Nice to see that someone replied! Well, here's the third chapter, where we finally get to see some action (not to mention some characters we actually CARE about!).

"Carry on my wayward son," Shawn Spencer warbled as the blue Echo sped closer to its destination, "there'll be peace when you are done."

Burton Guster, Shawn's only real friend, leaned forward and clicked the radio off. "That's enough, Shawn," he warned, "I can and will throw you out of this car."

"Oh, but Gus," Shawn whined, "it's such a good song. And look, we're so close to the crime scene."

"How do you know that? Those 'vibrations' getting stronger?"

"Actually, I looked at the road signs, but that vibrations line is good. I'll have to use it on the cops."

Gus rolled his eyes. "Anything's better than telling them about the radio in the backseat. You know, Shawn, one of these days they're gonna find out you're not really psychic, and you know what's gonna happen then?"

"They'll laugh about it for years to come?"

"No, Shawn. They'll have you arrested for fraud. You want to get arrested? I don't wanna get arrested. Have you seen the inside of a prison? Their bathrooms are out in the open, and I get stage fright."

Shawn smiled. "Don't worry, Gus, I'll be your cover."

Gus scowled as he spotted the yellow crime tape the police had spread around the scene. He sighed, parking the car and stepping out onto the pavement. Shawn joined him, pointing to an old black Impala that was in near-mint condition.

"That is so cool," Shawn gushed, running up to the car and letting his fingers dance over the jet black metal, "I wonder who owns it?"

"With our luck," Gus muttered, "it's Lassiter, and he dusts it for prints every night. Come on." He started up toward the modest house, best friend in tow.

"You know," Shawn continued, "I've only ever seen one other car like that, and it was back in '89."

Gus stopped walking, causing Shawn to run into him. "You remember seeing that car in 1989?"

"Well, not that car exactly, no, but one just like it. Why?"

The shorter man said nothing, just shook his head and walked up the staircase and into a large bedroom that was covered in splashes of blood. "What happened here?" he asked as Shawn walked past him and began looking around.

"Well," a tall, shaggy-haired cop neither man had ever seen before said, walking up, "someone was murdered."

"Yes," Shawn gasped, grabbing his head and stumbling around the room, "I can sense it." He glanced around the room, noticing several strands of long blonde hair on the bed sheets, which were shredded and covered in blood. "The victim was female," a silver class ring glinted in the corner of the room, the date proudly announcing a graduation in 2008, "she was sixteen, had blonde hair, and was stabbed to death." He fell to his knees, shuddering.

"Is he all right?" the tall cop asked.

Shawn's head snapped up. "Shawn Spencer," he smiled, holding out a hand for the man to shake, "I'm a psychic."

"Oh," the man's eyes went wide, "well, I'm Agent Sam Baldwin, and that's my partner, Agent Dean Skouris. We're with the FBI."

Shawn and Gus looked in the direction Sam was pointing and saw a young man with short brown hair clad in a leather jacket. He was talking to Juliet O'Hara, smiling charmingly as he did so.

"I'd like to meet him, please," Shawn said, standing up and brushing himself off, "if it's not too much trouble."

"It is," a familiar said from behind them. All three men turned to find themselves staring at Carlton Lassiter, who didn't seem to be in too good a mood.

"But I feel like I'm being pulled toward him," Shawn explained, "like all of our questions will be answered if I can just talk to him."

"It's bad enough that the FBI even has to be here," Lassiter hissed, "but do you really have to bother them with your voodoo?"

"As a matter of fact," Shawn nodded, "I do. Excuse me." He set off across the room to where the other detective was talking. "I don't believe we've met," he said, offering his hand to the new man, who shook it slowly, "Shawn Spencer. I'm the psychic."

"That's nice," Dean said, forcing a small smile, "so, who did it?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. My spirit guide told me to talk to you."

"Oh, really? And what does it want you to talk to me about?"

"You're new in town?" Shawn asked as Dean nodded. "Is that your car parked out front? The Impala?"

"Does it have something to do with the murders?"

"No, but, man, that is an awesome car! Where'd you get it?"

"My dad. Now, Haley Joel, can you tell me about the case? Who's the murderer?"

Shawn put his hand to his forehead and squinted his eyes shut, a gesture Dean was all too familiar with. "It was," Shawn began, "Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the candlestick."

Dean's face fell as the 'psychic' opened his eyes. "Was that a vision?" he asked mockingly.

"As a matter of fact, it was. And your partner's gonna kick your butt at 'Clue' tonight."

"Let me guess," the agent sighed, rolling his eyes as his partner and Gus joined them, "you want me to tell you everything we know so that you can ask the spirits who killed the little girl with as much detail as possible. You need me to do this because spirits can easily get confused because so many teenagers are brutally murdered everyday, right?"

"That's how it works."

Sam sighed. "She was 16, you were right about that. Her name was Maggie Stenson, and she was babysitting. She called the father of the children around nine to ask if she could watch her favorite television program in their bedroom. She called back two minutes later asking if she could move the large clown doll."

"What clown doll?" Gus asked.

"That's just it," Sam continued, "the Peterson's don't own a clown doll. The kids heard Maggie screaming and called the cops. She was stabbed to death, apparently by the clown."

"Ahh, yes," Shawn nodded, closing his eyes and waving his arms around like a maniac, "I can see it now. The clown, the knife-"

"Where can we find them?" Dean asked.

Shawn shrugged. "Can't tell ya."

The two FBI Agents rolled their eyes in exasperation as Juliet finally spoke up. "Shawn, if you could maybe come back some other time, it would be appreciated."

"All right," Shawn said grudgingly, suddenly noticing something sticking out of the shorter agent's pocket. It looked like a hotel keycard, "I know when I'm not wanted. Come on, Gus, let's go try to solve this case where there aren't so many non-believers."