The Case of the Friendly Indians

The next morning, Lassiter and Shawn sat in the back of Detective Mejias’s SUV, heading to the trailer on the outside of the city where the leader of the Muwekma Ohlone lived. Shawn would take a look around the crime scene—if it was a crime scene—and read the vibrations or whatever he decided to call it. Lassiter had the case file spread across his lap, looking it over on the way.

"So," Shawn said, his voice pitched low so Mejias wouldn't hear, "Are you going to spill about what went down with you and Russell in the time between your going to brush your teeth and your pillaging me with the mute button on? Because the suspense could seriously block my crime-solving skills. Information is like the Metamusil of detection."

"Later," Lassiter whispered. "I'll tell you all about it later."

Shawn waited a few seconds then asked, "Is it later yet?"

"No," Lassiter said. "Try to focus on the case."

"Don't make me use my psychic powers on you," Shawn warned him. "It's been known to cause nosebleeds and cluster headaches. And I think I once blew up Louis Del Grande's head."

"I'll keep that in mind." Lassiter turned to look out the window at the passing cityscape. He'd tried to convince himself that his reticence was for Shawn's benefit. But who am I kidding? He thought. It would take more than some harsh words to make Shawn feel like an unwelcome guest. It would probably take villagers with torches and pitchforks. The real reason he didn't want to tell Shawn about their talk was that he didn't want to initiate the 'where is this relationship going' discussion.

Shawn pulled a photograph from the folder Mejias had given them. It showed Stephen J. Bader cutting the ribbon on a shopping development in Reno. He immediately spotted the distinctively shaped jewellery on his right wrist—a Medic Alert bracelet.

“I sense he had a medical condition.” Shawn shouted up to Detective Mejias.

“Yeah,” Mejias called back. “He had cardiac arrhythmia. You're amazing.”

Since Shawn had confessed to Lassiter that his psychic powers were really just sharp observation it all seemed so obvious. Of course he had spent several years having no idea how Shawn knew the things he did, so he couldn't be too hard on Mejias for buying it.

“There you go then," Lassiter said. "Guy with a heart problem dies of a heart problem. Big surprise. It’s probably not foul play. Case clo-oh!” His voice raised sharply as Shawn's hand slipped under the open folder and into his lap. "Ix-nay on the ondling-fay," he whispered to Shawn through gritted teeth, and tried to move so he was less accessible.

“He was taking medication for it,” Shawn replied to Mejias, his voice giving no indication that he was slowly unzipping Lassiter's trousers. Lassiter slapped ineffectually at Shawn's hand, which kept darting away and then back again.

“Yeah, he takes Inderol,” Mejias said. “But we talked to his valet and the guy’s been taking it at the same time every morning with breakfast.

“I get it that his death is inconvenient,” Lassiter said, squirming to prevent Shawn's hand from exploring further. “But couldn’t the heart attack just be a heart attack?”

"Sure it could," Mejias said. "In fact, I hope it is. But I need to know that I turned over every stone there was to turn before I sign on to that theory."

“How unpopular was this guy?” Shawn asked. “I’m sensing some serious conflicts.”

Lassiter swiped at Shawn's hand, Shawn swiped back, and the two of them engaged in a brief silent slap fight across the back seat.

Catching the flurry of movement in her rear view mirror, Mejias asked, "Are you two okay back there?"

"We're fine," Lassiter said, swatting at the air. "There...was a fly." He relinquished the case file to Shawn, hoping the lack of cover would remove the temptation, and zipped up his pants.

“Bader had his share of enemies,” Mejias acknowledged. “There’s another group of Indians competing for the Oakland property. They already have federal recognition and a history of successful casino running. Rumour has it they were trying to get Bader to throw in with them instead."

"I doubt they did it," Shawn said. "I worked at an Indian casino once, and they were pretty nice guys. It's not like vegas, where the mob runs everything."

"The mob doesn't run Vegas,"Lassiter said. At least, not anymore.

"I beg to differ, my tall milky friend," Shawn said. "The evidence is against you."

"What evidence?"

Shawn began to count off on his fingers, "Casino. Godfather 2, Bugsy, Diamonds Are Forever--"

"Movies aren't evidence," Lassiter cut in. "And the casino in Diamonds Are Forever wasn't run by the mob. It was a front for Blofeld."

