William Rabkin - A Fatal Frame of Mind

“That puts me in a terrible position,” Shawn said. “Because I don’t want to go to jail, but the spirits don’t care at all. So they’re going to speak through me, whatever happens to my earthly body.”

“Not if it gets Tased into unconsciousness,” Lassiter said.

Juliet O’Hara stepped between them. “Or if it comes with us to see the victim.”

Lassiter stared as if he’d been the one who’d been Tased and she was still pulling the trigger. “You want to invite him to a crime scene?”

“If this turns out to be as weird as we’ve been told, odds are the chief is going to ask him to help anyway,” O’Hara said. “This way he’s here at the beginning.”

Lassiter scowled. Shawn beamed back at him cheerfully.

“Fine,” Lassiter said in a tone that suggested he was anything but. “Maybe he’ll drop some DNA and we can arrest him for the murder.”

Lassiter spun and marched toward the museum entrance. Juliet O’Hara gave Shawn a warning look, then followed. Shawn ambled over to where Gus was standing with Professor Kitteredge. “Shall we?”

“One moment,” Kitteredge said. He went over to Ralston and threw his arms around him in a warm embrace. The thin man struggled for a moment, then succumbed like a drowning man to the ocean, finally putting his arms as far around Kitteredge as they would go, which was about the same degree of longitude as the professor’s coat pockets.

Just as Ralston’s face was turning red from oxygen starvation, Kitteredge released him and rejoined Shawn and Gus. Ralston took a couple of deep breaths, then stepped up to the front of the stairs and began speaking to the crowd in a soothing tone. “Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to apologize for this terrible inconvenience.”

Shawn held the door open and ushered Gus and Kitteredge into the museum lobby. Their steps echoed loudly on the marble floor as they walked into the empty room. “They didn’t wait for us,” Shawn said. “I hate when they do that. How are we supposed to know which way to go?”

Kitteredge pointed at a large banner hanging from the ceiling. Orange type stood out from a gray background, proclaiming the arrival of Rossetti’s lost masterpiece. “To The Defence of Guenevere,” he said.

“I have no idea what that is,” Shawn said. “But if I have to miss the trailer for Fatal Affair to be here, you can wait a couple of minutes to help your girlfriend.”

“It’s a painting, Shawn,” Gus said. “It’s the reason for the event tonight.”

Kitteredge beamed at Gus like a trainer encouraging the seal who’d just jumped through the flaming hoop for the first time. “Not just a painting,” the professor said. “But one of the great mysteries of the art world. After Rossetti painted it in 1864, he-”

“That’s a great story, Doc,” Shawn said. “But maybe we should talk about something more important before we walk in on the cops. If you whacked that guy, this is your one chance to own up and let us protect you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Gus said. “Professor Kitteredge didn’t kill anyone.”

“It would explain a lot,” Shawn said. “Like why he was so desperate for you to meet him here tonight. How else would he know what was going to happen?”

“He’s our client, not a suspect,” Gus said.

“You said that like those are two mutually contradictory things,” Shawn said.

“Professor Kitteredge came to us for help, and you’re doing nothing but insulting him,” Gus said.

“Technically he came to you for help,” Shawn said. “And he doesn’t look offended to me.”

Gus checked. Kitteredge didn’t. He was studying Shawn with the expression of an entomologist who has just discovered an entirely new species of slug.

“You must be the other son of Vidocq,” he said.

“I’m Shawn Spencer,” Shawn conceded. “But if you’re suggesting that my father was a space probe that was granted consciousness by an alien entity and now roams the universe eating planets, well, you’re only part right.”

“That’s V’ger,” Gus said.

The professor didn’t seem to notice Shawn’s misunderstanding. “Of course you know I’m referring to Eugene Francois Vidocq, the former French soldier, criminal, and privateer who in 1833 founded Le Bureau de Reseignements Universels pour le commerce et l’industrie, the world’s first private detective agency,” he said. “He’s mostly remembered for introducing record keeping and ballistics into the science of crime solving, along with being the first to make plaster casts of shoe impressions. But what I find singular about the man was his sense of compassion. Although there is no proof that this is true, he famously boasted that he never turned in to the police anyone who claimed to have stolen out of need.”

“Of course we know that,” Shawn said. “I’ve even got it on a T-shirt. Well, not the whole thing, because that wouldn’t fit. In fact, I think it actually says ‘Frankie Says Relax,’ but those who are in the know understand. Anyway, why’d you kill this guy?”

“I can assure you I have killed no one,” Kitteredge said. Then his face darkened. “But I do fear that someone has died because of me. Because of what I’ve found out. I’ve been concerned this would happen for a very long time, but I always assumed I would be the target.”

“That’s why you sent me the letter,” Gus said. He fished the document out of his breast pocket and shook it open. “That’s what you meant when you said ‘These are dark and difficult times. Events are conspiring to bring an end to those things which we hold most dear.’ ”

“Umm, no, not exactly,” Kitteredge said. “But now that I see what’s happened, I might wish it was the case.”

“Then what was the urgent crisis, Doc?” Spencer said. “It might help us to know before we start in on your case. That is, if we’re going to take your case.”

“Which we are,” Gus said.

“Which we might be,” Shawn said.

“Which some of us definitely are and others of us will be, once we get over sulking about the C. Thomas Howell Film Festival,” Gus said.

Kitteredge looked from Shawn to Gus and back again like a spectator at a Ping-Pong match. He was about to say something when a glass door opened at the end of the lobby and Juliet O’Hara stuck her head through. “The crime scene’s this way,” she said.

“Now this is a crime scene.”Shawn surveyed the Ngallery approvingly. Three walls were covered with a series of cardboard placards describing the exhibit in several languages. The fourth was hidden behind a heavy red velvet drape.

“Yes, Shawn, that’s what we call the place we find a dead body,” Lassiter said. “You can generally identify it by the yellow tape surrounding the area with the words ‘crime scene’ printed on them. At least you will once you’re able to read at a second-grade level.”

“Thanks, Lassie,” Shawn said. “But what I meant is that this is the kind of place you want to find a body. None of those damp alleys or dismal dive bars. This has class. You’d be proud to be found dead in a place like this.”

“That’s a very interesting point, Mr. Spencer,” Kitteredge said. “I never made the connection, but an art museum does provide the ideal circumstance for such a discovery. For one thing, the lighting and visual presentation are designed to give the maximum dramatic mood, thus heightening the already raised emotions in the situation. And on a more prosaic level, of course, the temperature will be strictly kept between eighteen and twenty degrees Celsius, while the humidity will stay at no more than four percent, which makes the forensics so much easier to read. And then of course there is the ritualistic aspect common to the investigation of a murder and the appreciation of a work of art, both of which are presented as quasi-religious ceremonies.”