William Rabkin - Psych - A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read

“Really?” Lassiter said. “That must be why I always see you running behind Spencer, doing exactly what he wants.”

Gus wanted to argue, but words wouldn’t come. He knew there was a mistake in something that Lassiter had said, but he couldn’t find it.

“Can we get this over with?” Detective O’Hara said. “That body isn’t getting any fresher.”

“ I confess!” Gus screamed. “I did it! I killed that man! Now please, please let me out of here!” No one moved to take Gus into custody. No one even looked at him. That was probably because Gus had only confessed in his mind. But another two minutes in the shack, and he’d admit to anything if it would get him one breath of sweet fresh air.

The stench in the office was overwhelming. It was so strong it blasted through his sense of smell and filled all the others. Gus could taste it, see it, hear it. When he took a step, he felt it pushing back against him.

A quick glance at the others showed he wasn’t the only one reacting this way. Bert Coules was pressing his handkerchief to his face so strongly it looked like it was about to pass through his sinuses and out the back of his skull. Lassiter was trying to pretend the smell didn’t bother him, but he was breathing in short, shallow gasps, and his feet kept edging toward the door whenever he didn’t exert conscious control over them. O’Hara seemed to have simply decided to hold her breath until they were out again. Even Shawn had gone pale under the beard stubble.

Gus was glad Lassiter hadn’t let Tara into the shack. She might be crazy, but she certainly didn’t deserve this kind of suffering.

There was one person in the office who didn’t seem to notice the stench, but he had an excuse, being its principal cause. The attendant was sprawled on the ground behind the counter, a cloud of black flies buzzing around his head like a halo. His eyes stared up at the holes in the tin roof, which seemed particularly odd as he was lying on his stomach.

“It’s pretty clear what happened,” Coules said.

“Good, let’s get out of here.” Gus started toward the door, but Shawn hauled him back.

“Justice comes before comfort, Gus,” he said.

“And nausea comes before vomiting,” he said. “You want proof of that, keep me in here for a while.”

Lassiter moved to the front wall and pointed at the cluster of small holes the buckshot had punched in the metal. “Is this what you’re talking about, Bert?”

“Oh, my God, you’re right,” Gus said.

“Yeah,” Coules said. “It’s evidence that-”

“It’s air,” he said, pushing Lassiter out of his way and pressing his face up against the wall.

“How about you, Spencer?” Coules said. “Any psychic visions to tell you what happened here?”

Shawn halfheartedly raised his hands to his head, then dropped them again. “If spirits liked hanging around this kind of stench, they would never have left their bodies in the first place.”

Coules walked over to the counter. “You don’t think so? Maybe they’ll talk to me.” He pressed his index fingers to his forehead and winced. “Ooh, ooh, I feel it. I’m getting a vibe. I’m getting a feeling.”

Shawn turned to Gus, a troubled frown on his face. “Is that really what I look like?”

“Yes, that is the thing that bothers me the most right now,” Gus said, turning his attention back to the air holes.

“What’s that, spirits?” Coules said, dropping his hands away from his face. “Someone came in here. He was angry. Maybe he was angry because his car had been towed. He was yelling, maybe even threatening the attendant.”

“That’s not how it works,” Shawn said. “You’re just making this stuff up.”

“Yes, but the difference is I’m doing it based on the evidence. The victim felt threatened and pulled out his weapon, a shotgun he kept under the counter. His first shot was a warning. That’s the one that put the holes in the wall.”

“God bless him for that,” Gus said from his spot by the wall. He’d never felt so grateful to someone who’d tried to kill him.

“But the killer wasn’t scared off,” O’Hara said. “In fact, he attacked. I’d guess he leapt over the counter and knocked the victim off his feet.”

Lassiter pointed up at the ceiling. “That’s when the second shot went off. The gun was now empty, and the killer grabbed it and threw it away. Then he bent down and savagely twisted the victim’s neck, killing him.”

Gus saw one dim light of hope in the DA’s scenario. “The killer must have been a big guy to break his neck like that.”

“It doesn’t take size or strength to kill like this,” Coules said. “That’s the first thing they teach you in the Special Forces. It’s just a matter of knowing the right way to twist.”

“So it could have been anyone,” Shawn said. “The pool of suspects is infinite. It’s hardly even worth investigating anymore-unless you found something like a computer listing of the last people who came in to get their cars.”

Lassiter was checking out all the drawers behind the counter.

“Don’t bother,” Coules said. “I already checked. Killer must have thought of that.”

“Then there really is no way to solve this,” Gus said. “Let’s go.”

“That would be true,” Coules said, “except for one small detail. The shotgun isn’t by the body. That means that somebody must have tossed it away from the victim-and that wouldn’t be the victim himself, now, would it? So we find the gun, run whatever prints are on it, and our suspect is as good as in the gas chamber.”

“That’s very good thinking, Lassie,” Shawn said.

“What do you mean, it’s good thinking?” Gus whispered anxiously. “It’s bad thinking. Very bad. Or have you forgotten which nonmurderer left his fingerprints all over that gun?”

“I forget nothing, my friend,” Shawn said. “Like the fact that in this tiny shack, no one’s found the gun yet. Which means the killer probably took it with him. So you’re safe.”

Gus breathed a sigh of relief. Or he would have, if he could have persuaded his lungs to inhale the toxic air in the shack. Then he saw a glint of light reflecting off metal in a far corner of the office. “I’m safe-unless Lassie decides to look behind that filing cabinet.”

Shawn followed Gus’ gaze. The shotgun’s barrel peeked out from behind the cabinet. “What do you know? Lassie really nailed this one. Who’d have thought it?”

“I would have,” Gus said. “I knew this was going to happen. I’m going to the gas chamber for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“Would you rather be executed for something you did do?” Shawn said. “At least this way you can feel morally superior to the rest of the guys on death row.”

“Shawn!”

“Stay cool, buddy,” Shawn said. “All we’ve got to do is distract him before he finds the gun.”

“So start distracting.”

Shawn gave it a quick thought, then doubled over and let out a screech. “I’m hearing a voice. It’s speaking.”

Lassiter didn’t bother to look up as he searched the office. “That’s nice. Tell them they’re too late.”

“It didn’t work,” Gus whispered to Shawn. “Try something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like he was a member of a criminal conspiracy that reached to the highest echelons of Santa Barbara society.”

“And let them have the glory of busting the case wide open?” Shawn thought again, then jerked backward. “‘I found a picture of you,’” he sang.

“‘Oh oh oh oh oh oh,’” Gus added.

Lassiter peered down at the floor to examine a large stain. “I don’t like music when I’m working.”