You Have the Right to Remain...Dead? Part 8

[musicalluna]

Title: You Have the Right to Remain...Dead? Part 8
Fandom: Psych
Author: MusicalLuna
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: All the regulars/None
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Suspense
Warnings: Little tiny bit of gore.
Complete: Yes
Summary: When an officer is murdered late one night while on duty, Karen forbids Shawn from getting involved, afraid he won't take the case as seriously as he should. But since when has a little thing like being banned from a case stopped Shawn Spencer?
A/N: I've been working on this story for over three months now. Up until three weeks ago, however, it was coming out really rather crappy. That was when I met my Psych fanfiction soul-mate centipede. She helped me work out all the kinks in my story and helped me realize the full-potential of this story. Thanks to her, this story is the best it can be. She was my encouragement, my grammar-nazi, and my holy-crap-I-have-to-do-that-because-that-idea-is-brilliant girl.

Thanks so much for rocking my Psych world!
Disclaimer: Psych and all related characters are unfortunately not even marginally owned by me. How tragic is that?

 

Holy crap, this was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Shawn had parked at the department store down the street from the police station and changed in one of the dressing rooms. That was where he was currently standing, staring at his reflection. It wasn’t going to be difficult because of the uniform, because the uniform fit disturbingly well. Sickeningly well. He scowled at himself. Gross.

A weak smirk crossed his lips as he tried to avoid thinking about what his next moves were. Sneaking into his dad’s house had been incredibly dangerous, but in an entirely different and less bone-chillingly terrifying way. This…this could quite literally be the end of his life as he knew it. He could be charged with breaking and entering, impersonating a police officer…and not to mention the fact that none of the officers who he’d made friends with would ever speak to him again. It was one thing, pissing off his father, but having everybody he knew thinking he was some sort of criminal really shook him. The idea was absolutely terrifying.

And pretty damn funny too, but it was probably in his best interest to keep that to himself.

He took a deep breath and put his father’s hat on, pulling the brim down low. "All right, Shawn. This is it. This is the turning point, dude. Don’t screw this one up." He slipped a pair of dark sunglasses on to complete the disguise and gathered up his clothes, heading back out into the store. He got a few curious looks as he moved back out into the Santa Barbara sunshine and he smiled winningly in return, teeth gritted just a little too hard and fingers crossed, but no one ran up screaming, "Fake! Thief! Fraud!" much to his relief.

He paused briefly in the parking lot to stow his clothes with his bike and then started the short walk to the police station. He walked with purpose—something his dad (damn it all) had taught him as a kid: act like you belong and no one will think you don’t—knowing, with as much certainty as he could muster, that that would keep anyone from stopping him. It was difficult, almost painfully so, not to be jumpy and to keep from glancing from side to side. It was strange, how nerve-wracking it was, going somewhere he was now so familiar with. Somewhere in the last twenty-four hours, it had become some alien enemy’s fortress. He had stared down the barrel of a gun more than once and it had never been so daunting.

He laughed then, because it suddenly struck him as hilarious what he was about to do, then covered his mouth, grimacing. That had come out a lot more maniacally than he’d meant it to.

He slowed as he came to the steps he usually bounded gleefully up and took a deep breath, pulling the hat more snugly onto his head. Come the hour of reckoning.

He licked his lips nervously and started up the steps. There was a blast of cool air as he stepped through the doors and he hesitated for half a second, balanced precariously on one foot before the other landed, looking at the station through new eyes. New, more paranoid eyes. No one paid any attention to him, however, and he started to smirk as he took a good look around, before quashing it. Ten bucks said Lassiter, at least, would recognize the all-knowing "I’m totally getting away with something right under your nose" look.

The grin faded. It was surreal, not having anyone smile at him or roll their eyes, and he headed deeper into the station, marveling at his newfound anonymity. He let out a long breath, the seriousness of the situation coming back full force. There was no doubt that he would be thrown straight into jail if he was caught, and there wasn’t a soul right now who would so much as pay his bail. It was an incredibly sobering thought.

He was still contemplating the exceptionally depressing idea when he turned around and ran smack dab into Lassiter.

They fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, Lassiter cursing heavily as Shawn bit his tongue, choking down a truly snotty, truly Shawn-esque response. This was so bad. So bad.

He didn’t look up, his hands immediately jumping to keep his hat in place, heart leaping into his throat as he stared at the top of a familiar hairline, bent as the detective swore into the floor, trying to struggle back to his knees.

"Dammit!" Lassiter snapped, head jerking up so he could glare at whatever rookie that had just run into him. "Watch where you’re going!"

Shawn backed away on his hands, scrambling to a standing position, nearly falling over his own pant cuffs as he refused to let himself look up, his eyes glued to the floor in front of Lassiter’s feet, his hand flying to his sunglasses and the hat. Shit. "S—Sorry, sir," he stammered, pitching his voice slightly higher. He started edging around Lassiter, staring at, of all things, Lassie’s shoes.

