CHAPTER 3

Juliet woke up at 5AM feeling as if she'd been in a car wreck. Her muscles were stiff and sore and she felt groggy until she'd had her shower and a cup of coffee. She'd been able to sleep soundly and dreamlessly for most of the prior day, but after waking at midnight to use the bathroom, she'd only managed a restless half-sleep. Her brain had kicked into overdrive and ran the whole shooting scene through her head in an endless loop. A plague of nagging doubts, biting at her like a cloud of mosquitos, kept repeating the images, examining everything they'd done that night for a mistake or misstep. She woke with the sunrise feeling sad and regretful but sure that they had done nothing wrong at the stakeout. They had all just suffered from horrible timing and tragic bad luck. While her sleep had been plagued with memories of the shooting, her morning was occupied with worrying about her partner. She knew he'd internalized the trauma of the experience more than she had, and understandably so. She'd been too physically and mentally exhausted to help him the day before, but now she couldn't stop wondering how Lassiter was doing. Something told her that he'd be awake.

"Hi, O'Hara. How are you?" he asked when he answered her call. His voice sounded tired and strangely flat.

"I was calling to ask you the same thing," she said tentatively.

There was the tiniest pause on the other end, then he said, "I'm fine."

"Are you?"

"Yes," he said with a faint snappishness. "And you didn't say how you're doing."

"I'm okay, Carlton. I'm tired, and I'm feeling sad about what happened, but I think we did our best," she said, feeling awkward talking about it over the phone. "It keeps running through my head and I don't see how we could've stopped it from happening."

He just grunted.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. It was hard enough talking to him in person about sensitive subjects. Over the phone was a lesson in futility. "Can I come over? I can give you a ride to the station."

"Sorry," he said, not sounding very sorry about it. "I have an appointment with my lawyer, then I have to talk to IA. McNab is on his way to get me."

"Oh," she said, not even trying to keep the disappointment from her voice. "You have an appointment this early?" She looked at the clock that was reading a little past 6AM.

"Yeah, I called in already and they said they could be there at 7AM. I want to get this over with."

Her brow furrowed. "Carlton, even if the investigation is finished quickly, which it should be, we will still have to deal with this."

There was silence on the other end of the line, although in her mind she pictured him with an irritated scowl.

"Listen, nevermind," she said, not wanting to pressure him to talk when he wasn't ready yet, especially over the phone. There would be time later, and she'd make sure they could talk without interruption. "Good luck with IA today. Detective Robson seems decent. Way, way better than Ocampo."

He grunted again.

She grimaced. "Maybe we can talk later, after your meetings."

"I'll see you at the station," he said abruptly. Then, after a beat of silence where she was sure he was going to hang up, he continued. "I'm glad you called, and that you're okay." And then he did hang up.

Juliet put the phone down and rubbed at her temples, feeling another headache coming on already.

oOoOoOoO

"That sounds good to me, Chief," said Juliet three hours later as she sat across from her superior. "In fact, I probably would've suggested it myself if you hadn't."

The chief gave her a wry smile and nodded. "Good, and speak of the devils, it looks like they're here now."

Juliet turned in her seat to watch as Shawn and Gus sauntered through the bullpen on their way to the chief's office. They were arguing about something, which was par for the course. They cut off their conversation when they reached the door, but the two women both heard Gus warning Shawn off about asking for ferret assistants or some other such nonsense. The chief waved them in.

"Jules!" said Shawn, his eyes brightening at the sight of her. He ran to her chair and bent down to give her an awkward half-hug. "How are you doing?"

Juliet flashed an embarrassed glance at the chief. She patted Shawn's arm and then tried to lean away from the embrace. "I'm fine, Shawn."

"Hey Jules," said Gus with a smile and a small wave as he moved to one of the other chairs at the chief's desk. Shawn dropped into the chair next to Juliet's.

"Hi, Gus. Thanks for coming, you guys."

"Of course!" said Shawn. "How could we pass up an offer to help out our favorite detectives...again."

"Shawn," said Gus warningly. Juliet sighed and shook her head.

Chief Vick cleared her throat. "Gentlemen," she began with a somber tone. "I've asked you to help us out on this case because it has become our highest priority and we need to get it solved as soon as possible."

Shawn raised his eyebrows dramatically and wiggled them at Gus who gave his friend a glare in return.

