Chapter 19

Glad that people are enjoying the reads even if I took my time coming back to these fanfics! It all makes me keep on writing.

Red John Episodes are always hardest!

The quote elaborates about the part of the episode where these insights start.

I do not own The Mentalist and make no money from this.

Season 2 Episode 8

"We need to talk.", says Bosco cryptically.

"About what?" , pauses Jane.
"Come see me when you get back.", Bosco smoothly manouvers on the line.

That sounds promising. Bosco is surprisingly good with his differing perspective on the Red John case. I would never admit to him but I'm kind of glad that his team could bring more to the sleuth table, more of his methodical by-the-book and thorough approach than my almost fanatical tunnel vision. For this piece of news, I don't mind getting up to tackle another crime in the wee hours. It has almost become a duty. But now my mood rockets, maybe Bosco brings news of my Red Whale…

"You smell lovely. What is that? Is that Lilac?", mutters Jane.

"Uh yeah thanks…", Van Pelt knits her eyebrows.

And the thing Lisbon was dreading, it has happened! Actually I think its happened some weeks back. Ooooh, she is NOT going to be happy… I find the fact that Grace and Wayne are finally together, very entertaining.

But at the core, it's in conflict, I want to wish them well because whatever they might think, they are that much closer to me and the other part is a bit jealous that they found love so easily, they have a good chance to realise happiness… Though the envy by no means, dictates me to tell on them because half the people in CBI already know and what use is it to rat them out? Their attempts to keep the relationship secret will be more amusing, hard for both of them, I expect.

"You know, it's alright for you to like me now, your boss and I made up.", teases Jane.

"It's okay, Rebecca, I don't like him either.", puts in Lisbon.

"She's a liar. She loves me.", bluffs Jane.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that.", scoffs Lisbon.

Ooof, Lisbon, Lisbon.. abrasive and always offensive where I am concerned, she's never like this in front of others.

Bosco's secretary Rebecca is strangely still holding a grudge against me even when we have been fine for weeks now. She's supposed to swiftly be under my charm by now but she resists yet. It could be my cross to bear but her head-tilt away from me seems panicked, forced almost. Hmmm, another puzzle to solve. Can't wait for what Bosco's about to divulge.

"Jane! Some help! GET over here! NOW! Press as hard as you can right there, there!"

The blood.

It's spattered tiny, but it's everywhere.

It's not too much, some would say reasonably but it's too much for me.

I want to run away from this room, somewhere far, possibly a place with water and sand and waves and seagulls. Their cries are always preferable than the horrified ones coming somewhere from the side or the back, can't tell.

It is now I notice how dingy this office appears- coffee stains months old, dust on the unlooked corners, plants lazy and tired, takeout boxes mixed with games on paper, rustles on table and floor, the sunlight struggling to come into the place to warm or light it in a futile attempt. I only glance at the people sprawled- they must be bodies now.

Lisbon shakes me with her command and I don't want to follow but still do. I try to work under direction. There is rust and metal, life-force going to waste, floating in the air. I try to gather it back into the body. Will it hold any meaning?!

"Lisbon, did we get an ID on the man from the cemetery yet?", asks Jane.

"What is with you and this case?", questions Lisbon, annoyed.

"Well it's just a feeling…", Jane shrugs a shoulder.

Lisbon is always soldiering on. Meanwhile, I have begun thinking of them as bodies and started on the case. There's a difference between our approaches and it's clarity is stark now more than ever. Whoever killed the man, it was supposed to be psychologically brutal as if the killer was making a statement that the gods dare disturb him, he can always thwart their hand and triumph. It was a demeaning way of presenting someone he himself has murdered. The case is like an irritating fly that I need to pay attention to. Besides, Lisbon's cartel couldn't have done this, the M.O. would have been different, the presentation would have been, as well.

Suite 137

Towlen Morning M.D.

Hours

Monday-Friday: 8 a.m. - 5.30 p.m.

Walk-ins welcome.

Yes, Towlen Morning. I knew the name was familiar!

