Title: Death Is in the Air(port)
Author: nao_asakura, aka SuperMiss
OoOoO
A hostess and a steward were standing in the back of the plane, next to the bathroom, beside the short, sorry excuse of a criminal, who was currently lying on the floor, very blue in the face.
"That can't be good," chirped Gus, saying out loud what everybody was obviously thinking.
The moody Marshall was standing behind, by the toilet door, looking very stiff. He had reasons to feel bad, with his perp being shocked with a defibrillator by a terrified looking young steward.
"Man, he's dead," said the young man with a thick Southern accent, putting the defibrillator pallets aside on the floor with shaky hands.
A couple of minutes later, an old doctor with white hair and beard, looking very much like Santa Claus in tweed and a bowtie, according to Shawn anyway, joined the party in the back. The curtain had been drawn, and the passengers carefully misinformed. He had some trouble kneeling down, joked a bit about being old and rusted, but finally confirmed that the perp was dead. "Heart attack," he said, and everyone seemed to buy it – the man was in his late fifties and everything but athletic and healthy looking.
Everyone, that is, but Shawn, who crouched by the body, despite Lassiter's warning: "Back off, Spencer. Put your greasy hands away."
Shawn didn't take the time to argue – his hands weren't greasy anyway, merely salty from eating all those peanuts, but that hardly qualified as— Wait a minute, what was that?
Shawn's mind made a full stop and the only thing he could see now was the tiny reddish dot on the dead guy's belly, where his shirt had risen from his pants. Puncture wound.
"Aw!" He jumped to his feet, as if in pain, and swayed a little, clutching his heart.
"Cut the crap, Spencer! We already know he died from a heart attack, no need for your theatrical demonstrations."
"But wait, Lassie, there's more," Shawn sputtered, slightly out of breath, and he carried on moaning, now holding his side.
"Paper cut!" he yelped. "No, wait, bees! I'm sensing bees!"
"You think he could have been killed by bees?" Gus asked, suddenly very insecure, eyeing the ceiling suspiciously.
"Gus, don't be a floppy bread knife, I'm sensing, ow, I'm sensing jabbing, I'm sensing puncture... like a giant bee, right in his side..."
He was indicating his own side, but the old doctor got the clue, and quickly checked the perp's abdomen, revealing several purple marks.
"Well, he was definitively injected with something, but those marks could be consistent with—"
"Mister Stungrass was a diabetic," the Marshall stepped in, his voice trailing. "He had daily injections for that."
"That's it!" Shawn cried. "Someone tampered with the... syringes, or whatever, and killed him."
"What makes you think he was killed?" Gus asked, still on the lookout for bees, one never knew.
"Don't you find it suspicious?"
"Yes, a bit, but that's no reason to start throwing wild accusations and—"
"Oi, Holmes, Watson, will you please stop talking non sense and step out of my crime scene?"
"Crime scene?" Shawn asked, surprised.
"Yours?" the Marshall growled.
"Until we know for sure how that man died, nobody goes near that body. And I'll need to see those drugs you were referring to, Marshall. And yes, I'm in charge here, since you," he went as far as tapping his finger in the Marshall's chest, "failed to keep your convict alive."
"Good talk, Lassie. Now, what are we—"
"Will you get out of here, Spencer, or do I have to throw you out myself?"
Quickly backing away froman irate Lassiter with his palms raised in a placating manner, Shawn came back to the main cabin, followed by Gus. A few passengers raised their head from their newspapers and daiquiris, but most of them were minding their own business – an announcement had been made, stating that someone had fainted, and please use the toilets at the front of the plane.
"Why do you think he could have been killed?"
The Marshall had appeared from nowhere, sneaky like an evil beaver, and it was now Gus' turn to clutch his heart as if he was about to die.
"I think someone wanted to silence him," said Shawn, frowning.
"Did he... did he speak to you?" the Marshall looked hesitant now.
"You mean from the grave? Not yet, but I'm—"
"Don't give me that psychic bullshit—"
"So you don't believe me either. Funny how you and Lassie look alike sometimes."
"Answer my question," said the Marshall, his voice icy cold.
