Ricochet (2/25)
Chapter Two
“Teresa, are you okay?”
She shook her head slightly, turned to face her superior, Patrick Jane, and smiled weakly. Was she okay? Not particularly. But then, she wasn’t inclined to tell him the whole truth anyway. Patrick Jane was a loose cannon; in a way, he reminded her of her father. Therefore, she had long since decided that he was not to be trusted. Besides, after one year of working in close quarters with him, she was already seriously questioning how he had managed to keep his job for so long. To describe him as a maverick felt like a gross simplification. He seemed to live his life with reckless abandon and applied that to work as well.
In reality, she knew the answer. He closed cases and looked good while doing it. Patrick Jane was the ideal poster boy for the CBI. Men wanted to be him, women wanted to be with him. He carried his damaged intensity, scars from his troubled childhood, well, and it only added to the allure. She had been brought on in order to improve the closed case record, as well as provide a calming presence towards the almost insane senior agent. Lisbon wasn’t particularly sure if she was doing a good job or not. If she was, then she dreaded to know what he had been like before she had joined the CBI. She could only imagine a walking disaster, and it only reiterated her questions about how and why he had been successful as a cop.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying,” he replied.
“And this isn’t Red John,” she retorted, keen to change the subject. “Are we done here?”
Rigsby and Cho both glanced away, but Van Pelt looked shocked by her abrupt nature. She made for the door to the master bedroom; she didn’t want to stay near the dead body for much longer. Unlike many consultants, Lisbon understood the importance of forensic evidence. Often, it would be the lynchpin in a court case, but it disappeared relatively quickly. They needed to let the forensics guys get on with their job in peace, while they went and dealt with the family and the like. It was then that she really came into her own; there was only so much she could work out from cold reading a dead body. Living people, with fluctuating emotions and reactions were another matter entirely. And besides, it was statistically far more likely that this woman had been brutally murdered by one of her closest relatives rather than Red John.
“How do you know?” Grace Van Pelt asked quietly. “That it isn’t Red John, I mean.”
At least one of them had bothered to ask the question. Van Pelt looked at her hopefully; she was very keen to learn about Lisbon and her mindset. It almost made her feel uncomfortable; Van Pelt was the kind of woman her father would have insisted she targeted three years ago. Grace Van Pelt was hopelessly naïve, with a strong sense of belief in the ‘other realm’, an incredibly open mind and all too easily impressed. It would have been easy for her to persuade Van Pelt that she was truly a psychic; in fact, if the new rookie had done her research before joining, she would probably think she actually was one anyway.
Jane shot her the ‘I’m waiting’ look, the one which she knew demanded answers and fast. Sometimes, it felt like she gave him the answers so he could come up with the crackpot plan to shoot down the criminal. They closed cases, and that pleased Virgil Minelli, Jane’s supervisor. However, sometimes, it made Lisbon feel more than a little uncomfortable. When Jane came up with a plan, he usually thought outside of the box. Minelli claimed this was ‘forward thinking’ and it ‘brought in a new era of fighting crime’. Lisbon, meanwhile, saw all the potential loopholes where Jane could hang himself from. Whenever they got a case through the courts, it seemed like nothing short of a miracle.
“The cutting style is all wrong. Red John is an artist; every cut means something to him. This?” she said, and she waved a hand in the general direction of the deceased. “It’s like an amateur trying to recreate a Van Gogh.”
“Oh,” Van Pelt answered, sounding very small, like she had asked a stupid question. She hadn’t; it was just a case of what was obvious to Lisbon, and Jane to a lesser extent, was less so to everybody else.
“And the smiley face is painted on the wrong wall. It doesn’t play out nearly so well, don’t you think?”
“He’s broken M.O. before; he could’ve just done it again?” Rigsby suggested.
Lisbon flinched. She knew all too well that Rigsby was referencing her husband and daughter’s death. Ordinarily, Red John exclusively killed women, between the ages of twenty and thirty. Generally, he struck in the dead of the night. He never applied his sexual fantasies to his victims; instead, he got his thrills from brutally murdering them. The smiley face on the wall was always painted prior to the final, fatal, blow. That way, they died with the fear and knowledge that Red John was the one responsible for their untimely demise. When Andrew and Eva Lisbon had been killed, it had been Red John’s first double murder since Carter and Janet Peakes. It had also been the first murder where an innocent child had been killed. For a long while, the cops had been unsure whether or not the murder had actually been associated with Red John. However, Lisbon knew exactly why he had changed his modus operandi: if you wanted to hurt somebody, you didn’t kill them. You killed their family instead.
And naturally, she was still hurting from the blow. She still blamed herself for their deaths. She still wanted to set everything right, but doubted she ever would.
“You see the smiley face, then you see the body. It makes sense,” Jane added. “Cho, Rigsby, I want you to check up on that using footage from previous crime scenes. If Lisbon’s right, we have ourselves a copycat.”
“I am right,” she asserted. “And if we don’t keep this quiet, we’ll probably have an actual Red John case on our hands, too.”
“And why do you think that?”
“He doesn’t like slander. He sees himself as unique. A poor facsimile such as this will make him furious.”
“Guess we’ll have to close this one quickly then, won’t we?”
“Yes, boss,” she muttered.
Sometimes, it felt ironic calling Patrick Jane her boss. Technically, of course, he was, but that didn’t mean it necessarily felt right. He was so out of control himself, it was a wonder that he could keep control of three younger agents and a consultant driven by revenge as well. Considering everything she had been through, Lisbon believed she still managed to retain more of her sense of sanity than Jane ever would. Silently, she reminded herself that he got the job done. He went into dangerous situations armed with little more than a gun, and helped to bring justice to the world. If that wasn’t an honorable calling, then what was? It wasn’t her place to judge his methodology; instead, she was hired to assist him in any way that she could.
