Title: Cold-Blooded
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: If I was Andrew Marlowe, I would rock my own socks. But unfortunately, I am not, and I do not own Castle.
Author's Note: You know when you got this voice in your head and it will not go away? I mean, for those writers that are not diagnosed with multiple personality disorder? Yeah, behold, my Halloween fiction from the thoughts of not Castle, not Beckett, not even Perlmutter but Mr. Jerry Tyson. It's due to 5x05 "Probable Cause", I know. That's my new favorite episode. So, here's the finished product… Happy Halloween.
Summary: How'd I do it? Let me count the ways… (Spoilers 5x05 "Probable Cause")

The bar smelled of stale beer, cigarette butts, hopelessness and musk, thick enough to choke on and enough to fill the space with a haze of misfortune. The Quay, as it was called, seemed like it missed its better days of day-glo bar dancers and cheap tequila, and had years had hopelessly crushed it with all things vile, dirty, criminal. The two men seated on the sticky, ragged red vinyl seats chewed tobacco and scowled, daring passersby to reject their method of madness as they made their way to the bathrooms in the back. Pool table brawls still left stray slivers of glass shards embedded in the dusty corners and against the bottoms of booths. Even an open eye, not a sharp one, could watch as pretty little bags of white ecstasy and purple haze slipped from hand to hand, almost seamlessly and completely without care of who or what was in eyeshot, as long as they didn't look too, terribly, suspicious. A wandering eye could tell that every person seated in every seat had blade, gun, or razor wire. A few boasted a combination of all three.

It was the kind of establishment he liked.

He grunted, chest sore, and made his way to a bar stool, where he set himself down with a wheeze. Stupid writer. He hadn't figured on him being good with a burner, and he'd paid the price for it. Luckily for him, he'd counted on the girlfriend cop unloading a few rounds and opted for the "Kevlar undershirt", which proved to save him at least a few bouts of blood, but everything still hurt like fire every time he breathed. "Whiskey. On the rocks," he asked the barkeeper, whose muscles were the size of grapefruits despite his near mid-sixties physique. "And some peanuts."

Barkeeper Biceps took him in, eyes narrowed, one of those looks that he knew him from somewhere, but couldn't place it, and didn't want or care to remember. "You packin'?"

"Which kind?"

"The kind I like. Booze ain't free and I ain't given out no favors."

He chuckled. "I got payment. Don't worry, I got a whole lot of that." Which was true. Miss Tessa had it made, but the poor broad had bad memory. Once he'd lifted her debit card, a quick scan of her wallet revealed a tiny slip of paper with 4 blessed numbers almost imperceptibly written on it. It'd been easy to acquire funding, courtesy of the local ATM. Remembering his luck, he smiled wide and sly. Who would've thought someone could afford her own death so fortuitously?

President Hamilton paid for his drink, and he gulped most of it down, the familiar burning of the good stuff parching his throat. Felt good to kick back and relax, now that he was a free man. Kick back, relax, plot and plan a bit more revenge and this time, this time, he had to make it stick. There was no avoiding it now, he had to think of something good, really good, better than the last trick he pulled out of his hat, and this time, no stupid cop was going to mess with brilliance. No, this next one? That had to be air-tight. No witnesses. No alibis. No mercy. Castle would pursue him and he wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop. Not the way he was. Moth to the flame, he was as drawn to death as a killer himself, not to commit the act but to explore it, what it meant, how it felt, all the psychological crap that you learn about in criminology class. No, Castle was cerebral. He was meticulous. He was a threat. And he should go to bed every night, wondering when the next time will come. He should stare at the ceiling and dread the next murder, the next crime scene, wondering if a familiar ghost would come back to haunt him.

He liked it that way. Gave him an edge, a thrill, a feeling of empowerment that Castle's own mind would work against him like that, keep him suffering, keep him wondering. Keep him scared. He should be scared.

Glass emptied, he spat in it, and raised a finger. "One more."

Barkeeper Biceps grunted, snatched the glass and poured more whiskey. He didn't seem like the talkative type, but all proper hosting etiquette required some mode of communication with all patrons at the joint at some point or another. So, instead of silently giving the glass back, he began conversation. "So, you here for pleasure, or… business?"

