The day before, when Shawn and Gus had arrived at the police station, they had been consumed with a deep philosophical debate about Creamsicles versus Klondike bars. They had been far, far too occupied to notice the unique vehicle parked just a few spaces away.
But on that Saturday morning, there was no such discussion to distract them.
"Whoah," Shawn and Gus said in awe.
Before them was a vintage car, in near-perfect condition; the midnight black was stark against silver accents, lending it a sleek yet sinister aura. Besides some dirt here and there, it was almost show-ready. Gus could tell it wasn't just a display piece in someone's garage.
"Is David Hasselhoff working today?" Shawn asked. "Or… perhaps the CryptKeeper?"
"The CryptKeeper couldn't drive, Shawn. He never would've passed the eye exam, " Gus said as they walked around the car in unison. He gaped. "Maxwell's wife! Maybe this is her car!"
"I'd believe it," Shawn said.
They crouched down to inspect the car up close, their reflections distorting like funhouse mirrors in the chrome.
"By the looks of, I'd say this would have to be a sixty-five, maybe sixty-seven Impala," Gus said. He couldn't help but think about what driving a car like that might be like, especially with the ladies.
Shawn squinted, skeptical, like he always was for topics he knew nothing about. Which were many, many things. "From Ohio, no less."
"What? Ohio?" Gus frowned.
Shawn pointed to the license plate. "Why? What do you have against Ohions? O…Ohioians? Ohioanites? Onions."
"Driving a car like this to Santa Barbara, all the way from Ohio? You'd have to be crazy to make that drive in a car like this. A sixties Chevy Impala can't get more than fifteen miles per gallon!"
"It's scary that you know that."
"I learned about it on the Automotive Special of Antique Roadshow!"
Shawn winced. "Gus, you sound like my dad. Please stop."
Gus scoffed, unhindered. "It comes in handy, you know."
Their gazes lingered on the scary-old-impractical car, passing it as they entered the station.
"Well, look who decided to show up," Lassiter drawled.
Lassiter and Juliet were already in mid-conversation with the two detective agents. This surprised Shawn, as he knew Jules would have called him and Gus first thing, and certainly would've called the two visiting agents second. That meant they had to be staying closer to the station. He refused to entertain any other explanation. The agents were too good-looking for comfort, and thus, he wanted them to leave. Judging from the knowing look from Gus, Gus thought so as well.
Shawn and Gus shared the briefest of glance-glares with the agents, who gave strained smiles in return.
"We were just giving an update," Juliet said. "A woman came to report her husband missing and we've identified him as our 'John Doe' that was found on the docks. The victim's name was Chris Stampler. He and his wife live here in Santa Barbara. Apparently, he never came home from work Tuesday and was missing ever since."
Gus nudged Shawn, whispering, "That would explain why Matthew Maxwell wasn't in the system!"
"So… he gave a fake name to join a cult. I can't say I blame him, really," Shawn muttered back.
"Anything interesting on file for him?" Agent Utah asked.
Lassiter gave the faintest pause; one that Shawn could barely tell was disgruntled. Apparently, he didn't like the FBI agents much, which Shawn found… surprising. "No criminal record except for some parking tickets. The wife says he works at the Santa Barbara Mirror."
"As a reporter?" Gus asked.
Juliet shook her head. "No, I don't think so. She mentioned something about that."
"You said she's here? Could we ask her some questions ourselves?" Agent Patrick asked politely.
"Yes- Actually, we'd like to talk to her as well," Shawn rushed to say, and Gus quickly nodded.
"And we should get priority since we're hired for the case," Gus said.
"Yes- we call dibs," Shawn said. "You two can wait downstairs, to the right, about… five feet forward."
Agent Patrick considered. "…Isn't that the restroom?"
"Is it?" Shawn and Gus smirked.
"Everyone can speak with her- as a potential witness," Juliet said pointedly. "Two at a time, I think. Everyone else can observe."
"I wouldn't be surprised if she did it," Lassiter said.
"We don't have a motive yet," Juliet said pointedly. "She's cooperating at the moment. I think she deserves a little space until we officially classify her as a suspect."
Lassiter practically glowered. "Fine."
"I call dibs!" Shawn raised a hand.
"I'd like to go in, too," Agent Patrick said, considerably more normally.
