A/N: I've posted chapters 3 and 4 on 10/13/14. Please be sure to read chapter 3 before reading this. Thanks.
*** WARNING: Graphic crime scene after the word "Horrific!" ***
Chapter 4: Red John
Teams Lisbon and Elliott
The SacPD detective looked around and snorted, "Are they fixing it or destroying it?"
Lisbon gave Elliott a half-smile free of amusement. "S'posed to be fixing it. I'm told the building's gonna be worse before it gets better. –Coffee?" When they nodded, she led them to the break area and then to an interrogation room.
The CBI was legally required to provide a private place for lawyers to meet with their clients, so the interrogation-observation rooms had gotten priority. The CBI employees were disgruntled that the needs of suspects and the occasional lawyer took precedence over people who worked in the building, but grumbling got them nowhere. It was just another "grin and bear it" situation. Earlier, Lisbon had Rigsby, Hannigan and Cho move more chairs into the room for the six of them to meet. The six crowded into the small room.
She made the introductions. "Detectives Elliott and Graham from SacPD. Agents Cho, Hannigan and Rigsby. Elliott and Graham will brief us on the Red John case."
Elliott and Graham gave them an overview of the ten Red John murders to date. Neither one needed any notes for the detailed briefing. Lisbon got the sinking feeling that there was no lack of effort or rigor to explain why the case hadn't been solved. It was simply a damned hard case. They finished by going over the most recent killing last.
"Angela Jane, age 30, and Charlotte Jane, age 6, both killed about ten months ago on the night of February 8, 2002, in Malibu. Discovered by the husband, Patrick Jane, when he got home from a live TV performance in LA. That was the only case where we could establish a connection between the killer and the victims."
"Good," Lisbon said then censored herself. "Uh, I mean–"
Elliott took pity on her. "Know what you mean. 'Good' that there's a connection that maybe could lead to the killer. Not good for the Jane family." She silently added, No 'family' any more, just one sad survivor.
Lisbon's team had read the files SacPD sent over. This meeting was about the impressions, hunches, and odd details that wouldn't show up in the official record, but might be important to solving the case.
"The connection was that the idiot talked about Red John on TV, right? You sure he didn't do it?" asked Hannigan.
"That was the connection. A hundred people in the live audience equals air-tight alibi."
Cho interjected, "Why did he talk about Red John?"
Elliott sighed. "He's a celebrity 'psychic.' Talks to the dead, that sort of thing. One of the hosts asked him about Red John–"
"Just out of the blue?"
Elliott shrugged uncomfortably. "Don't know if it was a planted question. Anyhow, Jane occasionally advised PD's on cases for years, including Red John."
Cho shook his head in disgust and pity. "So the question could have come up legitimately?"
"Yeah. We checked out the hosts and the audience members. Nothing suspicious about any of them. Don't think Red John manufactured the situation."
Rigsby frowned. "Why would a PD bother with a psychic? It's all BS, right?"
Graham rubbed the back of his neck. "No comment. This guy's given LAPD some amazing leads over the years."
Hannigan said sharply, "But you're sure he isn't somehow connected to the crimes, to have info like that?"
"Positive."
Lisbon asked a question for the first time since the briefing. "Have you gone back and tried to correlate the details of the murders?"
Elliott replied, "We just started on that, but didn't finish. New cases took precedence."
"I think that's where we'll start then. Sift through the files for any common elements, Re‑interview the victims' relatives and witnesses. We'll start with the most recent case and work backwards. Any other suggestions?"
Elliott shook his head. "The witnesses never saw much of anything, but it can't hurt. No, we don't have any better ideas. –Uh, the Jane case was the most recent, but you may have a problem."
Sharply, "Why, isn't he cooperative?"
"Too cooperative. Hell, he was bugging us weekly about progress. A real nuisance. But he stopped all of a sudden."
"Why?"
"No idea. Dropped out of sight four months ago. No one knows where he is."
"Relatives, friends, manager, publicist?"
"His in-laws are retired, living near LA. They don't know anything. He has no relatives we know of. They didn't have a lot of friends, so nothing there. He stopped the TV show cold and his manager hasn't heard from him. We thought Red John might have targeted him, but the body probably would have turned up by now."
Lisbon shook her head in disgust. Jane was the newest and closest connection - hell, the only connection - to the serial killer. And he was missing. She looked at the men from SacPD. "Anything I should be asking that I'm not?"