"Who is the head of a vast criminal conspiracy," Shawn said. "Same difference. You're just biased because he has a British accent. You should get help for your rampant anti-Italian attitudes."

"I'm not anti-Italian." Lassiter frowned and turned back to the case file.

"There’s also an anti-gambling group based in San Francisco," Mejias said. "They don’t want a casino so close to the city. There was an incident with Bader at one of their protests. He got pushed around a bit and hit in the leg with a sign.”

"Maybe spies did it," Shawn whispered to Lassiter. "You know, the old poked-with-the-umbrella routine where the guy dies of a heart attack a few hours later."

"It wasn't spies," Lassiter said firmly. He was 98% sure it wasn't spies.

Mejias pulled the SUV on to a dirt road and stopped in front of a shiny metal trailer. “Plus, with this amount of money in the estate, we always like to take a close look at the family. You never know, right?”

“That’s for sure,” Lassiter said, thinking unkind thoughts about some of his own relatives.

The leader of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe was a woman in her fifties named Brenda Meadows. She invited them inside and made tea.

“Yes, I’m definitely sensing something,” Shawn moved slowly around inside the homey trailer. “I’m picking up the traces of Mr. Bader’s spirit. I sense an evil, menacing presence. The spirit...of murder!”

"Oh for Pete's sake," Lassiter muttered at Shawn's overblown sense of drama.

Mrs. Meadows held Shawn's hands and looked into his eyes. "Our people tell stories about Coyote, the trickster, who is clever, but greedy and untrustworthy. You are like Hummingbird, who outwits Coyote despite his small size."

"You don't have to put on the act for them, Brenda," Detective Mejias said. "They're not tourists. They're here to help me out."

"It's okay," Shawn said. "She's absolutely right. I am like a hummingbird." He turned back to Meadows. "Unless of course you meant it as a sexual innuendo, in which case I'm shocked and offended."

"Goodness no," Meadows said, blushing and relinquishing Shawn's hands. "I just meant that I'm sure you'll solve this thing."

"How did Bader seem when he was here?" Lassiter asked.

"He said things were good," Meadows began, picking up her mug of tea. "He'd lost some weight and finally gotten some dental work done that he'd been avoiding. But I was sure something was bothering him."

"How so?" Lassiter asked.

Meadows wrinkled her forehead in thought. "We weren't friends, you understand. I don't think he had close friends he could talk to. But we'd been working together on this federal recognition thing a long time, and I liked Mr. Bader. Sometimes it seemed like he wanted to share more than he did. When I asked how the casino business was going he said something about addiction being a terrible thing. At the time I thought he was talking about himself. He had some food issues, and he was a workaholic. But now I'm not so sure."

“What do you know about the family?” Lassiter asked Detective Mejias.

“His wife’s a shopaholic,” she said. “That could be the addiction he was talking about.”

“The wife's not our killer,” Shawn said. “She’s crazy about him.” The family pictures in the file had been very revealing. The wife’s body was always turned toward the husband and the two of them were touching in every photo.

“The daughter’s some kind of animal rights activist,” Mejias added. She looked in her notebook. “Says here she’s vegan, whatever that is.”

Shawn thought back to the photo. The daughter was all defensive body language, but leaned in toward her father, so it was unlikely that her animosity was directed toward him. She was more likely to try to kill The Burger King, or Ronald McDonald.

Shawn put a hand to his temple and shook his head. “No. I don’t sense the daughter’s psychic fingerprints here."

“The son hardly ever leaves his room,” Mejias said, “but he runs an online poker business.”

“Not the son.” Shawn shook his head. Bader’s son was mirroring his father’s gestures. He probably saw himself as taking his father’s casino empire to the next level. "I'm sensing a malevolent figure though." He went over the photos in his mind again. One man stood out like a glow stick at a funeral. Every captured gesture radiated animosity and tension. "I'm seeing a man with dark hair, and a smile like the Cheshire Cat."

“There’s a stepson," Mejias said. "Dr. Warren Purcell, from Bader's wife's first marriage. He’s a dentist. Runs a practice in Pacific Heights. Bader was at his office earlier that morning to get a damaged crown replaced.”

Shawn mentally arranged the pictures in chronological order, based on the age of the teenage daughter. In the early photo the stepson sported some expensive looking jewellery, but as time went on pieces began to disappear from subsequent photos. In the latest photos the stepson’s suit, though expensive, was slightly out of fashion.