The chief didn't seem to be in the mood for Shawn's normal levity. Her face settled into a scowl and she said, "Any case that takes one of my top detectives out of action, in whatever manner, while the threat remains, requires our most serious and thorough attention and effort. We need to use all of the resources available to us, and that includes you two."

Shawn seemed to finally get the message and settled his face into as sober an expression as he could manage. "We will be thoroughly serious and effortlessly resourceful with our available attentions," said Shawn dramatically.

Gus gave his friend a sideways glance as he said, "You can count on us, Chief."

Vick gave each of them a measuring look, and then nodded. "I knew I could. Detective O'Hara will fill you in on the details of the case, and you can give her the details of your contact with Mrs. North, as well. Maybe somewhere in the overlap there will be a clue to help us make a breakthrough."

Juliet stood up and said, "Thank you, Chief." Then she turned and headed out of the room. "Let's get to work, guys."

Shawn and Gus jumped up and hurried to follow her. When they caught up to her at her desk, Shawn asked, "So you're officially on duty?"

"Yes, I was cleared this morning. Since my gun hadn't been fired, and the trajectory of the bullet..." she paused and pursed her lips, then she sat heavily in her chair. "Yes, I am."

Shawn and Gus sat in chairs across from her. Gus said, "I'm glad you're back on duty. Have you heard anything about Lassiter, yet?"

She sighed and shook her head. "No, not yet. He's been in meetings all morning with his attorney and IA detectives. There's still a lot of crime scene data that has to be processed and finalized. They were able to fast-track my clearance, at the chief's request, since it was so clear-cut. But it'll probably be at least a couple of days before they can clear Lassiter."

Shawn and Gus exchanged a look, then Shawn said, "And that doesn't count a psych eval, right?"

Juliet's expression hardened. "No."

"It's just that he seemed pretty shook up," said Shawn, sensing that he might have offended her. "He didn't seem like himself. He was totally un-grumpy and even slightly tolerant."

She looked at him sharply. "Did you see him yesterday?"

Gus said, "Yeah, we went to his place last night and took him some food."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"We tried your place too," said Shawn. "But I think you were asleep."

"What time was this?"

"About 6PM," said Gus.

"Yeah, I was still sleeping pretty soundly at that time," she said wistfully. "So did Lassiter say anything? How did he seem? I feel like I should've checked on him too."

"No, no, you needed the sleep. He was," Shawn paused and glanced at Gus. "He was fine, mostly. He just seemed to be in a daze."

"Fatigue," said Gus helpfully. "He hadn't been able to sleep well, I don't think. He asked about you."

"Oh," she said and sighed.

"He ate some food, then we left," said Shawn. "Did you see him this morning?"

"No," she said, the disappointment clear in her voice. "I talked to him on the phone, but he, well, you know."

Shawn and Gus gave her sympathetic looks. "I'm sure you'll get to talk to him soon," said Gus encouragingly.

She nodded and gave them a half-hearted smile. "Yeah, I will. But first, we've got a lot of information to cover. Let's get to work."

oOoOoOoO

Lassiter sat stiffly in the chair, mouth set in a firm line and hands clasped in front of him on the metal interrogation table. His eyes were fixed on his hands and rarely met the gaze of the detective across from him. His attorney, sitting next to him, had been silent during most of the interview. Juliet had been correct about Detective Robson. The interview had been clear and fairly conducted, covering the pertinent details of the shooting incident without delving unnecessarily into personal areas. Regardless, Lassiter felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. He'd suffered two instances of a racing heartbeat during the interview, at times when he'd recounted the details of the shooting. The vividness of the memories had caused him to fidget nervously and had made it a struggle to speak with a calm, even tone. His emotional response to the memories made him simultaneously angry and embarrassed. He was sure he was acting like a guilty fool, even though he had nothing, really, to feel guilty about. At least, he kept trying to convince himself of that.

"Okay, detective, I believe we've covered all of the basic details sufficiently. I just have a couple more topics I'd like to examine," said Robson. He put down his pen and leaned on his elbows, hands clasped in front of him.

"What are they?" asked Lassiter, glancing up to meet Robson's gaze for a moment.

"Do you feel that you and your partner were impaired at all by the lack of sleep you'd suffered by finishing one case and then immediately conducting this stakeout?"

