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

“There wasn’t a fire,” the woman said.

“That’s Rebecca,” Gus said.

“It is?” Shawn said. “Yes, it is. That’s your husband’s name.”

“Her husband was named Rebecca?” Gus said.

“I’m sensing that your husband’s name was Laurence Olivier. No-Oliver. And you are Veronica.”

“That’s right,” she said.

As infuriating as Shawn could be, Gus loved watching him do this-take tiny details that no one else ever noticed and use them to understand vast truths. He had no idea how Shawn had figured all this out and was looking forward to the explanation that would come once their new client was gone.

“You and Oliver had days of bliss. And then he took ill. The end was tragically fast, leaving you all alone with only his billions to keep you company. But what came next was even worse. You were accused of the crime. And while you assumed your name would be quickly cleared, the police found evidence pointing right at you.”

“Yes!”

“And worst of all, no one would believe that you’d never hurt Rebecca-”

“Laurence,” Gus said.

“Oliver,” she said.

“Oliver. When in truth you wouldn’t even mind going to jail, if only it didn’t mean people would believe you capable of hurting the only man you ever loved.”

“It’s like you read my mind,” Veronica said.

“Yes, much like that,” Gus said.

“I don’t read minds. I read auras,” Shawn said. “And your aura is the most innocent I’ve ever seen.”

“Can you help me?” she said.

“I guarantee it,” Shawn said.

“Because I’ve been to every other detective in town, and no one has been able to find anything that wasn’t incriminating,” she said. “And my trial starts on Monday.”

“Like I said, I guarantee it,” Shawn said. “You don’t have to pay us anything until we clear your name.”

“Except for a small retainer,” Gus said quickly.

“Which we’ll waive in your case.”

Gus felt his face getting hot again. Only this time it wasn’t embarrassment.

“The other detectives-”

“Don’t have a direct link to the spirit world the way I do. Although in your case, it should be a link to Heaven, so I can communicate with the other angels.”

“Thank you,” she said, squeezing Shawn’s hand.

Gus could barely wait until the door closed behind her before he exploded.

“You guarantee it?”

“Don’t we guarantee every case?”

“No!”

Shawn sat down behind his desk and picked up the newspaper. “We should start. It’s a great marketing idea.”

“Unless we fail and we have to give the client’s money back.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shawn said. “We can’t give her her money back because we didn’t take any in the first place.”

Shawn flipped through the pages of the paper, then tossed it to Gus. A gorgeous model in a skimpy bra and skimpier panties smiled serenely up at him. “What does this tell you?” Shawn asked.

“That she’s Fit For The Cure,” Gus said, reading the copy on the bra ad.

“True, although they never say the cure for what. I think it’s the high price of Maxim magazine. But that’s not what I meant.” Shawn took the paper and flipped it over, then gave it back to Gus.

There was a small picture of their new client. Over it, a headline read “Model Wife or Murderess: Veronica Mason Trial Starts Monday.” Gus quickly skimmed the story, which included all the details that Shawn had “psychically” intuited and many he hadn’t mentioned. Oliver Mason was a pillar of the Santa Barbara community since his days as quarterback of the high school football team. He’d married the head cheerleader shortly after graduation, leaving many broken hearts behind, and begun a career in aviation that made him a billionaire. His first wife had died of cancer two years ago. Last summer he met Veronica in a restaurant where she was working as a waitress, and a month later they were married. Shortly after their honeymoon, Mason collapsed and died of an apparent heart attack. At first the death was ruled as natural causes, but an autopsy revealed a massive amount of the stimulant epinephrine in his tissues. With that discovery, the Santa Barbara police, led by Detective Carlton Lassiter, opened a murder investigation. They only had one suspect, and when they found multiple used “epi-pens”-one-shot epinephrine auto-injectors used to treat anaphylactic shock-in Veronica’s medicine cabinet, she was arrested and charged with her husband’s murder. The rest of the article was filled with quotes from people who had known and loved Mason.

“So she did it,” Gus said.

“Buddy, why so cynical?” Shawn chided. “Why would she kill him?”

“For a billion dollars and a private island?”

“He was decades older than her. If she wanted his money, she could have waited a few days for him to kick off from natural causes like Anna Nicole Smith did. Only without the whole posing for Playboy and dying of an overdose part. Which is too bad-the Playboy part, anyway.”

“She was twenty-five. He was sixty-eight. He could have lived twenty more years easily.”

Shawn stopped to do the math. “Twenty-five and forty-three is.. . Well, it’s really gross, however long he had to live. The point is, the police arrested the first suspect they could find, and they never looked any further. She’s obviously innocent.”

“You just want to believe that because her blouse was unbuttoned down to her knees.”

“Be that as it may, we’ve got to prove she’s innocent. Or we’re never going to get paid.”

So they got to work. Gus had to admit there was an element of brilliance to Shawn’s plan. With the trial going on right now, as soon as they came up with the evidence, they’d be able to burst into the courtroom and prove both her innocence and their genius on live TV. There was only one problem. In all the weeks the trial dragged on, Shawn and Gus found nothing. Not one thing that would undercut the prosecution’s claim. Now both sides had presented their cases, the jury had deliberated, and the verdict was due to be announced this morning. In a matter of minutes, their client was going to be sentenced to life in prison, and Shawn and Gus were going to lose their only chance for a payday.

Gus made a hard right onto Anacapa Street and saw the fake Spanish-Moorish palace that was the Santa Barbara courthouse. Shawn pointed at an empty space right in front of the steps.

“Park there,” he said.

“It’s red,” Gus said, scanning the street ahead for another space. There was nothing.

“We’re here for five minutes, you’re not going to get a ticket.”

“We’re right in front of the courthouse.”

“And no one’s going to be stupid enough to park in a red zone where he knows there are going to be cops coming and going all day, right?” Shawn said.

“Right,” Gus said.

“So why would meter maids even bother to patrol here?” Shawn threw his door open and jumped out of the car. “You coming?”

With a heavy sense of foreboding, Gus slid the Echo into the red zone, locked his door, and followed Shawn across the flagstones through the whitewashed archway and past a pair of heavy wooden doors. By the time Gus caught up with him, Shawn was standing in the vaulted hallway, frozen outside the door to courtroom number three.

“Something wrong?” Gus asked.

“Just going over the plan one last time,” Shawn said. “Making sure every piece is in place. Every angle is covered. Every contingency is

… contingencied.”

“Great,” Gus said. “What is the plan?”

“No idea,” Shawn said, and kicked open the massive wooden doors.