In silence, they headed towards the base camp, which they had set up in Malibu for the duration of the case. The commute back and forth to Sacramento just wasn’t practical when the crime scene was based this far afield. Lisbon knew that the others had booked to stay in a motel, and they’d been kind enough to ensure that she had a room there too. However, she had already promised herself that she would stay at home. It made her feel that little bit closer to Andrew and Eva that way. Silently, she hoped, wished they were at peace, but in actuality, she doubted they ever would be until Red John had been apprehended. And that was why she had volunteered her services to the CBI specifically. To bring peace to her soul, as well as having the vain hope that she could bury her family mentally as well as physically.
Even though she had already established that Red John wasn’t responsible for the death of Sally Hughes, she couldn’t help but feel like it had reopened old wounds. Jane, who had been suspended due to a misdemeanor on a previous case, had been brought back the moment the fake Red John smiley face had been discovered. But Jane wasn’t her problem; she could get along working with him just as well as without him. In truth, sometimes, he made it a little easier because he was intuitive for a cop and seemed to grasp hold of her theories easily. No, she had panicked internally when she had heard that Red John had killed again so close to her family home. It made her instantly remember that fateful day, doing a reading for that insufferable presenter, Alexa, being late home to put Eva to bed. She could remember the creak of the third to last step on the staircase, where she first noticed that dreadful note.
And she could remember thinking: I could have, should have, been able to stop this.
Holding back murder sometimes felt like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a broom. At face value, murder felt senseless, pointless and innately wrong. Fighting against it was like fighting a losing battle; one where you could never win. The patterns underneath it, the motives and reasoning, the money, the jealousy, the deceit and lies which killers couldn’t cover up forever, that was how a crime was inevitably solved. Answers helped, Lisbon would never have denied that. However, it didn’t ever stop it from feeling like a waste of a life. It didn’t ever stop the families and friends of the victims from hurting because their loved one was taken away from them far too soon. It never got rid of the pain. That, she knew from very personal experience.
“You’re quiet today,” Jane remarked as he drove them (too fast) to the motel. The others were in another car, which gave them a little privacy to speak more freely.
“Just thinking,” she answered back stiffly.
“About Red John?”
“Partially.” It wasn’t a lie; there were other things on her mind as well.
“We’ll get him one day.”
“Maybe,” she answered; clearly she felt far more cautious about the subject than he did.
Then again, she had to wonder precisely why he was almost as driven to close the Red John case as she was. It was true that any murder was ‘too many’, but why did he so desperately want to get Red John behind bars, or better yet, dead? Besides being a serial killer, what separated him from all the other murderers they sought out? What made him special to Jane specifically? Everybody knew Lisbon’s motives as clear as day; she wanted to catch the killer responsible for the deaths of her family. He was the man who had apparently driven her father to suicide, though they were yet to find the body. Jason Hamilton was missing, presumed dead and nobody was bothering to investigate either way. Of course, Jane had an equally tragic past, of which Lisbon had only figured out a few of the minor details thus far, but the connections between that and Red John seemed illogical.
But then, did a senior agent, who led the Serious Crimes Unit for the California Bureau of Investigation, really need a precise reason to want a serial killer dead? Surely the job title alone was enough of a motive for that? Of course, it wasn’t revenge driven, or any of the other motives that death eventually boiled down to, it was more honorable than that. But just because there was honor behind the feelings, it didn’t stop the resolution from being ultimately, the same. And if any brutal murderer deserved to rot behind bars, or be killed, it was Red John. Even Lisbon’s beliefs couldn’t prevent her from seeing that.
However, right now, Red John wasn’t their problem. If they didn’t find the man (or woman) responsible for Sally Hughes’ death as soon as feasibly possible, then she didn’t doubt that he would become their problem. A killer with the hubris of Red John would never stand for somebody recklessly copying his style like this. At least Jane understood the urgency for the closure of this case, even if the rest of the team were more dubious. But then, she had only really worked with Jane until very recently. And Grace Van Pelt had literally just started with the unit two days ago. It was understandable that they had more than a little apprehension when it came to her and her skills; they hadn’t had the chance to truly make sense of them yet.
Jane took the scenic route back to the Malibu P.D. headquarters. Lisbon suspected that it was in the vain hope of trying to get her to talk again, but she wasn't especially in the mood to discuss anything beyond the case. Malibu held too many bittersweet memories for her; the ghosts of the past walked the sidewalks and clung to the air. Every corner held a new demon for her to endure. Jane had run away from his past; he originally hailed from Chicago, Illinois, and he came to California so he didn't have to face this kind of thing too often. She couldn't blame him for that; many people had advised her to do the exact same thing. Unfinished business, namely Red John, had stopped her from leaving. Maybe things would be different one day. Maybe the crushing pain she felt during every waking moment would eventually dissipate.
When they arrived, Rigsby and Cho were huddled around a laptop, looking at the footage from various Red John crime scenes, just as instructed. A frown was deeply etched between Rigsby's brows as he concentrated on the task in hand. The somber expression on Cho's face suggested that they had finally realized that she was right; this wasn't Red John. Of course, that meant they now had to discover who was responsible and it somewhat set them back to square one.
This spurred Jane into action. Knowing it wasn't Red John for certain suddenly made the murderer seem far more accessible. Red John didn't make mistakes, but the person responsible for this death had already made several. Most notably, deciding to attempt to mimic Red John in the first place. Before Lisbon even had a chance to really think, Jane had whisked her off to the relatives' home in order to go and interview the relatives. Then, she could hardly fault the logic; if she were in charge, then she would have taken that step too. Van Pelt came with them; she needed to learn all aspects of the job and fast. However, that wasn't enough to stop Jane from pressing into her about her frosty demeanor.
