FIC: all but means nothing (2/6); The Mentalist
TTitle: all but means nothing
Disclaimer: If I owned the show, episodes would feature penguins. ;) I also don't own The Tale-Tale Heart (Edgar Allan Poe) or The Poison Tree (William Blake). Artwork belongs to kielamyis!
Rating: T, for violence.
Summary: Even if the killer heard the maddening timbre of his own bleeding heart. Team!fic.
“Cho was last seen…”
Patrick Jane stretched out across his couch, as he vaguely listened to Lisbon’s debriefing about Cho’s disappearance to Grace and Rigsby, who both seemed startled that anything like this could happen to one of their own. Of course, it wasn’t entirely too surprising that Red John, although the team disagreed about the serial killer’s involvement, would go after one of them; it was just surprising that Red John had gone after Cho and not Lisbon.
Cho hadn’t technically done anything to the serial killer, unless it was by mere association, while Lisbon had done more than enough to receive his ire. Lisbon had stood by him, supported him, gotten him out of trouble, taken the heat for his rarer moments of stupidity, etc., etc., etc…whereas Cho…well…Cho didn’t trust him, and that much was obvious. It beyond baffled him on why Red John would take somebody, who might have known absolutely nothing about him or his plans, instead of somebody, who might have known almost everything about him and his plans.
Not that he had wanted Red John to take Lisbon. He had just wondered why Cho and not Lisbon.
“…we’ll have forensics sweep the evidence for prints…”
Jane almost rolled his eyes. If Red John had been converting and killing individuals for fourteen years and hadn’t been caught yet, why did anybody honestly think that they were going to get prints off a blood-stained coffee cup? Sure, the team had their doubts-but how could they doubt the various pieces of evidence? The blood-stained coffee cup littered on the alleyway ground, the abandoned SUV with a note attached, which read: In the morning glad I see/my foe outstretched beneath the tree.
The poem-a William Blake; A Poison Tree-had immediately signaled Red John’s presence, and that had left him with heightened senses and a dry mouth. Each time Red John reemerged to claim yet another victim, he could feel himself getting closer and closer to finally getting vengeance. And now that the serial killer had Cho? Jane felt a sudden rush of adrenaline burst through his veins. He knew the chances of him finally being identified would shoot through the roof.
If only Red John would make it that easy.
He could only imagine how they’d find Cho, as Red John showed no mercy to his enemies. They’d all probably burst into some nondescript room, months after following dead leads and being continuously reprimanded by Gale Bertram for not doing their actual jobs, only to stumble upon Cho’s lifeless (and completely nude) body. His body would be dangling against a gray, blood splattered wall; his wrists and body held up by shimmering scarlet-stained chains. At first, they wouldn’t focus on the blood splattered walls or the scarlet-stained chains. They’d all focus on the black metal collar that encircled his muscular neck, which had probably tightened with every shallow breath taken and the familiar Red John smiley face, crudely drawn with a knife, into Cho’s lower back.
Red John would already be long gone; the room would be completely spotless, except for the traces of a tragically-ended human life-fecal matter on the floor, the stale scent of urine within the room, the ever-present stench of death-and the entire team, except for himself, would feel shaken by the loss.
Lisbon would order that the room be swept for prints, though she already knew that none would be found.
Rigsby would stare at the vacant wall, thinking about what he could have done differently to save his good friend.
Grace would try to comfort them all, but eventually, she too would succumb to the depression of losing a close friend.
And Cho’s body, unbound and released, would be in a mortuary; a long, slender blade carving through his skin, vital organs being weighed, tagged, explored, and the time of death being slated as nearly twenty-four hours before they had found him.
He didn’t die of blood loss, Jane could imagine the stern Medical Examiner telling them all, as they stood in Lisbon’s office, he died of asphyxiation.
Asphyxiation or suffocation, one of the worst ways to die. It was slow and painful. It was methodical and cruel. It was unbefitting and completely out of character for Red John, which would make most of them question who killed Cho; was it Red John or was it some unknown agent?
He would say Red John, because he had no uncertainties. Red John was a monster. Red John was a cruel human being, who had absolutely no qualms in setting them all up to crash and burn. The team would agree, for the proof-the bleeding smiley, taunting them all on tawny skin-could not be unseen.
Bertram, Jane knew, would disagree. The CBI’s reputation was more important and the knowledge that Red John had slipped through his CBI again would make him uneasy. The public would be told just enough-Agent Kimball Cho was found late last night. He was killed. Sympathies go out to his family and friends during this difficult time.-and the unsolved and highly speculated case, would be pushed back into an unsolved file. A cold case, Lisbon often called them.
Cho’s killer would never be caught and the bastard, who ultimately destroyed so many lives, would eventually ruin theirs.
Of course, how it ruined their lives depended on the road that they each decided upon taking.
The first road was his road: the burning obsession to find and kill Red John.
The last road was a road best traveled alone: the slow, downward spiral into insanity.
And all of the roads in-between? They were just of less consequence, but deadly all the same.
“Jane?” Lisbon’s voice interrupted his dark internal musing, while he glanced up at her from his couch. She leaned against Van Pelt’s desk, as all three of the agents stared at him; hope written across their features. “Do you have anything to add?”
Jane glanced upwards, before he glanced back at them. He had plenty of things he could have added, but just nothing they probably wanted to hear. “I have nothing to add, Lisbon.” He heard Lisbon sigh, before he watched her go back to focusing on her murder board. Jane closed his eyes. The entire team would try their hardest to find Cho alive, he would give them that, but he feared that even their hardest wouldn’t be good enough this time.
