The next day, encased safely within the Blueberry Echo, Shawn and Gus headed for the SBPD, stopping for Jamaican patties at the 7-11 on their way to the Santa Barbara police station.
"Mmmmmm, something smells good," Juliet O'Hara said, looking up as they approached her desk.
"That would be my new cologne," Shawn said, "essence of roti." He sniffed at the yellow patty inside the little white envelope. "Mmmmm," he said in a bad accent, "Jamaica me hungry!" he took a bite of the warm patty and chewed appreciatively.
Gus looked at Shawn and furrowed his brow. "You did not just pull that Jamaica-me pun," he said, disbelievingly.
"Uh-huh." Shawn chewed and nodded, unapologetic.
"We've talked about this. And your accent is horrible." Gus was quite proud of his own Jamaican accent, honed to perfection during several vacations spent with his mother's relatives. He turned to O'Hara. "Please, Juliet, back me up on this."
O'Hara wrinkled her nose and nodded regretfully. "Yeah Shawn, it's pretty bad. You sound like Miss Cleo."
Shawn shook his head until he'd swallowed his mouthful of patty. "No way," he objected. "It was great. I sounded just like the 7-up guy."
"If you mean Geoffrey Holder," Gus said, "he's from Trinidad, and no you didn't. In fact, the only 7-up guy you actually sound like is Fido Dido."
"What? No way!"
"Oh, I remember him," O'Hara said, frowning thoughtfully. "Did he even talk?"
Gus turned to Shawn. "Juliet makes a good point. If you want the impression to work you'll have to talk less. A lot less."
"In your dreams." Shawn stuffed the remainder of the patty into his mouth. While Gus talked to Juliet about her trip to UC Santa Barbara, Shawn sat in Lassiter's chair, put his feet up on the detective's desk, and picked up the scene-of-crime report on Marla Roberts.
A few minutes later a shadow loomed over the report Shawn was reading, blocking out the fluorescent light.
"You know," Gus warned, "Lassiter will have a conniption if he catches you sitting there again, let alone reading his files."
"Do people even have conniptions anymore? Shawn asked. "I like to think that Lassiter might appreciate me checking these reports before he files them—you know, for spelling errors and such."
"You have the spelling skills of a ninth grader," Gus pointed out. "You misspelled spell."
"Gus, Gus Gus," Shawn chided, flipping through the report without any attempt to conceal himself. "Ninth grade was a long time ago." Shawn flipped a page in the report and noted that Marla had suffered a blow to the head and was likely unconscious before being stabbed.
"I'm talking about last week," Gus said. "Spell doesn't have an e at the end."
"It does when it's Ye Olde Spelle, such as Harry Potter and his ilk might cast." He noted that the weapon was missing and a search of the house hadn't turned it up. Why would the killer keep the knife? Shawn wondered. No one needed to hang onto an incriminating knife…unless he planned to use it to incriminate someone.
"You haven't read any of the Harry Potter books," Gus objected.
"I tried to," Shawn admitted, "but they kept getting bigger. It was like trying to mule heroin. The first book they show you is small and goes down easily, and the next thing you know you're in the bathroom trying to pass an eight pound brick."
"Well Lassiter won't like it. I'm just saying."
"Are you sure?" Shawn closed the report and smiled. Wherever the knife turned up, he was pretty sure that whomever it pointed to would be innocent.
"As sure as I am that every reptilian race on television turns out to be evil."
"That's not true."
Gus began to count out on his fingers, "The Gorn, the Cardassians, the Xindi…."
"That's just on Star Trek," Shawn cut in. "Gene Roddenberry obviously has a violent dislike of lizards."
"The aliens on V were evil too," Gus offered.
"Except for Willie and Donovan."
"True that," Gus admitted. "And the Starchild."
"Does she count?" Shawn asked, "since she's only half—"
"Spencer!" Lassiter's testy voice rang out across the bullpen. "Get the hell out of my chair!" The lanky detective strode in, accompanied by a man in his mid-twenties with light brown hair, wearing beige army fatigues.
