musicalluna

It was as he was walking home, empty handed, that Shawn received the epiphany he had been hoping for so desperately all day. He was thinking about how he would give anything to go back and get the food he had ordered—even if it was all wrong—and he was picturing himself sauntering back up to the counter and hugging the bag when the sign hanging beneath the menu struck him with perfect clarity (of course, how else would he see anything?) and something in his brain clicked into place.

Mix and Match. He could see the list of victims in his head and he could see the list of aliases beside it and he suddenly realized that he’d been comparing the wrong things all day. It wasn’t Bell’s name that had been rearranged or hidden in the aliases, it was the dead officers’ names! He had scrambled them up so that they formed new names—his aliases. Ben Larnin had come from Anne Briln, Tony Cedd had come from Cody Dent, and Tristan Nuar had come from Stuart Ran. It was brilliant.

He had to be given kudos for such a clever idea (disturbing in a sociopathic "taking the identities of the victims" way, but still clever) but it was going to be his downfall.

He would have to thank Bell later for the creepy sociopathic tendencies that had just screwed him over.

Shawn burst into the Psych office, grinning madly, leaping over several bottles and other miscellaneous objects that had found their ways into the middle of the floor, almost colliding with his desk in his haste. He immediately yanked out a piece of paper and began scribbling down what he had figured out.

A moment later he held up the list he had created and couldn’t resist doing a little victory dance. He had just cracked this thing wide open. He wasted no time in recalling the name of the officer who had just died. Working hastily, Shawn began forming a list of names that could be created from the letters of Officer Ethan Kinsley’s name and within ten minutes had a list of names, of which one he was absolutely certain Bell would be going by in Los Banos. Stanley was definitely the first name, but the last few letters (e, h, n, k, and i) could be mixed up into a number of possibilities. Khein, Kehni, so on and so forth, and the weird, pulled-out-of-a-hat last names suddenly made sense. But he had the first name for certain, and he could wing the rest.

"Yes!" he cheered, "Who’s the man? I’m the man! Road trip!"

He began rushing around the office, gathering up pieces of paper, a wad of clothes so he could change at some point, and Gus’ spare car keys from his desk and stuffed everything into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. He would need to "borrow" Gus’ car, since his own ride had been confiscated (illegally he might add) by the police.

Glancing back into the office from the door, he smirked half-heartedly. Gus would murder him if he saw the mess he had created in the last twenty-four hours. But that was nothing new, and the car thing would probably make him angrier. He would forgive and forget when Shawn had solved this case.

He hoped.

~ * * * ~

Stealing Gus’ car was appallingly easy.

Because he lived in an apartment, his car wasn’t in a garage. And despite the fact that he had parked directly in front of his apartment, his blinds were drawn, and the sound of a car leaving was anything but unusual.

The sun was just beginning to set as Shawn headed out onto the road, MapQuest directions on the seat beside him and a sense that he really could do this that he hadn’t had in what felt like forever (but was probably really only a couple of hours).

He was only an hour into the trip when he had to pull over.

He had fallen asleep—just for a second—but it had taken a car honking at him (he had begun to drift into the opposing lane) to wake him up.

That had been a jarring indication that he needed a little stimulation or he wasn’t going to make it.

So he stopped at the gas station. The attendant eyed him warily as he walked up to the counter and distributed an armful of Red Bulls, one in hand and already half empty. It didn’t even occur to him the sight he must make, eyes bloodshot with heavy bags beneath them, a two and a half day long beard overtaking his chin which still sported a blue drawn on cleft that peeked through the scruff. That wasn’t even considering how he probably smelled. He grinned at the attendant and said, "Hey."

The attendant’s reply was wary. "Hey."

"I haven’t slept in two days," Shawn said by way of explanation, still grinning.

"Uh huh." The attendant shook his head with an expression that clearly read, "I don’t care. I don’t want to know, you lunatic."

"Don’t forget this one," Shawn said, and put the empty can on the counter, grinning like he had made some absurdly funny joke.

"I got it," the attendant replied wryly, and thrust a paper bag with the remaining full ones at him, an indication that Shawn was to leave. Now.

Shawn appeared oblivious to the hint, waving gaily as he exited the store. At first, the energy drink didn’t seem to be helping, but a few miles further along and it kicked in. He suddenly felt more awake than he had in days, and it felt like his senses had all gotten superhero type boosts. He turned up the music, rolled down the windows, and began singing along at the top of his lungs.

