The detective himself, or one of the official investigators,
should never turn out to be the culprit.
This is bald trickery...
It's false pretenses.

S.S. Van Dine
20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories, ca. 1928

-x-

13.

There was a delay getting Hank back to the house after their day of frolicking around Santa Barbara. (Shawn had enjoyed, perhaps too much, showing Hank some of his favorite city sites.) A desk sergeant informed Shawn that "Sheridan Ingelow's belongings are no longer property of the SBPD," and he was free to haul them out of Evidence hock.

Hank showed little emotion regarding the return of his goods, perhaps repulsed by the fact that everything within his small suitcase had been tagged, ogled, examined and otherwise put through the wringer. Meanwhile, Shawn kept his sharp talent for observing. He soon caught sight of a t-shirt that might mean something to the investigation. He made note of it, sure that he wouldn't forget to play it out in front of Lassie as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

And he stopped Hank from disregarding the case for two hearing aids. Hank explained why he wasn't wearing them. "I'm a child," he said with obvious scorn for still being eleven when he now felt much older than that, "and I grow. Hearing aids don't."

"But you can hear?"

"Just low decibels," Hank replied. "I only wore them when I was at dance. It helped. But it's not really anything to get excited about."

It did excite Shawn, but he understood Hank's reluctance to wear them. Hearing aids, if they didn't fit right, could be annoying and painful. And they had the drawback of being expensive to replace.

Shawn's mere wish was that he could fix everything for Hank Ingelow. All he and Lassie could do was make him as comfortable as they could while the situation righted itself.

Seeing and holding his things again, Hank was reminded of how much he'd gone through, and how different everything was since he'd packed that bag several long days before. Might've been years for all he felt connected to it.

"They don't even seem like my clothes," he signed to Shawn, clearly melancholic. He held up a Spiderman t-shirt, then threw it in the luggage. "I don't even think I could wear that now."

"You feel," Shawn paused, considering, "—older?"

"Very," returned Hank.

Shawn messed up Hank's rowdy hair. It was all right for the kid to feel he'd tacked on a few years since his arrival in Santa Barbara. Come the questions Lassiter would have for Hank later, a few months will probably be added to those years. But there was no way Hank could've known that his mother was planning to send him to the St. Francis School for the Deaf. Hank, forthcoming with all the information he knew regarding his life the last two weeks, never mentioned that his mother was thinking of sending him to Santa Barbara. It was possible Anabel Ingelow meant to stay there, get her son into a good school, and find a job for herself. Life could've been nice for them. Maybe Zach Ingelow had another plan, one that didn't include having his son halfway across the country.

Back at the house, Shawn caught another glimpse of Hank's developing maturity: Hank wanted to do his own laundry. With a few simple instructions, Shawn let him have at it. With Hank sorting darks from lights, Shawn slipped into the backyard to dial Lassie.

It'd seemed a long time since Carlton had heard Shawn say, "I had a vision…"

When Shawn spouted those words to him, Carlton wasn't sure if he should be relieved or ask Shawn if he'd had too much ice cream.

"All right," Carlton vetoed any notion of teasing Shawn, "what was it? And are the two of you finally home now?"

"We're finally home. It was on the way home that I had my vision."

Which wasn't a lie. He'd had his "vision" standing in the Evidence department of the SBPD, but he was on his way home when suddenly detouring into the SBPD. See, now, was that really a lie? Maybe just gently pulling the truth slightly out of proportion—a little—like taffy. A taffy lie, then.

Before his mind raced into the gloriousness of the sweet, sweet taffy sold at Platypus Park, in adorable little platypus-shaped baskets to boot, Shawn recalled the feelings he'd had while Hank rifled through clothes.

"I've seen Nina Grayson," Shawn said, keeping his voice flat, as ethereal-sounding as he could make it. "I see her surrounded by redness—red stones, red rocks, with aliens watching her."

"Aliens?" queried Carlton, appropriately incredulous. It'd been ages since Shawn had cited alien visitors in his visions. "What kind of aliens?"

"Oh, the standard, run-of-the-mill aliens, I suppose. You know, gray flesh, triangular heads, enormous black eyes that are like dark, dark pits of emotionless doom. Aliens."

