Disclaimer: I own one can of crushed pineapple and one carton of orange-banana-pineapple juice. If that isn't enough to seduce Shawn Spencer than I don't know what is...

Forget Me Not

Chapter Two: Blue Jello Brain

Henry stared blankly at his morning paper, vainly looking for some sort of story about his psychic son. He'd become use to seeing it in the local newspaper, headlines about the psychic detective who had cracked this case or that, or who had been caught convening with a penny in a parking lot, trying to call up the spirit of President Lincoln. Human interest pieces that never made it further than the Santa Barbara Daily Times, but that always ended up in a shoebox under Henry's bed. Flipping the page, he startled at the rustle the paper made, the house seemed so much quieter now that there wasn't someone barging in unexpectedly at odd times. How often had he complained about the noise? About his things disappearing and reappearing later in strange places? And the presets on his radio in the truck changing at least once a week? When had he grown used to his son appearing, looking for help on a case? When had he come to enjoy his son's presence at the dinner table? When did he start relishing their arguments? And why did he only realize that he would miss him after he was gone?

Crossing the kitchen for the phone, he had half dialed the department's number, intent on filing a missing person's report, when he thought better of it and hung up the phone. Putting Shawn under as a missing person would just cause the kid to get even more upset, make him think that Henry didn't trust him to take care of himself at all—because that was what he had said, wasn't it? That Shawn needed a babysitter wherever he went, he couldn't be trusted to not get in trouble, just like the time he'd stolen gum out of the Easter basket when he was three…

Okay, so maybe this was his fault. He'd just gotten so worried about Shawn when he'd heard that he was being held at gunpoint…

Right, he'd overreacted a little bit. When Shawn finally resurfaced, he'd apologize…but that kid owed him at least three dog houses for scaring him like that and then running off…And maybe after they finished building them together, he'd get Shawn a little boy cat to go with them.

*~~*

Human beings weren't meant to subsist off of blue Jell-O for periods longer than a week. He'd decided that after the first week. But the pain medication that he was taking for his constant headache often tried to make him purge his gut. It appeared only a sacrifice of Jell-O would please his stomach and keep him from visiting the porcelain god. Thankfully, the second week, they had started weaning him off the medication, and though the pain hadn't abated completely, he could start eating more solid foods. If he ever was released from the hospital.

It appeared the staff had taken a liking to him, and were attempting to try to convince him to move in permanently. He thanked them kindly, and turned down the offer. They hadn't completely given up trying, but Doctor Sullivan had found a couple of suitable apartments, and the staff had taken a collection around the entire hospital, so he would have enough for down payment and the next couple of months rent. It was sweet of them, they'd even paid for most of his medical bills, and he'd decided to pay them back as soon as he possibly could.

There was a knock on the doorframe and the good doctor appeared. "Hey, Lass." That was the other thing he'd decided…Henry…it was familiar, but he just didn't feel right using it. As if for some reason that name should strike fear and terror into his heart, or at least an extreme feeling of guilt. Lassie, on the other hand, seemed to bring a grin to his face for no reason, and so he'd decided to go by Lass. "How's your head today?"

"Great, Doc."

"Good." Doctor Sullivan smiled, and scribbled on his chart. "Now, I'm going to give you a prescription of Vicodin. You aren't to take this every day, but as the swelling starts to go down, you're probably going to get migraines. Especially under stress, or, as your memory begins to return."

"Thanks," Lass smiled, "Does this mean I'm getting out?"

"Well, I know you want to leave, but why don't you get dressed, and then I have someone that wants to meet you."

"Yes!" He jumped from the bed, ignoring the fact that he was only dressed in a scanty hospital gown, and focusing on the fact that he was getting out of this bar-less prison.

"Calm down…and stop jumping, or I'll have them medicate you again!"

"Sorry." He couldn't keep that ridiculous grin off his face, and bounded over to grab the stack of clothes.

"We had them cleaned, but they're yours."