"That must be Marla Robarts' brother," Gus said as Lassiter led him into an interview room. "Army fatigues are never a good sign."
"Yeah," Shawn said, getting to his feet. "They're practically the official uniform for crazy."
"Actually," Gus said, "they're the official uniform for the United States Army."
"Exactly." Shawn walked casually across the bullpen and stepped into the observation room where he could watch Lassiter's interrogation through the two-way mirror.
Jeffrey Robarts was hunched low in his chair, avoiding Lassiter's stare. "I didn't do it," he said, his voice panicked, "and you can't prove I did."
Lassiter leaned against the wall by the door and smiled. "Just watch me." He picked up a file folder and flipped through some papers in it. "I see here that you're being treated for schizophrenia. And," he raised an eyebrow, "that you have a history of violence." He smiled a twisted and derisive grin. "Smashed up the television sets in your former workplace because, you claimed, they were…talking about you."
"Those were paid for," Jeffrey said.
"Yes they were. By the murder victim, your sister Marla, who also admitted you to a mental hospital after that, and then let you live with her when they released you." He looked down at Jeffrey and put his arms on his hips—a move that Shawn always found adorably effeminate. "So when you knocked her unconscious, dragged her to the murder site and then stabbed her, what was that? Some kind of payback?"
"I didn't do that," Jeffrey insisted.
"Maybe the voices in your head did it, huh?" He set a sheet of paper and a tiny nub of a pencil in front of Jeffrey. "Just write down what they told you to do, sign it, and we can all go home."
"I don't get voices. I'm on medication for all that."
Lasssiter loomed over his suspect. "Are ya taking it?" he asked menacingly.
"I get injections every two weeks," Jeffrey said, looking at the tiles on the floor instead of at Lassiter. "It's a slow release thing."
Behind the mirror, Shawn looked thoughtful. It was a face Gus knew usually led to trouble.
"That's your suspect?" Shawn asked, unimpressed, as Jeffrey was led down to the holding cells.
"What's wrong with him?" As far as Lassiter was concerned, the brother was an excellent suspect. Although he might cop an insanity plea and wind up in some cushy psychiatric hospital, the newspapers would definitely give the case some play. Maybe even print a picture of the arresting officer. The Courier loved stories where mentally deranged people killed the loved ones that had tried to shield them. It was like a public service announcement against keeping dangerous animals as pets.
"Sure he's got some problems, but I don't buy him as a deranged killer," Shawn objected. "Tony Danza did a more convincing job in Deadly Whispers."
Lassiter, who had actually watched Deadly Whispers one rainy afternoon, glowered.
"And just who would you suggest we question?" he asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.
"Marla's co-workers?" Shawn offered. "How about that assistant director? Or her business partner, Patricia Kayne?"
Lassiter narrowed his eyes at Shawn. "How do you know about Patricia Kayne?" He'd only learned that Marla Roberts had a business partner that morning. Shawn must have read the case file on his desk. The only other explanation was...irrational. And like Mr. Spock, Lassiter preferred everything he dealt with to be rational.
Shawn deflected the question. "What about professional jeamousy? Has anyone questioned George Romero?"
"Why would we question George Romero?" Lassiter asked. "The man is over seventy."
"I know he looks frail" Shawn said, "but he's surprisingly strong and wiry. There's a good reason he doesn't have bodyguards, you know."
"I'll keep that in mind," Lassiter muttered. "In the meantime, if you psychically glean any evidence that connects the brother," he said the words painfully, "let me know. We can only hold him for 24 hours. We've got Dr. Erlich coming in to assess him, and we're searching his apartment, but without hard evidence all I've got is a nutbar with a dead sister."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Shawn said, sarcastically. "Is having a mental illness no longer a crime? Can't you just lock people up without a trial?"