"You hate being here, don't you?" Jane said quietly.
"Yes and no."
"One day, you'll be able to remember them in a more positive light."
"Do you?" she countered.
At that, Jane returned his attentions to the road ahead of them and that alone gave her an answer. Jane was still haunted by his past despite the fact it had happened over twenty years ago, in a different state entirely. It had colored who he was as a person and nothing could change that. He may have tried to bury it in the past, and sometimes, he was able to remember the happy times. However, that wasn't enough to stop the darker side of his childhood from haunting his dreams. Lisbon had seen the reports online; his mother had died when he was twelve, his father when he was sixteen. Jane hadn't opened up about the intervening years and she suspected that was what troubled him the most. But she didn't expect him to either; they were work colleagues, nothing more and nothing less.
The moment they arrived at the Hughes family residence, Grace Van Pelt practically flew out of the car. It was as if she couldn't stand the tension that was simmering in the air any longer. Lisbon agreed with her sentiment; there were times, like this, when she wished that Jane would just let her get on with her job instead of trying to make sense of what was going on in her head. He knew her motives for being here and surely, that should have been enough. As they waited patiently on the doorstep, Jane reached out and placed a gentle hand on her left shoulder. Lisbon flinched at the touch and then promptly threw it off. Then, somebody answered the door and it was time to get on with work.
The person who answered the door was a nine year old boy with a runny nose, with his thumb firmly attached to his mouth. Clearly, he was off sick from school and it broke Lisbon's heart a little. In a dank motel, not far from here, his mother met her death. Now, he was going to have to grow up without his mother - and who could say how it would affect the father too?
"Hello, is your daddy home?" Jane asked gently.
The boy stopped sucking his thumb for a second, nodded, and then he called for his dad. After five minutes, a man wearing a lab coat, with scientific goggles propped on his forehead appeared at the door. Immediately, Lisbon knew this man was a tinkerer; somewhere in the basement, he carried out madcap experiments and tried to be the scientist he’d dreamed about being as a kid. He was about to apologize and explain his tardiness when he seemed to take note of the badges attached to both Patrick Jane's and Grace Van Pelt's belts. Then, his face crumpled for half a second, but he shook his head and resisted the temptation to burst into tears.
Instead, he ushered them into a spacious lounge, littered by a few of his son's toys. Mr. Benjamin Hughes made a lame attempt to pick them up before giving up and taking a seat opposite Lisbon. Jane, meanwhile, started pacing around the room, paying attention to the couple's belongings instead of turning his attentions to the grieving widower. He always did this; he claimed it gave him a feel for the inhabitants and their relationships. Lisbon found a cursory glance was usually more than enough; reading people was her specialty.
"It's my Sally, isn't it?" he murmured, his face growing increasingly pale. "She's been found dead, hasn't she?"
Lisbon nodded; it seemed like Jane was happy enough for her to take the lead in this interview. "I'm very sorry for your loss."
"No you're not," he snapped suddenly. "You do this every day; if people weren't killed, you wouldn't have a job, would you, Agent er..."
"My name is Teresa Lisbon; I'm not an agent, I consult on various crimes for the CBI. Grace Van Pelt and Patrick Jane, they are the agents."
"Oh. So why are you here?" he asked, staring pointedly at her.
"Because I know what it's like to live without answers. I know what it's like to suffer from that sense of loss and despair, with no light at the end of the tunnel and I don't want you to feel the way that I do every day and every night."
This seemed to mollify the man slightly. Lisbon knew that people reacted to the death of their loved ones in vastly different ways. Hughes had chosen to lash out at the nearest person, to be angry because there was nothing he could do about it. She looked him square in the eye and took a gentle hold of his wrist. There had to be a reason why he was especially angry about it and it was her job to find out why.
"Tell us about your wife," she asked gently. "Don't pull away," she added when he tried to take his hand back from her grasp.
"What kind of weirdo is this woman? Why does she need to hold onto me?" the man demanded, directing his questions straight at Jane this time around.
"Ms. Lisbon brings a unique insight into our investigations. If anyone will be able to figure out who killed your wife, and fast, it's her. Listen to her and do what she says. Trust me on this."
Clearly still unconvinced, Ben Hughes gave a short sharp nod before returning his attention to Lisbon. Then, he finally answered the question and several more that she asked him afterwards. With some trepidation, he answered each and every one, much to her relief. In the end, she had a clear picture painted about this man and the relationship he had shared with his deceased wife.
"How long have you and Sally been suffering from marital strife?" she asked and it was at that moment where Ben Hughes decided he'd had enough.
"Excuse me?"
"Answer the question, please," Jane said absent-mindedly as he looked at the photograph of their son with some interest.
"What marriage doesn't have problems?" he countered, avoiding a direct answer.
"True, but how long have you been seeking help for it?" Lisbon clarified.
"Three months."
"Thank you," she replied.
"We'll need the details of your marriage counselor, then," Jane said as he finally joined her by the couch.
"Is that all?"
"For now,” Jane answered smoothly. “Thank you for your time. We'll let ourselves out."