After gulping down two more of the drinks, he had to take a break at a rest stop, leaping out of the car in his haste to empty his bladder. It was shortly after returning to the road that he really began to get antsy. So he did the only thing he could think of to entertain himself.

He called people.

~ * * * ~

Gus was watching MythBusters when his phone rang a little after ten o’clock. He ignored it for a minute, focused on the experiment the hosts were currently in the middle of that involved a pig carcass and a wire cable, but the phone continued ringing insistently and he sighed, turning to glare at it.

He didn’t receive a lot of calls, and maybe it was just his imagination, but the ringer always seemed that much more annoying when it was Shawn on the other end. And right now, it was annoying the hell out of him.

Finally the machine picked up and he heard his ‘business tone’ say, "You have reached the home of Burton Guster, I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave a brief message and your name and number, I’ll get back to you just as soon as I can." There followed a beep and then—

"Gus! I know you’re still mad at me and you’re probably sitting on the couch, glaring at your answering machine while some Discovery Channel show plays in the background, but dude, you gotta hear me out."

Gus scowled, anger bubbling up within him. Every time he finally started cooling off a little, Shawn seemed to decide that was the best time to do something else entirely retarded and his ire rose again. Just hearing his voice right now was really starting to… He caught the end of something Shawn was saying and his frown deepened. He sounded strange. He was talking really fast and—what on earth was he even babbling about?

"—Lassie and Jules were there and I thought I was screwed because the jerks took my bike and I was on foot, but they didn’t chase me, and so I didn’t get my dinner, but I did finally figure out the last clue when I got back!" He laughed and Gus’ eyes narrowed. He recognized the tenor in Shawn’s voice. He had been drinking caffeine. And a lot of it, judging from the rate at which he was speaking. Scowling, he got up from the couch and snatched the phone off the hook, catching another fragment of Shawn’s endless stream of prattle: "…now I’m on my way there and everything will go back to—"

"Shawn!" Gus barked into the phone. "What are you doing drinking caffeinated beverages? Haven’t I told you a thousand times—"

"Gus!" Shawn exclaimed delightedly. "So you are there! I knew you would be—"

"Shawn," Gus said tersely, cutting him off. "What are you doing drinking caffeine?"

Shawn’s amusement radiated from the phone receiver. "I was getting tired," he replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You were mad, so I couldn’t get you to stay up instead, which is really inconvenient, I have to tell you, Gus."

It infuriated Gus, the fact that Shawn seemed to completely forget the fact that he was angry with him, but he also understood that under the influence of caffeine, Shawn was on a completely different plane of reality. "Shawn, it’s almost eleven-thirty. Why wouldn’t you be tired? And why would you even need to stay awake? What are you doing?" he asked, suddenly very suspicious.

"Talking to you, duh," Shawn retorted, and Gus simply knew that he was being purposely evasive, trying to aggravate him and make him drop the subject. Well he wouldn’t do it.

"Where are you, Shawn?" he demanded. "And how much caffeine have you had exactly? Does this have anything to do with breaking in to the police station like you mentioned before?"

The grin in Shawn’s voice infuriated him. "I don’t remember how many—" Well that was a blatant lie. Shawn remembered everything. "—and, no, this doesn’t involve the police station. At least it doesn’t yet. Eventually it will. Probably the FBI, too."

Okay, what? "What the hell does that mean, Shawn?!" he cried.

Shawn snickered and there was the sound of a can opening. "Don’t worry, I’ll let you in on it when I’ve got everything all laid out. I promise. Have I ever left you hanging, Gus?"

"Only all the time, Shawn," he snapped. "Put whatever it is you just opened away. You can’t have any more caffeine! You’ll—I don’t know—combust or something!"

There was the sound of exaggerated slurping, and Gus’ eye twitched. Sometimes he really, seriously considered murdering his best friend. "What? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that," Shawn said, sounding sincere. Gus knew he was anything but. "Relax, Gus, what’s the worst that could happen, I get a little hyper?"

A little hyper? That was the exaggeration of the century. Gus had seen Shawn after drinking just one Starbucks Espresso. He had been off the wall. It had been absolutely impossible to keep up with him, and when the caffeine had finally run its course five hours later, he had crashed so hard he had been nearly comatose. He shook his head. Shawn could not be alone for the next twenty-four hours. "Where are you? I’m coming to get you, Shawn."