Don’t look don’t look don’t look don’t look I’m just a poor little rookie afraid to death of the evil scary detective just let the pathetic noob slink away in shame just please don’t look don’t—

A hand grabbed him, fiercely and viciously around his wrist. He froze, and for just a second, went a little whiter.

Shit.

Shawn continued looking at the floor, his face frozen, eyes staring straight ahead, but he knew he was caught when the hand tightened.

Lassiter sneered. "You would see better if you took those sunglasses off," he snapped, voice commanding, and Shawn nodded quickly, realizing the detective hadn’t actually figured it out. Yet. But Lassiter continued to glare at him and he knew he was going to figure it out in a second if he didn’t do something.

Shawn whipped off the sunglasses, looking down at the floor simultaneously. "Yes, detective, sir, I’ll keep that in mind, sir. Sorry, sir." he mumbled, voice as embarrassed as he could make it (and it wasn’t hard because, seriously, he’d completely missed Lassiter coming up behind him. How the hell had he missed fricking Lassiter coming up behind him?).

Lassiter, however, had already turned away. "See that you do," he said, eyes sliding away from the petrified rookie. He’d said his piece, and the rookie, if body stance could be believed, had learned his lesson.

Shawn stared. Wait—what? No way. No way. He’d just handed himself to Lassie on a silver platter, and the guy hadn’t so much as taken the time to look closely enough to notice.

The smirk that blossomed on his face literally hurt his cheeks. He swept the sunglasses back on his face dramatically, still grinning.

And two steps later he realized that the keys he needed, the keys to the Records Room, the keys that would solve all his problems—yes, those keys—had been hanging, quite conveniently, from Lassiter’s belt.

His expression turned to vague horror. Holy crap, if he got out of this alive, and there was still that enormously large possibility hanging over his head and present every time anyone looked at him suspiciously or took a second to glance at him a second time that he wouldn’t, he was going to kill himself. He’d undeniably earned it.

Shawn pivoted sharply on his foot, setting back down the hall in the direction Lassiter had gone. Only one thing to do now about his mistake:

Fix it.

He spotted Lassiter almost immediately. The detective had stopped in the middle of the hall and was speaking with Juliet. Great. Shawn didn’t hesitate, just sped up, putting an eager look on his face. If he did this right, Lassie wouldn’t realize what had happened until it was all over. He’d have to pray Juliet didn’t either.

"Sir, sir! Excuse me, sir," he called and Lassiter was half turned to him when Shawn’s foot shot out from beneath him like he had slipped in something, and he staggered into Lassiter, sending them both crashing onto the floor again.

His hat slipped backward and he shoved it back down, skillfully loosing Lassiter’s keys and stuffing them into his pocket with one hand, sputtering apologetically, "I’m sorry, sir! I’m so clumsy! I’m so sorry!"

He held out his hand to help him up and Lassiter slapped his hand away, snapping, "Just get the hell away from me!"

Shawn nodded, glanced up to see Juliet eyeing the two of them curiously, and took off without another word.

He sprinted all the way to the lobby bathroom, catching a few curious glances which he ignored as he banged into the bathroom, shutting himself in the first available stall. That should keep them from suspecting anything and from following him.

Feeling the keys in his pocket, a delirious sounding laugh spilled from between his lips and he sagged against the cool tile wall. He had gotten them. Not exactly how he had planned to get them, but he had gotten them.

He clasped a hand around the keys and knew he had to get to the records room ASAP. It wouldn’t be long before Lassiter realized his keys were missing and came hunting for him. He breathed deeply then opened the stall door with a confident hand. It nearly clocked a startled officer and he almost laughed (he had to stop doing that) but covered it with an embarrassed cough and an apologetic sort of head duck. Jeeze, he was on a roll today.

Slipping back out into the lobby, he wiped sweaty palms on his trousers and caught a glimpse of that strong Irish hairline he was always pointing out and he quickly hurried off to do what he had to so he could get out of here. He had had his fill of harrowing moments for today, thank you very much.

Shawn headed down the hallway toward the records room, fighting off the urge to glance over his shoulder to look for Lassiter. Because that wouldn’t be suspicious at all. May as well shout, "Hey! I’m getting away with something!" if he wanted to do something to give himself away.

Besides, he thought, striding confidently, almost cockily, down the hall, he had this one in the bag. The smile on his face grew.

An officer burst out of one of the doors along the hall and Shawn jumped, flattening himself against the wall instinctively. The officer chuckled as he jogged past and called back, "Eh, relax, rookie!"

Shawn stood there staring after him for almost a full minute, waiting for his breathing and his heart beat to stop going so fast. Okay, so maybe he was a little high-strung. He started down the hall again, moving more quickly this time, eager to get it over with.