"What else?" Carlton wasn't writing these insights down, but the red rocks part was interesting, at least far more geographically possible than aliens with pit-like eye sockets. "Anything else?"

Shawn struggled to think of what other words might say what he wanted to say without giving it away. "I see—lots of people getting splattered with mud on their gross and disgusting naked bodies—ew—"

"I'll try to help you erase that one later."

This cracked Shawn's concentration. "Really?"

"Really. So a bunch of people getting splattered by mud and liking it. Maybe you're seeing a mud bath."

There you go, Lass, Shawn thought to himself. "Yeah, that might be it. It could be a spa. Where the sunsets are pretty and the spiritual atmosphere is something that calls to the very soul of me."

"I can't do anything about callings of the soul," admitted Carlton. "But if you could narrow it down a little, Shawn. There are millions of spa places in this country."

"Wait, I'm getting something else," but only because he was on the Macbook looking at things the city was famous for. "I'm having trouble breathing—and I feel like my skin is withering—I'm turning into a raisin! Ah—! I'm getting all pruny!"

Carlton wasn't impressed. "I'll bake you into some cookies when I get home. So, you're saying it's dry. A desert."

"Yes, a desert. Famous for its aliens and its etheric mojo."

Five years ago, maybe even less than that, Carlton wouldn't have had a clue what "etheric mojo" was and why it was important. Now that he knew, he still didn't really understand why it was important but at least he had a better idea of what it was. "Anything else?"

Shawn had been a little wrong about the aliens. For some reason, he'd thought the city he was thinking of was in New Mexico, not Arizona. Ah, well, that clue would leave Carlton scratching his head, and sometimes that wasn't a bad thing. "A university of weirdness. A weird university. Where people study the unusual and the improbable."

It was too easy, because Shawn had just mentioned it in an article not too long ago. "You're talking about the University of Metaphysics in Sedona, Arizona." Statement, not question. "Your vibes are telling you that Nina Grayson is in Sedona, Arizona?"

"It's worth looking into."

"Considering we haven't heard a peep from her at all, yeah, it's worth looking into! Thanks," Carlton tried not to sound too saccharine, "and I'm glad you're having helpful visions again."

"I'm also having a vision of you getting home soon and the three of us having a nice dinner."

"Psychic vision or wishful thinking?"

"It's just way too hard to tell."

"I'll stop somewhere and get us food."

"No fish."

"Yes, I know your aversion to getting anything with fins at a restaurant. How about Asian? Shrimp-less Asian, I mean."

"Yeah, that should be fine. Did you find any enrollment information for our boy at St. Frankie's?"

"Not yet. I sent Kennedy and McNab to the school to ask about it."

"I bet Jules was annoyed that her case and your case turned out to be connected."

"Annoyed? Not quite the word. Gobsmacked is more like it. She thinks Anabel Ingelow had second thoughts about the school when she heard about the robbery. Hank doesn't seem to have a clue that his mom was thinking of enrolling him there."

"He's utterly clueless, yes. At least about the school. Quite on top of everything else, though. Did you know he was a dancer?"

"A dancer? What do you mean?"

Shawn gave a brief explanation about the hearing aids, the fact that Hank had mentioned dance class. "He's got the moves, too. He knows every dance in Glee. Mostly the Kurt parts, though. He's totally handicapable."

"I didn't doubt it for a second. But I gotta go, Shawn. I want to get on this Sedona lead."

Not long after Shawn hung up with Lassie, his phone blurted to life and he answered a call from social worker Kat. It was a good thing Kat felt so well about herself and about life in general, since she asked Shawn if she could talk to Hank. But the lightbulb shone brightly as soon as Shawn started pointing out that the conversation would be very one-sided. Good-natured about the gaffe, Kat continued with plans to get together later in the week, "or when Hank's grandma shows up," she added, "whichever comes first."

Shawn couldn't supply a comment on Nina Grayson ever showing up, or what would happen when she did. Psychic or not, he sensed there was something really off about former Officer Grayson.