Shawn giggled. "I don’t think so, Gus. I’m kind of far away."

"Far away? Shawn, this isn’t a joke! Where are you?" Gus demanded, now vaguely concerned.

Another burst of snickering. "Don’t worry, I’m fine, Gus. I feel great!"

‘Yeah, for now,’ Gus thought dryly. "Shawn, seriously—!"

"I’m on the road. Oh, and I borrowed your car thanks talk to you later bye!" he said in a rush and then there was nothing but dial tone.

Gus froze, Shawn’s final words having not quite registered. When they did, he ran to the window and pulled back the drapes, confirming the statement. Cursing, he tried calling Shawn again.

The line was busy.

~ * * * ~

Lassiter sat at his desk, hunched over the Harding/Kinsley file, rubbing his eyes wearily. Technically he wasn’t supposed to be working on said case anymore because, as of the minute Spencer had revealed the fact that it wasn’t just two officers, but thirteen in five different states, the Feds had snatched it up before he had even had a chance to absorb the enormity of the information. He still had a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that so many officers had died and no one had noticed the connection.

No one but Spencer.

That pissed him off even more than the Feds taking the case; Spencer provided good information, almost without fail, but he had no respect for the people who actually put their lives on the line to do what he took for a good game. He didn’t have to work, to spend late nights agonizing over files and facts, spend days going from house to house, business to business, to get statements and to confirm or refute alibis. He would never admit that Spencer was psychic, but he certainly had a gift of some kind that spoiled him. It was an injustice for something to come so easily to someone who obviously didn’t appreciate the hard work others had to put into what he shrugged off so easily. He didn’t deserve—

"Coffee?"

He looked up to see O’Hara, looking fatigued yet still composed, holding out a steaming Styrofoam cup. Lassiter knew he, on the other hand, was disheveled and probably very harassed looking. At this hour, who gave a damn what he looked like? "Yeah, thanks," he muttered, and took the proffered cup, taking a long swallow. The warm, strong-tasting liquid felt good, refreshing, and he sighed silently, feeling better to some extent.

"How is it coming?" O’Hara asked, her tone sympathetic and as innocuous as possible.

He grimaced. "I’ve been over it a hundred thousand times, and I can’t find anything," he admitted grudgingly.

"Maybe you should go home. Sleep on it. We’ve been working long hours on this one," she suggested and Lassiter thought he detected a hint of hopefulness in her voice. They had been working since eight o’clock that morning, and they had stayed until beyond midnight the night before. And the night before that. Actually, he wasn’t sure they had gone home before midnight since the last murder had occurred. Realizing how little sleep he had been getting seemed to bring on the fatigue even more. Maybe O’Hara was right. They had been working non-stop and she, at the very least, deserved a break. A clear head might also help him see something he had been missing. "All right," he agreed, and cracked a small smile. "Let’s go home, O’Hara."

The relief on her face was well masked, but still evident. "Yes, sir."

They gathered up their individual belongings, and then headed out toward the parking lot, side by side, a comfortable silence settling between them. They were halfway down the hall when they heard a bewildered-sounding voice saying, "Shawn? Shawn Spencer?"

The sound of the fake psychic’s name made Lassiter’s blood boil. That insolent little upstart had crossed the line. He knew that he had done something wrong, that he had screwed up, and he refused to admit it. He was probably calling just to further rub in the fact that he could run circles around the entire S.B.P.D. without a second’s thought.. He turned sharply to find Buzz McNab still sitting at his desk, evidently having stayed to catch up on his paperwork, but now with the phone cradled at his ear. "Shawn," he said quietly, "I’m really uncomfortable with talking to you right now…" He glanced around the room as he spoke and when his eyes landed on Lassiter, he froze, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Lassiter stalked forward, gesturing for Buzz to hand over the phone. He did so, practically throwing it at him in his haste to obey.

"Spencer?" Lassiter growled into the phone. "Why the hell are you calling here?"

"To talk, duh," Shawn replied, voice immensely amused. "I would think even you could deduce that, Lassie."

"Oh, harhar. This coming from the psychic whose ‘seeing eye’ has apparently been gouged out," Lassiter replied acidly, hand gripped so tightly around the reciever that it hurt. He would not put up with being insulted by the little punk any longer.

"So I forgot to put in my spiritual contact. Even on a bad day my eye works better than both of yours."

