He fires confidently, but resignedly, with the air of a man who's done everything possible to avoid this last resort, but who really has no choice. Wincing as the shots echo loudly, he averts his gaze, though continuing to shoot, making sure not to let his reluctance affect his hitting and neutralizing the target.

Finally stopping, he glances up, then back down, an ashamed look on his face as the audience – his most trusted friends and his one family member ever around – gape at him, their faces silently asking, how could you do that?

Flinging the gun down, he slumps into a chair, refusing to look at them. "I… I didn't want to do this, okay? But you guys made me. If you'd never pushed me I swear I wouldn't've…"

He sighs again, running a hand through his hair. "But it's too late now."

Finally, one of them manages to choke out words. "Spencer… how could you…? You? I don't believe it. This is… this is impossible."

Shawn finally glances up and holds their gaze. "No it's not."

Lassiter looks horrified. "You can't honestly expect me to believe that you're… somewhat qualified? I mean, suggesting you aced the Detectives Exam at 15 was ridiculous enough but this…"

Henry's eyes widen. "You actually did that, Shawn? And you aced it? And you didn't tell me?"

Shawn closes his eyes briefly, an expression of great mental pain flitting across his face. "That's why. And could we focus more on the fact that I just killed someone here?"

Juliet rolls her eyes. "Shawn, it's a target."

"He's still dead. And by the way, his name was Gus Jr."

Two horrified exclamations: "You named a target at a shooting range after me? And shot it?"

"Is this like that chess piece Dwight again, Shawn?"

Everyone else ignores both voices, staring at the psychic detective, still shocked. Another pause.

"Oh, snap out of it! All I did was shoot a stinkin' target!"

It's Detective Lassiter again, eyes dark and serious. "In a perfect spread, killing it in… at least five different ways. Without looking."

"Well… but still! Dude, my dad's a cop and I'm a detective. Of course I know how to use a gun!"

Suspicious and somewhat awed eyes watch him as he exits the room, a slow smirk spreading across his features. Suddenly he spins around.

"You know, now that that little secret is out, why don't I add a few new tidbits for you to chew on next time you don't trust my judgment or want me off a case? I aced the Detective Exam at 15; I can wield a gun better than most of you; I can lie well enough to trick a polygraph; I have read and completely memorized every law pertaining to Santa Barbara, from local regulations up to every amendment of the Constitution, and that includes police rules; I can pick up girls and make friends like that; I've got contacts all over the US – and in several other countries – in plenty of professions thanks to my road-trips, all of whom are perfectly willing to do me a favor any time I call in on them; I can pick pockets and locks; I can swim; I know how to survive in the wilderness; I can use all police equipment like a pro; I know how to fill out all necessary forms for any detective business; I've been in the hospital so many times that I've learned plenty of medical information as well; I have extensive cultural knowledge, from movies to classic plays; and I have great hair."

He grins widely and pointedly. "You want another show-and-tell for anything, just ask."

He's almost all the way down the hallway before he remembers something. Turning around, he belatedly yells back, "Oh yeah, and I'm psychic too! Can't forget that one!"