"Same bully talk, same pathological lack of patience."
Shawn winced as the huge paw of the Marshall gripped his shoulder a bit too tightly.
"It's just... I felt that he was afraid of something," Shawn said, hiding behind the convenient cover of his psychicness. "Of someone, maybe. I think the killer is on the plane. I can sense it." He raised his fluttering fingers to his temple.
"Then there's no way they can escape," said the Marshall, gloomily, before stomping off.
"What was that?" murmured Gus, after he made sure the other man was out of hearing range.
"Someone didn't get enough love and attention when they were little, Gus. It's sad—"
"Shawn, will you please focus? There is a dead body behind this curtain and I don't want—" He was cut off mid rant when Shawn pulled him further away from the passengers seats. A woman was looking at them with big round eyes, and Shawn mouthed with a smile: "He was only joking."
"I'm focused, Gus, stop panicking. I think someone murdered that guy, and I'm gonna find who did it."
"And why?"
"Of course." They bumped their fists.
"This is awesome," added Shawn, pensively. "A whole plane of suspects. Totally like The Crime of the Orient Express. Except that I have no mustache, and much better hair than that Belgian guy."
Gus said nothing, but nodded his agreement with the part about the hair. He was squinting at everyone from the back of the plane, furtive glances, and wondered if they were going to need magnifying glasses.
"Anyway," Shawn added, sobering suddenly, "I already know the Marshall did it."
OoOoO
"Right before he... died, when I ran into him on my way back from the little boys' room, Sunglass—"
"Stuntgrass."
"Whatever. That small, shabby guy faked stumbling, and—"
"Maybe he really lost his balance," said Gus, "I mean, he turned up dead a few minutes later."
"Gus, will you stop interrupting me? Time is counted."
"Who said anything about time being counted?"
"You see, you keep arguing and it won't lead us anywhere." Shawn ran a hand through his awesome hair and sighed. "I think there's more than meets the eye, anyway. Sunbath faked stumbling, and he gave me this."
That time, Gus didn't bother to correct Shawn's personal version of the dead guy's name – it was no use anyway – and examined the folded paper Shawn had produced from his jeans pocket. Hastily written on it were the words 'Help me'.
"He must have felt someone was onto him," Gus said tentatively.
"The Marshall, you mean."
Gus ignored him and continued, "Stuntgrass was supposed to testify in some kind of audience for a big trial in two days."
"Dude, how would you know that?" Shawn asked. He seemed genuinely confused, but Gus couldn't blame him; the other man had spent the first half hour of their flight eating peanuts while bothering Lassiter, and developing a strong hate at first sight for the Marshall.
"I overheard the Marshall talking to Lassiter earlier," said Gus with a smile.
"I knew there was a reason you had such big ears."
"My ears ain't..." Gus muttered, feeling the incriminated appendages with his fingertips, a frown on his face.
"Okay, let's find Lassiface then."
OoOoO
It was on their way to the back of the plane, where the dead body of the unfortunate Stuntgrass had been cordoned off by an over zealous Lassiter – his first case on a plane, how exciting! – that Shawn and Gus overheard the "something more" that Shawn was (totally psychically) sensing.
The two of them hid behind a hostess cart, awesome hair and big head the only things visible.
Someone was talking on the phone – How do they get a phone working on a plane in the first place? Shawn wondered. Maybe it was a satellite phone, which would explain— Focus, Shawn, he berated himself.
Someone was talking, and he didn't sound happy, as muffled as he was.
"Yes, he's dead, but it's way too early. It was supposed to happen in the airport, and... I don't— I don't know." – pause – "No."
Shawn and Gus exchanged a glance.
"No, but I think some nutcase is suspecting me."
"That would be me," Shawn murmured needlessly.
"If everything is in place in Portland, there should be no problem."
There was another pause, longer this time. "I'm not sure a second dead body is advisable right now, but I'll see what I can do."
Then the muffled someone stopped talking, and a few seconds later, a very determined US Marshall passed Shawn and Gus' hiding spot.
Gus had paled, and it made him look slightly green.
"You're not going to get sick, are you?" Shawn worried.