He'd known what kind of business was implied. "Neither. Just passin' through. Saw the sign and I thought I'd fund your paycheck, how about that?"

"Don't mind it," came the reply, hands busy wiping out the remains of someone's leftover beer. "Ain't nosy."

"Good man. You know how to keep your customers happy."

"Like to think I did." The bartender wrung out his dishcloth in the bar sink, then nodded slightly to the far corner of the bar, over the shoulder of his patron. "You see that on TV?"

He turned, and frowned, It was the news, ongoing coverage of an exciting investigation. Some follow-up story about the famous author Richard Castle, recently released and all murder charges dropped. The blonde reporter on the scene gripped her microphone anxiously, almost drooling at the juicy tidbit she had to share. Juicy indeed. Entirely his type, but too soon to take. "Although the perpetrator of Tessa Horton's murder was positively identified by the police as 3XK, the Triple Killer, witnesses say he was shot and killed in a firefight two nights before, on a bridge overlooking the Hudson. The Triple Killer's body was never found, but with reported, extensive injuries and a fall of at least twenty to thirty feet, it's more than likely that this nightmare has finally come to an end. This is Debbie Brooks, signing off."

The barkeeper replaced the glass in the sink and scoffed, unconvinced. "He wanted to go out like that."

"Really? How do you know?"

"The Triple Killer? Not smart enough to keep a couple of bullet holes out of his chest? Just jumps off the bridge like that? No way. The best way for a man to disappear is to let the world know that he's dead. Criminal 101."

This is turning out to be an interesting conversation… "You know, now that I think about it, I was in a bar a few months ago with a guy who was asking questions about a body on the ceiling… like, how would you do it, what kind of hooks you'd use. And me, being the… hardware guy I am, I suggested a few strong options." He leaned in closely and winked, a smile playing across his lips. "You want to know a secret? You know, between one honestly dishonest man to another?"

Intrigue played across Biceps' face. He bit his lip and spat blood into the sink. "I'm known to enjoy a good story. Whatcha got?"

"The guy who did that, this 3XK? Yeah, I'm pretty sure he's the guy I met a few months ago. He was telling me all these different things and how he'd plan the whole thing out, like who he was going to go for next and why. It was pretty intense."

"Really? How?"

"Well, the first thing is, he's got it out for this writer, right? I mean, the guy hated him. Got ruined because of him because he tagged along with the police and he was the one who ID'ed him or something. I mean, this guy hated that writer's guts and wanted to make him pay. Not just the dead kind of pay, but the humiliation, the psychological kind of pain, that stuff. Because the best way to kill a man isn't just by putting a bullet in him."

"Yeah. It's killing his reputation, his status, his soul. Going after the ones he loves, destroying his character. Yeah, I know that stuff."

"Well, this guy I talked to… he said he was going to set this mystery writer up. He was going to go after him from the inside out, make sure everyone he knew thought he would commit murder. And when they got the evidence, all signs would point to him."

The barkeeper raised his eyebrows, slightly skeptical. "How would he do that? I mean, you'd have to be careful about fingerprints, electronic sweeps of emails, phone calls, the like. They'd consult financials and tap phones… There's a lot of things you'd have to consider."

"Right. So this guy, he's meticulous. He's careful. He does his homework. First thing he does is do a little recon work, like… ok, like this writer, right? He's a murder mystery novelist. What do you do to convince people that he could murder someone?"

"Well… didn't the cops think that Mr. Castle was capable of doing it 3 or 4 years ago? I think there was something about a murdered girl back then that was freaky."

"Yeah, what was her name? She was blonde… Alison. Alison Tisdale. You remember that? Old Man Tisdale's girl, murdered by her brother. Then he kicked the bucket and it all went to his charities, and his son didn't get a dime. Yeah, that's the girl. Her brother staged it like one of the murders in Castle's books. So, wouldn't the same trick work twice if it was done right? So Trip said he did some research, read a few bad books, some smokin' hot books, got the feel of how this mystery writer would scribble something down."