He swelled with fury. "Spencer, I swear I’m going to—"

"Carlton!" Juliet said sharply and many a cop would have quailed under the ferocious glare Lassiter turned on her. "Give me the phone," she said carefully, refusing to back down.

He sneered and then roughly shoved the reciever into her hand. "Fine."

"Thank you." She watched as he stepped away, hands clenching into fists, which made poor Buzz flinch just slightly, and lifted the reciever to her ear. "Shawn?"

She winced at his exclamation of, "JULES!"

She met Lassiter’s dark gaze and said in as measured a tone as possible (she may have been disguising it well, but she was still angry with him too), "Yes, Shawn, it’s me."

"I miss you, Jules," he said. "I have to tell you though, you’re absolutely adorable when you’re angry."

Juliet’s expression soured. "That was nowhere near funny, Shawn," she said icily. "What were you thinking? If that was your idea of an apology for what you did on Wednesday, you were way off your mark."

She bristled furiously when he replied, "Now that you’ve got that off your chest—my turn to talk!" With that he began yammering, almost so quickly she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She was opening her mouth to insert some scathing end to the conversation before hanging up on him when she caught a bit of what he was saying.

"…I’m on a roadtrip now. I’ve got two more hours to go so I hope you’re up for a long conversation!"

She frowned, her eyes narrowing as she listened as intently as she could to the seemingly endless flow of words. It was like he had been wound up and let loose and now he was just spewing whatever blather first popped into his head. There was something wrong. She looked up at Lassiter and he frowned when he saw the expression on her face was not anger.

"Listen to this," she said and put the phone on speaker.

"…those trucks with all the holes in the sides and they’re usually carting pigs or something like that, and every time I see one, the only thing I can think is, ‘Gee, there goes my breakfast.’ Does that make me morbid? I mean, what else are pigs good for? Unless, of course, they’re Wilbur or something, but really, even then, Charlotte was the really cool one, wasn’t she?"

Lassiter’s face settled somewhere in between anger and confusion. "Spencer," he said, and received no response, except for the continuing stream of chatter. "What the hell is wrong with him?" he demanded of O’Hara and she shrugged, now concerned despite herself. Lassiter tried again. "Spencer. SPENCER!"

Shawn finally paused. "What? Something wrong, Lassie?"

"Spencer, are you drunk?" Lassiter grit.

That got a laugh. "No, I don’t drink much. It works too fast. Surprised?" Strangely enough, Lassiter wasn’t.

"Are you on drugs?" he tried again.

Another laugh. "Do I seem like the kind of guy who needs drugs to have fun?" he replied.

Again Lassiter had to concede the point. "Then what the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped, somewhat annoyed that he wasn’t going to get to nail him for anything illegal.

"Why does everyone think there’s something wrong with me?" Shawn asked mildly. "I just drank a few Red Bulls to stay awake. I was tired and sleepy-Shawn equals really-bad-driver-Shawn."

"Oh, sweet mother of pearl. Who on earth allowed you to get a hold of energy drinks? If there was even a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a law passed that said you could not drive under the influence of caffeine, I would make it my life’s work to get it done. Where is Mr. Guster? Isn’t he your babysitter or something?" Lassiter demanded exasperatedly.

"He’s currently out of the office," Shawn replied vaguely. "Really, Lassie, do I mean that much to you?"

"No, but the safety of the general populace does! Now I am ordering you to pull over and find somewhere to stay! I don’t think I want you driving under normal circumstances let alone like this!" he burst.

"Shawn, you need to listen to him," Juliet interjected. "You’re not thinking properly and—"

"I’m thinking perfectly, Jules! I’ve never thought so clearly in my life—and let me tell you, that’s saying something." Lassiter snorted derisively. He found that hard to believe. "I’m almost halfway there anyway, and in the middle of nowhere. There isn’t anywhere to stop, even if I thought you guys were founded in your doubts in me. Which I don’t. I may have to stop for a pee break though. I’ve had three more since the last time I went."

Lassiter heaved a long-suffering sigh and said, "Where exactly is ‘there’, Spencer?"

"Where I’m going."

Lassiter grit his teeth. "That’s not what I meant and you know it."

"Do I? You know, that reminds me of this one time, when Gus and I were in high school, and Gus said the same thing. We were talking about girls and…"

Shawn took off on another ramble fest and Lassiter let his head drop. It was absolutely infuriating that he could manipulate conversation so easily.