"Did you hear that, Shawn? He's planning on offing you, and probably me and Lassiter as well! Oh my God, I knew I shouldn't have come, and now we're all going to die! It's even worse than Mexico—"
"The first or the second time, in Mexico?" Shawn wasn't really listening. He was thinking about a way to keep the plane safe, a way to prevent that bastard from getting away.
"That's it!" He stood up suddenly, startling Gus, who remained hidden, crouched behind the cart.
"What?" Gus whispered.
"I'm going to have this plane diverted to another airport."
OoOoO
Before Gus could even understand what was happening, Shawn had jumped forward, screaming. A vision; Gus knew that manic demeanor way too well. He followed Shawn, who was flailing between two rows of seats, his hand to his temple, fingers twitching.
"I see, I see fire!" That was an easy one, but no one around said anything, watching him with their mouths open. "I see," Shawn carried on, "wires. Blue, red, yellow. Which one is it?"
Gus had caught up with him, but he was unsure of what to do. Go fetch Lassiter, maybe? Well, the raucous will alert him soon enough.
"Wires! A countdown! Twenty seven, twenty six, twenty fi—"
"Are you saying there is a bomb on the plane?" a small woman asked in a tiny voice. Suddenly, it seemed that everyone stopped breathing, waiting for the answer.
"A bomb! Yes!" Shawn was sweating, leaning against a seat, and he seemed truly distressed; it could fool anyone, Gus thought.
"We're all going to die!" someone randomly screamed, and chaos ensued. The hostesses and the stewards were trying to keep people in their seats, but there was too much noise and confusion. Well done, Shawn, thought Gus. Now what?
That was the moment Lassiter and the Marshall chose to join the scene, bellowing something Gus didn't quite catch and Shawn ignored, still going on about his so called vision of an explosive device on the plane.
"Alright, that's it, Shawn. Yfou left me no choice." Lassiter's voice was stern, but his eyes betrayed his excitement.
"What? What are you talking about, Lassiface?"
"No choice at all."
The tall detective advanced on Shawn with a feral smile which was, to say the least, a bit disturbing. He was holding out a pair of shiny handcuffs for Shawn to see.
"Why, Lassie, I didn't know you were into that kind of kinky stuff, you should have said— ow!"
Lassiter had turned Shawn around rather roughly, and slapped the cuffs around the smaller man's wrists. They closed with a satisfying click.
"How did you manage to get those things on a plane anyway?" asked Gus, curiosity and disbelief showing in his voice – not an ounce of concern for Shawn's actual predicament, apparently.
"The Marshall gave me his."
"I thought you didn't like him," Shawn said, sounding almost whiny.
"We found a common dislike in your wild theories, it brought us together," said Lassiter with a scowl.
"Go figure." Shawn shrugged as best has he could with his hands behind his back.
Under the scrutiny of the panicking passengers, and the impassible Marshall, Lassiter began escorting Shawn to the back of the plane.
"This is a bad mistake, Lassiface. You're endangering the whole plane and you know it," Shawn sounded indignant, and Gus wasn't sure if that was still part of the act.
"I'm keeping you safe, Spencer. Now shut up or I'll gag you as well," Lassiter said between his teeth.
"Safe from what?"
"From me, adding a second body to this mess – yours." Lassiter pushed Shawn forward, still holding his bound hands; as if he'd try to get away, on a plane of all places.
"Thanks but I'll pass. I've had enough death threats for today."
Shawn let Lassiter push him around until they got in the crew cabin. He let him handcuff his right hand to a seat bolted to the floor; he could try and pick that up later.
"And, Spencer?"
"What, Lassie, you want to gloat about how you are a great cop, and how I'm just a lousy psychic?"
"Well, yes, that, but I also meant to say that I do think there's something underneath all this, I just need you to stay put and stop screaming everywhere like a gutted pig. The last thing I need is a riot from the passengers, on top of everything."
"No hard feelings, I get it," said Shawn with a charming smile. He knew he was right, and the killer wasn't getting away with it. He'll just have to wait for his time. "And don't forget there could be snakes. That would be messy."