His new companion smirked. "Clever. The thing is, how would you plant it? Couldn't just send it to him in an email. You'd have to put it on his computer without him even knowing it."

"Anybody can do a B&E. And I'm sure you already know that in this line of business, you always know a guy. You know a guy, or he knows a guy, or he knows someone who owes him a favor. You know, forcibly."

"Ok. So, break in, plant the document in advance, and then delete it off?"

"Not just that, but wipe some other stuff off that you planted too. Make it look like there was something to hide. And get a blank check or account number, something to access a few financial opportunities for later."

The barkeeper nodded his head. "Then what?"

He smiled, relishing his story. "Then you do a little surveillance. A little watching. See how this guy would move act, all that. You learn a few things, like how he's got this girl, this really hot, pretty girl, who's got a really crappy day job. But he follows her around all the time anyway."

"What? You mean like that cop lady that's always getting tailed by that writer guy?"

"Yeah, exactly like her. You do a little research. Watch through binoculars, listen in on a few conversations, take a trip or two up to the Hamptons and kick back with a cold one in your hands as you watch them dance around each other. You know, that kind of thing. Maybe use all that to your advantage and play with that."

"Ok, then what?"

"Third thing: send a few emails and do an audition."

"Audition? For what?"

"Look alike Body double. Somebody who could look like the guy you're trying to nail, and then when you find that guy, screw around with some video cameras. Make it look like he was somewhere else, and make it look like he paid with something that leaves a paper trail back to your schmuck. Well in advance, of course."

"What about the emails?"

"Screw with his girl. Get her to think he's a scumbag, two timing her or something. Cause as much emotional pain as possible. So, pick a pretty girl, the victim, someone that's not your type but definitely his, and start pretending to be him. Send her an email or two, pretend to be someone your not." He smirked. "Got to love affairs."

"Ok, I'm following you…" He had the old barkeeper in his pocket. "So, how do you frame the writer for the murder? How does that happen?"

"Easy. You start doing a bit more research of where he works, where he plays, take a few fingerprints here and there from his house until you got a full set. Make some gloves to mimic them, and go out for a little shopping trip for the right things to use. By then, you're about set."

Biceps nodded. "You wear gloves and commit the murder, string up the body like they found that girl. Then, you use the printed gloves to plant prints. B&E again in the writer's home, plant anything bloody in there, because there would be a lot of blood…"

"And you already left a long trail of chaos for the police to follow. Easy as pie."

"Wow…"

"Oh yeah, and by the time the cops prove he's innocent, he conveniently gets shanked in prison, courtesy of yet another person who just so happens to owe you a favor. Yeah. Beautiful, isn't it? But that's not all."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, because if, by all means, everything turns up sideways? You stage a bloody public execution that isn't so bloody after all. Enough of one to silently whisk yourself away and into the arms of somebody who owes you one… or, you pay off to owe you one. You walk, you bide your time, and you make the next murder stick. permanently. Pretty slick, huh?"

The barkeeper nodded and smirked, licking his teeth and shaking his head. "That's pretty slick. If they'd had that kind of brains 30 years ago, this city would be something entirely different."

"Yeah. Makes you wish for the good ol' days too though. Most cops were so scared to cross you that you didn't have to screw around with them so much to prove how much better you were." He slid another bill, this time a Benjamin, across the bar and into the gnarled hand of his host. "Thank for listening to my story. Can't find many people who would sit through that and still keep their mouths shut."

"Yeah, but then again, it's not you that did it, yeah? It's not real, it's only a… story. One of many I've heard behind this bar."

"And you probably have your own as well."

"Take care, sir. And if I may… Throw down some ibuprofen, the strongest stuff you can find, and bandage those ribs. A good icy shower would help, and a little rest. From the way you walk, you'd get mistaken for drunk if you went too far down the street. Less attention is more, right?"

"Agreed." He painfully stood up, shook his new friend's hand and grinned. "I'll see you around."

"No you won't."

"You're right, I won't." And Jerry Tyson walked out the door.