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

Gus thought this showed a good deal of ingratitude. After all they had solved the murder of Dallas Steele and had helped bring his killer to justice. Or, if not exactly justice, death. Either way Shepler wouldn’t get what he’d been planning on, which was complete control of the Steele estate once it passed to the Dallas Steele Foundation, of which he had been the executive director.

Tara had been captured, and was undergoing observation at an upscale spalike psychiatric hospital where she’d probably spend the rest of her life, thanks to Veronica Mason Steele’s generosity. If she ever stood trial, she might easily be sentenced to multiple centuries in prison. But it would be hard for even the toughest prosecutor to find her sane enough to stand trial when she honestly seemed to believe that the dead podiatrist in the trunk of her stolen car had ended up there by falling down a flight of stairs.

Even so, the police refused to take Shawn’s word that the city’s district attorney was also a murderer. So Shawn had arranged a demonstration, and because of-or maybe despite-the results of his last gathering, this one was well-attended. Chief Vick had brought Detective Lassiter, Detective O’Hara, and several uniformed officers, while Coules had come on his own. Henry Spencer was there with a large scrapbook in one arm and Mindy in the other. And of course, Alicia the harpist had set up her instrument in the corner. Arno Galen was nowhere to be seen since, as Shawn cheerfully admitted, he’d only had him brought to Eagle’s View to annoy him.

“Before we start,” Shawn said cheerfully, “who wants a beverage?”

The others glared at him. Even Gus struggled to find the humor.

“Get on with it, Spencer,” Coules growled.

“Okay, but I’m warning you, we’re going to need flashbacks. Are you ready, Alicia?”

From the corner, she let loose a series of glissandos.

“That’s enough.” Shawn held up a hand to stop her. “We’re only going back a few weeks. Now I need a volunteer from the audience.” He scanned the crowd packed into the tiny space, then pointed at Lassiter. “You, sir, step up behind the counter, please.”

Lassiter didn’t move. Chief Vick leaned over and whispered in his ear. He scowled, but he shuffled over to take the place of the attendant.

“First I want you to assure the audience that we’ve never met and that I haven’t given you any direction on what to do,” Shawn said.

“We have met more times than I care to count,” Lassiter said. “And, in fact, you’ve not only told me what you wanted-you typed out a script. There’s only one ‘s’ in ‘genius,’ by the way.”

“Sorry. The key sticks,” Gus said.

“Can we just get on with this farce?” Coules said. “I have criminals to prosecute.”

Shawn turned to his audience and bowed. “Allow me to set the scene. We’re in a tin shack that passes for an impound office. It’s well over a hundred degrees inside. And two intrepid young sleuths come in on a desperate rescue mission. Alicia!”

The harpist let loose with a brief glissando. Shawn and Gus stepped up to the counter. Lassiter glared at them.

Shawn rapped on the counter. “My good man, we are here to collect a car. Prithee, hasten and fetch it!”

“Prithee?” Henry said. Mindy, who had wrapped most of her limbs around him, beamed at his interruption.“Are we flashing all the way back to the sixteenth century?”

“First, all good drama includes the word ‘prithee,’” Shawn said. “Second, you should be ashamed of yourself. That girl’s a third your age.” He turned back to the counter. “Hasten already.”

Lassiter glanced at his script. “That will be six thousand dollars.”

Gus clapped his hands to his cheeks in full Macauley Culkin. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Then get lost.”

Shawn touched his fingertips to his forehead. “Wait. I’m getting an emanation from the beyond. The spirits are speaking to me. They’re telling me you’re not who you claim to be. You are not the legal holder of this position in an impound lot licensed to serve our fair city. You are in fact a convict who has recently escaped from a chain gang.”

Lassiter checked his script, then dropped it on the counter. “I am not going to say this.”

“You have to,” Shawn said. “Gus stayed up all night working on that script.”

“You’d think it was easy, but it turns out good dialogue has to advance both the story and the character, while providing a break from straight exposition,” Gus said.

“Just say it,” Detective O’Hara said. “We’re never going to get out of here until you do.”

Lassiter muttered something under his breath, but he picked up the pages and read from them. “Oh, you are indeed a wise and powerful psychic. How it pains me to know that my own master plan depends on depriving the rest of the world of your geniusssss.”

He took a shotgun out from under the counter and aimed it at them. Shawn motioned to Alicia, and she glissandoed them back to the present.

“End scene!” Shawn said. “I’d like a special round of applause for our volunteer from the audience.”

No one clapped. Chief Vick said, “Mr. Spencer, what was the point of that? We already know what happened when you came to get Mr. Guster’s car.”

“Do we?” Shawn said. “Do we really?”

“Yes,” Gus said. “We already told them.”

“Oh,” Shawn said. “Sorry we wasted your time, then. Come on, Gus.” He pushed through the crowd of astonished and angry faces to the door.

“I’m waiting for my apology, Spencer,” Coules shouted at him.

Shawn stopped and turned back. “You know, I don’t think we did tell you what this refugee from a chain gang was doing here.”

“I don’t believe we did,” Gus said.

“Remember, he was serving time in Arizona,” Shawn said. “After he escaped he came directly to Santa Barbara and murdered the real impound lot attendant so he could take over his position. It’s a safe bet that a second-generation criminal with a history of armed robbery wouldn’t be that excited to land a minimum-wage job. He was here for a specific reason.”

“Yes, Mr. Spencer, the police were also able to reach that astonishing conclusion.” Chief Vick was finding it hard to hide her frustration in the heat of the shack. “We simply couldn’t figure out what that reason was.”

“That’s because you weren’t looking in the right place,” Shawn said. “Alicia!”

Lassiter raised the shotgun. “I swear, Spencer, if you start another flashback, I will beat you to death with this. And I guarantee you there won’t be a single witness who’ll say they saw me do it.”

“No more flashbacks,” Shawn said. “Just a little traveling music.” He signaled to Alicia, and she launched into a jaunty tune. Shawn took a moment to appreciate the music, then walked around the counter and out the back door to the impound lot. The others followed.

Shawn waved at the acres of cars in front of them. “John Marichal came all the way across the country to die here.”

“If you consider the next state over to be all the way across the country,” Coules said. “He escaped from a chain gang in Arizona.”

“Only because he was caught holding up a liquor store to finance the rest of his journey,” Shawn said. “He originally came from Florida. Miami. Isn’t that where you’re from, Bert?”

“Me and Detective O’Hara and eighteen million other people.”

“Good point. And among those eighteen million people were Herman and Betty Walinski.”

“Didn’t he used to run the tackle shop down on the pier?” Lassiter said.

“Before that, he ran a small fleet of tow trucks,” Shawn said. “Which he then contracted to the city, and used that connection to open the impound yard, later expanding it into one of the few combined impound-and-wrecking yards on the West Coast. When he’d made his fortune here, he used some of it to open his tackle store, where he spent a happy retirement.”