Lass froze, hand hovering over the green t-shirt and jeans. Your one true love will be wearing sneakers and an Apple Jacks t-shirt. Vaguely, he realized he was shaking…no trembling. Trembling like some stupid leaf in the wind, unable to keep itself from being blown away, but hanging on, desperately clinging, unwilling to go of that last thread…Hair blonde…a smile…

"Lass!" The hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it, blowing the leaf off the branch as the wind took the last of his memory with it. "You okay?"

"I'm…I'm fine."

"Okay, then get dressed, I'll bring in your visitor in a couple of minutes." The doctor gave him one last squeeze on his shoulder and then turned, leaving him alone with the clothes and a half-eaten plate of blue Jell-O.

*~~*

"Mr. Guster?"

Picking up the smoothie from the counter, Gus turned to meet the blue gaze. "Detective." Lassiter and O'Hara were sitting at a small table that allowed them to have a view of the entire room. And Gus knew that they were sitting there because it was well known that this was the place that Shawn came to most often when looking for delicious flavor in the form of a pineapple smoothie.

"Come sit with us!"

"Sorry, Juliet. I have work to do, I really need to finish my run…" But the truth was, without Shawn here, he'd gotten his weekly run done in half the time, and now really had nothing to do.

"Just for a minute."

So Gus sat, wondering how Shawn could draw such three different personalities together, in a way that they would continue to socialize, even after he was gone. Lassiter looked tired, and Juliet just looked sad.

"I never thought I'd say this…" Gus looked up to meet the head detective's eyes, "…but I don't know what to do now that Spencer isn't rearranging my desk every two seconds or sneaking onto crime scenes. Have you heard from him? How's his mother?"

"His mother?"

"When we asked the chief she said Mr. Spencer said he'd gone to help his mother."

Gus looked at Juliet, confused for a second, and then shook his head. "No, that's just Spencer speak for they got in a fight again. Shawn ran off afterward, took his bike, and ditched his wallet and his phone. At least this time he had the foresight to terminate his rental agreement. Last time he did this, I thought his landlord was going to smite him with Zeus' lightning bolts."

"And he hasn't tried to call?" Lassiter sounded worried, but hid it by taking a large sip of his coffee, sloshing it over the rim and onto the table.

"It isn't that unusual. Once he went nearly a year without contact. Turns out he was teaching kids English in Thailand…"

"I can just imagine the words those kids learned…"

"I think their first accomplishment was the entirety of Baby Got Back."

Lassiter shook his head, bringing a hand up to his face and running it over his eyes. Juliet snorted, causing bubbles to form in her soda.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Gus said. "Henry won't let anyone file a missing person's report."

"Why not?" Juliet reached over and mopped up Lassiter's coffee with her napkin.

"Last time he did that, Shawn threatened to never come back."

*~~*

"Henry Lassie, I'd like you to meet my friend, Detective Hamilton."

"It's nice to meet you, Detective." The handshake was firm, but friendly, and the grey-haired detective's calm demeanor put him at ease, pushing the t-shirt incident from his thoughts.

"And you. I understand that you believe that you may have been an officer before the, well, accident."

"Yes, sir."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his doctor sidle from the room, leaving them alone. "We don't have any reports of missing officers…but the LAPD has agreed to evaluate you at the Police Academy. If you were an officer…"

His eye caught on the smudge of rust on the detective's shoe, traveling upward to the crinkled suit pants and rubber gloves that hung from his pocket. Taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the tremor in his hands that bespoke of too much coffee, his mind seemed to suddenly make lightning fast connections, and before he knew it, Lass had opened his mouth. "Serial killer…that must be rough."

The officer stopped speaking. "How did you…there haven't been any reports released…"

"Blood on the shoe, means recent crime scene, as do the gloves. Disheveled clothes, you look tired, and wrung out. Too much coffee, and a long case involving a recent murder? Must be a serial killer."

Stunned silence filled the room, and Lass fidgeted nervously, wondering if he'd done something wrong, or perhaps said the wrong thing. Tinny voices filtered from the detective's pocket and he pulled out a miniature police scanner. "I've got to go…but I wanted to take you to the academy for testing…oh, hell, why don't you just come with me."

"Thank you, sir. I would be glad to go." As soon as the detective turned Lass jumped into the air in victory, doing a familiar little happy dance before taking down the hall after his future.

