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[personal profile] last01standing
Title: Back to the Future Part... Murder (1/7)
Disclaimer: Psych is not mine. It should also be noted that this is loosely inspired by Life on Mars which is also not mine.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: While the SBPD tries to piece together a twenty year old cycle of murders, Shawn Spencer finds himself thrown back to 1989, as the killer surfaces for the first time.
Author's note: Probaly the most down to earth, reasonable, logically plotted story I have ever written. except for all the time travel

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He didn’t remember how he got here.

He found himself shaking, full blown tremors of fear. He was Shawn Spencer. He remembered everything that ever happened to him. His mind was a junk drawer of useless facts and razor sharp deduction. He remembered everything.

Except how he got here and where here actually was.

The blood seeped slowly out of his knife wound and onto the pavement.


The calls started at ten. They first arrived at the office of Psych. Then to the cell phone of Shawn Spencer which sat, forgotten, on top of the refrigerator. Then finally to Burton Guster’s phone. Gus had six missed calls in the space it had taken him to drive from his apartment to Central Coast Pharmaceuticals. By the time he checked in with the secretary and showed his face to Ogletree, the missed called count was up to eleven. Frowning, he sat at his desk and dialed voicemail. Chief Karen Vick’s voice rang out loud and clear over the line. “I don’t know where you and Mr. Spencer are but you need to drop what you’re doing and get to the station NOW.”

More then a little panicked, Gus hung up and dialed Shawn’s number.

Straight to voice mail.

Let’s be honest, we all know I’m not going to check voice mail in the next month so how about you save me some annoying beep tones and try again later. Or text. Or better yet, call Gus.

He shook his head. Great, the last thing he wanted to do was serve as Shawn’s answering service. Again.

At least he hadn’t given his number this time.

He made it to the station just after noon, expecting to find Shawn already there, bobbing around the detectives and making a nuisance of himself. “Mr. Guster,” Chief Vick’s voice rang out through the station. “How many times have I told you that you need to answer your phone when we call. There’s been a development. Where is Mr. Spencer?”

Gus turned around to check behind him, half expecting Shawn to leap out, and scaring the living daylights out of them both. But the station seemed almost unnaturally quiet. “I haven’t seen him,” Gus answered. Vick gave him a moderately disbelieving look. “What? It’s not like we’re attached at the hip.”

Vick shook her head. “When was the last time you did see Mr. Spencer?”

“Haven’t seen him for more then a day.”

Rubbing, her forehead, Vick said, “Then, Mr. Guster, I believe we have a very big problem.”

“What happened?”

“Mr. Guster, perhaps it would be wise for you to go back to work. I can have a officer assigned to trail you through the day. I promise it won’t be the least bit intrusive.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Tell me what happened. Shawn’s not the only investigator on this team you know.”

Chief Vick hesitated for just a second before relenting and gesturing to her office, shutting the door behind her and drawing the blinds. Detective Lassiter stood up abruptly. “Chief, are you serious? This is a police matter. We cannot put up with the psychic tomfoolery. It’s—where’s Spencer?”

“Hello to you too,” Gus replied acidly, taking a seat across from the Chief’s desk.

“Mr. Guster has informed me that he has been unable to contact his partner.”

“That’s brilliant. Maybe for once we can get this investigation underway without it turning into a circus.”

Gus turned to look at Lassiter, ready to protest on behalf of his friend but his words caught in his throat. “Lassie, what happened to your face?”

A dark bruise spanned the pale skin of his cheek. Looking at it, he almost missed the intense annoyance as Lassiter protested, “I don’t see how this has anything to do with him!”

“Detective Lassiter, I believe it is my job to determine who this effects. Now I know you’re worried about your partner but...”

“Juliet? What happened to Juliet?”

“Detective O’Hara was hospitalized this morning after she was attacked coming out of her apartment. She was stabbing in the shoulder and sustained significant muscle damage to the limb. She is going to need some major rehabilitation but she is in stable condition. However this puts us in a precarious situation considering two or my detectives were attacked in the past eight hours. We are obviously in a pressure situation and we have no leads. Neither Detective Lassiter nor Detective O’Hara saw who attacked them.”

“One unconscious, one injured,” Lassiter mumbled. “One missing found dead.”

“Care to share with the rest of us, Detective Lassiter?”

“This sounds familiar,” Lassiter said, his voice raising in volume.

“That must be a hell of a concussion because I’ve never heard of anything like this.”

“That’s because it hasn’t happened in years. But there was a case like this, must have been more then twenty years ago. They never solved it but it was the thing that got me interested in being a cop.”

“What’s this have to do with anything.”

“Twenty years ago. There was a case just like it in Santa Barbara. A year before that it happened in Phoenix Arizona. The year after in Washington DC. First the local police station was hit. One detective unconscious. Another maimed in some way so as to severely damage limb. A third missing whose body would turn up years later. It was a warning to the police station, preceding a major attack. It happened long enough and far enough apart that the feds didn’t pick up on it for almost five years whereupon the pattern stopped completely.”

“But you and Juliet are the only two. If there is a pattern it doesn’t fit.”

Both Lassiter and Vick fell silent. Gus looked from one to the other wondering what he missed. “Guster,” Lassiter asked finally. “Exactly when and where did you last see Shawn Spencer?”

“Just because I haven’t seen Shawn doesn’t mean he’s not around.”

“I know Spencer,” Lassiter insisted. “He is not the kind of person who thrives stalking in the shadows.”

“When he was eighteen, he disappeared after graduation and the first postcard didn’t show up for a full year. I didn’t see him for months. Just last week he decided he needed to blow off some steam and took off on his motorcycle. Just because Shawn isn’t around doesn’t mean this guy grabbed him.”

“No,” Vick agreed. “But we do have to adjust for the possibility. Lassiter, I want you to pull up all the old case files you can. Get McNab to help you. Guster, see if you can get in touch with Henry Spencer and let me know the second our erstwhile psychic makes contact with you.”

Lassiter sprung into action, moving with surprising gracefulness for someone who had supposedly been rendered unconscious only a few hours before. Gus however found himself rooted to his seat, unable to move.

“Gus,” Chief Vick said, her voice softer then he’d ever heard it. “I’m sure Shawn is going to be just fine.”


The sun’s rays flickered out over the horizon, the boardwalk still mostly empty save a few lonely joggers in ridiculous shorts. The moustaches along were enough to make Shawn want to puke.

Or that could have been the blood loss talking.

He didn’t know much, just that he needed to get to Psych. He needed to get to Gus. He could be next. He had to warn him.

If he found Gus everything was going to be all right.

He stumbled forward, stretching out a hand toward the door. Toward the window pane that should read PSYCH: Private Psychic Detectives but instead reads FOR RENT. He blinked in confusion, taking in the surroundings. The location was right. He’d walked it thousands of times. Forty minutes and the street venders would start walking, peddling peanuts and popsicles. An hour and forty minutes and Gus would sneak out of his other job and slid into Psych’s offices before Shawn even managed to drag himself out of bed. It happened all the time. Shawn could predict it down to the second like the psychic he pretended to be.

But this wasn’t Psych.

He tried the doorknob only to find it lock. He squinted through the windows. They’d been robbed. His desk was gone. The fridge was gone.

They’d stolen his pineapple.

He put a hand to the glass, to try to get a closer work but his eyes weren’t working right. There were odd splotches of black spotting his vision and his hand left an ugly streak of red trailing down the window pane. “Oh,” Shawn said faintly, the connection swimming amidst the explosion of his dying brain.

This isn’t Psych.


I plan for posting to happen every Tuesday night

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