Thoughts like those, with a contagion of unhappiness and strangeness, superseded the calmness of his day. He and Hank watched My Little Pony reruns, which brought them around to cartoons, which brought them around to watching Toy Story. It helped restore balance to Shawn's mindset, though not as splendidly as Carlton did when he finally sauntered through the back door. Severely laden with takeaway sacks from their favorite hovel of Asian cuisine, so splendid that they chose to look the other way when the two of them once spotted a cockroach tiptoeing across the floor, Carlton was eager for helping hands. Hank took two sacks into the kitchen.

Shawn aided Carlton out of his jacket, then clung to him for a long time. The top of his head was petted and kissed.

"Want good news—or some not-so-good news?" Carlton let Shawn stay where he was, but sidled closer to the bistro table to dump his wallet and keys. He rubbed Shawn's shoulders and back, really working his palms into the tight hills of muscles. A soft moan was his nice reward.

"Good news."

"Anabel Ingelow had contacted St. Francis about enrolling one Sheridan Henry Ingelow. However, St. Francis said that Mrs. Ingelow was only interested in talking to the school to find out of it would be a fit for Hank. No immediate enrollment."

"Do they have open enrollment, or only at certain times of the year?"

"Gosh," Lassiter said, bobbing his eyes back and forth between Shawn's, "I didn't think to ask."

"No big deal. Just my imagination running away from me." Shawn slipped away, starting to sing the song that went with the lyrics "Just my imagination…" The Temptations song, not the song by the same name written and performed by The Cranberries. A fine song itself, just not a classic.

Lassie wandered into the kitchen after Shawn's sashaying dance groove and Hank's uneven, abrupt laughter. As plates came down from the cupboard, and silverware clanked against the bistro table, Carlton started asking them how their day had gone.

-x-

Shawn had to return to work the next afternoon. As nothing was coming in about the case, though Lassiter and Juliet were trying their hardest, Shawn and Hank moseyed to the country club stalls. Hank found the horses interesting, their stink tolerable in the wind-blown barn, and tried to learn as much about polo as his restless mind would let him. Eventually, Shawn conceded the loss of Hank's interest in polo. He let Hank wander around, warning him to stay clear of strangers, the forested area off to the left, and the nearby golf course. If a golfer out there yelled FORE!—Hank wouldn't hear it. The last thing everyone needed was Hank getting doinked in the head by a golf ball. How would Shawn explain that to the former Officer Grayson? Or Kat? Or Lassie? He didn't even want to try.

In the middle of the wet task of bathing one of the polo ponies, Shawn's duty was warmly interrupted by the unprecedented arrival of Timothy Westcott.

"You're looking awfully roguish this afternoon, Timmy." Shawn thought he did, too, his Ralph Lauren shirt with a few buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, trousers looking a bit wrinkled. Tim's hair had deflated a good half-inch from its usual upward swoop. "Rough day?"

"Almost."

"You could have it as bad as Frisky. I just cleaned gunk out of his manhood."

Tim was forced to crack a grin at that, but it soon disappeared. "Can we talk for a second?"

Good talk, or bad talk? Shawn sensed bad talk. After tying up Frisky in a sunny spot to finish drying under a lightweight blanket, Shawn followed Tim to a quiet place between barn and paddock. The two leaned against the wooden fence post. Its view was the woodsy bit between polo field and the dogleg of the Fourth Hole. Though Shawn Spencer rarely had an association with 'patience,' he exhibited a connection to it while waiting for Tim to open up. It helped that Shawn's mind was full of its own turmoils he preferred to deal with in silence. When Tim started talking about how quiet it was and what a nice evening it'd be for a ride, Shawn interrupted him.

"I'd ride with you, if you want, but you have to tell me what's bothering you."

Tim didn't make a joke about Shawn Spencer's other occupation as a psychic. He was too nervous to show an ounce of wit. Why should he be nervous? What was any of it to him?

"Shawn."

"Tim," Shawn echoed Westcott's severe timbre. Regardless of his predilection to weave humor into everything, he stifled it—at least as much as he could—knowing that Timothy Westcott was very troubled. "What can I do for you? Need a psychic reading? Want to know if your girlfriend is cheating on you? Want to know who's going to win the next polo match?"

"I saw something," Timothy blurted out, then blinked slowly, exhaled slowly.

"Saw something. Something—something portentous and ominous? That kind of something? We're not talking fluffy-bunny something, I take it. Well, what did you see? Can I help? I want to help. I sense that I can help you."

