Let me preface this by reminding you, these chapters are non sequitur. Each stands alone, each is a separate "case study." So, here is the second installment. I'll post it now, and get to writing the third one, which should be up tomorrow!
Thanks for reading, hope you're enjoying. This one's quite a bit shorter, and almost as dark.
Coming out of work for the night into the wet cold, he rolls up his rumpled shirt sleeves. He opens the black car door, turns the key in the ignition, turns on the headlights, laughs at the carelessly thrown poetry book on his passenger seat. William Blake, it says, on the front. As he drives away from CBI headquarters, he's still laughing.
He's good. He's better than good; he's brilliant. Brilliant, fantastic, genius Wayne Rigsby. You'd never know, seeing him at work. The ape he plays is all an act. Sometimes, it's fun for him. Fun to fool them all, the idiots. He has Patrick Jane, supposed mentalist, eating out of the palm of his hand. It's a real treat to be pulling one over on him.
He plans to keep up this silly charade forever. Until he grows tired of the blood, at least, (which will be never.) Nothing surpasses the adrenaline rush of slicing a throat, painting in blood. A real artist, working with his preferred medium. That's who he is when he kills, an artist.
His canvas varies. He likes walls, big fan of walls. There's nothing like an impromptu mural, a giant smiley face to bring cheer to a crime scene. They make him inwardly smile when he comes back a second time, with the team. Sometimes he even suggests that Van Pelt get out more, so he can stay behind while the other four go. That way, he doesn't have to conceal his glee.
He's a real Moriarty, evil genius, what you will. It would take no less to pull off something like this, after all. And these next few will be his crowning glory. However will the CBI fare when two of their own are taken from them? He has these so carefully planned, so meticulously thought-out, he won't be able to fail.
He drives and drives, for what's about two hours. He goes for dinner, by himself. Steak, medium-rare. Then, the gym. Weights and treadmill. Fight and flight, training to both. Then it's back in his car, and to his first mark.
He pulls up outside a townhouse, in a neighborhood he knows by heart and head. He smoothly presses his hair back and ditches his tie on the front seat. He tucks the book of poetry underneath the front seat for safe-keeping, and looks in the mirror.
Dark eyes stare back at him, unwavering and shadowy in the dusky light. He kills his headlights and steps out into the now light rain. He moves to his trunk and opens it with a light click of his hand. He can only see the light of the tv on inside, but knows she'll let him in, regardless of whether she was awake or sleeping.
Grace Van Pelt is not nearly as strong as she thinks, emotionally. Sure, she's recovering from Craig, but she'll welcome Wayne back with open arms. Of course she will, they did fit together rather nicely. Shame he was playing her worse than O'Loughlin was.
In his trunk is a crisp black case, which he opens. So many cleanly sheathed knives of varying sizes, his only real friends, the only possessions he truly cares about. He selects one of the smaller ones. Small, but sharp. He sticks it, still sheathed, into his waistband, and tucks his shirt in around it. In the dark, you'd never be able to tell.
He walks up to the door.
He knocks.
She answers.
She dies.