looked it up, saving him the trouble:

" Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword."

And wasn't that just creepy as all hell? Given all this information at the start, Shawn might have conceded that this really wasn't the kind of thing that psychic detectives should be involved in. Childhood-warped police dog he was, starter of urban legends and purveyor of tricky schemes, certainly—but this case reeked of creepy death, and the thought of going near it made his civilian skin crawl.

All the same, equal to that horrified feeling was a certain fascination, a thrill, that this was undoubtedly the most important project he had touched so far. Yes, he'd helped the police department find a diamond worth a mint, found missing people and even solved the occasional murder. But help he could give on this case…that could actually save people. Maybe a lot of people. It was almost…noble. Or something.

There was a small scuffle outside, and Shawn recognized the sound of Jules and Lassiter speaking, though they seemed to be taking some care to whisper. He turned his chair to face the door, leaning back on it and slurping distractedly at the third soda can he'd rescued from the pen vending machine in the last half an hour or so. The door started to open, paused only a slice open, and Shawn had the odd feeling someone was peering in, like a child playing hide and go seek.

The door closed again, more scuffling, and Shawn had time to fold his hands in his lap imperiously before the two actually entered. Jules must have been the peeker; her cheeks were slightly pink, her usually cheerful face pinched.

"Alright, Carlton, you were right, but it's not like he's looking at something we haven't been staring at for the past three weeks…"

Carlton followed after her, stiff as a cardboard cutout of a scruffy detective. His mouth was open, ready to follow with a likely biting comment—but a look at Shawn and the comment was swallowed. Shawn looked him over, ready for the man to look like hell, considering he'd gotten as little sleep as Shawn had. But, surprisingly, Lassy looked—better, if not good. Something had happened to make him clean up a little. He'd obviously had a shower, for one, which had done wonders. He hadn't shaved, but had changed his shirt and tie, both of which were crisply tucked into his pants, also clean. He looked surly but, as Shawn noted to himself, didn't he always? He tested the waters, a comment of the kind he would usually make, a little hesitant given the man's rather quick hook before.

"Sleep well, Lassy? I gotta say, that second hour? Too much. I couldn't keep my eyes closed that long. How about you?"

Jules tensed, obviously expecting something bad, but Lassiter merely smiled, a bare lifting of one side of his mouth, stepping into the room and peering at the pictures on the walls.

"I am perfectly awake, Spencer. If it's too much for you to go without sleep, I suggest you go to the Chief and suggest to be taken off this case" Lassiter remarked simply. The weird part was—that actually sounded like a teasing suggestion, rather than an actual comment. Shawn's eyebrows rose curiously, and he leaned back further in his seat, inwardly shrugging. Okay…

Juliet looked surprised too, but quickly masked it, clearing her throat.

"The, uh, Chief Vick told us to bring you with us to the new crime scene" Jules informed, still watching Lassiter out of the corner of her vision rather obviously, as Shawn was. Lassiter stood under the obvious observation stoically, straightening his tie casually as Juliet spoke.

"You'll probably be with us for…most of the case actually" Juliet continued, when it didn't seem Lassiter was going to jump in. "Police escort, and all that." Her eyes turned apologetic.

"Police escort" Shawn repeated, remembering something about that from the early part of last night.

"Shall I blow up the guest bed?"

End chapter

Next chapter—the new crime scene, some disturbing information, and a moment between Shawn and Lassy.