Chapter 21: Red Challenge

*This passage draws heavily from a deleted scene from The Mentalist pilot episode.

En Route

Cho pounding up the stairs, down the hallway. Right behind, out of breath, gun drawn - **EXPLOSION** Gunfire–

Blaring horns snapped her attention back to driving. Twit! Lisbon braked sharply. Don't involve me in your death wish! Lisbon glared at the Prius driver who'd cut across two lanes of heavy traffic to the exit ramp. Blatant stupidity should be outlawed! A few minutes and deep breaths restored a measure of calm. The close call drove out other thoughts till traffic thinned at Sacramento's outskirts.

The CBI, Three Days Ago

Wednesday was a quiet, paperwork day - till Minelli's call. Lisbon ended the call and sat a moment to collect herself. The dreaded moment was upon her. Lips pressed in a thin line, she involuntarily glanced out at the bullpen toward the couch. Occupied a moment ago, it was now empty. I can do this, manage the situation. Just a case. Standard protocol all the way. She rose to tell the team.

"We've got one, guys." She suddenly became aware of Jane behind her, leaning against the metal frame of the bullpen divider. "Homicide in San Fran. Local artist at 2319 Bay Street." She continued her overview, finishing with, "Cho, you and Rigs take one SUV. Jane and I in anoth‑‑" She looked around, realizing Jane vanished. "–Jane?"

Standing to get ready Rigsby glanced out the window. "Citroen just left the lot," he said.

Lisbon swore. They hadn't even started the case and Jane was out of control. The three agents whipped out the door and were on the road in minutes.

Jane, Crime Scene

Treating speed limits as mere suggestions let Jane make it to San Francisco in little over an hour. He parked, then ducked under the yellow-and-black tape at the crime scene and showed his CBI ID.

"Are you authorized to-" the uniformed officer started.

"CBI consultant Patrick Jane. Senior Agent Lisbon will be here in a few minutes," Jane replied on his way inside. "Upstairs?"

Snowed, the cop nodded, "Detective Anderson will be here soon to brief your team." Jane took the stairs of the graceful Victorian "painted lady" two at a time to the second floor. Photos told Jane the upscale condo was home to a gay couple. He guessed both were artists based on the very different styles of paintings gracing the walls – one pop art, the other romantic impressionism. The murder scene brought him up short. Male victim, no red smiley face, and a GSW COD. He frowned, wondering if he'd misread Lisbon's body language and "Red John" on her lips during her phone conversation. A glance at a recent, framed article settled it. David Wong was a celebrated local artist, most recently acclaimed for his series of smiley face paintings. The series gradually transformed the innocuous round, yellow icon into the sinister Red John signature. It being California, the subject matter received wide attention and vastly increased demand for and prices of his paintings. Now convinced the murder was the work of his quarry, Jane combed the condo again, this time finding two key items. A note was folded in the victim's shirt pocket, evident only from the smoothed cloth. Jane pulled it out and unfolded the rag-stock paper.

"Real artists are original. I condemn your pathetic, derivative desecrations, you insignificant money grubber."

Jane had no doubt of the author's identity even though the typed message was unsigned. He paced through the condo again, frustrated at the lack of an actionable lead. On his way out, he noticed the corner of a paper under the coat closet door. He opened the door and found a Bay Inn receipt for guest 'John Rudd.' Jane bolted down the stairs and was gone.

SCU, Crime Scene

Cho drove, Lisbon rode shotgun, Rigsby sat in the rear. For once Lisbon didn't object to speeding. She repeatedly called Jane. The calls went to voice mail.

After her fifth attempt, Rigsby said hopefully, "Maybe it's not too bad. I mean, there're never leads from a Red John murder. What harm if Jane gets there ahead of us?"

Cho countered, "What if there is a lead? And if not, where's his head at?"

"We'll be there soon. No point speculating," Lisbon said severely, terminating the conversation.

The detective met them at the scene. "Detective Anderson, SFPD. Murder was discovered and called in at 9:47 a.m. by the cleaning woman Carol Chang. Victim is David Wong, artist. Gunshot wound to the chest, died instantly from the look of it. ME estimates TOD at 8:30 a.m. He lived here with his partner Xander Kelley, another artist. Kelley left for an art exhibit at 8 a.m. We contacted the residents downstairs. Both were at work at the TOD. No witnesses so far and no motive."