"No, sir," said Lassiter firmly. Robson pursed his lips and gazed at Lassiter, as if waiting for more. Lassiter shrugged. "We were tired, certainly, but I do not believe our abilities were impaired in any way."

Robson nodded. "Okay. Just one more thing then," he said. "I want to know what you believe could've been done differently."

Lassiter squinted at Robson. "I don't understand."

"It's pretty clear, detective, that you're not happy with how the incident went down."

"Of course I'm not happy," spat Lassiter, then he closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath to calm the sudden flare of anger. "How could I be?"

Robson nodded. "Fair enough. Look, we've gone over all of the details. You approached the house after watching Mr. Sommer enter. When you reached the door you waited for your partner."

"I stopped at the door and looked back for Detective O'Hara. She had fallen behind because she had, rightly, called in the new development," said Lassiter mechanically. "I was trying to see inside the house, to ascertain the situation, and that's when the light was turned on and the shot was fired."

"Right. So if you had run straight into the house without checking for your partner and taking stock of the situation, you still may not have entered in time to stop the shooting," said Robson.

"I can't say, sir," Lassiter said between clenched teeth.

"Exactly. You followed proper procedure, detective, by all accounts. I want to know, based on your years of experience, what you think could've been done differently to prevent the shooting from taking place."

Lassiter couldn't stop himself from glaring at Robson. "I don't know, sir." He was confused by the investigator's questions. They felt more like the questions he knew he would have to suffer in sessions with the department psychologist. "I've been going over it in my head, a lot," he said with a clipped tone. "And I don't know how I could have stopped it. I just know I should have."

Robson cleared his throat and softened his gaze. "I understand, detective. Believe me, I do. And, off the record here, I'm pretty sure that you're being more critical of your actions in this case than anyone else is going to be. Except for the press, of course," he said dryly.

Lassiter just scowled, feeling uncomfortable and angry at the hint of coddling he felt in Robson's words. Is this guy feeling sorry for me? What kind of investigator is he?

His attorney finally stirred and asked. "Are we finished here?"

"Yes," said Robson, picking up his pen and scribbling some more. "I'll prepare these forms and give them to the chief for you to sign later. You're free to go, detective. Thank you for your cooperation."

Lassiter nodded at the bowed head of the investigator, then he stood and walked out of the room, feeling the sore stiffness of his legs and back with every step of his escape. He stalked out of the room and headed for the chief's office to finish up his requirements. He wanted to get out of the station. He wasn't sure he'd ever felt that way before, but suddenly the place felt stifling. Everywhere he turned, someone was looking at him with "that look" on their face. There he goes, the detective who shot the kid, he could see the thought running through their minds. He kept catching himself walking with his head bowed and would correct it, raising his head and scolding himself silently for acting like a cowed moron. The thought of going back to his empty apartment wasn't attractive, but it was better than being a sideshow attraction at the station.

When he reached the top of the steps from the interrogation area, he saw yet another reason to leave the station as soon as possible. Shawn and Gus were standing by Juliet's desk looking at some files, which told him that they'd been put on the case. He felt a tightness in his chest as negative thoughts began to assail him. Those two goof-offs could work on the case while he was going to be forced to sit on his ass at home, and then they'd probably solve it, to add salt to the wound. He berated himself, then. Don't be such a pompous jerk. If the case is solved it's solved, it doesn't matter who does it. Whining and jealousy aren't qualities for a good detective. They must be qualities for gun-happy child-killing detectives. He scowled at his own thoughts and lowered his head as he approached the chief's door. He couldn't escape the notice of one snarky psychic, though.

"Lassie! Are you done?" asked Shawn brightly. "We were just talking about grabbing some lunch."

Juliet jumped up from her desk and walked over. "Carlton, how'd it go?" she asked. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Shawn and Gus, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "Well, at least it's over with. Did they give you any word on when you'll hear?"

He just shook his head and avoided meeting her eyes. Her presence suddenly heightened his anxiety. He tried to figure out why, but it was like he'd forgotten something that had to do with Juliet. It was just out of reach at the edges of his memory, and it was something that he dreaded remembering. The feeling left him confused and acutely uneasy. "I need to talk to the chief, still."

"Right," said Juliet, concern creeping into her expression. "We were just discussing lunch. Maybe after you talk to the chief you can join us."