"Only when we invoke the patriot act," Lassiter smiled grimly.
Later, walking back to the Psych office with cones of frozen yogurt, Shawn thought about Jeffrey Robarts.
"You've got that look again," Gus warned. Then, in response to Shawn's expression of injured innocence he added, "That look you get when you're planning something. I've learned that look never ends well, Shawn. It's called negative reinforcement."
"I was just thinking about poor Jeffrey Robarts and the raw deal he's going to get from Lassie. He's just itching to put him away."
"I don't recall us being hired on that case," Gus pointed out. "And frankly, I'm sick of you doing work for free just to impress Lassiter. You're going to put us out of business."
"Oh, like you don't do things to impress Jules," Shawn countered.
"I impress Juliet with my sophisticated dress sense, my punctuality, and my broad knowledge of pharmacology." He glared at Shawn. "You try to impress Lassiter by doing our job for free. Which isn't working, by the way. I'm just saying."
"It's working." Shawn smiled, and Gus was alarmed to note that Shawn was making his lovestruck face. "You just can't distinguish his impressed face from his please-curl-up-and-die face. But there's a subtle difference. I think it's around the eyes."
"I think you're headed for a world of pain," Gus said. "Emotional and possibly physical."
"He's been rebuffing my advances for four years now," Shawn pointed out. "It's only a matter of time until he goes into Pon Farr, and then it's mattress olympics."
As they finished their yogurts and strolled along the boardwalk, Gus's own face took on a thoughtful look. If Shawn had been paying more attention, he might have been worried.
Detective Carlton Lassiter was working late, hunched over a stack of reports and a styrofoam container of beef fried rice.
"Hello Lassiter."
The detective looked up to see Gus, looking stylishly subdued in a dark purple dress shirt and black slacks, looming over his desk. It was an hour past his regular quitting time and Lassiter had no desire to spend another hour debating the appropriateness of Jeffrey Robarts as his prime suspect. Dr. Erlich's visit hadn't been very helpful. According to him Jeffrey had his schizophrenia under control. Lassiter supposed it might look that way, if you didn't count his murdering people.
His eyes flickered across the bullpen, looking for Spencer. Where Guster was, Spencer couldn't be far behind.
"Shawn's not here," Gus said, as if reading his mind. "I was hoping we could talk. He glanced around the bullpen himself, then back at Lassiter. "Alone."
Lassiter sighed. This had better not be some scheme on Spencer's part to try to convince him to stop investigating Jeffrey Robarts. The man had a clear mental illness and a history of violence. Lassiter would need his own head examined if he didn't investigate a suspect like that.
"Fine." Lassiter stood and stalked off down the hall and slipped into an interview room. He turned and crossed his arms. "What's so important?"
Gus took a calming breath and pressed his lips together. Lassiter's curiosity was piqued. Guster wasn't usually shy about speaking his mind.
"Shawn is my best friend," Gus began, "and I've known him longer than anyone. So I'd hate to see him get hurt."
Lassiter frowned, unsure where this was going. It didn't sound like Guster was working up to trying to change his mind about Jeffrey Robarts. Did he think Spencer was in danger? Lassiter was torn between his view that Spencer probably deserved whatever danger he had attracted and his instinct to defend the innocent—even people like Spencer.
"What are you getting at?" Lassiter snapped.
"Shawn likes you," Gus said.
Lassiter shook his head. "Look, if Spencer sent you here to soft soap me on the Robarts case, he can forget about it."
"This isn't about the case," Gus's voice took on a sharp tone that made Lassiter's spine straighten and his ears perk up. "This is about Shawn. The man has a crush on you." Before Lassiter could process the import of Gus's words he continued on, "I know it's hopeless. You're straight, you're a cop, and you hate his guts. But there it is. All I ask is that you cut him some slack and let him down gently. Please." Gus sighed. "It would make my life a lot easier."