After updating Rigsby and Cho in a conference call and instructing them to interview the woman's boss, Jane drove Lisbon and Van Pelt to the marriage counseling clinic. Once again, they fell into an uncomfortable silence. Lisbon was still deeply concerned about the Red John connotations in the case. She knew what it was like to be burned by the serial killer. And if Red John discovered this copycat, then she could easily see this spiraling into a never ending cycle of death. Violence didn't end violence; it extended it. That wasn't to say she was necessarily against corporal punishment - or the death penalty in extreme cases - the problem was when people took it into their own hands. Or believed they had a right to hurt the people who hurt them. It caused a never ending circle of pain.
And from what she knew about Red John, he did precisely that. The image of her husband and daughter - with her toenails painted in her own a blood; a touch of delicacy reserved just for her - flooded to the forefront of her mind. This had to stop; Red John had to be stopped. They were dancing on a dangerous knife edge right now. But first, this case had to be solved before everything got completely out of control.
The building was all sleek white lines, with baskets of fuchsias hanging around the door. The elegant sign was marred by the all too cheerful slogan of 'bringing you back to you', which made Lisbon instinctively skeptical. She was already very suspicious of counselors and psychiatrists by default. The whole of the United States was made up of corporations and it just made her question the motives of these so-called medics. Like everyone else, they were out for a profit and she half-suspected that they tried to get their patients reliant on the therapy. Even so, the Hughes' therapist - and also, the owner of the clinic - had been gracious enough to spare the time for the interview.
They were quickly chaperoned to the office where the meeting was to be held. Briefly, Lisbon stopped to scan the books held in the shelving unit; you could tell a lot about a person from their book collection. Jane stood beside her, and he selected a tome on notorious serial killers based in California. Without needing to look as closely as Jane was, Lisbon could tell it had been thumbed through on a regular basis. At first it seemed a little random; why would a marriage counselor need a book on serial killers? However, it did make sense: serial killers often had the most extreme of personalities and occasionally suffered from serious mental disorders. It was probably perfect research for her line of work. Dr. Simone Wyatt swept into the room with a flurry of scarves moments after they both took a seat beside Van Pelt. With a megawatt grin, she sat down in front of them, laced her fingers together and leaned forwards. Before any of them had a chance to speak, Wyatt shook her head dramatically, clicked her tongue and spoke herself.
"Such a tragedy. They were such a sweet couple and they were doing so well in therapy. In just three months, they had made some major breakthroughs," she said with a heavy sigh. "And all that work, undone. Their poor son, too..."
"So you knew the couple well then?" Lisbon asked.
"Oh, very,” Wyatt enthused and laced her fingers together as she spoke. “They told me all their intimate details. I have such a trusting relationship with my clientele."
"And did either of them suffer from paranoia, a fear of being killed?"
"Confidentiality, my dears. I wish I could tell you, but..."
She shook her head dramatically. Lisbon frowned and Jane just smiled.
"A little redundant, don't you think, if the client is dead," Jane remarked lightly. "You can’t offend them beyond the grave.”
“Ah, but you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, either.”
“If you won't tell us willingly, we will find another way to get the information," he answered back, his tone low.
"Are you threatening me, Agent Jane?"
"Getting a warrant, charging you with obstruction.” He listed them on his fingers as he brought them up. “There are plenty of legal methods to get what we need."
"Yes. Sally Hughes did suffer from a very mild form of paranoia. Very mild," she stressed when she eventually relented. "She thought the cleaner at her workplace was stalking her."
"Thank you."
"Will that be all?"
"Not quite," Lisbon interrupted quietly. "Have you heard of the serial killer, Red John?"
The woman glanced out of the window before returning her attention to Lisbon and the two agents sitting in front of her. She ran her right hand through her thick curly red hair and then shook her head. Then, a look of seriousness crossed her features, almost as if her every reaction to this specific line of questioning had been pre-planned.
"No, I can't say that I have. Now I really must go or I will be late for my seven-thirty."
"One more question," Jane said smoothly as he stood to shake the woman's hand. "You don't just do marriage counseling, do you?"
"I specialize in it, but no, I don’t just offer marriage counseling as a part of my services. Any particular reason you have an interest in that?"
"Just intrigued,” Jane answered with a bright smile. “Thank you for your time."
With plans to talk to the supposed stalker in the morning, they met up with Rigsby and Cho for dinner. Over lobster, Lisbon observed the interactions between Wayne Rigsby and Grace Van Pelt with considerable interest. It was well-established that fraternization within units was strictly against the rules, but it was obvious that Rigsby was sexually attracted to the new rookie. Silently, she made note to advise Rigsby not to go there in private; she got the impression that Jane and Cho wouldn't care either way so long as the job got done. However, that didn't mean the brass would be quite so lenient on them. She liked Rigsby; he was solid, hard-working and dependable. Lisbon didn’t want him to lose his job over something easily avoidable. And this was Grace Van Pelt’s big break; she didn’t deserve to have it screwed up by an over-zealous colleague.
When everybody disappeared back to the hotel, Lisbon hailed a cab to go back to her family home. She didn't bother telling them where she was going; it was none of their business. This was a private place for her - almost a sacred spot - she didn't want any of the others here. Besides, she wanted to offer up a silent prayer, alone, for her deceased family. Lisbon didn't know if it would do any good; all she could do was hope that God would forgive her for her sins and allow her family to rest in peace.
After a few silent prayers in the master bedroom, Lisbon padded downstairs barefoot. Automatically, she headed towards the kitchen which only had a few basics left in it, including a coffee machine. With a sigh, she switched the machine on, topped it up with coffee beans and hot water and fetched the mug her daughter had bought her for her last mother's day. Vaguely, she thought she heard a car pull up outside, but she disregarded it. Then, she filled her mug and took a few tentative sips. The coffee was old and past its best, but it was better than nothing.
It was then that she heard a series of loud knocks, first on the window in the lounge and then on the front door.
