Psych: A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read

by William Rabkin

“Lassiter said he wanted to talk to us about a violent, ugly criminal act,” Gus said. “And he made it sound like he wanted to perform one on us.”

  Shawn clapped Gus on the back. “There’s nothing to worry about, Gus. We haven’t committed any violent, ugly crimes. Unless you count the sweater you’re wearing.”

  Lassiter stepped out in front of them. “Chief Vick’s office. Now.”

  He turned and headed into Vick’s office. Shawn gave Gus a reassuring smile. “See, it’s just the same as always. Nothing to worry about.”

  Living in Santa Barbara, Gus had never had much experience with snow. But one winter his parents took him up to the mountains to go cross-country skiing. He had started out happily, but ten minutes after he left the trailhead, he’d gotten hopelessly lost in the woods. He wandered around in the snow for hours before he was finally discovered by a troop of Boy Scouts. He had never felt so cold again until he stepped into Vick’s office.

  The chief was sitting behind her desk and didn’t even make an effort to rise as they came in. That worried Gus, because she was unfailingly polite and professional. Aside from a brief period during her pregnancy, he’d always known her to be cool and steady at all times. She was exactly the kind of leader he’d dreamed of being when he imagined himself as president. But now she was looking at him like something she wished she hadn’t stepped in.

  Lassiter had taken a place on one side of her. That he was scowling at Shawn and him was no surprise. But Detective Juliet O’Hara was on the other side of the desk, and even her usually friendly face was set in a hard glare.

  “Hey, Chief.” Apparently Shawn hadn’t noticed the frost in the room. He greeted the police as if they’d just jumped out to wish him a surprise happy birthday. “Jules, Lassie, what’s the story?”

  “It seems that you are, Mr. Spencer,” Vick said. “I wish it were a happier one.”

  “Can’t tell if a story is happy until you get to the ending,” Shawn said. “Take Of Mice and Men, for instance. If you never bothered to read the last few pages, it could be the delightful tale of two carefree young men making their dreams come true.”

  “Only if you’re an idiot,” Lassiter said.

  “Oddly, that’s exactly what our eighth-grade English teacher said. She was quite harsh on poor Gus.”

  “You’re the one who lost the book before I could finish it.”

  “Perhaps we could turn our attention to the matter at hand,” Vick said.

  “The very serious matter at hand,” Lassiter said.

  “Are we all grumpy today?” Shawn said. “Even you, Jules?”

  “It’s Detective O’Hara.” The air seemed to freeze as it came out of her mouth. “And while we all appreciate your concern about our mood, we have more important issues to deal with.”

  Gus could feel his blood pressure rising. His heart pounded; his palms were covered in sweat.

  “We’re dealing with a serious allegation here, gentlemen,” Chief Vick said. “I appreciate the work you’ve done for this department, and would like to give you the benefit of the doubt. But there’s a great deal of evidence, and I need some explanations.”

  It was too late for that, Gus knew. If they’d talked at the impound lot, everything would be fine. But there was nothing he could say now that wouldn’t get them both into bigger trouble. There was really only one choice now, and that was to lawyer up. If they were going to treat him like a criminal, he was going to act like one.

  Gus was preparing to declare his rights when he realized someone was talking in a voice that sounded remarkably like his.

  “We went to pick up my car the day of the murder,” the voice was saying. “The attendant pulled the shotgun and tried to kill us.”

  Gus looked around to see who was imitating his voice. No one was speaking. There were all staring at him.

  “Before you go any further, you might want to consult a lawyer, Mr. Guster,” Vick said.

  “Or at least with me,” Shawn said.

  Apparently whoever was mimicking Gus was doing it from inside his body. Gus decided to give up and let the impostor take over. “He pulled out a shotgun and tried to kill us, just because we were trying to get my car back. I knocked the gun out of the way on his first shot. That’s why there were holes in the shack’s wall.”

  “At least there’s something to thank you for,” O’Hara said.

  “Then we ducked below the counter, and I grabbed the barrel of his gun to keep him from aiming it at us. When I released it, he flew backward and the gun went off again, blowing that big hole in the ceiling. Before he could get up, we ran out of there. He might have gunned us down in flight if Tara hadn’t showed up right then.”

  “So Tara Larison was on the scene as well,” Lassiter said thoughtfully.

  “Please go on, Mr. Guster,” Vick said.

  “That’s really all there was to it. Except that when we went to the crime scene, we were concerned because our fingerprints were on the barrel of the gun. And Lassiter had a theory of the crime that fit exactly with everything we’d done, except we didn’t kill the guy.”

  “Why didn’t you just explain all this to the detectives?” Vick said.

  Gus started to answer, but then stopped. He hadn’t thought of a single good reason all morning, and one wasn’t coming to him now. “Shawn?”

  “Yes, Gus?”

  “Why didn’t we just explain all this to the detectives?”

  “Because the spirits were calling out for us to solve the case ourselves,” Shawn said. “Because he’d tried to kill us. This time it was personal.”