"I don't think so," he said, his face feeling suddenly hot. He cleared his throat and loosened his tie. "I, uh, have things to do, at home."

He knew it was a terrible excuse, but something about the idea of hanging out at a restaurant with Juliet and Shawn and Gus sounded vaguely horrifying to him. He was feeling a lingering sense of embarrassment for the visit Shawn and Gus had paid him from the previous night, which still had a dream-like feeling to it. At the thought of it, he also remembered the odd phone call. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone, and he didn't plan to either. Somehow the call seemed too personal to share. And really, he wasn't sure it had anything to do with the case. It could've been a prank call. But his instincts told him that it was related, he just didn't know how. Until he knew for sure, he was going to keep it to himself.

"Oh," said Juliet, sounding disappointed. "Okay."

The nagging dread of the forgotten memory coursed through him again, and with it came a flash of irritation. He suddenly felt like everything he did was a disappointment to the people around him. It felt like he couldn't do anything right. He knew, logically, that the feeling was irrational, but since the shooting, he'd been plagued by emotional responses and negative thoughts. He was growing extremely tired of it all.

"I need to talk to the chief now," he said with a clipped tone. Then he turned and gave a single knock on the chief's door before pushing it open and entering, as if he was desperate to get away.

He could hear Juliet's sigh behind him, and he felt bad for brushing her off. He knew she wanted to talk about the shooting with him, but he didn't feel ready for that, yet. He was already talking about it more than he wanted with the investigation and the reports, and he couldn't stop thinking about it even when he was sleeping. He just wanted a few moments of peace. He wanted to be free of the horrible event, but he knew that was impossible, and it made him angry. He was angry at himself, he was angry at the scared kid, he was angry at everyone giving him that odd look and at the whispers behind his back. And somehow, the offers of sympathy and comfort were the hardest to take, making him feel as if he was only fit to be pitied and coddled. His thoughts brought a black scowl to his face that raised the chief's eyebrows. He berated himself, yet again, for showing too much emotion as he tried to soften his expression while they worked out a schedule for the psych eval. Before he left, the chief warned him that reporters were hovering at the entrance and that he should be prepared for them. After a few more minutes where he endured a quick pep talk by the chief, he exited the office. The trio at Juliet's desk were still discussing where to eat. Lassiter kept his expression neutral as he tried to breeze past them and out of the station, hoping that they were too engrossed in their discussion to notice him.

Shawn jumped into his path. Knowing how much Juliet wanted to talk to her partner, he was taking it upon himself to force the invite. "Lassaroo! We're heading out for tacos, your favorite! Let's go, man. Gus will drive, even."

"Shawn!" came Gus's protest.

Lassiter pulled up just before he barreled into Shawn. He glared at the psychic as if trying to burn two large holes through him. Shawn braced himself, expecting a tirade. But at the last moment Lassiter swallowed what felt like a rock and said, "I can't. Just let me go."

Shawn looked faintly shocked at the lack of yelling. Lassiter was suddenly overcome with a memory of the kid asking the same thing in the dark house, shaking and scared and wanting only to be allowed to leave. The kid had said the same thing. Lassiter closed his eyes for a moment and felt a strange sensation, as if the ground had shifted under his feet, as if he was on a boat cresting an ocean swell. He drew in a shaky breath and felt his forehead break out in sweat.

"Carlton? Are you okay?" asked Juliet from beside him.

Lassiter opened his eyes and suddenly realized why he was so uncomfortable around his partner. The epiphany sent his heart racing again, increasing his anxiety tenfold. He took a shaky breath and kept his gaze locked on the station doors, like they were his only salvation. "I'll talk to you later," he said, stiff-jawed.

He stepped around a puzzled and miraculously speechless Spencer and headed out of the station as quickly as his rubbery-feeling legs would take him. The bright sunlight hit him like a force and he paused, fumbling at his coat pockets for sunglasses. Before he could get them on, he heard voices from the glare and felt a stab of fear in his gut. Reporters. He'd forgotten Vick's warning.

"Detective Lassiter! Can you give us a statement on the shooting?" yelled one reporter.

"Detective, give us a comment!" yelled another.

