NOTE:
I've been trying to get this 2-chapter story out of my head for long, so here it is, good, bad, whatever. Alex Berenson is too successful an author to ever possibly stumble in this lowly fic of yours truly, but credit is due where credit is due. I model this fic after his narratives—he's just that good. Oh, and the Mentalist is not mine.
SACRAMENTO
The California Bureau of Investigation had paid only glancing attention to the firing of Patrick Jane. After all, he was just a consultant. Good as he'd been, he was not a trained and professionally employed police officer, unlike the rest of the CBI. That, and he was a notoriously inconsiderate boor who couldn't play nice for just a second. A cunt. Nobody cared about him.
Wayne Rigsby's death and Teresa Lisbon's kidnapping provoked a very different reaction.
The crimes took place at two p.m. Within half an hour, every news channel in California reported it. Then, five minutes later, the public defender office in Sacramento called 911, reported for a fainted woman. Her name?
"Sarah Harrigan. Wayne Rigsby's partner, yes, the one shot dead in TV..."
At 4:00, Brenda Shettrick, chief of CBI's Media Relations Unit, held a press conference. She told the public that yes, Patrick Jane had used to work for the CBI, and yes, he was now a fugitive, and yes, he was considered armed and extremely dangerous.
"Do not engage him," she said. "Do not even make an eye contact to him, if possible. I am one-hundred percent serious. This man is a confirmed psychopath and sociopath, and he knows how to read facial expression. Call 911 immediately. We have issued APB for him to every police department in California." The all-points bulletin, broadcast issued from one law enforcement agency to another. "Rest assured that your report will be quickly processed."
Is this a manhunt?
"Yes."
Has the FBI been notified?
"Yes. Our liaison with the FBI, Susan Darcy, will be able to answer..."
The rumors were bad. The reality was worse. A former employee had killed a police and kidnapped another inside police property. Worse, it had become some sort of regular occasions. The Bosco secretary's betrayal, the Visualize shooting, the Todd Johnson's burning—once again, the CBI HQ had been penetrated. What should be a sacrosanct sanctuary turned out to be a bloodbath tub. This fact pissed off literally everyone in the CBI, from the janitor in the basement to the CBI director, Gale Bertram, in his office. And Bertram summed up the prevailing sentiment:
"The fuck just happened?"
The words both question and statement.
Luther Wainwright looked at his boss, struggling to keep the eye contact. His head and his heart pounded like nail guns. The floor felt to twist under his feet. He wished it could suck him down, spare him the embarrassment. It didn't.
"Director, the facts are all there in the report—"
"I know all that. How could all this happen."
"Director, I—"
"Wainwright, you'd best arrest Jane and rescue Lisbon, or I'll assign you to Beverly Hills."
"Yessir. Understood sir. If I may ask—"
"Whatever you need."
"Thank you, Director."
"Now go forth and multiply."
Wainwright left.
He headed to the conference room, rallied his officers, gave them his emergency orders. And as he did he tried to conjure up excitement, solace, or whatever positive feelings an investigator needed to build a case. He couldn't. He seethed inside.
Wainwright didn't mind if someone took over his position. The way he saw it, his job was to control what had been the most troublesome unit of the CBI, keeping its mistakes out of the eyes of the government and the press, while making sure that its closure rate was above state average. Beyond that, he would do what Betram and Betram's bosses decided, for the CBI was after all an office of the government, not a leaderless vigilante group. Fact: too many people had seen too much TVs these days. Want bad guys in prison? Respect their lawyers. Angry that judge throws convictions? Don't play cowboy. Next time, get a warrant, don't tackle the suspects, follow their due process. And stay away from any non-court-ordered confession extraction. Hollywood was one thing, real-life law quite another.
The CBI investigated, surveilled, arrested—and that's it.
It was both a simple and complicated task, and Wainwright spent all his time and strength accomplishing it without losing his team's credibility with the rest of Californian law enforcement agencies. He played the bureaucratic power games and he didn't take his chances with the courtroom. And so he survived. He'd made through a gun freak, a serial killer, a con escape, and that ridiculous buried-alive disaster. All the time, he was still around to defend the SCU from prosecutors and defense attorneys who'd been so eager to put it on spotlight. A very bad spotlight.
And yet this man of his unit, the very man he was shielding from charges and lawsuits and dismissal, had had the stomach to call him a mommy's boy.
Patrick Jane.
Wainwright knew what Jane thought of him. Out of practical reasons, he tolerated that kind of...attitude from a subordinate. But he hated Jane. He would never like Jane. Man's a walking, breathing problem. Jane was like Charlie Sheen, Wainwright knew. He couldn't screw his mouth shut. People like that believed they could never be touched. They thought somebody else would pick up their bills. And indeed for a while their luck and skills would justify that. But nobody was untouchable. Nobody could be lucky forever, be skilled forever. The actors came and went, but the show must go on. One day Jane would fail.
And how right I've been, Wainwright thought. He'd seen the day when Jane had lost his gift. That very day, Wainwright had shown him the door.
But apparently that wasn't enough. Not enough to prevent him from coming back, hurting Wainwright's men. When he got Jane, now, he'd built an airtight case that would send Jane in prison for life. For this justice this mommy's boy swore his life. Wainwright was sure—
Beep.
Wainwright looked at his phone. An FBI agent under Darcy.
"Agent Wainwright?"
"Yes."
"I've just found a lead in Jane. I need to meet with you."
"In person?"
"It has to be in person, yes, sir."
"Can you talk it over the phone?"
"I don't wish to take that chance, sir. Your office may have been bugged."
"Bugged? That seems far-fetched—"
"Sam Bosco would disagree, sir."
"Bosco. I remember. But—"
"Sir, if I may. I don't mean to offend, we in the FBI don't trust your subordinates. The SCU has been involved with Jane for too long. Worse, thanks to their track record, they have juice across the board. Better safe than sorry."
"I understand."
"Jane is a sociopath, sir, I'm sure you know. Fact is I think it's you who said—"
"Yes. Where should I meet?"
The agent told Wainwright.
"Darcy knows about this?"
"I've been trying to reach her, but she doesn't seem available. She'd told me to look for you in a case like this. You're most cooperative, she said."
"I'm flattered. Well, I'll see you there."
Wainwright hung up.