Packing Up
Who: Lisbon
What: Claiming personal possessions after CBI was disbanded
When: A couple of months after "Red John" (S6,E8)
Where: CBI, Jane's extended stay motel room
Why: Reclaiming her possessions turns out to be surprisingly difficult
Disclaimer: The author owns no part of The Mentalist series, characters, scripts, etc
The trip is unexpectedly painful when Teresa Lisbon goes to pick up her personal possessions after the CBI was disbanded.
Chapter 1 - Getting Her Stuff
For the last time, Lisbon looked around the empty 5th floor of the former CBI building. It was dense with memories of ten years of law enforcement work by her team. Her journey started there as a new unit manager, bending over backward to prove her toughness and capabilities. It ended with the CBI crumbling around her, destroyed from within by the rot of corrupt leaders and agents. The CBI failed us. My team has every right to be proud of their work. She turned and took the elevator down.
"I'm here to claim my personal possessions," Lisbon said, handing the FBI clerk her official postcard.
"Please state your name and former position. And I need a government photo ID showing your name."
"Lisbon. Senior Agent, CBI Serious Crimes Unit, 5th floor. Uh, do you also have boxes for Patrick Jane, same unit and floor?"
"I'm not supposed to release materials to anyone but the owner, m'am."
"Jane was my consultant. He's out of the country and your postcard specified today as the last day to retrieve our stuff." She fished around in her small purse. "Here. I have the postcard for Jane as well." She had forged Jane's signature and redirected his mail to her address, where she was saving it for him in a box.
He verified Jane's name on the second card. "Okay, if you sign with your name and former position, I guess I can release his things to you as well."
"Thank you."
Lisbon borrowed a hand truck to wheel the boxes out to the car. She was glad to be getting her professional mementos, pictures, and office items before she had to relocate to Washington. She loaded her stuff into her new SUV, having bought it after turning in the state-owned CBI vehicle. She returned for five boxes of Jane's possessions–almost all books. Does this make any sense? I don't know when I'll see him again, or even if I'll see him again. She sighed. So what? A few more boxes in my storage locker won't matter. Shouldn't just leave them here.
Driving down Juniper Street Lisbon hesitated almost too long, then made an uncomfortably sharp right turn at the last minute. She parked at the extended stay hotel and took twine, several large plastic bags and three collapsed banker's boxes up to Jane's rented room. She opened the door with the spare key Jane had given her for emergencies. The room smelled stale, unused as, indeed, it was.
It was about two months after Bertram, Cordero, and McAllister were killed and Jane disappeared. She was relocating to take a new position in a small town in Washington state. The moving company was coming the next day and she wanted to tie up all loose ends in Sacramento. She covered the dozen suits with plastic bags, fastening the tops around the hanger hooks with twine. Jane had retained a taste for expensive suits after his psychic days and the dozen suits represented almost thirty-thousand dollars worth of clothing. They smelled faintly like him– shampoo, soap, deodorant. The personal effects were even scantier from the hotel room than from the CBI. She laid the suits in the back of the SUV, alongside two boxes of other clothing and toiletries. That was it. She stood at the open door to the SUV, staring stupidly at Jane's suits and boxes. A pile of suits and seven boxes were the only tangible evidence of nine years of working with Jane. That and a faint scar on her shoulder from O'Laughlin's bullet from one of Jane's many attempts to get Red John. Tears suddenly streaming down her face, Damn it. How do you go from working with someone five days a week for nine years to nothing in an instant? Lisbon angrily dragged her sleeve across her face to wipe off the tears. After pulling herself together, she informed the hotel clerk that Jane wouldn't be renewing the lease next month, gave him the key, and drove to her townhouse to finish packing.
Late that night, everything was as finished as it could be. After showering, she got carry-out Thai food and ate if from the cartons with a plastic fork. She poured wine into a plastic cup and relaxed on the couch–the only comfortable place left in the townhouse. The realtor would have her townhouse cleaned and painted before putting it up for sale. Suddenly, she was done. There was nothing more to do, no TV to watch, no friends who would welcome a call so late at night. There was nothing to distract her from her thoughts, welcome or not.
Two months and no word from Jane. Not even any news about him. The FBI never let me get the message from my cell. Evidence. That call must have been Jane. At least he wasn't among the dead bodies. At worst he might have been hurt, but not bad or there would have been word by now. Minelli's back-channel info is that Bertram was killed with Cordero's gun. Cordero also had my gun, I guess from Jane. It hadn't been fired, thank God. I think Abbott bought my explanation that it was taken from my car. If Cordero killed Bertram, then Bertram wasn't Red John?! McAllister. McAllister was supposed to have died in the explosion at Jane's house. Instead he was found dead in the park holding the gun that gun killed Cordero. It also wounded McAllister, who sure as hell didn't shoot himself! McAllister didn't die from the bullet, he was strangled. She shivered. Crime of passion. Ten years of grief, frustration and guilt. I assume, anyhow. But she knew in her bones it was true. Despite nearly 20 years in law enforcement, homicide was different when someone she knew was involved. She swallowed a lump in her throat, profoundly grateful at how it turned out. Jane wasn't killed, probably not hurt. And he chose life. God, I was afraid, afraid once he got Red John there wasn't enough reason for him to continue. The last three years took an awful toll on him.
My CBI memories are mostly good. Jane? Five boxes of books, some clothes and some personal effects, that's it. No home, no family, no hobbies, no friends–other than us. His whole life was Red John for ten years. Determination and pain. That's all I saw when we met. He seemed to gain hope and pride when he realized his talents could be useful at CBI. Once he settled in you could see what he must have been like...before. Fun, clever, delighted in life. Except it was all surface. The pain was still there, underneath. He became friends with the team. And I know I helped him cope. He was just as determined but seemed calmer, more balanced. And then ever since Vegas he got more and more grim. How many times could he narrowly miss getting Red John before it broke him? So at last he got Red John. I pray to God he's finally at peace. But, now what? What's he doing now?
She got up and poured more wine. At least I landed a new job quickly. Ordinary stuff. A steady paycheck and a sane, straight PD will be a relief. Rigsby and Van Pelt have started their own surveillance agency. Rigsby's solid and Van Pelt has the brains to make a go of it business-wise. And Cho just signed on withi the FBI in Texas. After Cho nearly triggered a blood bath pushing Abbott to release Jane, Abbott gets him hired at the FBI. Go figure. Of course, Abbott could use a little seasoned help. Looks like he got saddled with a whole class of newbie agents from the FBI academy. She smiled a tight little smile. Serves him right, the arrogant SOB. At least he finally figured out my unit wasn't dirty. Bertram's corpse may have given him a clue. Now, if he'd only back off of Jane. Not likely. There's a whole raft of charges filed against Jane, who's now officially a wanted fugitive.
What next? One day follows another. Running a PD is honorable work. I'll do some good. As long as Jane's on the run, there's nothing to think about there. I wanted to go with him to get Bertram–or McAllister I guess? But if I'm honest, I really wouldn't want to be on the run from murder charges. I thought the law could take Red John down, but maybe Jane was right. McAllister was s'posed to be dead. Who knows, he even might have beaten any charges. Jane had to finish Red John off or die trying. Melodramatic. Except, it was the absolute truth for Jane. Damn, I miss him.
She finally pulled a blanket over herself and set the alarm on her cell phone to be up for the movers. Ten years in Sacramento. Done.