I know I have a ton of stories to update and I've been MIA for years, but this fic just kind of came to me one day, so here it is. I make no promises about updates. I apologise before hand. Thank you for reading this. Please review and let me know what you think of it.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of The Mentalist.
I.
Teresa Lisbon
Another death calls.
So you show up at the crime scene, disposable cuppa' Joe in your hand - your only breakfast. Its heat scalds your fingers, but you don't mind as its warmth flows through your bones and restarts your systems. Your mind is as foggy as the day, and the sun has only just begun its lazy crawl up the sky.
"Hey, boss."
A tall, strongly built man with a baby face and cowlick greets you. You nod back your own greeting.
"Victim's name is Mark Hanson. Fourty four. Stabbed in the chest with a knife about half an hour ago. Murder weapon's missing; police is canvassing the neighborhood and searching through dumpsters, but so far we have nothing."
Half an hour ago, you wonder. That means the murderer could still be around.
You are too groggy to realise that you have wondered out loud.
"We worked on that assumption and barricaded all exit routes from here," Rigsby answers. "The vic's wife is in the house. Cho is with her."
He grimaces. "He has two children. Twelve and fourteen. They're in there."
Your face mimics his expression. Never an easy conversation with the kids around. As if it had been easy in the first place.
But then you're not in the job because it's easy.
You take a moment to notice your agent's face. It is lost in thought and musing and is hard, but the eyes are tender. You're no mentalist, but you read the expression and understand it. It is the face of a father thinking about his son, and how life would be for little Benjamin if Wayne Rigsby was murdered by someone. Being in law enforcement ensured that plenty of such possibilities arose. You pat his shoulder reassuringly, and it does more for him than your incompetent words ever could. "Good work," you say, and step into the house.
Cho sits with a middle aged woman in her dressing gown and slippers. Her blonde hair is disheveled and her eyes are bloodshot. Her tear streaked face and snot-dribbled nostrils are not a pretty sight. But then, you're not in the job for the pretty sights it brings.
You walk forward and notice two young children huddled together on a sofa, staring at the ground. They do not say a word. The girl, probably the younger one, is a healthy creature with her mother's hair - straight and blonde - falling to her shoulders. Her dark haired brother has a paper cut on his finger. You're no mentalist, but you're observant. The rosy child in her fresh summery dress and her brother in his mud-stained pyjamas - they are the picture of innocence but it has been lost now and shock replaces it. A sting of anger rises in you as it always does when you see unjust suffering, but it fades away almost instantly. You're used to suffering. And you have to be. Emotions don't increase your efficiency.
You introduce yourself, express your sympathies and listen in on the rest of the interview. You learn that the victim was always the first to rise in the house and had gone on a routine morning walk. When Laura, the woman you are talking to, looked out of the house, she noticed the dead body and called the police. She breaks down at the memory and you leave stoic Cho to handle that.
"Ma'am," you hear him say. "The children."
Her sobs become quieter. You glance at the children. Something seems off to you. Their eyes are almost glazed. The boy fidgets with the cut on his finger. The girl stares down silently. You can't quite spell out what is wrong.
Then it hits you.
Their mother's tears do not incite the slightest bit of emotion in them, but they are not emotionless. They just don't seem to feel what you would expect them to feel.
On a hunch, you head to the kitchen. It is neat, tidy and meticulously arranged. All is in order. You notice a fine collection of knives. They shine.
One of them is missing.
The victim was stabbed.
Your suspicions build up but you don't want them to be confirmed.
"Mrs. Hanson," you say cautiously.
The widow looks up. "Yes?"
"Your kitchen is very neat."
She looks at you in puzzlement.
"Thank you," she responds, a slight question in her tone.
"Are you missing a fish knife?" you ask.
She looks surprised. "No, I don't think so, why?"
Cho is looking at your face, his small, unreadable eyes reading your suspicions. He knows what you are thinking.
His eyes focus on the children and his gaze hardens. You follow them. The boy has a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. His hand covers his injured finger.
You sit in front of him, slow, imposing, authoritative. Your voice remains gentle. "What's your name?"
"John," he replies steadily.
You ask the girl too. She is Clarisse. You turn to John.
"Where's the fish knife, John?" you ask kindly. There's no threat in your voice.
"What do you -" the mother begins, truth dawning on her.
Cho silences her.
"I don't know," he stutters.
"I think you do." Your voice is firm.
"No," he says softly. His face rises up in defiance. "I don't."
Your eyes bore steadily into his.
"How did you get that cut on your finger?"
His eyes falter. His response is delayed.
Gotcha.
"Papercut," he fumbles.
"Where's the knife, John?" you ask again.
"John?" His mother's voice rises incredulously.
"Be honest. It's easier," you whisper.
The child looks suddenly scared. He lifts his shirt off his head and shows you his back, his scarred back with lines of lashes, purple and red, and old scars.
"He did this." The boy's voice was hard. "So I had to."
The mother begins to cry.
You let out a quiet, inaudible sigh. John puts his shirt back on.
"What happens to me now?" he asks, suddenly scared.
"Young offenders are taken to rehabilitation centers," you respond, as evenly as possible. "Why didn't you speak out?" you ask, doing your best to not let despair seep into your voice.
He barks a laugh and suddenly John is not a child, but a savage. No response.
"We will have to take him with us, ma'am," you say gently. The woman is sobbing.
You put a hand on the boy's shoulder and guide him outside. Cho follows. You take one look back at the unhappy household.
The little girl shows fear. She still does not cry. She does not pay attention to her mother, who is holding her child and sobbing. You hand over the boy to Cho and sit by them again.
"Clarisse," you ask gently. "Do you know something about the knife?"
Laura Hanson's head snaps up in anger. "Are you accusing-"
You ignore her. "Clarisse?"
"I just gave it to him. Dad deserved it. He was horrible."
Mrs. Hanson breaks. The rest of the morning is a blur to you, one that you'd much rather forget. The knife is found with the fingerprints of both children - bloody fingerprints - and so is DNA evidence. Hair, residue in the nails. Blood in the mud on John's trousers. Children do not cover their tracks. These children have been abused by a paedophilic, perverted father who forced them into incestuous acts. A woman has not just lost her husband and children physically, but all sense of understanding and morality.
You need a drink even though it is the afternoon and you're on duty. You have delivered justice, but only guilt weighs on you. You feel so guilty.
If only you knew how grave your mistake was.
I.