Sam and Dean had met a number of hunters, both male and female. Some of them were even hunter-couples. There was a certain look that hunters adopted on an unconscious level; the hallmarks of which were boots, jeans, and plaid.
This woman wore silk and Chanel.
"This chair is very uncomfortable," she said, adjusting her pastel-pink skirt. "How much longer do I have to be here?" She blew at her nose, having cried recently. Despite it, she seemed more annoyed than sad.
Sam kept his focus away from the one-way mirror on the other side of the room, knowing his brother and others were watching. He offered a sympathetic smile to the woman. "We still have some questions to go over, unfortunately."
Behind the mirror, Dean stood next to the detectives and Gus. On their way to the room, Dean spied a plate of homemade cookies sitting out on a desk, and snagged one discreetly. He casually munched while watching through the glass.
Juliet turned to him, frowning. "Is that one of the cookies Ronald's grandma brought in?"
Dean paused mid-chew. "Uh. Maybe." He managed an awkward smile.
She shot him a disapproving look before turning back to the window. Lassiter scoffed and shook his head.
Dean finished his cookie.
"Allison Stampler," Shawn said, "I'm Shawn Spencer, Psychic detective. I'm… already well acquainted with your husband's spirit," he spoke mysteriously, raising a hand to his temple. "I'm sensing… Your husband has been very absent, as of late."
She nodded. "Yes, that's right."
"And I'm sensing… this started about three months ago? I'm getting something about- Mornings. Discounted goods. Unknown electronic brands-" He paused, as if realizing his partner wasn't in the room- "Tuesdays. He was always busy Tuesday nights."
Ashley blinked, impressed. "Uh… Why, yes, he was always busy Tuesday nights. He was busy quite often, though, saying he was working late. He worked on weekends sometimes, too. And when he was home, he locked himself in his office. What 'work' he was really doing, I don't know." She shook her head bitterly.
Sam frowned, finding it a strange detail for the 'psychic' to get right by chance. "Mrs. Stampler, what did your husband do for a living? What were his hobbies?"
"He worked at the Santa Barbara Mirror. But not as anything actually important. Do you know what he did? For all the years he's been there, he never made it past 'junior copy editor'. As if that could make him give up all his time. He checked for loose commas and misspellings. He said he was working overtime, but I knew better." She dug around in her cream designer purse, taking out a compact mirror. She started to dab at her smeared makeup with a tissue. "Five years at that job and he couldn't get a raise or promotion. I was the one supporting us, you know!"
"Do you know what he might've been doing besides work?" Sam asked gently. "Did he have any friends or coworkers we might talk to?"
"Hell if I know," she said, somehow dignified. "I saw him reading books, sometimes, but he was clearly keeping secrets from me. He wouldn't let me know anything. All he said was, he was doing important work, and that it would be worth it in the end."
Sam nodded, offering a sympathetic and kind smile, practiced from the many unfortunate people he'd interviewed. "Did you notice anything strange around him? Or did he mention anything… unusual? Anything you can think of at all, no matter how small."
She blew her nose, loudly. "He… He got those horrible tattoos a few months ago. I couldn't believe it. If he was going to have a mid-life crises, I wish he would've just bought a car. Something normal. I thought that's what he was going to do, but he disappointed me yet again." She shook her head and brushed a strand of hair back into place.
"Cars are quite important. Especially if it's in the shape of a hotdog," Shawn said. "I'm sensing… you drive a Volvo?"
"You're good!" She said, even smiling faintly. She turned back to Sam. "He did start buying some strange kick-knacks, I suppose. Creepy things, just like those tattoos. He said he was 'expanding his horizons' or some such. I saw him reading some books with symbols in them, I think. Before he hid them from me."
"I'm also sensing that all was not well in the state of your home. I'm sensing… Marriage troubles?" Shawn asked.
Allison let out a frustrated sigh. "I loved my husband… but he changed. He was a kind man, deep down. But he clearly had other things to draw his attention. I'm not sure how much longer I could've gone on. I think… I think he was having an affair."
Shawn discreetly looked towards the mirror-window in triumph, mouthing the words 'Called it!'
"I'm sorry to hear that," Sam said gently. He knew the story all too well. The job of secretly hunting evil beings, unsurprisingly, was less than conducive to a happy family. He shot a look towards the mirrored glass, knowing his brother was thinking the same.
