A/N—Sorry about the infrequent updating. It's killing me too. Although, it should get better. Should being the operative word. :D Sorry if it's slightly dark now; it won't get better. This is totally un-beta'd or edited. :0
Adding Insult
Weeks go by quickly in the face of tragedy. This is how it was for the Special Cases Unit of the CBI. Gone was the carefree laughter; now it was accompanied by guilt and tinged with sorrow. No progress had been made on the now-personal Red John case. Jane was dozing on his couch, or at least trying too. He couldn't keep the demons at bay any longer… No. He could; he had to. His thoughts swirled, and eventually they turned to his fellow agents. He was worried about them. Jane had walked this path of sadness already, and he saw his coworkers taking the first few steps. He was most concerned about Rigsby; he had lost the woman he loved. Rigsby had gone home early today, and seemed very melancholy. Well, they all had. But Rigsby was especially worrying him.
"Well, what's the worst that could happen?" Jane asked the empty CBI building. He was going to go check on him.
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"Rigsby? It's me, Jane." He really felt dumb. Really dumb. Here he was, standing in front of Rigsby's apartment. What was he going to say to Rigsby? Oh, hey. I thought I'd check on you, not to be weird or anything… You know what? Screw it. He gathered his courage and knocked a little louder. There was still no answer. "Rigsby, I will break down this damn door!"
Silence.
Jane looked around the empty hallway. No one was there. Good. No one would see him pick the lock. It offered no challenge, and he soon gained access to the apartment. It was sparsely furnished, and seemed pleasant enough. But there was something that unnerved him. As he went into the bedroom, he braced himself for the worst. He opened the door, and immediately felt stupid. It was neat and organized; no murder in sight. Jane laughed at his own foolishness. As he turned to leave, something in the kitchen caught his eye. As he took a closer look, time seemed to slow down. Rigsby was on the floor in a pool of blood. A gun was next to him with a silencer affixed to the barrel. A note was tacked onto the frigidaire: "I hope there is a heaven," scrawled hastily. Yet all around, there were traces of a slight struggle.
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The CBI agents were all sitting near the doorway in pajamas and warm-ups, trying to pull themselves together. It had only been three hours, but those hours felt like eons. They weren't there as investigators, but as concerned friends with good connections. The three all had conflicting emotions. Jane was uneasy and looked slightly ill. Cho had a blank countenance akin to emotional surrender. "Pissed" would be the only word good to describe Lisbon. She was bitter at herself, at Jane for dragging them into this Red John crap, at Red John himself for being such a ruthless bastard, and at Rigsby for quitting on them. She knew the last one was completely irrational, but she felt that way anyway.
William Hardy, leader of the Homicide unit, stepped outside. He sat down near the team, and began a carefully planned conversation. "I'm sorry for your loss." His only answers were three cold stares. He went on, "We've ruled it a suicide. I don't think it was this Red John guy, and neither did my team. You can go in if you like." They rose and filed into the apartment. Jane walked over to the window, and said, "This window has scratches all around the frame. It was forced open."
One of the forensic techs spoke up. "How do you know those scratches were created last night? They could have been created anytime. And besides, the evidence stacks up: it was a suicide." She continued with her evidence collection. Cho walked over to the note Rigsby left.
"Wasn't Rigsby right-handed?" he asked.
"Yeah. Why?" Lisbon replied with a frown.
"The smudging of the ink suggests that this was written by a southpaw."
"He didn't write it himself. Wonderful." It was said without mirth or happiness, just exhaustiveness.
Cho must have had his morning coffee, because the next thing he said was, "I see something else. There's… stuff. Under his fingernails. What is it?"
"I don't know. I'll grab one of the officers," Lisbon told him. She left the room. Cho could hear a whispered conversation in the living room, then a sigh. Lisbon reappeared. "They say it's his own; that scratches on his body correlate. However, I asked them to make sure, because things are not always what they seem."
"All right, boss. Are we done here?"
"We're not going to be done for a while yet. But we're done here." With this cryptic statement, she turned and departed. A confused Cho could only follow.
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The funeral was simple. Wayne Rigsby was cremated, and his ashes were to remain with his family. The entire CBI was in attendance, just as for Van Pelt. Virgil Minelli tried to support his team, but he was trying to keep himself stable as well. It was a Herculean task, and much too great for anyone. The Special Cases Unit was just finished. Finished with life, finished with police work. Even so, they kept at it, because they knew the pain would heal over time. It could only get better, or so they hoped. Somehow, they would find the strength to carry on .They usually did.
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A few days after the funeral, a report came to Lisbon's office. She was almost afraid to open it, seeing the trouble that the last few had gotten her team into. Nevertheless, she tore it open with sharp, decisive strokes. It was the forensics report on the matter under Rigsby's fingernails. Her eyes scanned the page. The match was…negative! Cho had been right. Thank God. It wasn't suicide. Lisbon smiled a rare smile and lifted the handset of her office phone. She was going to give that William Mason the word!
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Okay, please review. I may stop writing for a while b/c things are getting CRAZY! If I do, don't shoot me. (no, this story won't end with someone smelling an orange. Rest assured… :D)