To Chapter Three
“Teresa, are you okay?”
She shook her head slightly, turned to face her superior, Patrick Jane, and smiled weakly. Was she okay? Not particularly. But then, she wasn’t inclined to tell him the whole truth anyway. Patrick Jane was a loose cannon; in a way, he reminded her of her father. Therefore, she had long since decided that he was not to be trusted. Besides, after one year of working in close quarters with him, she was already seriously questioning how he had managed to keep his job for so long. To describe him as a maverick felt like a gross simplification. He seemed to live his life with reckless abandon and applied that to work as well.
In reality, she knew the answer. He closed cases and looked good while doing it. Patrick Jane was the ideal poster boy for the CBI. Men wanted to be him, women wanted to be with him. He carried his damaged intensity, scars from his troubled childhood, well, and it only added to the allure. She had been brought on in order to improve the closed case record, as well as provide a calming presence towards the almost insane senior agent. Lisbon wasn’t particularly sure if she was doing a good job or not. If she was, then she dreaded to know what he had been like before she had joined the CBI. She could only imagine a walking disaster, and it only reiterated her questions about how and why he had been successful as a cop.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying,” he replied.
“And this isn’t Red John,” she retorted, keen to change the subject. “Are we done here?”
Rigsby and Cho both glanced away, but Van Pelt looked shocked by her abrupt nature. She made for the door to the master bedroom; she didn’t want to stay near the dead body for much longer. Unlike many consultants, Lisbon understood the importance of forensic evidence. Often, it would be the lynchpin in a court case, but it disappeared relatively quickly. They needed to let the forensics guys get on with their job in peace, while they went and dealt with the family and the like. It was then that she really came into her own; there was only so much she could work out from cold reading a dead body. Living people, with fluctuating emotions and reactions were another matter entirely. And besides, it was statistically far more likely that this woman had been brutally murdered by one of her closest relatives rather than Red John.
“How do you know?” Grace Van Pelt asked quietly. “That it isn’t Red John, I mean.”
At least one of them had bothered to ask the question. Van Pelt looked at her hopefully; she was very keen to learn about Lisbon and her mindset. It almost made her feel uncomfortable; Van Pelt was the kind of woman her father would have insisted she targeted three years ago. Grace Van Pelt was hopelessly naïve, with a strong sense of belief in the ‘other realm’, an incredibly open mind and all too easily impressed. It would have been easy for her to persuade Van Pelt that she was truly a psychic; in fact, if the new rookie had done her research before joining, she would probably think she actually was one anyway.
Jane shot her the ‘I’m waiting’ look, the one which she knew demanded answers and fast. Sometimes, it felt like she gave him the answers so he could come up with the crackpot plan to shoot down the criminal. They closed cases, and that pleased Virgil Minelli, Jane’s supervisor. However, sometimes, it made Lisbon feel more than a little uncomfortable. When Jane came up with a plan, he usually thought outside of the box. Minelli claimed this was ‘forward thinking’ and it ‘brought in a new era of fighting crime’. Lisbon, meanwhile, saw all the potential loopholes where Jane could hang himself from. Whenever they got a case through the courts, it seemed like nothing short of a miracle.
“The cutting style is all wrong. Red John is an artist; every cut means something to him. This?” she said, and she waved a hand in the general direction of the deceased. “It’s like an amateur trying to recreate a Van Gogh.”
“Oh,” Van Pelt answered, sounding very small, like she had asked a stupid question. She hadn’t; it was just a case of what was obvious to Lisbon, and Jane to a lesser extent, was less so to everybody else.
“And the smiley face is painted on the wrong wall. It doesn’t play out nearly so well, don’t you think?”
“He’s broken M.O. before; he could’ve just done it again?” Rigsby suggested.
Lisbon flinched. She knew all too well that Rigsby was referencing her husband and daughter’s death. Ordinarily, Red John exclusively killed women, between the ages of twenty and thirty. Generally, he struck in the dead of the night. He never applied his sexual fantasies to his victims; instead, he got his thrills from brutally murdering them. The smiley face on the wall was always painted prior to the final, fatal, blow. That way, they died with the fear and knowledge that Red John was the one responsible for their untimely demise. When Andrew and Eva Lisbon had been killed, it had been Red John’s first double murder since Carter and Janet Peakes. It had also been the first murder where an innocent child had been killed. For a long while, the cops had been unsure whether or not the murder had actually been associated with Red John. However, Lisbon knew exactly why he had changed his modus operandi: if you wanted to hurt somebody, you didn’t kill them. You killed their family instead.
And naturally, she was still hurting from the blow. She still blamed herself for their deaths. She still wanted to set everything right, but doubted she ever would.
“You see the smiley face, then you see the body. It makes sense,” Jane added. “Cho, Rigsby, I want you to check up on that using footage from previous crime scenes. If Lisbon’s right, we have ourselves a copycat.”
“I am right,” she asserted. “And if we don’t keep this quiet, we’ll probably have an actual Red John case on our hands, too.”
“And why do you think that?”
“He doesn’t like slander. He sees himself as unique. A poor facsimile such as this will make him furious.”
“Guess we’ll have to close this one quickly then, won’t we?”
“Yes, boss,” she muttered.
Sometimes, it felt ironic calling Patrick Jane her boss. Technically, of course, he was, but that didn’t mean it necessarily felt right. He was so out of control himself, it was a wonder that he could keep control of three younger agents and a consultant driven by revenge as well. Considering everything she had been through, Lisbon believed she still managed to retain more of her sense of sanity than Jane ever would. Silently, she reminded herself that he got the job done. He went into dangerous situations armed with little more than a gun, and helped to bring justice to the world. If that wasn’t an honorable calling, then what was? It wasn’t her place to judge his methodology; instead, she was hired to assist him in any way that she could.