“You want to take a close look at the stepson,” Shawn said. “His aura’s all hinkey. I see anger. Anger and money problems.”

“That’s very helpful,” Mejias said. “How would you feel about coming with me when I interview him?”

“We’d love to,” Lassiter said. “Let’s go. I call shotgun.”

"You two go ahead," Mejias said. "I'll catch up with you in a minute."

Shawn and Lassiter said their goodbyes to Ms. Meadows and stepped outside.

“This bites!” Shawn protested. “If she’s driving, and you’re riding shotgun, then that makes me like Joe Pesci, cracking wise from the back seat. Don’t make me be Pesci.”

“Suck it up, Buttercup,” Lassiter said as he climbed into the passenger seat of the SUV. At least this way Shawn wouldn't be trying to molest him all the way back into the city.

Shawn leaned forward in the SUV and tugged repeatedly on the sleeve of Lassiter's suit jacket.

"It's later," Shawn pointed out.

"Is it?" Lassiter asked.

Shawn leaned further into the front cabin. "Come on, you Caspar-skinned devil. Spill the details on your chat with Russell. You know you want to. And the longer you put it off the worse I'll imagine it was."

Lassiter sighed. "Fine. Russell thinks we're doomed. Something about I'm having a mid-life crisis and you're just a player. I'm going to come out of my phase or you're going to get bored and leave me. I forget which comes first."

"Ow. That's harsh." Shawn laughed, obviously not bothered by the accusations.

Lassiter smiled. "You should have heard his Bluejay metaphor."

"But you straightend him out, right?" Shawn asked.

"I told him he was pissing me off."

Shawn tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at Lassiter. "So you didn't straighten him out then. That's curious. What's up, Lassie?"

"Nothing's up. I just don't want to--" he stopped mid-sentence as Mejias got into the vehicle.

***

Lassiter smiled as they threaded their way through traffic to the dentist’s office. He didn’t usually enjoy his vacations, unless he went fishing. What most people called relaxing just felt like wasting time to him. But arresting criminals in a different city—this was fun. He was surprised that Russell thought he had to cloak his request for help in the guise of a friendly visit. But then, Russell didn’t have a board filled with criminal cases in the middle of his living room.

The office of Stephen J. Bader's step-son was in Pacific Heights, a wealthy area of the city. Detective Mejias led them through the plush, cream coloured waiting room and showed her badge to the receptionist, who equivocated about interrupting Dr. Purcell, but finally agreed to ask if he was free.

Dr. Purcell passed his patient to an assistant and led them down a corridor to his office, a relaxing green room filled with pieces of West Coast Native art.

"This is about my step-father, I presume," he began, "although I don't see why you have to interrupt me at work."

"I'm following up on information received," Mejias explained. "I've just got some questions about your relation with your step-father and about your financial circumstances."

Lassiter and Shawn watched Purcell squirm and smiled. Lassiter was smiling because he liked the idea that Shawn's 'vision' counted as information received. It was a delightfully vague term. He'd have to remember to use it more often. Shawn was smiling because of two things he'd spotted in Purcell's office and because he'd just realized which piece of the puzzle he needed to solve the case.

Shawn stood up. “Washroom?" Purcell peered at him uncomprehendingly. "I’ve got to run to the washroom."

"Of course." Purcell launched into a complex set of instructions for locating the washroom, that Shawn didn't bother to llsten to, since he wasn't heading for the washroom anyway.

"Thanks," Shawn said. "Talk amongst yourselves 'til I get back. Topic: The American Revolution was neither American, nor a Revolution. Discuss."

As soon as he was outside he sprinted down the hall, opened a door marked Storage, stepped inside, and called Gus.

“What’s Inderol?” Shawn asked as soon as Gus picked up.

“Hello to you too.” Gus said. “It’s a beta-blocker used to treat hypertension. Its generic name is Propranolol. Why?”

“How do you kill someone who’s taking it?’ Shawn began to root around the room, looking for clues. The first box he opened contained bulk candy suckers and he stuffed a handful into his pocket.

“It’s not recommended that you stop taking it suddenly,” Gus said. “So denying them their dosage could do it, if their condition were severe enough. How did this even come up? I thought you were visiting Lassiter’s friends.”