Lassiter shoved the sunglasses onto his face and tried to find a route past the converging media horde. "No comment," he said mechanically, hoping they'd accept that and move on and knowing they wouldn't. He started picking his way down the front steps of the station and through the cacophany of "Detective! Detective! We need a statement" that assailed him from all sides. He kept repeating "No comment" like a mantra as he pushed his way towards his car.

"Can you comment on the rumor that you were sleep-deprived?" yelled a voice that pulled Lassiter up short.

"Excuse me?" he barked, looking around for whoever had asked the question.

A reporter pushed his way up to face Lassiter as all of the others stuck their recorders in his face to catch the exchange. "There's a rumor out there that you and your partner were suffering sleep deprivation, and that maybe you shouldn't have been on that stakeout in the first place."

Lassiter gaped at the reporter for a moment, struck by the coincidence of Robson asking the same question just minutes earlier. Was this a concern of the department, and then had someone leaked it to the press already? Both ideas seemed simply unbelievable. "Where did you hear that?" he asked.

"Is there any substance to that rumor? And would sleep-deprivation have any affect on your already noted tendency to fire your weapon more than normal?" asked the reporter, ignoring his question and staring at Lassiter with eager, bloodthirsty anticipation.

Lassiter felt a shock of anger and opened his mouth to start yelling at the reporter, knowing he shouldn't but finding himself unable to stop. Before he found his voice, though, and dug a deep hole for himself, there was a parting of the seas behind him. Shawn and Gus pushed their way through the crowd, jumping up to look over everyone's heads and pointing so that the people around them automatically started to look at where they were gesturing.

"Oh my god, did you just see that?" yelled Shawn excitedly. "You can't seriously tell me you all just missed that?"

"There he goes!" yelled Gus, pointing into the distance.

The crowd turned to gaze in confusion at wherever Gus was pointing. There were murmurs of "what is it?" and "what's he talking about?" floating amongst the media gaggle.

"The streaker!" said Shawn. "The naked guy who just ran past the station. He was holding a sign that said 'Observe your tax dollars at work!' and he had like four cops running after him! It was awesome! I can't believe none of you got that on camera."

As the reporters all started looking for phantom naked men, Juliet stepped up behind Lassiter and grabbed his arm, pulling him off to the side and away from the crowd. The reporter who'd hounded Lassiter wasn't so easily distracted, but Juliet put out a hand when he tried to follow them and said sternly, "We can't give comments about ongoing investigations."

Her glare popped the reporter's eager bubble when he could tell she wouldn't be baited. He grimaced and turned away to look for a streaker with the other reporters. Juliet kept her hand on Lassiter's elbow as she guided him through the parking lot towards the blue Crown Vic that had been left at the station overnight. He felt suddenly deflated after the near-debacle with the reporters and didn't attempt to shake off her grip. When they reached the car, Juliet turned him to face her.

"Are you okay?" she asked, retaining her sternness, as if she was fed up with his behavior.

He met her look and sighed, feeling an emptiness in his gut as if he was crumbling to pieces from the inside out. He threw his hands out to the sides in a gesture of helplessness. "I don't know," he said.

She tilted her head with a look of sadness. "Carlton, just...talk to me."

He crossed his arms tightly and looked at the ground for a few moments. Then he cleared his throat. "I remembered something, last night, but then I forgot it again, until just a minute ago, inside," he said, waving vaguely at the station.

"Okay," said Juliet, confusion clear in her voice. "What is it?"

"I did see the kid fire his gun," he said, glancing up at her and then looking quickly away.

Juliet gave a slight shrug and shook her head, still confused. "And?"

He looked up at her again, eyes burning with an anger turned inward. "I saw him fire his gun, O'Hara. At you," he growled.

Juliet took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. "Oh," she said with an outrush of breath. She opened her eyes again and gave him a look of utter exasperation. "How many times do I have to tell you that you did the best you could?"

Lassiter shook his head and dropped his arms to his sides. "I hesitated, I let my emotions distract me, and then I let him fire his gun at you."

"You were trying to talk him down, Carlton. I heard you. That's not letting your emotions distract you, that's being human and doing your damnedest to save a screwed-up kid's life."

"You could've been shot," he said slowly, as if each word he spoke was a rock. "I let him take a shot at you."