  “And did you?” the chief asked coolly.

  “It’s on our list,” Shawn said. “All the spirits seem to be working on this project for Dallas Steele right now. Amazing what kind of service a couple billion dollars brings you.”

  “Maybe that’s the reason,” Lassiter said. “Or maybe it’s because you assume the police are stupid and lazy. That we care less about solving crimes and catching criminals than we do settling petty personal scores against people who make us look bad. So you figured that after you humiliated me at the Veronica Mason trial, I’d be thrilled at the chance of accusing you of murder and seeing you put to death.”

  “You did have Gus’ car towed,” Shawn said.

  “And that makes you think I would ignore a real murderer, possibly leaving the general public at great risk, simply to satisfy my own hurt feelings. Let me say I’m shocked at the assumption.”

  “After all the times we’ve worked together, Mr. Guster,” Vick said, “do you really think so little of us?”

  Gus’ head was spinning. Somehow in the space of seconds he’d found himself transformed from the victim of coincidence and a possible police conspiracy into a heartless maligner of his closest friends. The temperature in the office seemed to drop another ten degrees.

  “What about you, Shawn?” It was O’Hara, and she looked personally injured. “Do you share your partner’s despicable view of us?”

  Shawn studied the question carefully, searching for an answer that wouldn’t make the situation worse in one way or another. Then he started to tremble. His fingers twitched, and the spasms seemed to move up his arms.

  “What’s he doing?” Vick said.

  “Looks like the Watusi,” O’Hara said, stifling a yawn. “I hope we don’t have to sit through forty years of dance crazes before he answers a question.”

  “It’s so hot,” Shawn moaned, clutching his head. “The sun blazes down on me. Oh, why won’t they let me have some water? Why can’t I sit down for just one second?”

  “What is it, Shawn?” Gus asked theatrically, thrilled that he was at the very least doing something.

  “The rocks, the rocks, I have to break the rocks.” Shawn scanned the room and found an umbrella stand in the corner. He snatched an umbrella out and raised it over his head. “Have to break the rocks.”

  Shawn brought the umbrella down sharply on the desk. He was raising it for a second bl
ow when Lassiter reached over and pulled it out of his hands. “Use your words, Spencer,” he said.

  Shawn grabbed his forehead and staggered a couple of steps. “The vision was so clear, like it was beaming directly out of the past into my head. I was a prisoner on a chain gang, breaking rocks in the blazing sun.”

  “We wish,” Juliet muttered.

  “Really, Jules, you, too?” Shawn said. Her frosty look answered for her.“I’m trying to make sense of this vision, because it must be some kind of metaphor. It was telling me that the man who was killed at the impound yard was a prisoner on a chain gang, but that’s not possible, because there haven’t been chain gangs in decades.”

  “Hold on for a second, Shawn,” Gus said. “I seem to recall reading that they were using them again for particularly vicious criminals in Arizona.”

  “That’s true,” Vick said.

  “Then that must be what I was seeing,” Shawn said. “The victim was an escapee from a chain gang. Which means he’d need an assumed identity to work for a lot that was licensed to the city.”

  Gus looked from face to face, hoping to find any sign of warming. They stared back, just as icy.

  “That’s a very good insight, Mr. Spencer,” Vick said. “It’s the kind of thing we might never have figured out without your unique talent.”

  “Unless we happened to run the vic’s prints,” O’Hara said.

  “Which we did,” Lassiter said.

  “John Marichal was indeed an escapee from an Arizona chain gang,” Vick said. “A second-generation criminal who’d done time for armed robberies all over Florida, just like his daddy before him. He moved to Arizona and started a new life. Apparently the new life wasn’t much different from the old one, and he got himself arrested for what’s believed to be his second liquor store holdup. He got twenty years on the chain gang, escaped six months ago and fled to Santa Barbara.”

  “Where he managed to snag a hot job right off the bat,” Shawn said. “Got to give props to our local economy.”

  “He didn’t exactly apply for the job,” Vick said.

  “The employee of record was one Albert Jones. Apparently Mr. Marichal killed Mr. Jones and simply started showing up in his place.”

  “And nobody noticed?” Gus said.

  “Who would?” Vick said.

  “And even if they did, they’d assume that Jones had quit and Marichal was the new guy,” Lassiter said. “In some ways it was the perfect crime.”

  “Perfect, yes,” Shawn said. “Except that instead of winning him a million dollars in cash and bonds, he ended up with a job so crummy even a dead guy could do it. So what’s the point?”

  “We’re still trying to figure that out,” Vick said.

  “If I get a vibe, I’ll let you know,” Shawn said. “So, anyway, glad we could help, and I guess we could use a ride back to our office.”

  He started toward the door.

  “Not so fast, Spencer,” Lassiter growled.

  “That’s my normal walking pace,” Shawn said. “If you’re having trouble keeping up, you might want to look into a Lark. If you qualify, Medicare will make all your payments.”