"Excuse me, has my consultant Patrick Jane been here?"

"Didn't see him, but I just got back. Maybe Cruz-" but the uniformed officer was busy keeping gawkers away.

Lisbon told Cho and Rigsby to check out the scene while she finished with Anderson. "The CBI was called because of a presumed Red John connection. A male victim killed by a gunshot wound isn't his MO," Lisbon noted.

"David Wong recently did a bunch of smiley face paintings. He started with the normal yellow version and gradually transformed that into the Red John face."

Lisbon winced, appalled by the risk Wong had unwittingly taken. "And?"

"His partner Kelley said Wong got an anonymous note a couple of months ago, about half way through the series of paintings. Wong was warned not to continue-."

"–But did so anyhow," Lisbon finished. She exchanged cards with Anderson and appreciatively accepted copies of the notes he and Cruz had taken. "Thanks for the preliminaries. We'll want CBI's CSI team to handle the forensics. They'll be along."

"Thought you might. Call if you need anything. SFPD would like to know whatever you find."

"Of course."

Lisbon made her way upstairs. Cho and Rigsby had just finished examining the condo. They waited while Lisbon looked over the victim.

"Whatcha got?" she asked looking up from her kneeling position.

Cho took lead. "Officer Cruz let Jane look over the scene about 20 minutes before we arrived. He was here fifteen minutes, then left like a bat out of hell. –Cruz's words."

"Jane found something."

Rigsby piped up. "Two somethings. These were on the floor–" He handed Lisbon two evidence bags, one with the note and the other with the receipt.

"We'll finish here later. We need to catch up with Jane."

They left immediately. The fifteen minute ride was silent. For the first time, there was a lead in a Red John murder. And Jane was pursuing it unarmed and unprotected. She grimly set it aside. Right now reflection was a luxury she couldn't afford. Keep the damned fool from getting himself killed. With luck, we'll get somewhere on Red John, too.

Jane, Hotel

Jane parked the Citroen haphazardly outside the lobby. His CBI ID pried loose basic information from the desk clerk. John Rudd arrived yesterday as a guest. He took room 413 for two days and paid cash. The clerk called and told the cleaning staff to let Jane examine the room. Too impatient to wait for an elevator, Jane dashed up three flights, found the room, and sighed in relief because it hadn't yet been cleaned. Jane pushed into the room past the maid, who left him with an admiring glance and a "holler if you need anything."

The door closed softly behind Jane. The room was pristine, unused. Disappointment washed over him. Reasoning there had to be a purpose for renting it, Jane did a quick search, finishing with the bathroom. He flipped the light switch and was stunned. A message was written in red lipstick on the mirrored wall above the counter.

"Congratulations on getting this far. You are a worthless worm, but I fondly recall the masterpiece I created with your sweet wife and child. Go to 8193 Red Oak Way if you wish to settle this."

It was signed with Red John's smiley face. Jane pivoted and left at a run, yelling in passing for the maid and clerk to lock the room as a crime scene.

Jane, Red Oak Way

Jane pulled partway up the secluded, tree-lined driveway of 8193 Red Oak Way, stopping when he spied a small house sided in red cedar a few hundred feet farther. A dark, nondescript sedan was parked in the driveway. He turned off the ignition and got out, leaving the door ajar rather than risk making noise. Heart racing, Jane walked quietly through the trees. He approached the house at a corner without windows. He sidled along the wall, ducking under windows, till he reached the front porch. There was a simple wooden door. Though it had a peephole, there was neither glass in the door nor sidelights flanking it. Standing to one side, he cautiously reached for the doorknob. Unlocked! He silently turned the knob and eased the door open a fraction. Seeing no one and nothing amiss inside, he entered on silent cat feet.

It felt deserted. He drifted down a hall and checked each room on the first floor. They were filled with ordinary furnishings. No people. Photos revealed an unremarkable family, parents and two young children. Jane doubted they had anything to do with Red John. There was no basement. Upstairs had to be it.