"You didn't 'let' him do anything!" she cried. Then she pursed her lips for a moment, looking around to make sure they weren't attracting attention. "You tried to stop him, you tried to make him put his gun down. You gave him a chance to live. I was listening at the door before I came in. I heard you trying to get him to surrender his weapon. Jesus, Carlton, you practically begged him!"

Lassiter put his hands on his hips and leaned his head back to gaze angrily at the sky.

Juliet continued, "When I stepped inside he turned and fired wildly. You didn't have time to shoot before he fired. If anything, I should've stayed outside longer."

Lassiter looked at her and shook his head. "It wasn't you, O'Hara. You did the right thing."

"So did you," she said firmly, her gaze daring him to contradict her again.

He looked at her for a few moments, expression bleeding slowly from anger to defeat.

"It was an impossible situation, Carlton. It was out of your control," she said softly. "You did the best you could."

He shook his head again and then rubbed at his face with both hands.

"Now, I need to know that you're going to be okay."

"I'll be fine," he said, unconvincingly. He crossed his arms tightly again.

"I know you will," she said confidently. "But you need to give yourself time to get fine."

"I know." He felt uncomfortable again, under her gaze, and dropped his eyes to the ground. "I just want to go home for a while," he said quietly.

"Okay, but I don't think you should spend too much time alone," she said. "Can I come over later, after my shift? Maybe I can bring dinner."

He grimaced and gave a slight shake to his head, but then he drew in a breath and said, "Okay."

"And one more thing," she said, looking around and lowering her voice.

He gave her a wary look. "What's that?"

She leaned towards him and said, "Can I have a hug? Please?"

He scowled and looked around as if for an escape, but when he saw no other people in the general area, he leaned over and gave her a quick hug. She squeezed him enthusiastically in return, and he had to admit to himself that it felt good as he closed his eyes for a moment. He realized that a lot of the agitation he'd been feeling hadn't only been his anguish over killing the kid but also his guilt over the kid firing on his partner. He still felt responsible, but suddenly it wasn't eating away at him as much anymore.

She gave him a bright smile as she stepped away. "Thank you."

He couldn't quite manage a smile, but he felt the tension in face and body ease. He nodded and said, "No problem."

"Okay, partner. Go home and get some rest. I'll see you later tonight, right?"

"Right." He climbed into the car and drove away as Juliet walked up the station steps.

oOoOoOoO

Shawn knocked on the door of the hotel room, dreading the next conversation. Gus hung back and looked like he just wanted to run away down the hall. The door was opened by Bill Carcillo.

"Hi, come on in," he said, stepping back into the room.

They followed him through the narrow entry of the hotel room, past the door to the bathroom. The main part of the room was about the size of some of the closets that could be found in the higher-end Santa Barbara homes. Two twin-beds took up most of the room's space. The place smelled vaguely of dust and cheap air fresheners. Gina North and her brother were obviously stretching their funds as far as they possibly could.

"Hello Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster. You said you had some questions for me?" asked Gina as she sat in a wooden chair at a tiny round table in the corner of the room. She looked as if she'd been crying for two days, which Shawn realized she probably had.

"Please, just call us Shawn and Gus. We're not really the mister types," said Shawn.

Gus nodded and sat gingerly on the edge of one of the twin beds. Shawn sat on the side opposite Gus. Bill stood leaning against a wall, looking uncertain, but mostly just tired. Shawn glanced around and saw a small framed picture on the nightstand. It was Mrs. North and two boys and must've been one of the last pictures taken before they'd been stolen away from her. Justin was tall for his age and smiling widely with a mop of light brown hair falling into his eyes. The darker-haired and even taller Braden was smiling too, but he had a sad look to his eyes and worry-grooves in his forehead. Shawn thought it was strange that a 13-year-old would have that.

"Alright, then," she said. "You can call me Gina."

"Great," said Shawn with a smile. "Um, I was hoping to get some information about your sons, today, if that's not going to be too difficult for you."

"What kind of information?"

Shawn leaned his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. "I just want to get a feel for their personalities. It might help me get a better idea of how to find them."

"You mean like getting their scent for your psychic vibes or something?" asked Gina with a hint of tired sarcasm.

Shawn shrugged. "My psychic abilities are a tool that help me do my job, but I have other skills as well," said Shawn.

Gina sighed. "Of course. I'm sorry if I was rude. I've just been doing this for so long."

