Psych: A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read

by William Rabkin

  “Exactly what I was saying,” Shawn said.

  Henry’s cell phone trilled. “Hold that thought. Or whatever it is that passes for thought in your head.” Before he could flip the phone open, the ringing stopped. Henry glanced at the incoming number. He pressed the CALLBACK key and let the phone on the other end ring five times before he disconnected, looking troubled.

  “One of my clients,” Henry said. “No answer when I called back.”

  “Maybe we can deal with that when the serial killer stalking us is back behind bars,” Gus said. “How are we going to stop her, Shawn?”

  But Shawn wasn’t listening to Gus. He was deep in thought. “Which client?” he said finally.

  “The first one,” Henry said.

  “That was the widow of the tackle shop guy who used to be a cop?”

  “Yes,” Henry said. “Not that it makes any difference.”

  “It might make all the difference in the world,” Shawn said. “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” Gus had given up trying to follow Shawn’s logic.

  “You heard my father,” Shawn said. “There’s a scrapbook emergency out there, and we’re the only ones who can help.”

  During the ten-minute drive into the hills, Gus tried repeatedly to get Shawn to explain what they were doing. Or why he was now so completely convinced that Tara was innocent despite witnessing her trying to kill him. But for once Shawn seemed to have nothing to say. He drummed his fingers on the truck’s seat, fidgeting nervously. His anxiety even seemed to affect Henry, whose foot got heavier as they got closer to Betty Walinski’s house.

  When they finally arrived, Shawn jumped out and ran to the front door. It was slightly ajar. As Henry and Gus joined him, Shawn held up one finger for silence. He pointed to Henry and waved toward the back of the house. He tapped Gus’ chest and indicated that he should stand under the open kitchen window and be prepared to dive through it. Then he jabbed a thumb toward himself and wagged it back at the open front door. He’d handle this one personally.

  “Whatever,” Henry said, and pushed past Shawn through the open front door. “Betty?”

  Shawn sighed heavily. “I spent a long time coming up with those hand signals.”

  Gus clapped him on the shoulder, then followed Henry into the house. As soon as he got through the door, Henry barked at him, “Stay back!”

  Henry was crouching in front of the sofa. Betty Walinski was lying on her stomach, but her head was looking up at the ceiling.

  “Damn it, Shawn,” Henry said as his son came into the room. “If you’d just done the right thing from the first instead of trying to be so clever. You knew this woman was crazy, but instead of helping her, you used her. And now another innocent person is dead.”

  Shawn stepped up to his father. “This isn’t my fault.”

  Henry wouldn’t even look up at him. “You enabled Tara for—”

  “Absolutely,” Shawn said.“But Tara didn’t do this.And now I know for sure she didn’t kill John Marichal.”

  “You said you knew that before,” Gus said.

  “Yes, but at the time what I meant was, I had a gut instinct about it,” Shawn said. “Now it’s a fact.”

  “You’re going to have to explain this to the police.” Henry pulled out his phone and started to punch in the number.

  “I will,” Shawn said. “But not here.”

  “Then where?” Henry said.

  “Think back,” Shawn said. “Where did someone try to kill us?”

  “In our office,” Gus said.

  “Before that,” Shawn said. “The first time.”

  Gus remembered the searing pain as he grabbed Marichal’s shotgun. “The impound lot.”

  “And the second time?”

  Gus heard bullets thwocking into abandoned cars. “The impound lot.”

  “So where should we go to find the solution?”

  “The impound lot?”

  “Eagle’s View!”

  Gus and Henry stared at him. “What does Eagle’s View have to do with any of this?” Henry said.

  “Nothing,” Shawn said. “But that impound lot is a dump. Who’d want to waste any more time there?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When Shawn called Veronica Mason with his request, he didn’t have a chance to finish the question before she agreed. The call to Detective Lassiter wasn’t quite as friendly. In fact, Lassie hung up on him three times before Shawn finished explaining what he needed the Santa Barbara Police Department to do.

  “Don’t make me go over your head, Lassie,” Shawn said when Lassiter picked up the fourth time.

  “If you’re thinking about calling Chief Vick, be my guest.” Shawn could practically hear Lassiter’s smug grin through the phone. “She and Detective O’Hara will be happy to spend a couple of hours explaining how demeaning they find it to be treated as sex objects instead of law enforcement professionals. God knows they’ve already spent most of the day on the subject.”

  Shawn put a hand over the speakerphone’s mike and turned to Gus. “How did Chief Vick know what I said about her?”

  “I don’t know,” Gus said. “Maybe the same way Tara knew which BurgerZone outlet you prefer. Maybe sound can actually travel between the front and back seats of an automobile.”

  Shawn leapt out of his seat. “That’s it!”

  “Umm, yeah,” Gus said. “It was pretty obvious to anyone who’s ever ridden in a car.”