In silence, they headed towards the base camp, which they had set up in Malibu for the duration of the case. The commute back and forth to Sacramento just wasn’t practical when the crime scene was based this far afield. Lisbon knew that the others had booked to stay in a motel, and they’d been kind enough to ensure that she had a room there too. However, she had already promised herself that she would stay at home. It made her feel that little bit closer to Andrew and Eva that way. Silently, she hoped, wished they were at peace, but in actuality, she doubted they ever would be until Red John had been apprehended. And that was why she had volunteered her services to the CBI specifically. To bring peace to her soul, as well as having the vain hope that she could bury her family mentally as well as physically.
Even though she had already established that Red John wasn’t responsible for the death of Sally Hughes, she couldn’t help but feel like it had reopened old wounds. Jane, who had been suspended due to a misdemeanor on a previous case, had been brought back the moment the fake Red John smiley face had been discovered. But Jane wasn’t her problem; she could get along working with him just as well as without him. In truth, sometimes, he made it a little easier because he was intuitive for a cop and seemed to grasp hold of her theories easily. No, she had panicked internally when she had heard that Red John had killed again so close to her family home. It made her instantly remember that fateful day, doing a reading for that insufferable presenter, Alexa, being late home to put Eva to bed. She could remember the creak of the third to last step on the staircase, where she first noticed that dreadful note.
And she could remember thinking: I could have, should have, been able to stop this.
Holding back murder sometimes felt like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a broom. At face value, murder felt senseless, pointless and innately wrong. Fighting against it was like fighting a losing battle; one where you could never win. The patterns underneath it, the motives and reasoning, the money, the jealousy, the deceit and lies which killers couldn’t cover up forever, that was how a crime was inevitably solved. Answers helped, Lisbon would never have denied that. However, it didn’t ever stop it from feeling like a waste of a life. It didn’t ever stop the families and friends of the victims from hurting because their loved one was taken away from them far too soon. It never got rid of the pain. That, she knew from very personal experience.
“You’re quiet today,” Jane remarked as he drove them (too fast) to the motel. The others were in another car, which gave them a little privacy to speak more freely.
“Just thinking,” she answered back stiffly.
“About Red John?”
“Partially.” It wasn’t a lie; there were other things on her mind as well.
“We’ll get him one day.”
“Maybe,” she answered; clearly she felt far more cautious about the subject than he did.
Then again, she had to wonder precisely why he was almost as driven to close the Red John case as she was. It was true that any murder was ‘too many’, but why did he so desperately want to get Red John behind bars, or better yet, dead? Besides being a serial killer, what separated him from all the other murderers they sought out? What made him special to Jane specifically? Everybody knew Lisbon’s motives as clear as day; she wanted to catch the killer responsible for the deaths of her family. He was the man who had apparently driven her father to suicide, though they were yet to find the body. Jason Hamilton was missing, presumed dead and nobody was bothering to investigate either way. Of course, Jane had an equally tragic past, of which Lisbon had only figured out a few of the minor details thus far, but the connections between that and Red John seemed illogical.
But then, did a senior agent, who led the Serious Crimes Unit for the California Bureau of Investigation, really need a precise reason to want a serial killer dead? Surely the job title alone was enough of a motive for that? Of course, it wasn’t revenge driven, or any of the other motives that death eventually boiled down to, it was more honorable than that. But just because there was honor behind the feelings, it didn’t stop the resolution from being ultimately, the same. And if any brutal murderer deserved to rot behind bars, or be killed, it was Red John. Even Lisbon’s beliefs couldn’t prevent her from seeing that.
However, right now, Red John wasn’t their problem. If they didn’t find the man (or woman) responsible for Sally Hughes’ death as soon as feasibly possible, then she didn’t doubt that he would become their problem. A killer with the hubris of Red John would never stand for somebody recklessly copying his style like this. At least Jane understood the urgency for the closure of this case, even if the rest of the team were more dubious. But then, she had only really worked with Jane until very recently. And Grace Van Pelt had literally just started with the unit two days ago. It was understandable that they had more than a little apprehension when it came to her and her skills; they hadn’t had the chance to truly make sense of them yet.
Jane took the scenic route back to the Malibu P.D. headquarters. Lisbon suspected that it was in the vain hope of trying to get her to talk again, but she wasn't especially in the mood to discuss anything beyond the case. Malibu held too many bittersweet memories for her; the ghosts of the past walked the sidewalks and clung to the air. Every corner held a new demon for her to endure. Jane had run away from his past; he originally hailed from Chicago, Illinois, and he came to California so he didn't have to face this kind of thing too often. She couldn't blame him for that; many people had advised her to do the exact same thing. Unfinished business, namely Red John, had stopped her from leaving. Maybe things would be different one day. Maybe the crushing pain she felt during every waking moment would eventually dissipate.
When they arrived, Rigsby and Cho were huddled around a laptop, looking at the footage from various Red John crime scenes, just as instructed. A frown was deeply etched between Rigsby's brows as he concentrated on the task in hand. The somber expression on Cho's face suggested that they had finally realized that she was right; this wasn't Red John. Of course, that meant they now had to discover who was responsible and it somewhat set them back to square one.
This spurred Jane into action. Knowing it wasn't Red John for certain suddenly made the murderer seem far more accessible. Red John didn't make mistakes, but the person responsible for this death had already made several. Most notably, deciding to attempt to mimic Red John in the first place. Before Lisbon even had a chance to really think, Jane had whisked her off to the relatives' home in order to go and interview the relatives. Then, she could hardly fault the logic; if she were in charge, then she would have taken that step too. Van Pelt came with them; she needed to learn all aspects of the job and fast. However, that wasn't enough to stop Jane from pressing into her about her frosty demeanor.