Gus gave her a sympathetic look. "That's okay. We understand. And we really do want to help you find your son so you don't have to keep doing this."

She nodded and took a deep breath. "Their personalities? Sometimes I'm afraid I don't even remember them well enough anymore, or I worry that I wouldn't even know them now," she said sadly. "Justin was the spitfire, always running, always tagging after his father whenever he was around, at least." Her face twisted with disgust for a moment. "Braden was my little soldier, helping me with chores, making sure his brother didn't jump off the roof or something. He was so conscientious, I was even a little concerned. It didn't seem right for such a young boy to be so responsible already. He just always wanted to do everything right, and to make everyone happy. He idolized his father as well, but not in the same way as Justin who was just a mirror image of Riley. Braden, I think, knew that his father was flawed, but he still loved him and wanted to please him. I think he may have had some crazy idea that he could keep his father out of trouble, somehow, like he did his brother."

Shawn listened intently, squinting slightly. An idea occurred to him that he filed away pending another perusal of the shooting incident report. "Was Riley ever abusive, physically, with you or the boys?"

"No, although he did have a black temper and would yell often, he always seemed to be able to stop himself from taking that last step," she said quietly.

"Do you think, if your ex-husband has become more violent over the years, that your sons would still feel the same way about him? I guess what I'm asking is, would they help him commit a violent crime?"

Gina closed her eyes and shook her head. Her expression was pinched with pain for a few moments, but then her face relaxed again. "I would've said no, two days ago," she said quietly. "I just still can't believe it. But I know that sometimes those kinds of things happen gradually, and people get stuck before they realize it, doing things they never thought they'd do."

Shawn grimaced and nodded. "We're trying to figure out how Riley and the boys might be connected to some other burglaries. Do you think they would work as day laborers in order to get into houses to scope them out?"

"No, god no," said Gina. "Riley never lifted a finger in manual labor if he could avoid it. Now, I suppose he might've had the boys do it, but he was always suspicious and didn't like them being out of his sight for long. After taking them, I can't imagine he would've gotten less strict about that, so I doubt he'd let them go out to work without him."

Shawn grimaced.

"No," Gina continued. "Riley was all about the easy score. He would've been a good con man, but he never had the patience to see something like that all the way through. And when he got frustrated and impatient, his temper emerged. As the years went on with him, he got worse that way. I felt like he was getting too close to taking that last step. That's why I left with the boys and got the restraining order...but it didn't work, did it?"

Something niggled at Shawn's brain, just the beginnings of a theory that he'd have to do some research on later. "I'm sorry for your trouble, Gina, and for your loss. Thank you so much, though, for the information. I do think it will be a big help to me now." He stood up and Gus followed suit.

"If you don't mind, I have a few questions for you, too," said Gina with a hint of sharpness to her tone.

Shawn glanced at Gus and then sat down again. "Uh, sure"

"You work with the police a lot, I've heard," she began, her voice flinty. "Do you work with those two detectives?"

"Gina," said Bill warningly. He had a worried look of dread on his face.

"I just want to know," she said at him. Then she looked at Shawn intently. "Well?"

Shawn felt a cold spike in his stomach and swallowed. "Yes, we work with Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara most of the time when we're hired by the SBPD."

Gina's eyes narrowed. "Are they good cops? Really? Do you believe their account of the shooting?"

Shawn turned to give Gus a helpless look and saw that he was apparently as uncomfortable as Shawn felt. "Um, I'm sorry, but I'm not sure if we should be talking about this."

"I just want to know," she said forcefully, but then her voice broke and she had to take a breath. "I just want to know if they are good people."

Shawn sighed, not sure what to say, or if he should say anything at all. But she seemed to really need for him to say something. "Yes, they are. They are good people, and they are good detectives, and they are my friends," he said.

Gina was struggling to keep herself from crying. "The man, Lassiter," she said, barely containing sobs. "Does he know what he's..." She stopped then, unable to continue, and just shook her head.

Shawn knew what she was asking, though. He looked her in the eye and he said, "Yes, he does. I know it won't make you feel any better, but I think he's devastated by...what happened. I know him, Gina. He wouldn't have done it if he'd had a choice."

She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away towards the window. She waved a hand at them before burying her face in her hands. Shawn grimaced and stood up again. Bill gave them a forlorn look as they walked past him on the way out of the room.