Tim's palm rubbed his forehead gently, trying to get rid of the vision his eyes had caught the other morning. "I-I was out late—or early, really—and that happens sometimes because I don't always sleep well. And when I don't sleep well, I just get in the car and I drive. I have this route that I take, out the 101, through the canyon and up until you get to Gaviota. I parked at one of the headlands, and down in the water I saw a boat. With people on the boat. And they were dumping something in the water. I don't know if it was a body or what, but—"

"But you definitely saw it." Shawn's first thought was fisherman with a big catch of a cove fish that they then released. Fishermen liked to be out as early as possible, as early as Tim suggested. If it was just fishermen, Tim wouldn't be nearly as disturbed. "What do you think they were dumping?"

"I-I don't know."

"Large or small?"

"Smaller than a body," Tim clarified, figuring they should just get that out of the way. It wasn't like he just stepped into the plot of a Wes Craven film. "But it was big. It had a lot of mass. It took up a lot of space. Because it took two of them to lift it over the side of the boat."

Shawn zipped his gaze into the woods. The trunk. Could it be the sea chest? Tim had seen people dumping the trunk into the water? Since the SBPD hadn't been clear about what'd made its recent appearance on the shores of Arroyo Burro Beach, Tim didn't know of the trunk's existence. "We should probably tell this to the police. No, don't freak out," he gave a wave of his hands at the look on Westcott's face. "We can go to Carlton and my dad and you can tell them what you've told me. It'll be fine. They'll be able to help you. More than I can help you, that's for sure."

Tim didn't require a lot of persuading. He was grateful enough for Shawn's help that he drove them over to the police department himself. Hank felt out of place in Tim's luxury car—he'd never been in a Jaguar before, and certainly not one with computer tablets lodged into backs of the front seats. Hank satisfied his boredom by looking at everything in the car, and boldly asking Mr. Westcott (by way of Shawn) if he knew anyone famous. It lightened the mood, but Hank had grown used to ignoring or eliminating the tension between adults. He figured that if everyone would just laugh a little more, the world would be a better place. It seemed to work for Shawn and Carlton. His parents hadn't tried. He wasn't sure about Grandma Nina.

He started to hurt inside his chest. The gravity of misery and loneliness pressed against him. He pushed it out of the way long enough to be distracted by their arrival at the police station. It was always a lively place, lots of movement, lots of shifting lights and colors, vibrations and smells. When Carlton spotted their approach, Hank felt a surge of pride and comfort and understanding, like what it was to come home. He hugged Carlton for a second, just because he was eleven, because he was never going to grow too old to stop hugging people he cared about. While Carlton left a peck on Shawn's cheek, Hank stole Carlton's chair. He checked for the half-munched candy bar taped to the underside of the desk. Evidently, Shawn had discovered it, since the new note on it now read: HA HA NICE ONE KIDDO! with a smily face emoticon, a small heart next to it. Whether it would spoil his dinner or not, Hank ate the rest of the candy bar. Even if they'd caught him eating it, he was pretty sure neither Shawn nor Carlton would've reprimanded him for it. They still understood what it was like being a kid, and they didn't hold his youth against his character.

Shawn left Hank with his phone, in case he wanted to play a game or text Leighton while he waited. Hank chose to text Leighton. Texting was all right, but he was beginning to miss the sight of Leighton, signing with him, smiling with him, kissing him a little, and the way his hair swooped across his forehead with such precision that Justin Bieber failed to compare. Shawn needed to get FaceTime or something so Hank could talk to Leighton, vis-a-vis. If he stayed long enough.

"I really like it here," he texted to Leighton.

Leighton's yellow text bubble appeared. "I can tell... I miss u tho"

"Yeah, I miss u2"

"When r u coming back?"

"IDK… soon"

"Good… we'll plan something nice"

Hank looked up when Shawn stopped in front of Carlton's desk. The expression on Shawn's face… Hank's throat started to tighten. "I g2g omg…" Brainlessly, Hank catapulted from the chair and gave Shawn his phone back. When Shawn inched over, Hank met the wondering eyes of his grandmother.

His heart turned over in his chest. It fell straight down to his toes and cowered there.