“We are. But there’s a murder case at the bottom of our Crackerjacks. What about drug interactions?”

“It’s contraindicated with certain other cardio drugs,” Gus said.

“Speak English, dude,” Shawn said. “Dumb it down. Talk to me like I’m five.”

“If a drug makes your heart go vroom-vroom,” Gus said, “two of them together could make your heart go boom. Simple enough?”

“Would a dentist have anything that could do that?”

“Sure. Lidocaine. But they’re pretty well versed in how much to administer. Nowadays dentists take a comprehensive medical history and they definitely ask about any current medication. You’d know that if you went to your dentist regularly.”

Shawn spotted the box, sitting on a metal shelf by the door.

“Thank, buddy. I’ve gotta go now. It’s time to be brilliantly psychic.”

***
Shawn stepped back into Dr. Purcell's office, thrust his chest out and put his fingers to his temples. He uttered a shocked gasp and then flung himself against the wall.

"Is he okay?" Purcell asked, looking with alarm at where Shawn was now writhing.

"He's fine," Lassiter said.

"He's psychic," Mejias explained to Purcell. "He must be having a vision."

"I see tiny little people," Shawn said. "Dressed in colourful costumes."

"The Wizard of Oz?" Lassiter asked, deadpan. He understood that Shawn needed to make the psychic bit convincing, but he always felt he went overboard.

"Children?" Mejias offered.

"No," Shawn said. "I see little people and horses. And slips of paper that convey bad news to many, and good news to few." He glanced again at the racing forms sitting in Purcell's recycling bin. He was willing to bet that their suspect knew exactly where he was going with this vision by now.

"The racetrack!" Mejias shouted out.

"I'm too busy to sit here watching you people play charades with this charlatan," Purcell said, his face slightly paler than before. He stood, as if to leave.

"You can't use 'charades' and 'charlatan' in the same sentence,"Shawn objected, his trance forgotten. "The alliteration makes you sound like Dr. Seus. I would have gone with something like 'fraud' or 'wingnut.'"

"I've had just about enough of this," Purcell moved for the door.

Shawn stepped into his path and put an arm on his shoulder. "I see this man," Shawn said, his eyes closed as if in concentration, "bleeding money like that elevator from The Shining." He opened his eyes and looked up at Purcell, who now looked alarmed. "Tell us about the gambling addiction, Warren."

***
Two hours later Shawn, Lassiter and Detective Mejias sat in Russell Santos’s living room, recounting the day’s events to him.

“Purcell denied it initially,” Lassiter said.

“They always deny it,” Russell said. “Just once I’d love to have a perp admit it, maybe even apologize.”

“He would have clammed up and asked for a lawyer,” Mejias said, “But Shawn freaked him out when he walked him through how he did it, step by step.”

“The ghost of Doc Holliday explained it all to me,” Shawn said, disclaiming any credit. “He saw the whole thing.”

“Interesting feat, considering Doc Holliday never set foot in San Francisco,” Lassiter said.

“You’d be amazed how the spirit world gets around.”

“When we threatened to get a court order to check his Lidocane stock he confessed to the whole thing.” Mejias thanked Shawn for his help, and then said her goodnights to Russell and Eric. Lassiter and Russell walked her to the door.

"If you're ever back this way again, let me know," She said to Lassiter. "I know a great paintball range. Russell tells me you were a great shot back in the day. Plus, I'd love to go up against a psychic."

"You wouldn't consider it an unfair advantage?" Lassiter asked, wryly.

"Not when you're as good as I am." Mejias winked at Lassiter as she left.

After locking the door Russell turned to Lassiter. “I think I understand what you see in Shawn now.”

“Somehow I doubt that," Lassiter said.

"No, I mean it. The guy solves crimes. I respect that."

"Shawn's got an amazing gift," Lassiter said, "and I love it that he chooses to use it to help the department. But what I see in him...the reason I'm with him...it's got nothing to do with solving crimes."

"I find that hard to believe," Russell said.

"Are you with Eric for the free book-keeping?" Lassiter crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't have said it's his best feature," Russell said, "but come tax season, it sure doesn't hurt." He gave Lassiter a friendly slap on the shoulder and led the way back to the livingroom, toward the sound of Shawn and Eric laughing together.