  “We didn’t bring you here to ask you about the impound lot murder,” Vick said. “Because we had no reason to connect you with it. Whoever killed Mr. Marichal wiped all the prints off that shotgun—including, apparently, Mr. Guster’s.”

  Those were exactly the words Gus had been longing to hear. They were off the hook. They were free. So why was he still paralyzed by stress? There was something his subconscious had figured out that it wasn’t sharing with the rest of him.

  “Tell me, Mr. Spencer. What do you think about pickles on a burger?”

  Gus could practically hear his subconscious laughing at him. What was about to happen was so much worse than what he’d originally feared, and his conscious mind still had no idea what it could be.

  “Are you ordering lunch? Because we just ate,” Shawn said.

  “Answer the question, Spencer,” Lassiter growled.

  “They’re an abomination,” Shawn said. “You unwrap the paper, and you get that first rich, meaty smell mingling with the yeasty goodness of the bun. Maybe just a hint of toasted sesame. Then you take a bite and the juices flow out onto your tongue, beef fat mingling with the sour-sweet attack of the secret sauce. It’s a perfect flavor combination—and then it’s ruined by the acid tang of decayed cucumber. But no matter how many times you ask, can you ever have your burger made without pickles? No. Because it’s just assumed that even if you beg for a dill-free experience, you couldn’t possibly mean it.”

  “You sound pretty worked up about the issue,” O’Hara said.

  “I’ve considered running for office on the platform,” Shawn said. “But aside from that, it’s not really something that takes up a lot of my time.”

  Vick pulled a file off her desk and handed it to Gus. Inside was a photo of a young man in a white BurgerZone uniform. At least, it used to be white. Now great areas of it were stained red, and Gus was pretty sure it wasn’t with ketchup. His face was barely recognizable under the cuts and bruises.

  “That happened at roughly twelve forty-two this afternoon,” Lassiter said.

  Shawn peered over Gus’ shoulder at the picture. “He fall under a Zamboni?”

  “Apparently he made one small mistake,” Lassiter said. “He was working the grill at the Oxnard BurgerZone and got a take-out order for three burgers with no pickles. Do you know what happened next?”

  “I’m going to guess pickles,” Gus said.

  “Oh, yes,” O’Hara said. “Pickles.”

  “The customer wasn’t happy,” Lassiter said. “Harsh words were spoken. And then the customer asked the victim to step out back to discuss the issue.”

  “Why would he agree?” Gus asked, ignoring the terrible feeling that he already knew the answer to his question.

  “Turn the page, Mr. Guster,” Vick suggested.

  The photo felt like lead in Gus’ hand as he struggled to flip it over, desperately not wanting to see what he knew was waiting for him on the next page.

  “Imagine you were a twenty-three-year-old part-time student working a minimum-wage job in order to finish a degree in accounting so you can go on to live a long, boring, lower-middle-class existence in the Valley,” Lassiter said. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do if she asked you?”

  Gus and Shawn stared down at a police artist’s sketch of a beautiful young woman in a tight T-shirt and tiny shorts. Even though the sketch was in pencil, Gus could practically feel the redness coming out of it.

  “We didn’t bring you down here to discuss the murder at the impound lot,” Lassiter said.

  “Although we do appreciate your belated honesty on the subject,” Vick said.

  “We brought you here because we need to answer a very important question,” Lassiter continued.

  “Is it about pickles?” Shawn said.

  “In a way.”

  “Any particular way?”

  “We know you asked Tara Larison to bring you back lunch from BurgerZone. She mentioned your name several times at the pickup window. And we know that you specifically asked for your burger without pickles. Our question is, did you tell Ms. Larison to beat this man half to death if he got your order wrong, or did she just assume that you’d want her to?”

  “Is there another way to put that?” Shawn said.

  “Certainly, Mr. Spencer,” Vick said. “We need to know if you’re merely harboring a deranged psychopath, or if she’s acting under your direct orders.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Evidence. It was always about the evidence. Before he retired from the Santa Barbara Police Department, Henry Spencer would spend hours poring over every shred of paper, every scrap of fiber, every drop of ooze until he could piece them together to tell a story. Then he’d tear it all apart to see if he could put it together in another way that would tell a different story. If he could, then he knew he had to keep searc
hing for other clues that could be added to the puzzle until there was only one possible solution.

  But the stack of evidence piled in front of Henry now made those challenges pale by comparison. To start, there was far more here than he’d ever had on any case with the SBPD. An entire shoe box of photos going back sixty-seven years, and an additional eight carousels full of slides. Plane tickets. Wedding invitations—the subjects’ own, and dozens more for their scores of relatives and friends. A paper napkin with a lipstick kiss fading after many years. Swizzle sticks from restaurants long gone. A sequence of drivers’ licenses dating back to the days when they were photoless cards, and two expired passports with stamps from countries that had long been wiped off the map. And that was only from the file boxes that Henry had already been through. There were three more stacked beside his dining room table.