"You hate being here, don't you?" Jane said quietly.
"Yes and no."
"One day, you'll be able to remember them in a more positive light."
"Do you?" she countered.
At that, Jane returned his attentions to the road ahead of them and that alone gave her an answer. Jane was still haunted by his past despite the fact it had happened over twenty years ago, in a different state entirely. It had colored who he was as a person and nothing could change that. He may have tried to bury it in the past, and sometimes, he was able to remember the happy times. However, that wasn't enough to stop the darker side of his childhood from haunting his dreams. Lisbon had seen the reports online; his mother had died when he was twelve, his father when he was sixteen. Jane hadn't opened up about the intervening years and she suspected that was what troubled him the most. But she didn't expect him to either; they were work colleagues, nothing more and nothing less.
The moment they arrived at the Hughes family residence, Grace Van Pelt practically flew out of the car. It was as if she couldn't stand the tension that was simmering in the air any longer. Lisbon agreed with her sentiment; there were times, like this, when she wished that Jane would just let her get on with her job instead of trying to make sense of what was going on in her head. He knew her motives for being here and surely, that should have been enough. As they waited patiently on the doorstep, Jane reached out and placed a gentle hand on her left shoulder. Lisbon flinched at the touch and then promptly threw it off. Then, somebody answered the door and it was time to get on with work.
The person who answered the door was a nine year old boy with a runny nose, with his thumb firmly attached to his mouth. Clearly, he was off sick from school and it broke Lisbon's heart a little. In a dank motel, not far from here, his mother met her death. Now, he was going to have to grow up without his mother - and who could say how it would affect the father too?
"Hello, is your daddy home?" Jane asked gently.
The boy stopped sucking his thumb for a second, nodded, and then he called for his dad. After five minutes, a man wearing a lab coat, with scientific goggles propped on his forehead appeared at the door. Immediately, Lisbon knew this man was a tinkerer; somewhere in the basement, he carried out madcap experiments and tried to be the scientist he’d dreamed about being as a kid. He was about to apologize and explain his tardiness when he seemed to take note of the badges attached to both Patrick Jane's and Grace Van Pelt's belts. Then, his face crumpled for half a second, but he shook his head and resisted the temptation to burst into tears.
Instead, he ushered them into a spacious lounge, littered by a few of his son's toys. Mr. Benjamin Hughes made a lame attempt to pick them up before giving up and taking a seat opposite Lisbon. Jane, meanwhile, started pacing around the room, paying attention to the couple's belongings instead of turning his attentions to the grieving widower. He always did this; he claimed it gave him a feel for the inhabitants and their relationships. Lisbon found a cursory glance was usually more than enough; reading people was her specialty.
"It's my Sally, isn't it?" he murmured, his face growing increasingly pale. "She's been found dead, hasn't she?"
Lisbon nodded; it seemed like Jane was happy enough for her to take the lead in this interview. "I'm very sorry for your loss."
"No you're not," he snapped suddenly. "You do this every day; if people weren't killed, you wouldn't have a job, would you, Agent er..."
"My name is Teresa Lisbon; I'm not an agent, I consult on various crimes for the CBI. Grace Van Pelt and Patrick Jane, they are the agents."
"Oh. So why are you here?" he asked, staring pointedly at her.
"Because I know what it's like to live without answers. I know what it's like to suffer from that sense of loss and despair, with no light at the end of the tunnel and I don't want you to feel the way that I do every day and every night."
This seemed to mollify the man slightly. Lisbon knew that people reacted to the death of their loved ones in vastly different ways. Hughes had chosen to lash out at the nearest person, to be angry because there was nothing he could do about it. She looked him square in the eye and took a gentle hold of his wrist. There had to be a reason why he was especially angry about it and it was her job to find out why.
"Tell us about your wife," she asked gently. "Don't pull away," she added when he tried to take his hand back from her grasp.
"What kind of weirdo is this woman? Why does she need to hold onto me?" the man demanded, directing his questions straight at Jane this time around.
"Ms. Lisbon brings a unique insight into our investigations. If anyone will be able to figure out who killed your wife, and fast, it's her. Listen to her and do what she says. Trust me on this."
Clearly still unconvinced, Ben Hughes gave a short sharp nod before returning his attention to Lisbon. Then, he finally answered the question and several more that she asked him afterwards. With some trepidation, he answered each and every one, much to her relief. In the end, she had a clear picture painted about this man and the relationship he had shared with his deceased wife.
"How long have you and Sally been suffering from marital strife?" she asked and it was at that moment where Ben Hughes decided he'd had enough.
"Excuse me?"
"Answer the question, please," Jane said absent-mindedly as he looked at the photograph of their son with some interest.
"What marriage doesn't have problems?" he countered, avoiding a direct answer.
"True, but how long have you been seeking help for it?" Lisbon clarified.
"Three months."
"Thank you," she replied.
"We'll need the details of your marriage counselor, then," Jane said as he finally joined her by the couch.
"Is that all?"
"For now,” Jane answered smoothly. “Thank you for your time. We'll let ourselves out."
After updating Rigsby and Cho in a conference call and instructing them to interview the woman's boss, Jane drove Lisbon and Van Pelt to the marriage counseling clinic. Once again, they fell into an uncomfortable silence. Lisbon was still deeply concerned about the Red John connotations in the case. She knew what it was like to be burned by the serial killer. And if Red John discovered this copycat, then she could easily see this spiraling into a never ending cycle of death. Violence didn't end violence; it extended it. That wasn't to say she was necessarily against corporal punishment - or the death penalty in extreme cases - the problem was when people took it into their own hands. Or believed they had a right to hurt the people who hurt them. It caused a never ending circle of pain.
