Mind-Altering Murder

Chapter Twenty-one

As the door closed behind Detective O’Hara, Gus settled back into his desk chair and felt a familiar rush of satisfaction. He had grown tired of so much about the detective business, but he could never get sick of the thrill that came when the puzzle pieces finally began to fall together, when what had been a random set of facts and actions suddenly coalesced into a pattern.

It was true that they still had no idea exactly what the clue was telling them, what kind of connection might exist between Macklin Tanner’s whereabouts and the art and industry of blacksmithing, but that would be a matter of grunt work, not inspiration. Now that they knew where to look, Shawn and Jules could start searching for any connection either Tanner or anyone who knew him had with metalwork.

That thought sent a little pang of jealousy through him. Shawn and Jules were going to have all the fun. They were going to track this clue down to its ultimate meaning, they were going to find Tanner and catch the bad guy-if there was a bad guy. And it would all be because Gus had spotted the misplaced number and understood the pattern.

Gus was so flushed with the excitement of the discovery that he’d picked up the phone and dialed the first half of Psych’s number before he realized what he was doing. Even then he wasn’t sure why he’d stopped himself from completing the call. He and Shawn had split on the best of terms. There was no reason why he couldn’t help his old partner finish up a case they had started together. And odds were O’Hara was still returning her rental car to the airport lot-he and Shawn could jump on this new revelation and have it wrapped up before she even told Shawn what he’d come up with.

But what had he come up with, exactly? He’d taken a set of numbers and letters on O’Hara’s sketch of a book she’d seen in a computer game, made an assumption about what they must have meant, and then jumped to an answer based on that. And it all seemed perfectly logical, as long as his basic assumption was right.

But what if it wasn’t?

Gus had no idea who had put those numbers on the spine of the digital image of a book. He had no way of knowing if that person knew anything about the Dewey decimal system. Maybe he’d just remembered that there were supposed to be numbers on a library book and slapped some on at random. Or maybe there was a message encoded there, but not the one that Gus had puzzled out.

Gus knew he hadn’t necessarily deduced the truth of these numbers. He’d simply made a decision. When he saw that the spine bore the wrong Dewey decimal classification, he leaped to the idea that the numbers were to be interpreted via the system. That gave him an answer-but was it the answer?

The truth was those numbers could have meant anything. A date, for instance: Maybe 682.7 should have been read as June 7, 1982. It would be odd to write it out that way, but if they were looking for a rogue programmer, would it really be so hard to believe he’d write it out as a Star Trek – style star date? If that was right, then Shawn would have to search through Tanner’s life to figure out what had happened on that day-and since the game designer had only been three at the time he’d also have to look at whatever else might have been going on at the same time. June 7, 1982 was, for example, the day that Priscilla Presley first opened Graceland to the public, although she kept the bathroom where Elvis died off-limits. Could that conceivably have anything to do with Tanner’s disappearance? It seemed unlikely, but was it that much less plausible than the notion that Festus from Gunsmoke had snatched the guy?

Or maybe it wasn’t just the numbers. He’d stated as a fact that MTN had to stand for Macklin Tanner, but there was no way of knowing that for sure. For all he knew the correct way to read the spine was as a seven-digit telephone number: 682-7686, once he’d swapped out the three letters for their corresponding numerals. Granted, that was not a common format for writing out telephone numbers, but there were no standardized rules for leaving clues in computer games.

And those were just the first two possible alternative interpretations that popped into his mind. Who was to say the kidnapper-if there was a kidnapper-hadn’t actually given out the address of Tanner’s hiding place: 6287 Mountain? Maybe he was bragging that he’d shot Tanner with a Remington Model 700 Mountain LSS Bolt Action Rifle 6287. MTN could have referred to the Military Training Network of the Uniformed Services University and the number to a course or a research study.

Those letters and numbers could have meant anything. Gus had chosen his own interpretation and O’Hara had run out to act on it. But if he was right and his hunch led them to find Tanner, it would really only be luck. And if he was wrong-and he was so much more likely to have been wrong-then he might have just condemned the man to a terrible death.

Gus realized the phone was shaking in his hand. He lowered it gently to its cradle and waited until the tremors passed, then dug a Kleenex out of his drawer and wiped the sweat off his palms.

This, Gus knew, was why he couldn’t call Shawn and spitball ideas about what kind of mad blacksmith had taken Tanner hostage.

It was the fear.

It was why he’d left Psych in the first place.

Gus had tried to convince himself that he had grown tired of being a detective, that now he had become a man and it was time to put aside childish things. That the thought of being an executive was simply more exciting than working with Psych.

But now he had to face the truth. He’d left Psych because he had been scared.

He’d tried to deny it to himself, and when that didn’t work, he’d simply ignored the sensation. Because every time he even thought about working on a case, he had been filled with fear.

It didn’t used to be like this. When Gus teamed up with Shawn he’d managed to share his best friend’s blithe assumption that as long as they were having fun that was all that mattered. And for years, the world seemed to follow that dictate. Gus and Shawn would take the most outrageous risks, play the most ludicrous scams, and accuse the least likely suspect of the vilest crimes. And every time they turned out to be right.

It was like they were charmed. Shawn could do something as ridiculous as announce that a sea lion had been murdered, and not only would no one ever point out that the definition of the crime extends no further than the willing extermination of a human being, but they’d also end up catching a band of international diamond smugglers.

It was wonderful. And then the charm wore off.

It happened last year. When his old art history professor Langston Kitteredge became the prime suspect in a vicious murder, Gus insisted that he and Shawn were the only ones who could clear his name.

The story Kitteredge told them was as fascinating as it was frightening-the professor was the victim of a centuries-old, global cabal that only he knew about. To clear his name of the murder charge, they’d have to unmask the conspiracy.

It sounded impossible. But Gus and Shawn had tackled so many cases that sounded crazy at first blush; one of their clients had seemed to be possessed by the devil, for heaven’s sake. This one wouldn’t be any different.

Except that it was.

Everything Gus thought about the crime had turned out to be wrong. He had allowed himself to be blinded-not only by his fondness for the professor, but by his belief in his own skills as a detective. It simply never occurred to him that he could have been mistaken.

Until it was too late. Too tragically, horribly late. He watched as a man was murdered in front of him, all because Gus had been so convinced he had it all right.

Since that case had ended Gus had simply had no appetite to take on another one. Every time a potential client came through the door, Gus would envision that dead man lying on the floor and he’d want to flee the room.

He’d tried talking to Shawn about this. When Brenda Varda came in to ask them to find Tanner, Gus had pleaded with him not to take the case. But when Shawn asked why, Gus couldn’t find the words. He rambled on and on about the Kitteredge case and how badly he’d screwed up, but Shawn just chucked him on the shoulder and said something about getting back on the horse.

The trouble was, there was no horse anymore. His instincts, which had been so infallible for so long, had completely failed him with Kitteredge. And since neither he nor Shawn had any formal detective training, if such a thing even existed, Gus’ instincts were all he had to go on. If he couldn’t trust them, he couldn’t trust himself on a case. Because if he was wrong, peoplc could die.

So he wouldn’t call Shawn and help him figure out what a blacksmith had to do with the disappearance of a computer-game mogul. He wouldn’t share his theories about the other possible meanings of the clue, and he definitely wouldn’t do to Shawn what he had just done to himself. He wouldn’t sow doubt and fear when the only thing that could help the situation was confidence.

Gus had made his choice. He used to be a detective; now he was an executive vice president of a rising pharmaceuticals company. He’d loved being part of Psych, but that time was over. There was no going back.