Grandma Nina. She was there.

To be sure the end hadn't come just yet, Hank sent a silent question to Shawn. But the way Shawn touched him lightly on the shoulder—the way Carlton looked like someone had just stained his favorite Italian silk tie—Hank knew it was over. His grandmother was going to take him away.

And probably kill him. Just like she'd killed his mother.

He didn't have a choice. He'd have to run for it.

-x-

Everyone watched Hank sprint from the room, and disappear somewhere in the front of the building. No one could stop him. They were too stunned to move.

"Well, what—"

But Shawn's questioned deadened at the tip of his tongue, right when his throat banged into a lump of fear and comprehension. He shot the voiceless explanation to Lassie. Hank doesn't want to see his grandma. The pained expression returned to him spoke a whole volume of awareness; Lassie got it, too. Shawn saw a thousand and one regrets wound the former Officer Grayson. Hank's fleeing at the sight of her cinched together everything she'd feared.

Carlton didn't require Shawn's mixture of magic, intuition and observation to utter the command. "McNab, take Ms. Grayson into custody. We'll be having some words with her."

McNab, nonplussed but accommodating, put Nina Grayson in handcuffs. With Dobson as another escort, they removed her to an interview room.

After a momentary silence, in which his kneecaps actually felt like water, Carlton vaulted himself into action. "Henderson, take Mr. Westcott's witness statement. Kennedy, go to the parking lot and get everything out of Nina Grayson's car. And somebody, for the love of God, get down to the harbor and find the boat rented to dump that sea chest—now!"

Officers in navy scattered. Officers in plain-clothes likewise hurried away, either to do what they could or at least pretend they were doing something important to keep Lassiter from biting their heads off.

Shawn found him entirely unapproachable. He had a vision—not a psychic one, just a plain vision—of what Carlton would be like in a few hours, when this was over, when they were at home and eating a late dinner on the patio. The two of them—though now it was the three of them—though Shawn didn't mind the perpetuity of Hank Ingelow's presence at Chez Sunberry. Shawn wanted to squeeze love and humanness back into Carlton, but there was a lot of suffering going on. They were upset by the fact that a cop had committed an unthinkable act. They were upset for Hank's sake.

Shawn was on the verge of telling Carlton he was going to find Hank, but Carlton's agitated tap at the top of his desk preceded a grumbled announcement.

"The only thing I can't figure out is how the sea chest fits in. Why dump it in the ocean?"

"The hair inside it wasn't Anabel's."

"No." He recognized and appreciated Shawn's blank look into the middle-distance. "What?"

"I don't think they had anything to do with the sea chest. But, as for everything else, they'll tell you. Just by looking at Grayson right now, she can't fight anymore. Zack Ingelow, on the other hand…" Shawn gave Carlton's arm a small hug with his hands, rested his cheek against Carlton's sleeve for a second. He felt Lassie relax, just for a moment. It was long enough, though. "I'm going to find Hank."

Carlton let him go. As with all his cases the last eight months, Shawn was a part of them—but not a significant part. He offered few insights. Yet if Shawn hadn't been around, the cogs in the investigative wheel would've gotten stuck a long way back. Carlton couldn't guess what might've happened to Hank if Shawn and Gus hadn't stumbled upon him at the abandoned Hayworth place.

Carlton needed a moment to clear his head of harsh thoughts, his heart of disagreeable feelings. He didn't even want to think about the possibility of Hank seeing and knowing more than he should. When he'd grown composed, as much as he could in this situation, he grabbed wares required to interview Nina Grayson. In Interview Room A, though, Carlton tossed the paraphernalia to McNab. "Have at it," he said, and sat in another chair. He tried to act a bit more like Shawn: aware, part of things, but just slightly removed from the maelstrom.

It took Shawn a lot longer than it should've, at least for a self-titled psychic, to find Hank Ingelow. Hank must've gone to the ground floor, and started to hide there. Aware that they were bringing his grandmother down, he swept around the creepy back hall and up the secondary staircase to the first floor. Once oriented with his location, he snuck into the only room that he knew and felt comfortable: the video room. Shawn found him there. Hank's head was collapsed against the crook made by his elbow, face to the top of the table. Before taking a seat, Shawn grabbed a few paper towels off the counter. He thought the whole tabletop would have to be mopped up, but Hank looked asleep more than upset.