The door to the room opened and Detective Lassiter strode forward. He stood directly across from Mrs. Stampler, his hands on his hips. "Alright, enough of that. Where were you Tuesday night?" he demanded.
The woman blinked, frowning as if finding the very man distasteful. "Why, I was at home."
"Was there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?"
"I-" she frowned, shaking her head. She eyed him suspiciously. "No. I was home alone. And we don't have any children."
"Did you hang up paint cans in case of bandits?" Shawn asked.
Lassiter glared. Then the glare moved to Mrs. Stampler. "Were you under divorce proceedings from your husband?"
She drew herself up, indignant. "What does that have to do-"
"Just answer the question!"
Mrs. Stampler stuck her nose up, as if Lassiter insulted her outfit. "Are you accusing me of something?" Her tone was ice.
"Maybe you could tell me," Lassiter said with a sarcastic smile.
She looked away in a huff. "I'm not saying anything else until I can speak with my lawyer," she said. Then, she clamped her mouth shut, and seemed intent on ignoring everyone else in the room.
"Well, that was unexpected," Shawn said as he, Gus, the agents, and the detectives filed out into the hallway. The two of them stepped out of earshot. "I don't think she's really the cult-going type."
"You've got that right. Unless it's a Cousin Marilyn situation."
"No, I don't think so. I think Chris was the odd one out. She doesn't drive the Cryptmobile. I saw her keys in her purse." He paused, looking around the station. "Oh, look! More cookies!"
Gus smirked. "We might as well. No one's getting any more answers for a while, thanks to Detective Lassiter. His divorce really hit him hard."
Shawn glanced back towards the interrogation room and idly said, "Except Agent Utah, apparently."
"What?!" Gus turned and saw the man slip back into the room. "Oh, no they don't!" He strode quickly to close the gap, darting into the room right behind Agent Utah.
"You show'em how it's done, buddy!" Shawn called.
Then, he went for the cookies.
Sam did his best to idly linger in the station while looking as if he belonged there, which was difficult. He kept trying not to glance at the wanted posters on the far wall just in case he and his brother's portraits hung there. Instead, he awkwardly loitered amid the sea of desks.
There was a loud huff in frustration. To his left, Detective O'Hara was clicking furiously at her computer screen. "Not again…!" She frowned. For someone so short and petite, she was surprisingly intense.
She looked up and caught Sam's gaze. He tried to brush it off with an awkward smirk and look somewhere else.
"Excuse me? Agent Patrick? Do you think you could help me with something?" she asked kindly.
He turned. "Uh. Yeah, maybe."
"It's my computer. It's been acting up on me lately, I don't know what's wrong with it."
Sam smiled faintly out of habit. "Sure, I guess… I'm not sure how much I can help, though."
"I'm sorry," she winced as if scolding herself. "You just seem like someone who knows computers, for some reason."
Sam wasn't a nerd about tech. He did have a laptop, though, and he was always the one fixing it whenever Dean inadvertently downloaded something he wasn't supposed to. Helping her was harmless. Maybe it could even help their case if he could get access to a police computer. He moved in front of the desk and sat in the chair.
"I'm having trouble getting the windows to switch."
He tried the mouse and recognized the symptoms of a computer that wasn't behaving. The screen stuttered, it didn't respond to clicks, and certain windows seemed frozen. Unfortunately, that could've been caused by absolutely anything. Fortunately, he knew a key secret to troubleshooting technology. "Mind if I turn it off and on again?"
She shook her head.
Sam set the computer to restart. As they waited for it to reboot, he noticed the name plaque on her desk. "Your first name's really Juliet?" He asked.
"I know, I know… It's unusual, I get that a lot," she said wearily.
"No, it's- It's pretty, actually."
"Oh… Thanks," she smiled. "I guess you'd know all about that sort of thing."
"What?"
"Well…" She started, obviously trying to remain kind. "Patrick's kind of an usual last name."
"Oh! Right. Yeah." Sam had already decided that, next time, he was going to be the one making the fake IDs. He turned back to the screen, trying to remain focused. He could practically hear Dean's voice in his head, urging him to talk to girls, not to be so uptight all the time, and that it was his turn for the TV so he needed the remote because the A-Team was on. Sam dismissed the Dean in his head. The computer whirred as the screen started up.
In front of the desk were three oddly formed clay 'figurines', if one used the term very loosely, in that they were vague shapes standing on two legs, with arms, and faces. Sam raised a brow.