  Shawn sank back in his seat and folded his hands across his desk like a third-grade teacher trying one last time to explain fractions to a particularly slow student. “No, Gus, it’s the final piece of the mystery,” he said patiently. “I know who killed Dallas Steele.”

  Lassiter’s voice squawked out of the speaker. “So do we, Spencer. That’s why the entire force is out hunting for your former mind slave before she kills again.”

  “They’re wasting their time,” Shawn said.

  “Good point,” Lassiter said. “The way she’s going, she’ll run out of civilians to murder, and she’ll have to come to the police station just to find another victim.”

  “I’ll make you a deal, Lassie,” Shawn said. “You do what I ask, and I’ll deliver the real killer to you within an hour. And if I can’t, I’ll confess to every single one of the murders myself.”

  There was a long silence on the line. Gus was beginning to think the connection had been cut when Lassiter’s voice came back. “Fax me what you need.”

  Four hours later, Shawn and Gus were standing outside the magnificent front door of Eagle’s View.A stream of squad cars delivered all the people whose presence Shawn had requested, then headed back to the city.

  The first to arrive were Chief Vick and Detective O’Hara. They glared at Shawn as they came up the walkway.

  “You have exactly one hour, Mr. Spencer,” Chief Vick said. “Where do you want us?”

  “And I’d think very carefully before I answered if I were you,” Juliet O’Hara added.

  “Where I really want you—”

  “Shawn!” Gus whispered. “Don’t do this.”

  “—is at the top of a hierarchy that for far too long has been exclusively male-dominated. But for now, the grand ballroom will do. Mr. Shepler will show you.”

  Shawn snapped his fingers, and Shepler appeared from the entry hall. He stood frozen before them as his mind processed the new information; then he gave a short bow. “Please follow me.”

  As O’Hara and the chief followed Shepler down the hall, Henry Spencer came up to Shawn and Gus. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he said.

  “Like I always do,” Shawn said.

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” He went inside as a middle-aged woman in a black dress stepped up. A uniformed officer followed, dragging a huge black plastic case. Shawn waved them both in.

  “Who was that?” Gus asked. “And what’s in the box?”

  “The most important element of all.”

  “That can
’t be,” Gus said. “Because we went over this plan together, and you never mentioned whatever that thing is. So how is it that we agreed exactly what we were going to do, and I still don’t know about the most important element of all?”

  “Because you’re not paying attention?”

  Gus was about to respond when he noticed another squad car disgorging its passenger. Tall and blond, blue eyes sparkling almost as brightly as her white teeth, bronzed skin only slightly covered by her crop top, short shorts, and tiny green apron.

  “Wait a minute,” Gus said. “You brought—”

  “The girl from that coffee place,” Shawn said.

  “Why?”

  “We’re here to solve a series of mysteries,” Shawn said. “So we might as well answer the greatest one of all—who does she like, you or me?”

  The girl stepped up to Shawn and Gus, gazing in astonishment at the house towering above them. “Cool,” she said. “You guys live here?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Shawn said.

  She looked puzzled. “What manner?”

  “The one that means no,” Gus said.

  She thought that one through, then let it go. “Hey, I know you guys,” she said.

  “You certainly do,” Shawn said.

  “You’re that creepy guy who hangs out at the Coffee Barn for hours yapping about everything and never tips,” she said to Shawn.

  “I’m sure you’re confusing me with someone else,” Shawn said, but she just shrugged.

  “The creepy guy, eh?” Gus said. “I guess that’s one mystery solved.”

  She turned to Gus. “And you’re the guy who talks so quietly I can never hear your order, but you take whatever I give you, anyway.”

  Gus felt his face flushing. All those times she’d given him a special drink—a triple caramel chocolate maltolatte instead of the plain cappuccino he’d ordered—he had assumed she was demonstrating her affection. Now it turned out she simply didn’t care enough to ask him to speak up.

  If Shawn was embarrassed, he didn’t show it. He leaned in close enough to see his reflection in her gleaming teeth. “So you’ve got a loud pushy guy and a timid stalker—which one do you like best?”

  Gus found himself leaning in for the answer, too. But while she was still looking blankly at them, Shepler appeared and guided her down the hall.

  “You going to do that good a job of solving the rest of the mysteries?” Gus muttered. “Because if you are, I’ve got dibs on the top bunk in our cell.”

  The rest of the guests filed past Shawn and Gus without comment, casting them only puzzled stares or hostile glares—first Bert Coules, the prosecutor, and then, led in handcuffs by Detective Lassiter, Arno Galen, who was still awaiting trial on pet-napping charges. When everyone was inside, Shawn pulled Gus through the massive front doors. Shepler locked them with an ornate antique key, then brought them down the hall to the grand ballroom.