Disclaimer: If I owned the show, episodes would feature penguins. ;) I also don't own The Tale-Tale Heart (Edgar Allan Poe) or The Poison Tree (William Blake). Artwork belongs to kielamyis!
Rating: T, for violence.
Summary: Even if the killer heard the maddening timbre of his own bleeding heart. Team!fic.
“Cho was last seen…”
Patrick Jane stretched out across his couch, as he vaguely listened to Lisbon’s debriefing about Cho’s disappearance to Grace and Rigsby, who both seemed startled that anything like this could happen to one of their own. Of course, it wasn’t entirely too surprising that Red John, although the team disagreed about the serial killer’s involvement, would go after one of them; it was just surprising that Red John had gone after Cho and not Lisbon.
Cho hadn’t technically done anything to the serial killer, unless it was by mere association, while Lisbon had done more than enough to receive his ire. Lisbon had stood by him, supported him, gotten him out of trouble, taken the heat for his rarer moments of stupidity, etc., etc., etc…whereas Cho…well…Cho didn’t trust him, and that much was obvious. It beyond baffled him on why Red John would take somebody, who might have known absolutely nothing about him or his plans, instead of somebody, who might have known almost everything about him and his plans.
Not that he had wanted Red John to take Lisbon. He had just wondered why Cho and not Lisbon.
“…we’ll have forensics sweep the evidence for prints…”
Jane almost rolled his eyes. If Red John had been converting and killing individuals for fourteen years and hadn’t been caught yet, why did anybody honestly think that they were going to get prints off a blood-stained coffee cup? Sure, the team had their doubts-but how could they doubt the various pieces of evidence? The blood-stained coffee cup littered on the alleyway ground, the abandoned SUV with a note attached, which read: In the morning glad I see/my foe outstretched beneath the tree.
The poem-a William Blake; A Poison Tree-had immediately signaled Red John’s presence, and that had left him with heightened senses and a dry mouth. Each time Red John reemerged to claim yet another victim, he could feel himself getting closer and closer to finally getting vengeance. And now that the serial killer had Cho? Jane felt a sudden rush of adrenaline burst through his veins. He knew the chances of him finally being identified would shoot through the roof.
If only Red John would make it that easy.
He could only imagine how they’d find Cho, as Red John showed no mercy to his enemies. They’d all probably burst into some nondescript room, months after following dead leads and being continuously reprimanded by Gale Bertram for not doing their actual jobs, only to stumble upon Cho’s lifeless (and completely nude) body. His body would be dangling against a gray, blood splattered wall; his wrists and body held up by shimmering scarlet-stained chains. At first, they wouldn’t focus on the blood splattered walls or the scarlet-stained chains. They’d all focus on the black metal collar that encircled his muscular neck, which had probably tightened with every shallow breath taken and the familiar Red John smiley face, crudely drawn with a knife, into Cho’s lower back.
Red John would already be long gone; the room would be completely spotless, except for the traces of a tragically-ended human life-fecal matter on the floor, the stale scent of urine within the room, the ever-present stench of death-and the entire team, except for himself, would feel shaken by the loss.
Lisbon would order that the room be swept for prints, though she already knew that none would be found.
Rigsby would stare at the vacant wall, thinking about what he could have done differently to save his good friend.
Grace would try to comfort them all, but eventually, she too would succumb to the depression of losing a close friend.
And Cho’s body, unbound and released, would be in a mortuary; a long, slender blade carving through his skin, vital organs being weighed, tagged, explored, and the time of death being slated as nearly twenty-four hours before they had found him.
He didn’t die of blood loss, Jane could imagine the stern Medical Examiner telling them all, as they stood in Lisbon’s office, he died of asphyxiation.
Asphyxiation or suffocation, one of the worst ways to die. It was slow and painful. It was methodical and cruel. It was unbefitting and completely out of character for Red John, which would make most of them question who killed Cho; was it Red John or was it some unknown agent?
He would say Red John, because he had no uncertainties. Red John was a monster. Red John was a cruel human being, who had absolutely no qualms in setting them all up to crash and burn. The team would agree, for the proof-the bleeding smiley, taunting them all on tawny skin-could not be unseen.
Bertram, Jane knew, would disagree. The CBI’s reputation was more important and the knowledge that Red John had slipped through his CBI again would make him uneasy. The public would be told just enough-Agent Kimball Cho was found late last night. He was killed. Sympathies go out to his family and friends during this difficult time.-and the unsolved and highly speculated case, would be pushed back into an unsolved file. A cold case, Lisbon often called them.
Cho’s killer would never be caught and the bastard, who ultimately destroyed so many lives, would eventually ruin theirs.
Of course, how it ruined their lives depended on the road that they each decided upon taking.
The first road was his road: the burning obsession to find and kill Red John.
The last road was a road best traveled alone: the slow, downward spiral into insanity.
And all of the roads in-between? They were just of less consequence, but deadly all the same.
“Jane?” Lisbon’s voice interrupted his dark internal musing, while he glanced up at her from his couch. She leaned against Van Pelt’s desk, as all three of the agents stared at him; hope written across their features. “Do you have anything to add?”
Jane glanced upwards, before he glanced back at them. He had plenty of things he could have added, but just nothing they probably wanted to hear. “I have nothing to add, Lisbon.” He heard Lisbon sigh, before he watched her go back to focusing on her murder board. Jane closed his eyes. The entire team would try their hardest to find Cho alive, he would give them that, but he feared that even their hardest wouldn’t be good enough this time.