And from what she knew about Red John, he did precisely that. The image of her husband and daughter - with her toenails painted in her own a blood; a touch of delicacy reserved just for her - flooded to the forefront of her mind. This had to stop; Red John had to be stopped. They were dancing on a dangerous knife edge right now. But first, this case had to be solved before everything got completely out of control.
The building was all sleek white lines, with baskets of fuchsias hanging around the door. The elegant sign was marred by the all too cheerful slogan of 'bringing you back to you', which made Lisbon instinctively skeptical. She was already very suspicious of counselors and psychiatrists by default. The whole of the United States was made up of corporations and it just made her question the motives of these so-called medics. Like everyone else, they were out for a profit and she half-suspected that they tried to get their patients reliant on the therapy. Even so, the Hughes' therapist - and also, the owner of the clinic - had been gracious enough to spare the time for the interview.
They were quickly chaperoned to the office where the meeting was to be held. Briefly, Lisbon stopped to scan the books held in the shelving unit; you could tell a lot about a person from their book collection. Jane stood beside her, and he selected a tome on notorious serial killers based in California. Without needing to look as closely as Jane was, Lisbon could tell it had been thumbed through on a regular basis. At first it seemed a little random; why would a marriage counselor need a book on serial killers? However, it did make sense: serial killers often had the most extreme of personalities and occasionally suffered from serious mental disorders. It was probably perfect research for her line of work. Dr. Simone Wyatt swept into the room with a flurry of scarves moments after they both took a seat beside Van Pelt. With a megawatt grin, she sat down in front of them, laced her fingers together and leaned forwards. Before any of them had a chance to speak, Wyatt shook her head dramatically, clicked her tongue and spoke herself.
"Such a tragedy. They were such a sweet couple and they were doing so well in therapy. In just three months, they had made some major breakthroughs," she said with a heavy sigh. "And all that work, undone. Their poor son, too..."
"So you knew the couple well then?" Lisbon asked.
"Oh, very,” Wyatt enthused and laced her fingers together as she spoke. “They told me all their intimate details. I have such a trusting relationship with my clientele."
"And did either of them suffer from paranoia, a fear of being killed?"
"Confidentiality, my dears. I wish I could tell you, but..."
She shook her head dramatically. Lisbon frowned and Jane just smiled.
"A little redundant, don't you think, if the client is dead," Jane remarked lightly. "You can’t offend them beyond the grave.”
“Ah, but you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, either.”
“If you won't tell us willingly, we will find another way to get the information," he answered back, his tone low.
"Are you threatening me, Agent Jane?"
"Getting a warrant, charging you with obstruction.” He listed them on his fingers as he brought them up. “There are plenty of legal methods to get what we need."
"Yes. Sally Hughes did suffer from a very mild form of paranoia. Very mild," she stressed when she eventually relented. "She thought the cleaner at her workplace was stalking her."
"Thank you."
"Will that be all?"
"Not quite," Lisbon interrupted quietly. "Have you heard of the serial killer, Red John?"
The woman glanced out of the window before returning her attention to Lisbon and the two agents sitting in front of her. She ran her right hand through her thick curly red hair and then shook her head. Then, a look of seriousness crossed her features, almost as if her every reaction to this specific line of questioning had been pre-planned.
"No, I can't say that I have. Now I really must go or I will be late for my seven-thirty."
"One more question," Jane said smoothly as he stood to shake the woman's hand. "You don't just do marriage counseling, do you?"
"I specialize in it, but no, I don’t just offer marriage counseling as a part of my services. Any particular reason you have an interest in that?"
"Just intrigued,” Jane answered with a bright smile. “Thank you for your time."
With plans to talk to the supposed stalker in the morning, they met up with Rigsby and Cho for dinner. Over lobster, Lisbon observed the interactions between Wayne Rigsby and Grace Van Pelt with considerable interest. It was well-established that fraternization within units was strictly against the rules, but it was obvious that Rigsby was sexually attracted to the new rookie. Silently, she made note to advise Rigsby not to go there in private; she got the impression that Jane and Cho wouldn't care either way so long as the job got done. However, that didn't mean the brass would be quite so lenient on them. She liked Rigsby; he was solid, hard-working and dependable. Lisbon didn’t want him to lose his job over something easily avoidable. And this was Grace Van Pelt’s big break; she didn’t deserve to have it screwed up by an over-zealous colleague.
When everybody disappeared back to the hotel, Lisbon hailed a cab to go back to her family home. She didn't bother telling them where she was going; it was none of their business. This was a private place for her - almost a sacred spot - she didn't want any of the others here. Besides, she wanted to offer up a silent prayer, alone, for her deceased family. Lisbon didn't know if it would do any good; all she could do was hope that God would forgive her for her sins and allow her family to rest in peace.
After a few silent prayers in the master bedroom, Lisbon padded downstairs barefoot. Automatically, she headed towards the kitchen which only had a few basics left in it, including a coffee machine. With a sigh, she switched the machine on, topped it up with coffee beans and hot water and fetched the mug her daughter had bought her for her last mother's day. Vaguely, she thought she heard a car pull up outside, but she disregarded it. Then, she filled her mug and took a few tentative sips. The coffee was old and past its best, but it was better than nothing.
It was then that she heard a series of loud knocks, first on the window in the lounge and then on the front door.
To Chapter Three