Summary: Patrick Jane may not be psychic, but that doesn't mean he's not haunted by ghosts. Oneshot.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist and make no profit from this work of fiction.
Everyone at the California Bureau of Investigation knows that Patrick Jane is not a psychic. He is mentalist, one good enough to pass for psychic, but something easily within the realm of understanding. Lisbon, Rigsby, Cho, Van Pelt—they believe in a charming smile, in lightning-quick intelligence and eyes that see more in one glance than most will see in an hour.
They're only half right.
"Look at his arms."
Patrick smiles. His eyes crinkle, and he's probably showing too many teeth. The distraught husband shifts uncomfortably from his place across the driveway, trying to keep Patrick in sight and still answer Cho's questions.
"Anything, Jane?" Lisbon says, gaze coolly taking in the scene before flashing up to Patrick's face.
"Hmm," he hums. He strides forward, brushing past Van Pelt, who is attempting to comfort the teenage daughter, and Rigsby, who is examining the blood pattern that explodes from the back of the wife's head. He halts when he has a clear view of the husband's arms. Scars rake down the back of them in thick white lines. Fingernails, probably a woman's.
Thank you, he thinks.
"Don't be silly. You already saw it, anyway!" There's a giggle, then a pause, as if to listen. "The mean guy's wife says they're there 'cause he used to sneak into their daughter's room at night." A sense of momentary confusion comes through, but it quickly fades behind a curtain of pride.
Good job, he thinks, and he smiles more tenderly. Would you go wait by the car for me? He nods shallowly to Lisbon's SUV and waits a beat. Then he turns to the straight-laced, all-American husband.
"Ah, Mr. Julian, tell me. How long have you been raping your daughter?" It comes out in a perfectly pleasant tone of voice, but rage, hot and bubbling like lava, roils beneath. The man sputters and Lisbon hisses a "Jane!" in his direction, but he keeps his stare leveled at the murderer.
A minute later he is unceremoniously exiled to the car. He leans against the black metal, arms crossed over his vest. When he glances over, a little girl sits on the hood, kicking her legs. He takes in her pink dress, the blond hair falling in curls around her face, and the smattering of freckles that dance across her nose. She grins up at him with white baby teeth.
"That was so awesome! Someday, I'm gonna be just like you!" She flops dramatically back on the warm black hood. Patrick forces back the tears threatening in his eyes and the frozen lump in his throat, and he gives her yet another eye-crinkling smile.
I love you.
"I love you too, Daddy." Charlotte blows a kiss at him, and his eyes soak in her form as it fades into the bright, glinting noon light. The last to vanish are her summer-blue eyes.
His smile slips, and even closed eyes can't stop a tear from trailing down his cheek.
Patrick Jane is not psychic, but that doesn't mean he's not haunted by ghosts.