"Mr. Yang? Gus, that's impossible," said Shawn. "Mr. Yang's in prison- I mean, the institution. Maybe it was someone who just looked like her- you know, a Yang look-alike. It's not that improbable. I know you can hire a Dolly Parton body double, a George W. Bush impersonator, and a movie-perfect Joker come to your party. The, uh, Dark Knight Joker, not the Tim Burton one."

"Shawn, I'm telling you, it was her," Gus said emphatically. "She was working the front register, wearing that ridiculous pink dress, and she smiled right at me and said 'Hey, Gus, nice to see you again.' And I don't know any stupid serial killer impersonators."

"Oh, wow," said Shawn. "You know what that means?"

"Yes," Gus said. "It means we call Lassiter right now to come get her before she runs out the back."

"No, Gus. It means my vision was spot on," said Shawn. "Spot. On. Though you're right, we probably should call Lassie."

He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his green Psych cell phone.

"Now you're being reasonable," said Gus, glancing over his shoulder. "Look, Shawn, you think maybe one of us should head around back, just in case?"

"Absolutely not," said Shawn. "It's the classic horror movie set up. The heroes separate, head back towards a sleazy, badly painted Dumpster, and ckkkkk—" he drew his finger across his throat before turning away to speak into the phone. "Hello, Santa Barbara PD? Oh, it's you, Jules. Yeah, you're not going to believe this, but we just saw Mr. Yang. Yeah, we're sure. Uh, we're down on the public beach, just outside the Happy Seagull Souvenir Shop. Not a vision, Gus actually saw her! Yes, right away. Great." Flipping the phone shut, he turned back to Gus. "Not to mention the black guy always dies first."

Gus opened his mouth to reply with some sort of snarky repartee on how Shawn was being racist, but his brilliant comment was drowned out by the joint wailing of police sirens as four of Santa Barbara's finest pulled into the sandy parking lot. Almost before the lead car stopped, its door opened and Detective Carlton Lassiter tumbled out of the driver's side.

"Alright, Spencer, this had better not be one of your false alarms," he said warningly.

"It isn't," Gus said, stepping in front of his friend. "I saw her with my own two eyes. Mr. Yang's in there, front register."

Lassiter turned and began yelling orders at the police officers piling out of their cars.

"All right, people, let's move! I want Hartman, Brynns, and McNab to set up a perimeter, ready to shoot if she runs. O'Hara, you're with me. Jones! Allen! Cover the back entrance! Let's go!"

Shawn thumped Gus's arm.

"See? What'd I tell you?" he said.

"Shut up, Shawn," Gus snapped. "I just want to see Mr. Yang behind bars for good."

"Congratulations, Mr. Spencer," snapped Chief Karen Vick, sliding a beige manila folder across her desk towards Shawn and Gus. "You just made the Santa Barbara police force look like idiots."

"Again," Lassiter put in, smugly leaning against the doorframe. "Chief, as I've told you before—"

"Oh, put a sock in it, Lassie," Shawn interrupted. "And look, Chief, how were we supposed to know she was allowed to be there? Lassie didn't know it either, judging by the way he stormed down there and kicked in the door—"

"I did not kick the door in, I kneed it in," Lassiter said, "per standard protocol for a building currently sheltering crimi-"

"Detective Lassiter, Mr. Spencer, I will thank you both to stand down!" Vick snapped. "It was a work-release program; apparently, Ms. Rotmensen's psychiatrist thinks it would help her to hold a position and get some outside exposure, help her acclimate to life outside an institution. The hospital informed me of this transition over a week ago, and if either of you had bothered to check the attachment on the weekly update email, you would have both known about this."

Shawn looked down, pursing his lips. Oops.

"But why here?" Lassiter demanded. "Why in Santa Barbara, for God's sake? They have to know about Yang's—delusional—fixation with—" he motioned towards Shawn.

"I agree with Lassiter," said Gus. "There's plenty of other places to work outside Santa Barbara. Like Siberia, or Timbuktu."

"Sick, demented, disgusting fixation," Lassiter said, half under his breath.

Karen Vick sighed and placed a hand on her forehead.

"Gentlemen," she said. "Part of the institution's work-release program specifies that a trustee patient may not hold a job less than twenty-five miles from the institution. The Happy Seagull was selected for its remote location within that perimeter. Now, of course, Ms. Rotmensen will have to be relocated to a new workplace."

"Oh, great, you're putting her somewhere else?" Gus said. "I can't wait to walk into my favorite coffee bar and realize there's a serial killer serving me my peppermint mocha."

"Dude, I didn't know you liked peppermint mochas," said Shawn. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Can we stay focused here?" Lassiter snapped. "I never thought I'd say this, but I agree with the psychic. You need to call the institution and tell them to make an exception. Place Yang—I mean, Ms. Rotmensen—somewhere out of this city. Far away from this city."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Vick said coolly. "Perhaps you missed it before, but I made an agreement with the institution. The papers are already signed. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."

"Well, I thought that went well," Shawn announced, as he and Gus headed down the front steps of the police department towards Gus's waiting car. "But we really need to talk. Why didn't you tell me you liked peppermint mochas? All these years, and I never suspected—"

"Cut it out, Shawn," Gus said. He stopped at the blue car and quickly scanned the street. Someone had parallel parked a black Jeep in a no-parking zone—a killer, abandoning the car as a clue? Just then, a red-headed teenager bounced out of the nearby boutique and into the Jeep. Nope. A blue-clad meter maid was ticketing a red Corvette, her face hidden by a navy baseball cap. They wouldn't put her to work for the city, would they? That would be stupid. He shook his head and kept looking. Further down the street, a man in a sharp brown suit was touching every parking meter he passed while talking to a woman with dark, curly hair. Could that be Yang?

"…plus you talked Lassiter around, which is, I have to say, an enormous feat of sheer loquacity and smooth-tonguedness," Shawn was saying. "Hey, what are you looking at? I'm the one who's not supposed to pay attention. You're stealing my gig."

"Nothing," Gus said quickly. "Get in the car."

Shawn shook his head and made a tsk-tsk sound as he ducked into the passenger's seat.

"I'm getting a psychic reading here," he said. "You're worried about—oh, oh, almost, I can almost see it—you're worried about Yang."

"And you're not?" Gus said. "Put your seatbelt on."

"Right, I forgot I'm riding with Captain Responsible," said Shawn, reaching for the belt. "And that's why you don't have to worry, Gus. You're way, way too responsible to do anything dumb, except maybe go behind a restaurant by yourself when there's a serial killer inside or forget to check the expiration date on the milk carton. I bet you check both side windows before you back up, don't you?"

"And the back," Gus said, checking his side mirrors and the back.

"Exactly! You're safe, Gus. And if Yang comes after anyone, it's not going to be you," said Shawn. "It's going to be me."

"That's why I'm worried," Gus muttered, and pulled out into the street.

Remember, to err is human, to review divine!