"Okay team, this one is serious. The Treetop Killer." The blur of orange (brilliance, if you don't remember) clicks a button and a picture shows up on the screen.
It reads: I'm skipping the whole "kill someone, build a reputation, then scare the police" thing. I find it cliché. So I'm just sending you this note. Also cliché, but hey, I don't really care. After all, I'm not the one who has a murder on their hands. Anyway, I heard about Yin/Yang, and -copy cat or not- I want a piece of that. So, Shawnie, You're up. But I don't believe in rhymes. Or hints, really. But it's no fun if you have no chance.
I think they're gross, inside and out. Eyes. School.
I'm really bad at hints.
I'm sitting on the front desk counter, because I can. I dawdle here the most. I tried dawdling in DC, but there is too much stupidity there, and honestly, I have never been a fan of the color blue. And all of them are so dark. It's pleasing to be around all this orange. Most people here have at least a little orange.
Shawn's girlfriend is talking now, about the killer. They have no M.O., no real motive, no execution so far.
I already know who this person is, of course, because I've picked her up. Andrea Summers. Seemed to be a sweet girl. Older, probably mid to early thirties.
Fact
You are going to die
Whether by homicide, patricide, suicide, manslaughter, infanticide, natural cause, accident, or any other cide, you are going to die. Accept it.
I've learned a lot of cop babble, hanging out here. I pride myself on it.
Anyhow, it is a fact of life. It sucks. But you are going to die. Just like me. Now, chances are, you won't be stuck with my life, especially if I can never find a successor.
But the truth is, I'm not sure I want a successor. Yes, this job sucks, but I still have a piece of earth. The dead, they are stuck in a nowheresville that they will never get out of; heaven or hell. I travel the earth. I can go anywhere I want in a blink of an eye. I've seen Paris, Ecuador, Kenya, Hong Kong, London and much more.
I guess there are perks to being me, at least a few. The Eiffel Tower was impressive. I'll never forget seeing a lion on the prowl, or all those elephants on the way to the watering hole. Big Ben was a sight too.
Passing on is the only part of my job that is not set in stone for me. I know I have to pick someone else. I don't know what happens after that. When I was chosen, my mentor just sort of disappeared. Do I go to heaven? Do I go to hell? Do I just evaporate into nothing? I do not know. Do I get to keep my memories I've made while holding my place? Do I gain the memories back that I lost when I died? Will I just become a regular angel? I do not know. And that scares me.
But anyway, I know who the killer is. He is all beige. Boring and horrible. Of course, I can't tell anyone. I've come to accept it. I've sat idly by as I watch innocent people be brutally murdered. Poison, arson, shootings, asphyxiation, dismemberment, stab wounds, drowning, lethal injection, forced starvation, explosions, strangulation I learned that that is different from asphyxiation, and I learned how to spell asphyxiation, blunt force trauma, icicle stabbings, crossbows, one time, a woman used a microwave to kill her one month old baby. People are crazy.
Some may say that makes me a bad person, but really, what am I supposed to do? Scream? Useless. I've never even bothered trying. No one would hear me. Take the murderer? I don't know how, and somehow, I think that would be frowned upon.
So I stay quiet, and close my eyes, waiting for the victim to take their last breath, so that my mind is quiet once more. I can't handle the screams, the cries, the tears, or especially the ragged breaths that come from a burst lung or, really, any situation where one is dying. I wait until they are legally dead for at least a minute, and then I do my job and get the hell out of there.
"Okay, team. You know what to do. Lassiter, O'Hara I want you at the crime scene. Dobson, McNab, Averly, go as well. Everyone else, I want you running records." Everyone moved away, and the station was buzzing.
"Chief! What do you want me and Gus to do?" Gus. That's his friend's name. It works.
"Stay put, . As soon as I see a need for you to join this investigation, you will definitely know." She gestured for them to leave. They didn't.
"But, Chief, I'm awesome at solving serial killings, you know that." I smiled. He was so good at charming people.
"Mr. Spencer. Mr. Guster. Out." They turned and walked dejectedly out of the building.
++++++++++
Over the next several weeks, of course, Shawn and 'Gus' did not wait for the Chief's call. They investigated, and Shawn got deeper and deeper into The Treetop Killer's web. I saw him. Robbie Habbardly. I saw him scheming. I knew the tricks he had tucked in his belt.
You see, Robbie Habbardly knew The Fake Psychic. He knew everything about him. Somehow, this man had tracked down every article ever printed on one Shawn Spencer. He knew who was important to him. He knew how to make him tick. Most importantly, he knew he was good.
Shawn Spencer was not a cop. He did not operate within the lines of the system. This helped him a great lot when it came to solving cases quickly. He knew his limits though. He never abused something the police call 'fruit from a poisonous tree,' and he never did anything permanent without the police present. But that didn't matter. Because Robbie Habbardly knew him, inside and out. He knew his patterns, and he knew how to get him to crack.
He did.
+++++++++++
"Chief Karen Vick." She spoke her formal greeting into her work phone.
"I would suggest you get your psychic to back off, Vicky. People very important to him could get hurt. Or they are already. Who knows? Good luck catching me from the trees."
Dial tone
+++++++++++
"Mr. Spencer. Get down here. You have a case."