"They're from my nephews," she explained. "They like crafts a lot. I'm their favorite aunt," she said excitedly.
He picked up one of them. "They're… nice," he found himself saying. "Kind of like Gumby."
"That's what I thought! Of course, they're too young to know who that is. But then I realized it was the perfect excuse to introduce them to it, just like I grew up watching. It was pretty old even when I was a kid, though."
The screen lit up with a login screen and the police department logo. He placed the not-Gumby figurine back on the desk. "Looks like it should work now."
Juliet smiled in relief. "Thank you! This helps me out a lot. Is it really that simple? Rebooting it when it gets stuck like that?"
He rose from the seat, smiling. "Yeah, basically. Fixes most simple glitches. If it's anything more serious you'd probably need a tech to look at it, though."
"I'll have to keep that in mind," she nodded. It was clear she wasn't going to log in with him standing there- a professional, clearly, despite her somewhat bubbly reprieve- and he offered his own nod in return. "Thanks again," she said.
Sam spied Dean from across the room, having apparently left the interrogation room already. His brother was watching the exchange with an amused smirk. "No problem." He offered a smile to her, before mentally shaking himself.
He crossed over to his brother. "Find out anything?" he asked quietly.
Dean opened his mouth, still smirking at a joke Sam didn't know, seemed to think better of it, then shook his head. The smirk faded. "Gave her a cup of water with a couple of drops of holy water. Nothing. Doesn't seem to be anything unusual about her. She's refusing to answer anything until her lawyer comes in, though."
"So the wife's not possessed, at least."
"Yeah, but if she's not the demon, who is? Could be anyone in town. A city this big, there's gotta be hundreds of places they could hide."
There was a point in every hunt where simply interviewing people wasn't enough. Besides burrowing in dusty library microfilms and browsing computer records, there was another key cornerstone. Investigation. A wealth of clues could be found in the most mundane places.
"Guess we'll just need to find out more about this guy," Sam said.
You could learn a great deal about someone by simply visiting their home. Preferably, without their knowledge.
"Doesn't sound like anyone else would be home right now," Dean said.
"She's not talking," Gus said, stating a fact he clearly knew beforehand. Gus grabbed a cookie and began eating.
"You know," Shawn said, between chews of his cookie. "If the wife's here, and no one else is at the house…"
Sam trudged over to Juliet, armed with a slightly embarrassed smile. "Hey, uh… Could I see Mrs. Stampler's file?"
Shawn and Gus somewhat discreetly shuffled over to the front processing area. Officer McNab was holding a stack of newly filled-out forms. They exchanged cheerful greetings. As Gus and McNab discussed the weather, Shawn quickly glanced at the name and address seen on the top page. They laughed at a joke. They waved each other goodbye.
"You got it?" Gus whispered.
"Oh yeah."
On a mission, Shawn and Gus strode towards the main station doors with confidence. This was hindered by the pair of FBI agents who fell into step alongside them. The agents watched them strangely, unsure of what to do. Patrick offered a faint, confused smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Shawn and Gus fake-smiled in return. Then, they broke into a power-walk. Satisfaction washed over them as they passed through the doors first. They basked in the feeling of winning the non-existent contest, smirking in victory, all the way to Gus' blue Toyota Echo. A blip of a car, by some standards, but it was greatly appreciated by Shawn. Mostly because it was the only car he had access to. (His dad's didn't count.)
Shawn's gaze fell on the FBI agents as they crossed the parking lot. They paused as a little kid on a bike nearly ran into the tall one- Patrick. As if to personally irritate Shawn, Patrick checked to make sure the kid was okay. Even Agent Utah gave a surprisingly patient smile to the kid. They weren't jerks, at least.
Then, he watched as they stepped between parked cars, coming to a stop at a certain sedan. His smile vanished. "Dude."
Gus looked up. Both agents stepped into the black Impala.
"It's their car?!" Gus asked. "No way!"
"Well, that's just not fair," Shawn uttered. "Although, it does match their outfits. That is impressive." He wondered how they could dress to match the Blueberry. There were many, many possibilities.
They climbed into the car. "It's impractical. I bet they're taking advantage of government travel expense reimbursement!" Gus said.
"And this is bad, because…?"
"Those are our tax dollars, Shawn!"