Jane strained to hear above his thundering pulse, white noise filling his head. He eased up the staircase, hugging the wall where treads were less likely to creak. He peeked over the top step. Again, there was nothing unusual and no sign of life. He mounted the rest of the steps and only then caught sight of it. A red pushpin fastened a folded sheet of rag‑stock to the white painted door at the end of the hall. He breathed out as though kicked in the stomach, transported back to the night his family was murdered. He closed his eyes a second and regained control. Unlike that night, there was no heavy smell of blood. He silently approached the door. It was closed to but not latched. Stomach twisting from nerves and memories, he reached out and opened the note with his left forefinger. He frowned. The note simply said, "Inside." Whole being focused on that door, the noise behind him simply didn't register.

SCU, Red Oak Way

The three CBI agents spent only minutes at the hotel, leaving as soon as they saw the message. Lisbon ordered the maid and clerk to lock the room to preserve evidence. On their way, she called Anderson to have cops secure the hotel room and send back‑up to 8193 Red Oak Way.

They made it to the house in short order, aided by her SUV's siren and the magnetic, flashing light Lisbon slapped on the roof. They pulled up behind the Citroen. Cho exited at a dead run before the SUV stopped rolling. Lisbon and Rigsby were close on his tail.

"Rigs, secure the exterior!" Lisbon called when she caught up with Cho.

They didn't bother with stealth. Any wasted time might be the difference between life and death – Jane's life and death. Whatever was going to happen was happening inside. Lisbon and Cho entered, guns drawn. They quickly checked the downstairs.

Done first, Cho pounded up the stairs, down the hallway. Lisbon was ten feet behind, out of breath, gun drawn. As Jane nudged the door open Cho shoved him flat against the wall. **EXPLOSION!** Gunfire reverberated in the enclosed space.

"Cho! Jane!" Deafened, she couldn't hear but was relieved at the sight of them. Cho and Jane were plastered against the wall. A gaping hole rent the door at the end of the hall. Dust drifted lazily, splinters covered the floor. Jane jerked out of Cho's grasp and plunged into the room, heedless. Cho swore violently and followed, Lisbon bringing up the rear. Cho and Lisbon stormed the room in a half-crouch, guns drawn.

"Clear," Cho said, seeing no one but Jane. He and Lisbon returned to the hall and swept the remaining upstairs rooms. "All clear," he repeated in relief. Lisbon nodded her acknowledgment. Rigsby could be heard outside with distant sirens faintly audible.

Jane cast about like a hunting dog that lost the scent. He finally stopped and stood, chest heaving in frustration and failure. He ignored the gun that had been rigged to fire when the door opened, transfixed by the Red John smiley on the wall above it. He peered more closely. Two strides took him to a note tacked near the smiley face.

"Mr. Jane:

"Surviving my little surprise suggests you're clever enough to be amusing after all. You've moved up from fraudulent psychic to fake detective. Bravo. Sadly, your employment by the CBI erased the meager respect I had for those blundering incompetents. But I do look forward to an intense and entertaining acquaintance, my arrogant friend.

-Your superior, Red John."

Jane crumpled it and threw it down. He banged his forehead against a wall and pounded the wall twice with his fist, needing to relieve his boundless frustration and disappointment. He took a deep breath and turned, grief and rage plain on his face.

Stepping back into the room, Lisbon rounded on him in fury. "What the hell were you thinking?! Red John sets a trap and you fall right into it. You'd be dead except for Cho. Cho could be dead because of you. You think your genius excuses everything. Truth is, deep down, I'm scared of you. Got no boundaries, got no common sense. One day you're gonna create one mother of a tragedy for yourself and everybody around you. I don't wanna be there when it happens. You think it's impossible that I really and truly do not want to work with you? Think again. Your recklessness and stupidity are too high a price."*

She finished, out of breath and white with anger. Stone-faced, fists balled, Jane stood stock still as her words sank in, then turned and left without a word.

Rigsby grabbed Jane's arm just outside the door, "Jane! Everybody okay? What–" Jane pulled free, strode to the Citroen, got in and slammed the door. He pulled around the CBI SUV, accelerated through the trees and sped off in a spray of leaves and gravel.

