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

Shawn looked out at the man under the toupee, and he saw. Saw the strands of the pet hair clinging to his slacks. Saw the scrap of duct tape stuck to his blazer pocket. Saw the scratches on both hands and the splint on his left where the little finger had been broken.

“And where do you spend your nights?” Shawn said.

“That’s none of your-” Galen started, but Shawn held up a hand to cut him off.

“Not you,” Shawn said, casting his gaze heavenward. “I want to hear from Fluffy.” Shawn batted the air with his hand, then drew it across his face, licking it, then using it to slick back his hair.

“What’s this?” called a voice from the audience.

“A kitten,” Gus said. “I’m guessing it’s Fluffy.”

Shawn batted at the air again, then shrunk back in horror. “What’s that you say, Fluffy?” Shawn listened so intently the audience could practically see the sound waves entering his ears. “Meow meow meow. Mew mew. Meow. Raoar?”

Shawn staggered backward, as if released by the spirit that had momentarily taken control of him.

“This is ridiculous,” Galen said. “Do we really have to wait for Steele to expose this phony?”

“I think you need to translate for these people,” Gus said. “They don’t seem to speak kitten.”

“Isn’t there one educated person out there?” Shawn peered at the audience. No one volunteered. “Fine. What Fluffy told me was a tale that started with domestic bliss but ended in a fate worse than death. Actually, not worse than death so much as death, which is pretty bad on its own. He was always a happy kitten, content to while away his hours playing with a bit of string or cuddling up in his mistress’ lap. Then one day he slipped through an open door to see what the world outside was like. At first, it seemed like paradise, filled with-”

“Even if we believed you could talk to dead cats, which we don’t, this is still moronic,” Galen shouted, pushing his way through the sea of knees to march down the aisle to the stage. “He said four meows, two mews, and a raoar. You can’t possibly get all this out of that.”

“The cat language is very complex,” Shawn said. “If a cat had written the Harry Potter books, he could have gotten through the whole thing in fifteen pages, tops. And he would still have found the space to mention that Dumbledore was gay, if that’s what he meant.”

“Perhaps you could take an example from your feline friends and minimize your word count now, Mr. Spencer.” Chief Vick looked like she hadn’t warmed up to them much since their last visit to her office. “If you have a point, this would be the time to make it.”

Shawn gave her a cheery wave and turned back to Galen. “Once Fluffy got out, he was snatched off the street and stuffed into a cage. No matter how much he fought and clawed, he couldn’t get away. The kidnapper wrapped his mouth and paws in duct tape so he couldn’t bite or scratch, then threw him into a ring with a pit bull. He didn’t understand the concept, but he was being used as a bait animal to train the dogs to fight.”

“That’s terrible,” cried a woman in the audience. “My poodle Baxter disappeared last month. Is it possible that he was…?” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.

Shawn looked up again, then let his tongue drop out of his mouth. He panted.

“You’re wasting our time,” Galen shouted. “No one wants to hear this.”

“Sure they do,” Gus said. “It’s just you who doesn’t. Why is that, do you think?”

Shawn snapped out of his doggie trance. “Baxter tells much the same story. Although since he’s talking in dog, there are a few more digressions. Apparently dogs don’t really care if their snacks taste like bacon or not. The point is, he was stolen off the street and used to train fighting dogs. Who also didn’t care if he tasted like bacon or not.”

The woman collapsed into her seat. “Poor Baxter.”

“Now you’ve upset that poor woman,” Galen said. “I demand you apologize to her right now.”

“Fluffy and Baxter think you’re the one who should apologize,” Shawn said.

“Me!”

“Your kennel was closed down, but that didn’t mean the dog fighters were willing to let you out of your contract,” Shawn said. “You had promised to supply them with a steady stream of bait animals, and they didn’t care where you got them from. I’ll give you credit-you tried to refuse.”

Gus noticed Galen reflexively cradle his splinted fingers in his free hand. Score one for Shawn.

“But they made it clear you were going to deliver on your promises, or they were going to use you as their next bait animal. So now you haunt the streets of Santa Barbara by night, stealing the innocent pets who are naive and loving enough to let you get close to them.”

Arno Galen’s eyes had been getting wider through Shawn’s entire explanation, and now they looked like they were planning to set out and find a new home for themselves. He backed away up the aisle.

“You’ve got no proof of that,” he shouted.

“Except the testimony of two eyewitnesses,” Shawn said. “Fluffy and Baxter.”

Galen turned and ran up the aisle, disappearing through the heavy doors as if they were lace curtains. “Somebody stop that man,” Gus shouted.

“I don’t think so,” Lassiter said.

“He killed my Baxter,” sniffed the woman in the audience.

“All we have to support that is the word of these frauds,” Coules said. “Why don’t we wait until they’ve been exposed and disgraced, and then we can see what we think of their evidence?”

Baxter’s owner started to object, but Chief Vick turned and spoke soothingly to her. “I pulled in right after that man, and I believe my car is blocking him. So unless he wants to walk back to town, he’s not going anywhere until the press conference is over.”

“I’d say it’s over,” Shawn said. “Wouldn’t you, Gus?”

“I can’t imagine what’s left to prove,” Gus said.

For the first time all morning, Gus was feeling optimistic about the future. The people sitting on the aisles were already gathering up their belongings and putting on their coats. If one or two of them actually walked up to the door, that would be it for the press conference.

Gus didn’t notice that behind them the golden curtain began to rise slowly.

“Thank you all for coming, and please remember to drive safely on your way back home,” Gus said.

There was a massive, unified gasp of shock from the crowd. One elderly woman in the crowd rose to her feet, then collapsed back into her chair. And now Lassiter was pushing through the seated spectators in his aisle, with Vick and O’Hara close behind. Shawn shot a puzzled glance at Gus before turning back to the crowd.

“People, people, people,” Shawn said, “is it really that big a deal?”

Lassie pointed behind them. Gus knew he should turn around. Knew he should see what everyone in the audience had already witnessed. All he wanted to do, though, was curl into a ball underneath one of the theater seats and hope that everybody else would go away.

Since that didn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon, Gus turned to see what the crowd was staring at.

Dallas Steele was tied to a chair, his normally bronze complexion drained to an ashy white. A large knife stuck out of his heart. Tara stood over him, her hand still grasping the knife.

Gus screwed his eyes closed, praying that when he opened them again, this would turn out to be a terrible dream. That worked as well as it always did. Tara was still standing frozen before Steele’s corpse.

For a moment nobody moved. And then a shriek pierced the stunned silence.

“Mr. Steele!” It was Shepler, who leaned out of the window in the projection booth. “She killed him!”