Shawn frowned. He found he had no opinion on the matter. Also, he couldn't remember the last time he filed taxes. He probably needed to do something about that. "I take it that's unusual?"
Gus scoffed. "For Federal Agents? Yeah. They usually fly and then rent a car locally. It's covered in their flight expenses and per diem."
They turned onto Garden street and stopped at a red light. "Dude, how do you know that?"
"I read an accounting white paper on it once."
"I told you to stay away from those, they ruin your groove."
"Don't say anything about my groove, Shawn. My groove is just fine."
Then, as it summoned by the universe, a red convertible pulled up two lanes away. Two women, impeccably dressed with designer sunglasses, both gorgeous enough for a magazine cover, sat waiting at the light.
"Dude," Shawn said reflexively. Gus turned and saw them as well, and he gave a suave nod with a smooth grin. Shawn did his best 'I happen to be handsome and oh I didn't see you there' look. The ladies noticed them with bashful smiles.
"Ladies," Gus said, his voice silk. "Nice day for a drive."
One of the women gave a light wave. The other giggled.
Shawn bobbed around, trying to find a better view. "Dude, move your head, you're blocking me."
Gus' gaze- and winning smirk- never wavered. "No. You move your head."
"I can't see! Gus, just move-"
"It's my car, Shawn. The driver calls the shots."
"And where are you lovely ladies going?" Shawn half-shouted, leaning across Gus.
There was a deep rumble-purr of an engine. A black vintage car, trimmed in chrome, drove up the middle lane. Their view of the ladies became Agent Patrick staring idly out the open window.
"Ladies," Agent Utah said from the driver's side, merely inches away from the women.
Even Agent Patrick glanced over to the women with a smile.
"Come on!" Shawn whined.
The light turned green. Agent Patrick looked over and noticed Shawn and Gus, making a face best compared to that of a confused puppy.
The Impala roared forward with a deep rumble that could be felt in one's chest, leaving the bulbous and small Ford Echo in its wake.
The girls' smiles faded. Gus and Shawn scrambled to recapture their magic from before. "Ladies!" Shawn shouted.
"I get thirty-one miles per gallon!" Gus shouted desperately.
The women winced, giggling in disbelief, before driving away.
"Man…!" Shawn whined. Gus thoroughly checked the intersection before moving forward. "It's not fair, Gus."
"No, it's not. Cars like that are a poor investment. It's irresponsible. They must spend a fortune on gas alone! Not to mention how much vintage car parts cost. Good luck if something breaks," Gus shook his head.
It was less than a good start to their day, but there was a case that needed their attention. As they neared the next intersection, Shawn remembered seeing a construction sign earlier about a detour. "No no, turn right. Garden Street's all torn up right now. Laguna will be faster."
It was a twenty-minute drive, due to mild traffic, to get to the victim's house. That was assuming the route taken was a normal, direct one, and not something that resembled the drawing of a small child. "What the hell kind of detour was that?" Dean asked. "I thought you knew how to get here."
Sam grit his teeth. "You know, it's not my fault half the street was closed, Dean." It had been a maze of road closures, lane merges, and confusing detour signs that all seemed to be referring to different things. At least one entire part of the main street seemed to be missing with a gaping pit in it.
"You're the one with the map, you couldn't figure out anything better?"
"Welcome to driving in California," Sam shook his head. He had plenty of memories of driving in the state during college. He'd blocked all of them out.
After climbing out of the car, Sam's gaze fell to the blue Toyota parked just down the street. "You've got to be kidding me…"
Over the roof of the car, Dean shot him a questioning look.
Sam gestured emptily. "It's those psychic guys… That's their car."
"Oh, great…" Dean said with all the excitement of paying a rather large bill one had tried to ignore for three months.
Sam looked up at the victim's house, considering. They weren't followed, since Sam and Dean showed up later, and they took anything but a direct route. "How'd they know where the victim lived?"
"Who knows? Come on. We'll pull rank on them, get a look at the place ourselves. Maybe they'll take off. I'm not waiting around for another chance for the wife to be gone."
Sam nodded. They discreetly circled to the trunk of the car. Dean opened it and popped up the false bottom, revealing their myriad of hunting tools. Most of which were guns. They grabbed a handgun each, hidden in their waistbands, and Dean grabbed a small EMF detector. With the car sealed and locked, the brothers started up the walkway.