When he finally reached the Records Room door, he unlocked the door and slipped inside, relieved that he only needed a few more minutes and he would be home free. "All right…now where the heck do I find this stuff?" he muttered to himself, pulling off his sunglasses to scan the labels on the shelves. He found the backup file for Harding and Kinsley’s case in the H’s and he pulled it out, crouching on the floor so he could spread out a little and get a better look at things more rapidly.

He found a lot of the fact sheets and photographs he had already seen along with a lot of detailed notes, photos and diagrams of the crime scenes. Most of the papers were filled with a lot of information that Shawn already knew. It was a lot of stuff he had already thought of, considered, and then discarded. He had gone through almost half the box when he let out a frustrated huff of breath. He wasn’t finding anything. He had to find something, or he was screwed. He had to break this case. It wasn’t an option for him anymore.

He flipped through a few more useless sheets, nearly jumping out of his pants when he heard a key turn in the door. His eyes widened, and he stuffed the papers back into the box hastily, shoving the lid on. He scrambled to his feet as the door swung open; a dark figure moving into the room and he did the first thing he could think of. He grabbed the top shelf of the case, gave himself a foot up on a lower shelf and heaved himself on top of the thing as quietly as he could. The figure paused in the center row and Shawn closed his eyes, pressing his face to the grating of the shelf, praying, "Don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t look up."

The figure, now revealed to be an officer Shawn wasn’t familiar with, continued moving down the aisle toward him and his hands tightened around the shelving.

Just when he was sure the gig was up and he was caught, the officer turned to the opposing shelf and knelt, rifling around in a box on a lower shelf. Shawn was almost dizzy with relief and he watched with baited breath as the officer found what he needed, replaced the box, and headed out, without so much as a glance in his direction. He stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him and Shawn let out a long shaky breath. Two close calls. Or three. He didn’t know—did the second one count if he purposely ran into someone? Whatever. He unclenched his hands from around the shelf, wincing. His hands were tense and stiff from holding on so tightly. He waited another minute and then swung a leg over the edge, dropping to the ground with a little grunt.

Glancing down at himself, he groaned. His dad’s uniform was covered in dust. He did his best to brush it away, but he knew there was no way he could bring it back to his dad’s without a trip to the cleaners first. He bit a knuckle to keep from cursing and bent down to open the box again. He was busy pulling out and arranging papers he had already looked at when one poking out near the back of the box caught his eye.

He pulled it out and his heart did a little skip and started a conga line in his chest. It was a new list of suspects. It included the names of every guy who either didn’t make the cut or who had been dropped from the program. It was a surprisingly short list with just thirteen people having left the program—his dad must have been right about Halloway’s teaching ability.

He bit his tongue to stem the surge of anger that suddenly washed over him. Of course his dad had been right, the bastard. But now was not the time or place. He was too close. He couldn’t afford to lose it right now.

He read over the pages critically two or three times until he was absolutely sure he could recall all of it without a second thought, and then set it aside to finish looking through the rest of the papers. He started near the back, hoping he might get lucky again.

Outside, he heard a familiar voice rising above the noise of the station. It was faint, and muffled, but Shawn could still hear the anger in it.

Lassiter had discovered his keys were missing.

He smirked but immediately started flipping through the papers more quickly. The last possibly-useful piece of information he came across was a list of aliases connected to the first couple of murders through various means (such as in the case of a car left at one of the scenes that had been rented under one of the names). The S.B.P.D. must have put the list together when they realized that the cases were connected. He memorized the names and the information about them, cringing when he heard someone—Lassiter, it had to be Lassiter—storm past the records room grumbling angrily.

Shawn replaced everything in the box and heaved it back on the shelf, before moving to the door, pressing his ear to the heavy metal. Lassiter’s voice was muffled but understandable. "That little punk is going—"

"Detective!" came Vick’s voice, her irritation evident. "What are you doing?"

"Some rookie took my keys!" he snapped, "I’m going to—"

"You’re going to calm down," Vick said firmly. "Are you sure you didn’t…" Their voices got harder to hear as they moved away and Shawn had to resist doing a victory dance. He gave it about five minutes before Lassiter came storming back this way, having checked the rooms at the end of the hall. Now was the time to make his smooth getaway.

Shawn took a deep breath, put on his sunglasses, and smiled widely to himself, hand on the doorknob. He’d done it. He’d absolutely, fantabulously, not to mention super awesomely, done it. Who was the man?

Shawn twisted the doorknob and jerked. Oh, yeah. He was.

And there, on the other side, was Juliet, her own hand raised in readiness to open the door that had just been yanked from her fingers, her mouth open, her jaw slack, and her eyes fixed, huge and unblinking, at his face.

And she recognized him.

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 9  Part 10  Part 11  Part 12  Part 13  Part 14  Part 15  Part 16