Shawn let his hand drape over the boy's cowlick, where a few hairs defied the conformity of style-gel and went their own independent way. Hank didn't raise his head immediately. Seconds—multiple tens of seconds—went by. The problem was that they couldn't exactly talk to one another if they weren't looking at one another.

So, Shawn waited. He petted the cowlick, he patted Hank's back. While silence reigned in the tree-house-like video room, Shawn hoped that everything a floor below was zipping along nicely. But, oddly enough, he didn't really want to know. He didn't want to know how Hank's mother had died. From Shawn's point-of-view, he'd solved as much of the case as he could've. And he was confident that Nina would confess. Whatever had happened that night in front of the Hayworth house on Nova Place, it'd resulted in Anabel's death and a failed attempt to cover it up. Shawn could imagine that there'd been a massive argument, probably involving Anabel and Zack about their separation, their impending divorce, and how she wanted to move back to Santa Barbara, bringing Hank with her, enroll him in St. Francis. But whatever had happened, Anabel had died. Heart failure or murder—it didn't matter. Shawn had always hoped—too strongly, of course—that Hank had been at the hotel that morning, sound asleep. Shawn's wish for this had been so strong that it nearly knocked the possibility of it into extinction.

Hank raised his head suddenly. Shawn saw that he was resigned to what had occurred, but he wasn't crying. His nose was slightly red and his eyes slightly watery, but he was holding it in. The only time he cried was at night—Shawn had heard slight weeping muffled behind the closed door, but he hadn't said anything about it, hadn't done anything to help Hank shift through the turbulence of grief. In that way, Shawn felt he'd rather let Hank down. Shawn would have to talk to Kat, get Hank into some kind of counseling—or maybe all of them could go—him, Hank and Carlton, and—

"I saw what happened," Hank signed. He hiked his eyes and sighed. "I sort of saw what happened to my mother," he paused, a pained and confused look on his face, "that morning."

Shawn held himself still, aware that his throat was tightening and he was beginning to crack. It just hardly seemed fair—not even a little bit fair. Entirely unfair, in fact. Shawn, supportive, tried to bring Hank the greatest comfort he could. "Do you want me to get a cop in here? Juliet—or Dobson? Or both?"

Like everyone else in the precinct, Hank liked Dobson—and naturally had no aversion to O'Hara. Shawn wasn't sure Juliet was in the building, but by some miracle she was. "Your dad called me to come in," she said, voice thin with worry. "Where is he? Hank?"

"In the video room." Shawn started heading that way, pausing in his steps for Juliet to leave car keys in her desk. Juliet must've seen a glint of how unsettled he was. She grabbed his hand and squeezed. "I can keep it together," he said, determined to sound like it was gospel. "I knew there was—" But he stopped, shook his head, and felt that flaccid feeling come over him. "No, I don't know—I didn't really know."

"It'll be all right." Juliet kicked up a smile.

"Ah, Jules, I wish I had your Libra optimism."

"It's not optimism, Shawn. It's my Libra sense of justice. By the way, do you know where Nina Grayson was?"

"Sedona," he answered, not even bothering to put the "C" to the side of his head. "Which I've recently discovered is not in New Mexico."

"Yeah," Juliet grumbled, "Sedona. The one in Arizona. Says she got a guilty conscious and came back here. Guilty conscious about something, that's for sure. Don't mention any of this to Hank."

"My hands are sealed." He shoved them in his pockets to show Jules he wasn't going to do any unwanted signing.

"All right. Good. We'll tell him when we have more information. He's got enough going on right now."

Her heart did a major flip-flop when she saw Hank in the video room. He looked strange, not quite like himself. It struck Juliet what it was: He looked older. This would mature him beyond the level of an average eleven-year-old. She sat across from him. Dobson was next to her, having to fix his belt so it wasn't cutting into his ever-uncertain waistline. He, too, emoted the same unhappiness and heaviness of his compeers and Hank Ingelow. And with an almost simultaneous intake of breath, Hank started to sign, Shawn started to interpret—and the tale of that awful morning unwound.