Psych; ensemble; Rated G
"It's a tire track."
"I can see that, Shawn." Gus looked around nervously. "We shouldn't be here."
"Relax." Shawn bent down to examine the track more closely. "It's a crime scene, we're detectives. We're detecting." His eye lit on some red paint flakes. "I'm detecting, you're keeping watch."
"What do I do if I see Lassiter?"
"Whistle like a whippoorwill."
"I can't do bird calls, Shawn, you know that. Remember in Cub Scouts when we went on that hiking trip to -"
"Then cough loudly."
"We're going to be-"
"Spencer, who let you in here?"
"Little late," Shawn whispered to his friend.
"Lassie, you're looking good!" Shawn straightened up and beamed at the scowling detective. " Been working on your tan?"
"I don't recall the Chief asking you to assist with this case."
"Early onset Alzheimer's? How sad. You're so young."
"Just stay out of my way," Lassiter growled and pushed past. He started calling orders to the crime scene technicians.
"Come on, Shawn, I've got a seminar on a new migraine drug."
"How boring." He spread his arms wide. "Look around you, Gus. We're in the middle of nature. Smell that fresh air." He took a deep breath.
Gus wasn't moved. "We're in the middle of a junkyard, Shawn. The only thing fresh around here is the pile of dog poo I almost stepped in when we came through the fence."
Shawn made a pouty face. "Must you always be a gloomy Gus?"
"Very funny." He turned around. "I'm leaving."
"Oh, ow!" Shawn grabbed Gus's shoulder and put his other hand to his forehead, eyes squinched shut in (feigned) pain.
With a sigh born of long-term friendship, Gus stopped to bear witness to another of Shawn's "visions."
Lassiter and O'Hara stopped in their investigation of the crime scene to watch Shawn, too; one with interest, the other with open skepticism.
"I'm getting something… white… fluffy… no…. cushiony. Yes, cushiony." He held his arms out like he was a sumo wrestler and assumed an appropriate stance. "Large… happy… I… oh… the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man!" He shook his head. "No wait…. a cousin, a relative, a stand in... the Michelin Man!" He opened his eyes and stood up straight. "Those tire tracks were made by a Michelin X-Radial, P175/70R13."
"So the tire tracks are important?" O'Hara questioned.
He beamed at her. "Jules, have I ever led you astray?"
Lassiter hrumphed. "What, no car to go with these tires?"
Shawn turned and pointed to a Chevy Nova sitting about ten yards away. "Ye of little faith, Lassie."
"This is a junkyard, Spencer, an old Nova is nothing out of the ordinary. Much like those tire tracks." Lassiter wasn't one to be won over no matter how many times Shawn one-upped him.
"Ah, but look closely. It's not lined up like all the others, it's parked at an angle. Kitty cornered. Or is that caddy cornered?" He thought for a moment, then shrugged. "It's in near pristine condition. In a junkyard?" Shawn shook his head and walked closer to the car, the others reluctantly following. "Someone loved this car, polished its shiny red paint every week, gave it a special coat of wax." He made kissy lips. "This car was not carelessly abandoned." He bent down and pointed to a large dent on the front left bumper. "Notice some paint's fallen off, a match to the paint flakes in the tire tracks. If your lab boys test, this'll probably be blood. The victim's blood." He gestured to the bumper with both hands and smiled at O'Hara. "Or I could test it for you, just give me some rubber gloves, a cotton swabby thing, a scraper thing-a-ma-jig and…"
"That's enough," Lassiter said, hauling him to his feet and propelling him toward the junkyard entrance. "We'll call you if we need anything else."
"You mean like anything other than telling you the victim was a… victim… of a hit and run. Or is that ran? And is it really a hit and run if the hitter doesn't run? Because he-"
"Or she," Gus pointed out helpfully.
"Thank you, Gus," Shawn smiled and extricated himself from Lassiter's grip. "He or she didn't flee the scene. They took the time to load the victim's body in their car and dump it here. I bet you'll find blood in the trunk. Evidently they felt they couldn't or didn't want to take the risk of holding onto the car, so they dumped it, too."
Lassiter waved for a technician and when he came over, ordered him to cast the tire tracks and to process the car.
Once the tech had left, he turned to Shawn. "Anything else?" he asked sarcastically.
"It would be helpful if I could see the body."
"Without the Chief's authorization, I don't think so."
"What if I just happened to walk by the body on my way back to the car? And I happened to look at it?"
"Well, in that case, I'll have a couple of donuts from The Hole Shebang, the kind with the cream cheese icing and those little chocolate sprinkles on top." He pantomimed dropping the sprinkles on the donuts.
"Oh," Gus said, eyes lighting up, "those are good."
"Make it a half dozen," Shawn amended looking expectantly at Lassiter.
Lassiter's face revealed his exasperation. "When you grow up, Spencer, let me know."
"E-mail or regular mail? Phone?"
Lassiter turned and walked away without another word. O'Hara smiled politely and headed for the body.
"Can we go now?" Gus impatiently looked at his watch.
Shawn put his hands on his hips, and looked around. "Yes, I think we're through here, at least for now. But I'm not saying there isn't some bee and eee in our future. You own a ski mask, right?"
"I'm not breaking and entering, Shawn."
Ignoring him, Shawn marched toward the junkyard entrance, calling over his shoulder in a bad Jeremy Brett voice, "Come, Watson, our work is just beginning!"
Disclaimer: All characters are property of Steve Franks and the USA Network. No infringement intended.