  Under any other circumstance Gus would have paused in the doorway to study the ballroom’s ornate design, which put even the theater to shame. The floor was polished granite, inlayed with another mural celebrating some aspect of Adler’s domination over human history; the walls were hand-carved boiserie taken from a French château. But Gus’ attention was immediately riveted on the cluster of people in the center of the room, none of whom seemed to notice them when Shawn threw the doors open.

  The detectives were prowling on opposite sides of the room so they could keep an eye on all the suspects at once. Chief Vick had positioned herself between Veronica Mason and Bert Coules, apparently trying to referee an argument. Arno Galen stood next to Veronica, his eyes shifting between the cops guarding him and the low-cut dress his hostess was wearing. Henry Spencer was lost in conversation with the coffee girl, who stared up at him rapturously. Gus couldn’t see the unidentified mystery woman, but her black case was in the back of the room, and it was possible she was hidden behind it.

  Shawn cleared his throat loudly. Still no one seemed to notice him. He coughed theatrically. Veronica glanced up from her argument and noticed them standing in the doorway. Her face lit up as she stepped away from Coules.

  “Finally here’s the man who can tell us who actually killed my husband, instead of casting vague, unsupported allegations,” she said. “Come in, Shawn, and let us share in your genius.”

  Coules scowled at her. “That’s one way to keep him from pointing the finger at you.”

  Shawn and Gus stepped into the room. All the other conversations stopped as the guests turned to look at them.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Shawn said.

  “As if we had a choice.” Arno Galen rattled his cuffed hands. “Only way you could get an audience, you cheap phony.”

  “Detective, silence that man,” Shawn barked to Juliet O’Hara, who stood beside Galen.

  “Silence him yourself,” O’Hara said.

  “Just get on with it,” Lassiter said from across the room.

  Shawn cast O’Hara a reproachful look, then turned back to the crowd. “You’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you all together.”

  “No, we’re not,” Coules said. “We’ve all suffered through your shtick before.”

  Veronica whirled on him. “You mean freeing an innocent woman you were trying to convict? Is that what you call ‘shtick’?”

  Gus stepped forward. “People, please, we’re trying to solve a series of murders here!”

  The coffee girl peered at Gus. “Did he say something? I can never understand that guy.”

  “That’s two of us, honey,” Henry said.

  The room dissolved into cross talk. Gus looked over to see if Shawn had noticed how completely he’d lost control over the situation, but Shawn didn’t seem concerned.

  “Ahem!” Shawn waited until the various conversations died down. “I’ve brought you all here for two reasons.”

  “What’s the one besides keeping your neck out of the noose?” Coules said.

  Shawn clapped his hands sharply, and Shepler opened a door in the back of the ballroom. The crowd turned to see four tuxedoed waiters emerging from a service corridor, each one carrying a silver tray laden with crystal glasses filled with what looked like iced cola. They moved through the room until every guest was holding a drink. One waiter approached Gus with the last glass. Gus reached for it, but Shawn stepped in front of him and snagged it off the tray.

  “Sorry,” Shawn said. “My plan, my beverage.”

  Shawn knocked it back in a couple of gulps as the waiters retreated from the room; then he handed the empty glass to Gus.

  “We are here tonight to correct a terrible injustice,” Shawn said. “But first, enjoy your drink.”

  Those who hadn’t did. Some of the glasses were already empty.

  “It tastes kind of like coffee,” the coffee girl said. “But it’s not.”

  “This, my friends, is the elusive Coca-Cola Blāk, one of the greatest inventions in the history of mankind,” Shawn said. “I admit, it’s not the standard commercial version. It’s Dallas Steele’s special blend. But through an injustice of global proportion, even the normal American version of Blāk is unavailable anywhere in this country. I bring you here today to unite you all in my cause to force the Coca-Cola company to bring back Blāk!”

  Shawn’s arms shot in the air like Richard Nixon at the end of a speech. Somehow the gesture didn’t bring a wave of cheers from his audience.

  Gus sniffed the glass. It smelled like Coke with a hint of coffee grounds emanating from the ice cubes. He had a hard time imagining why anyone would get so excited over a soft drink, but then he’d never actually tried the stuff. Maybe he could request it with his last meal if Shawn kept talking about Coca-Cola products instead of producing a killer.

  “You have thirty-nine minutes left, Mr. Spencer,” Chief Vick said. “I urge you to use them wisely.”

  Shawn dropped his arms to his side. “Fine. We’re also here to solve a bunch of murders.”

  “Mu
rders?” the coffee girl squealed. She looked around, frantic. “No one told me anything about murders.”

  Henry draped an arm around the girl, protectively. “Why is she here?”

  “For one thing, I’ve seen the women you’ve been dating lately,” Shawn said.

  Henry pulled his arm away from the girl, embarrassed. But she grabbed his hand and wrapped it around her, then snuggled close to him.