Elliott pulled a photo from his breast pocket. "I'm gonna offer a piece of advice." He laid a crime scene photo of the ninth and tenth Red John victims – Angela and Charlotte Jane – on the table. "This bastard is vicious and smart and persistent. The murders are random, not crimes of passion. Anyone could be a target. Make sure your families and friends stay out of his cross hairs. It's not through lack of trying that we didn't get him." They stared at the gory, gut-twisting scene for a moment.
Finally, Lisbon stirred and spoke. "We'll keep that in mind. I can see no effort was spared. Thanks for your help."
The meeting broke up, handshakes all around. Elliott and Graham welcomed any questions any time. Last to leave, Lisbon stopped short to avoid bumping into a Napa County sheriff being given a tour by an agent from another unit. She nodded politely without really seeing him as she hurried to her office, wondering what calls came in during the meeting.
Lisbon's Team
It was a quarter after. Lisbon noticed Hannigan's desk was empty, and shrugged it off with the assumption he was in the men's room or on another floor. Lisbon got coffee at half past, this time not ignoring the still-empty desk. Hannigan finally showed up an hour later.
"Hannigan, follow me." She strode to the observation room and waited till Hannigan arrived. She held the door open as he brushed past her, then closed and locked it. He stood next to the table in the dimly lit room.
Lisbon stood for a moment, looking her agent up and down. "Is there a reason you're late?"
He swallowed. "Car wouldn't start. Had to wait to get it jumped."
Quietly, "Your phone didn't work either?"
He didn't answer.
She inhaled then exhaled slowly, keeping a tight grip on her temper. "You're hung over. And I smell alcohol on your breath." He flashed back to brushing by her, realizing he'd been nailed. "I won't tolerate drunks. Puts the team at risk. Not to mention the public." She paused. Coldly, "Hannigan, you're barely earning your keep. You're slacking off and a pain in the ass to deal with. This is the first and last time you show up hung over or smelling like a bar. Understood?"
He grimaced, angry and belligerent. "Yeah."
"And get rid of the bottle in your desk."
He looked up, face contorted in anger. "What about your–"
Furiously, "Don't!" After a minute, back in control, "Minelli would fire my ass if I start coming in hung over smelling like booze. Expect the same." Two quick steps and she was out, the door banging loudly against the wall.
The day went downhill from there.
Lisbon spent her lunch hour in the CBI's basement gym. Surprisingly it was one of the first perks available to employees because a previous tenant had renovated it into an employee fitness center.
Lisbon whipped out her leg, kick solidly connecting with the heavy bag. Usually she could lose herself in the exertion while burning off the anger and frustration. Yeah, I know Hannigan resents me. *Thwack* Wife divorced him five years ago and– *slap* –he screwed up his career at SacPD. Not. My. Fault– *thud* –he can't cope. This time the exercise didn't wipe Hannigan's sour face from her mind. Dammit! Hannigan's visage gradually morphed into her father's face. Not the loving face of her childhood. *Thwack* The enraged, drunken image from her teen years. Finally, her anger had burned off, replaced by exhaustion. Guilt rose like bile, the betrayal of her faith by her feelings cutting like a razor. She hadn't been able to save her father. It increasingly seemed Hannigan was determined to self-destruct, too. She showered, changed, and was at her desk when the call came in from the SFPD.
Judging by the report of a slashed victim under a red smilely face, they had just gotten their first Red John case. They left immediately on the two-hour drive. Lisbon and Hannigan rode in one SUV, Rigsby and Cho in the other. They found the location - an up-scale neighborhood of manicured lawns and large houses. After parking behind the squad cars, they made their way through the crowd and flashed their badges as they ducked under the tape.
Striding up to the clump of uniforms and suits, Lisbon opened, "Senior Agent Lisbon from the CBI. Who's in charge?"
A detective she didn't know stepped forward. "I'm Detective Greene, SFPD. The murder was reported just after noon when the cleaning woman let herself in. "Looks like a Red John murder."
"What's known about the victim?"
"Julie Darman. White female, 28, married no children. Husband's on a business trip. Neighbors say he should be back any time now. No record other than a few parking tickets. Uh," he consulted his notes, "–graduated from Berkley in 2000 and is – was – working for a law firm in the city. Firm says she went home then returned at 8 p.m. to finish a document. She left for the night at 10 p.m." He motioned with his chin toward the gaggle of on-lookers, "The officers questioned the crowd but no one saw anything."