Ten minutes passed, and Shawn continued to talk, speaking without seeming to breathe, taking minute breaks in which he swigged Red Bull, mainly to piss Lassiter off, he was sure. He ignored any and all attempts to break into his monologue. By that time, the night officers who were in the station had begun gravitating toward the phone, drawn in by the strangely fascinating topics that the "phone guy" kept chattering about.

Finally, Lassiter could stand it no longer. He slammed the phone down on the hook, (which was really unnecessary, but it made him feel better) and held it there grimly, as though it would somehow shut up the blathering psychic more effectively. There was an outcry from the little following Shawn had accumulated. "That’s enough!" Lassiter barked, removing his hand from the device. "Get back to work!"

"I’m really worried about him," Juliet said, glancing at the phone. "He’s acting really strangely..."

Lassiter glared at her. "As if that’s some kind of novelty." He glowered at the slowly dispersing crowd and was straightening his coat when the phone rang. He rolled his eyes, but picked it up—just in case.

"Santa Barbara Po—"

"That was really rude, Lassie, I—"

Growling, Lassiter slammed the receiver down again. It rang again. He glared daggers at it, and pressed the disconnect button. Fifteen seconds later, it rang again. He pressed it again. Fifteen more seconds, and another ring. He pressed the button. …Another ring. He snatched it off of the cradle and snarled, "Spencer, find someone else to bother!"

"…I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number," the voice on the other end of the line said meekly and Lassiter had to resist the urge to smash the receiver into his forehead, instead opting to thrust it at O’Hara. She accepted the phone without question, and immediately began soothing the unnerved caller.

Sometimes, he wished he could just strangle Spencer, and be done with it.

~ * * * ~

In Shawn’s defense, it was getting very late, he was hopped up on half-a-dozen Red Bulls, and he had already called the other people he knew.

It was going on one o’clock in the morning when Henry’s phone rang, waking him. He grumbled sleepily, stumbled out of bed, and headed for the kitchen where his phone was located. He was two feet away when the machine picked up and his voice grunted, "Henry Spencer. Leave a message," and the machine beeped.

"Yo. Dad. What’s up?"

Henry’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the phone. What on earth would make Shawn call him at this hour? He had a feeling it wouldn’t be anything good.

"Hey, I’m on the road. Just thought I’d let you know, since you probably couldn’t care less. And just FYI, I’m in Gus’ car so you don’t have to freak out about me driving ‘that piece of junk’ as you like to call it. Aren’t you thrilled?"

Henry stared stonily at the phone. When Shawn was in high school, he had been hostile and sarcastic like this. People told him that he would get over it, that things would be better when he got older, that he would appreciate everything Henry did for him in no time. Well, they had been wrong. Shawn was still as stubborn and jackassed as he had been in high school and he was already twenty-nine. So far he was keeping his childhood promise never to grow up. It made Henry furious.

A beep brought Henry out of his thoughts. The machine had hung up on Shawn after the message had begun to stretch to five minutes. There was a moment of silence and the phone started ringing again. Henry grit his teeth and waited hardheadedly for the machine to pick up. His son was being an idiot.

"Yeah, sorry, that’s going to be annoying. Oh, well. So where was I? Oh yeah, I was telling you that I’ve gotten a lead in the case, hence the road trip. Wait, what’s that you say? I’m being an idiot? I should go home? I have no right to be chasing this down? I should have told—oh wait, they’re still mad too. Huh. Fancy that.

"Well, sorry, Dad. Can’t stop. I’m already over halfway there. I should be there in an hour or so. So I’ll just chat with your machine until then, ‘kay? Great, thanks." Henry’s hands clenched into fists. He had done everything in his power to raise a decent, upstanding cop, and what had he gotten out of it? A delinquent. A half-crazed, irrational, childish, stupid facsimile of a man. He had tried Shawn’s entire life to redirect his obstinacy into a more productive outlet. Instead, he took off on wild goose chases like this one.

Henry sat there, glaring loathsomely at the phone through the better part of six acerbic messages before he finally couldn’t listen to his son’s idiocy any more. He yanked the phone cord out. He loved his son, very much, but it was painfully hard to try and deal with him when it seemed like all he wanted out of life was to do everything in his power to be a disappointment and a nuisance. He hoped against hope that Shawn wasn’t going to do anything completely reckless and get himself hurt.

Or worse. Killed.