Lisbon Present

Lisbon exited the interstate. Time for lunch and a break. She had driven three hours with as many to go. Given her task, her thoughts unavoidably focused on Red John, Jane, and the week's events. She was on her way – to do what? She didn't even know, hadn't decided what she wanted to happen. Better figure it out. I have three hours. She bit her lip and finished her coffee. She got a cup to go, paid and left.

Lisbon, Cho and Rigsby, San Francisco

The SCU agents spent the afternoon poring over the three scenes. CBI CSI teams were dispatched to each. Lisbon urged them to take the utmost care, which was a little out of line but she didn't care. This was the closest any law enforcement agency had come to Red John. Partly because Red John had baited Jane, they had more evidence to work with than on any prior occasion: Three notes typed on paper, the lipstick message on the mirror, the receipt with (presumably) an alias, the rigged gun (unfortunately, the serial number was filed off), two smiley faces, and three locations Red John had visited. Better still, he had rented a hotel room meaning there was a chance for physical identification by the clerk or security cameras. Red John's access to the house on Red Oak Way was another possible connection. Red John was human, could make mistakes. Lisbon hoped the bounty of clues and leads would provide their big break.

It was after six when they called it a day and returned to Sacramento. They had interviewed Wong's partner and the downstairs neighbors. Disappointingly, no one saw or knew anything useful. They'd continue fresh the next morning. Jane wasn't at the CBI when they returned. Lisbon thought it was just as well.

It wasn't till Lisbon got home that the day's events caught up with her. She grabbed leftovers to eat out of practicality though she had little appetite. And finally the anger that had sustained her gave way to fear. The only reason two men on her team weren't dead was sheer, stupid luck. She knew Red John cases would pose problems but counted on keeping track of Jane to manage the situation and protect the team. She had failed miserably. Jane was crazed, unpredictable, irrational. And a goddamned genius who could run circles around them all. She knew this was a recipe for disaster. What she didn't know was what to do about it.

The SCU, Thursday

Lisbon collected Cho at 7 a.m. so they could be in San Francisco at the start of business. Rigsby stayed at the CBI to examine security camera recordings and look into the owners of the Red Oak Way house. They pressed for quick turnaround from the forensic staff in hopes of getting more leads. Jane didn't show, which was fine with Lisbon. She didn't have the patience for any petulant sulking – not after yesterday – and didn't need his talents for the work at hand, with the possible exception of the hotel clerk. But the clerk could be re-interviewed if that seemed promising.

The desk clerk was a cheerful young woman named Samara Foxx. Within minutes of meeting her, their hopes and optimism vanished. She was smart, observant, cooperative ... and legally blind because of "low vision." Her central vision was destroyed, leaving her to rely on a combination of peripheral vision and accommodations by her employer. She remembered registering John Rudd but could only tell them he was a middle-aged Caucasian male of average height and weight. She thought his hair might be brown. Nothing stood out about his voice or clothing, It wasn't a matter of jogging Foxx's memory. The memories simply weren't there.

It was the first of a long string of disappointments. The rag-stock paper was sold nationwide, the lipstick was a cheap brand from a "big box" store chain, the smiley face blood was from David Wong, and the gun ballistics didn't match anything on record. The three agents proceeded to go through Wong's associates and contacts with a fine toothed comb on the chance there was a connection to Red John. The only connection they could find was Wong's smiley face paintings. Friends, colleagues, and acquaintances were eliminated one by one through credible alibis or sheer inability to have done the murder. Forensics DNA results produced little. The hotel room was a veritable stew of DNA snippets, none of which matched any from the other sites. DNA found at the house came from the family, the SCU team, and David Wong's blood. Red John apparently chose the family's home because it would be unoccupied for a week while they were away on vacation, Their vacation plans were widely known. Forensics still had dozens of fingerprints to match, but Lisbon didn't hold out much hope. Forensics already told her the gun had been wiped clean. And the only prints on the notes were Jane's. This was the second Red John murder since Lisbon had gotten the case. And she had no more success than the four previous teams.

Lisbon sent Cho and Rigsby home at the end of the normal workday. There was simply nothing for them to do that warranted staying late. She asked but neither had heard from Jane. Her call again went directly to voice mail. Lisbon left in disgust at the accumulating mountain of dead ends after the promising – if harrowing – start. And tomorrow she would have to brief Minelli. She had some serious thinking to do before she faced Minelli.