Fifteen minutes later they were pulling into the parking lot of a country club that was surrounded by flashing lights and tape, shouts filtering across the ground as the owner argued over the fact that his clients were being detained because some stupid woman leaned on a railing and fell from the balcony. Detective Hamilton jumped out of his car, eating the ground in long strides, Lass doing a jump skip out of the car, nearly tripping over the lip, and then chasing after him. They ducked under the yellow tape, Lass mentally noted that it was upside down, and across the lawn.

"Officer Cullen!"

"Detective Hamilton, sir." The kid turned around quickly, and held out the clipboard to the detective, causing the irate man behind him, clearly the owner, to throw his hands up in frustration. No one noticed as Lass sidled over to the body, taking in the balcony and surrounding area quickly, before glancing at the owner, mind racing to put together quickly gathered clues.

"What do we have, officer?"

"Looks like an accident, sir. Woman leaned on the balcony railing, it snapped, and she fell."

"All right, I need you to do something for me officer, I need you to take Henry Lassie down to the Academy and have him take the paper test and a weapons test. I need the results immediately, and I need…"

"This was not an accident!"

Everyone froze. "Who the hell is this?!"

"Ahh," Lass smiled. "You must be the owner, Mr…"

"Jenkins."

"Yes, Mr. Jenkins. Your ex-wife did not accidently fall to her death."

"What…"

"You knew she was coming to see you today, didn't you Mr. Jenkins…don't deny it, both of you have tan lines where wedding bands should have been…"

"How could you get off…"

"I'm sure one of they many people who visit your club regularly could confirm it."

Jenkins shut up.

"What is he doing?" Officer Cullen whispered.

"Let's wait and see," answered Hamilton, intrigued.

"As I was saying, Mr. Jenkins, you knew your ex was coming, and I bet she wanted something from you. Whatever it was, you couldn't give it to her, and so, you had to get rid of her."

"This is all well and good…"

"Lassie, Henry Lassie."

"Right, but you have no way of…"

"The balcony railing had been sawed half-way through in two places, as you see, the railing pinned underneath the body is clean cut here and here, before it splinters off at the bottom."

Detective Hamilton stepped forward to examine it. "It is, Cullen, didn't you notice this?"

"Well…"

"I'll take that as a no. Go on, Lassie."

"Thank you. This was clearly done with a hand saw, as you can see by the uneven teeth marks. Apparently, Mr. Jenkins ex-wife didn't give him enough warning, because he was unable to change between the time he fixed the railing and her arrival, leaving the grease smudge on his white golf shirt, there."

Hamilton turned to scrutinize their newest suspect, hand already trailing down to his cuffs in a manner that seemed strangely familiar to Lass. Shaking off his déjà vu, Lass continued.

"But I don't believe that she leaned against the railing voluntarily. No. You fought…I'm sure some of those that have been detained can attest to raised voices. You waited until she was close to the railing, and then, you pushed her against it. The sawed through portion cracked under her weight, and she fell to her death, but not before she reached out, looking for a handhold, and pulled your handkerchief from your pocket, which is still clutched in her hand."

Mr. Jenkins had paled, his fingers running nervously through his comb over, and reaching to his pocket, looking for the missing handkerchief. Not finding it, he raised his eyes and glanced nervously at the officers that had begun closing in on him.

"What…what was I supposed to do?!" his voice came out high-pitched and breathy. "She was pregnant…she's was going to make me pay child support…"

"It is too bad, then, Mr. Jenkins," Hamilton toned, gesturing an officer forward, "that because of the death of the fetus you can be charged on two counts of murder in California. Read him his rights and book him."

Lass felt the pain suddenly spike in his head, but took a deep gulp of air, deciding that he would be getting that Vicodin prescription filled as soon as humanly possible. Especially since the pain was wrestling with his instinct to jump up and down insanely with victory.

Hamilton turned back to Cullen, lowering his voice. "On second thought, Cullen, forget the paper test, see how he handles a gun, and if it is even remotely anything like his performance now, I want a badge with his name on it by the end of the day. Got it?"

"Ye…Yes, sir."