As the words sunk into Lassiter's mind his face went red and his throat dried out. He hoped this was a joke, but that didn't seem like Guster's style. If what he was saying was true, then all the sexual innuendos, touches, and jokes had been expressions of interest. Shawn Spencer had been coming on to him for years. He felt the room spin.
"Are we done?" Lassiter asked, hoping the panic he was feeling didn't show on his face.
"I guess so."
"Then I need to get back to work. I've got to find something solid on Robarts before the time I can hold him runs out." He had hoped the apartment search would turn up something, but his officers had run into a snag in the form of Patricia Kayne and her lawyers, who were refusing to let anyone inside. Gus left, looking more dejected than when he'd arrived.
Lassiter sat at his desk, holding the autopsy report in his hands, but not really seeing it. He shook his head as if to dislodge the confusion he was feeling.
Shawn Spencer was young, good-looking, and in decent shape. He was probably beating the women off with a stick. Men too, maybe. He ignored the double entendre that that phrase evoked in his mind. In a way, it was flattering to be the object of Spencer's crush. It was impossible of course, but flattering nonetheless.
Like Guster had said, he was a cop, he hated Spencer, and he was straight. He was straighter than straight. He loved women. The fact that none of his relationships with them had worked out was just the natural result of having a job that required long erratic hours and a dedication to moral absolutes. It certainly wasn't evidence of anything. It wasn't as if a relationship with a man would be any different. There would still be the missed dinners, birthdays, and anniversaries to contend with. Of course in his experience men didn't care as much about those things. But a same-sex relationship probably came with its own problems, not least of which was how people around him would respond. But that, he reminded himself, wasn't his problem. Because he was straight. Very very straight. He turned back to his autopsy report, assuring himself that the mild tingling he felt in his boxer shorts at the thought of Spencer liking him was merely a physiological response to flattery.
The morning dawned bright and sunny with a warm wind blowing in from the east. It was a day that felt optimistic, and full of promise. Shawn walked into the bullpen and strolled up to Lassiter's desk. All around him people had that air of purposeful action that could only mean they'd gotten their teeth into something.
"Looks like things are jumping in here, Lassie. What's up?" he asked.
Lassiter felt his heart race as he approached. Since his talk with Guster he'd been dreading running into Shawn. Normally he ignored the psychic's touchy-feely ways, but if his lack of personal space was actually a preamble to something more serious, like asking him out on a date, he'd prefer to nip it in the bud before it bloomed into a big embarrassingly gay flower.
"We've issued a warrant for Jeffrey Robarts," Lassiter said, trying to keep his tone from sounding overly friendly. "Remember how Marla Robarts was wearing that weird house dress, like Mrs. Rabbitson?"
Shawn nodded, and sat on the edge of the desk, his leg touching Lassiter's. Lassiter wheeled his chair back slightly, out of contact.
"Our guys finally got a warrant to search the apartment and found the clothes she was wearing when she was attacked, wadded into a ball in the brother's closet, with a knife inside. I just have to match it to the wounds on the body and Bob's your uncle."
"Actually, Jack's my uncle. But I see where you're going with this. I thought you already had Jeffrey Robarts locked up in here."
"I did." Lassiter's face took on a scowl. "But we had to let him loose. If only we'd been allowed to search the apartment sooner," he complained. "But that Kayne woman and her lawyers have blocked us every step of the way."
"Yeah, those pesky civil rights," Shawn nodded.
"Damn straight." Lassiter agreed, missing any sense of irony. "Now I have to track Robarts down. The men I had tailing him lost him when he went into the hospital for his shots."
"Those hospitals have so many exits, don't they?" Shawn knew this because he'd recently been to the hospital himself, picking up a friend as he emerged from an employees-only door.
Lassiter stood and straightened his tie. "Now if you'll excuse me, Spencer, I have a manhunt to run."
"Have you tried OKCupid?" Spencer winked at him and headed out the door.
Lassiter was lost for words.