"Forensics?"
"Since it's a Red John case, thought you'd want CBI Forensics to handle it."
"Yes, thank you. I asked for a team to be sent before I left."
Lisbon ordered her three agents to canvass the crowd before it dispersed and check any nearby neighboring houses. She followed Greene inside. Her team would follow when they finished. The heavy smell of blood foretold the scene as she climbed the stairs.
Horrific!
There was no other word, but it was much too feeble to do justice to the sight. Maybe she had freed her arm and tried to fight back, accounting for blood sprayed over three walls from a severed artery. Astonishingly, a crude tourniquet was applied to one wrist. That way she wouldn't die too soon, wouldn't prematurely escape the pain. Her wrists and ankles were bound to the four posts. The agony on her face meant she was conscious as the killer tortured and eviscerated her. Numerous shallow cuts maximized pain, care taken not to kill too soon. The final cuts sliced through skin, muscle, and organs. The viscera were neatly piled alongside the deathly white corpse. Blood had pooled under her neck, where her throat was slit - the final, decisive cut. Smudges on the bed made it clear where the killer had dipped his three fingers to paint the smilely face above her.
Lisbon ducked out of the room and leaned against the hall wall, eyes momentarily closed. She had seen crime scene pictures in the Red John files. They didn't begin to prepare her for the reality. After a moment she regained control and returned to the room. She needed to understand what had happened, look for anything that could help identify and stop the animal responsible.
Cho appeared at her side a few minutes later. His face remained impassive, though a few shades too pale for normal.
"Anything?"
"Not much. One neighbor saw a light in the bedroom at 2 a.m., but thought nothing of it."
"Tell Rigsby to collect any CCTV recordings in a quarter mile radius. We don't know the TOD, but– Oh." She turned. "Dr. Barker, can you give us any idea of the TOD?" she asked the medical examiner who had just arrived.
He surveyed the corpse, swallowing heavily. "Normally we'd use the liver temperature, but– Here, let's just go by rigor mortis for a quick estimate." After a few minutes, "I'd say TOD is safely within the 1 a.m. to 3 a.m. range."
Lisbon continued. "Have Rigsby pull everything from 8 p.m. to 4 a.m." At Cho's raised eyebrows she explained, "Don't know when he got here." Cho left. Ten minutes later a commotion outside grabbed Lisbon's attention as she was systematically analyzing the crime scene.
"You oaf, I'll have your badge. It's my house and I want to see what happened to my wife!"
"The body's upstairs, sir," Hannigan's voice said.
A 20-something man dashed up the stairs and stopped dead in the doorway as the full import of the scene struck him. He vomited, took another breath of blood-scented air, then collapsed.
Lisbon swore under her breath. "Hannigan! Why the hell did you let him up here, dammit?!"
Hannigan arrived, breathing heavily from climbing the flight of stairs. "I didn't–" He paused and swallowed. He weakly continued, "He insisted and ran up here." He took a good look around then turned and went back downstairs.
Cho passed him on the way and muttered just loud enough for Hannigan to hear, "You're an ass, Hannigan." No matter how arrogant or pompous the husband had been, his wife's murder scene would be an indelible image. Hannigan had amused himself on other occasions by letting civilians get an eyeful of gruesome murder scenes – often when a family member was the victim.
The ME asked Cho to help move Darman into the hall, and snapped an ammonia inhalant capsule to revive him.
Two weeks later they had run down every lead to a dead end. Red John murder number eleven was no closer to being solved than the first ten. The publicity firestorm died down when there was truly no news. California citizens again took extra precautions for months until the Red John murder was replaced with some new threat in the public consciousness. When the publicity died down, the SCU received a note welcoming them to the Red John case. It was signed with a red smiley face drawn in Julie Darman's blood. No fingerprints, DNA, or postmark.
Lisbon had her agents spend any spare time studying the Red John files and gradually re‑interviewing every witness, suspect, relative and friend associated with every murder. Frustratingly, a year after his family's murder, the elusive Patrick Jane remained unreachable. The only consolation was the strong likelihood that Jane wouldn't make any difference.
It wasn't clear whether Teresa Lisbon had the Red John case. Or whether the Red John case had her.