More than my memory, it is the vase of flowers sitting sad, lonely on the chair, another of his invitations, another game, another beginning to The Hunt. A locked door can hardly keep me out but what stops, lets down my widened eyes, is the smiley face peeking through the blinds. The breaths want to pace faster but I regulate them to be normal. There is a cloud, of oppressive evil here, I am already inside it. Bach plays ruthless and endless on the player Dr. morning never had, a personal touch from Red John. Every tiny detail is meant to mock, display his strength over who he thinks are 'mere mortals', every victim a fair death in his delusional eyes. I am merely a vessel that is collecting information. So I press my mouth calm.

"What're you doing?", asks Lisbon.

"Unplugging his morphine. I would ask a doctor but I think I know what they would say.", says Jane calmly.

"Are you crazy?!", Lisbon is horrified.

"Yes, that's exactly what they would say. They wouldn't understand the moral imperative here."

I do not care for the veracity of my statement. It is a triviality compared to what needs to be done. Bosco is the only way that can give me answers right now. Is it tunnel vision or objectivity? I can't know but it feels right. I want to say that distance helps me think clearly and times like these, it should but most likely the emotions come marching in. It's child's play to make Lisbon stay while I remove the cables. Here goes nothing.

The 'cold bastard' comment hurts more than the strength of any previous worth of words combined but I place it outside my bubble, then proceed to inject mercury cold reason even if the circulation is painful, slow, a ruin or damnation. Hell.

"They found the missing Red John victim.", states Cho softly.

"Better still, this is Red John's mistake. This is it. He made a mistake and this is it.", points Jane.

A wave rises- of exultation, new rigorous vigour and certainty. It's a lovely thought that the vile monster who thinks he's invincible, thinks he does incontrovertible actions, by his own admittance has slipped up and thus after figuring his own fallacy, he kills people to rectify it. But I have a feeling, which has niggled me right from the beginning, that just like in Hardy's case, he's not alone in acting here. There's someone else. I merely hope the investigation leads to the accomplice swiftly because right now there's not much evidence of it. And I am hesitant to trust without corroboration.

"What's your favourite kind of music?", Jane asks Rebecca in the interrogation room.

"Mr. Jane, I know your games. You don't care what kind of music I like…", answers Rebecca snidely.

"I'm just making conversation. Getting to know you…", shrugs Jane.

My nerves are still saturated in the wave's aftermath. All endings feel alive. I take a deep breath. When the spotlight shines and the microscope is trained, they don't think they need a microphone but when I push them then pull apart, they scramble for it. They think my knowledge is too intimate of their reasons so explanations and justifications need to be trumpeted. Rebecca supposes for now that she's above such pettiness and desperation. She never used to have any pride but He must have helped her gather a semblance of it- to seem normal, pass off as human. She could have been if she hadn't fallen for his temptation, in however a way he had managed to lure her. But then I possess no pity. She mistakes herself to be an enigma when she's farthest from anything close to it. As I deconstruct her, the image that has been painstaking in assembly since years, is sharper and inching towards being whole, very slowly. He has a type. People like her are easy targets, on fringes in society, He helps them blend and they feel eternally in debt. Then he makes them do things. They don't even realise if it aligns with their own morals because either they don't have a compass as there was no time to develop one or they do but He shines like Jesus in their minds, makes them accept his inclination disguised in an allyship.

Found it. This is what I have been patient in searching.

"Without death there's no life. Without darkness, there's no light.", states Rebecca swathed in certainty.

I can almost hear the glance that Cho and Rigsby share, behind the glass. They think she's nuts. Culty.

I prefer to look at it in the more complex way. He fancies that he has been wronged greatly in life and is now on a path to 'help others' by what, killing women? I bury the shake my head is bursting to carry out, hide the baser instincts. He likes the fake illusion of power or control it gives as he holds someone's life in his hands and plays with it and believes he has done them a great service, one he was denied as he faced his share of childhood abuse- by a woman, no less, a lesser being according to him. And yet when he has to charm them, it comes out, as with Rosalind. I squash the impulse to share of the Rosalind relationship with Rebecca. Though Rosalind was always curiously strong, a thoroughly solid, fine woman, the exception in Red John's collection. I suppose he knew it and that's why wanted to exploit the connection whenever suited and cut it as or when it got hot; couldn't resist his own desire and urge.

No matter, luck has come in form of his errors, has struck again.

"You know why.", nods Rebecca. "No.", Jane asks.

"Oh, you don't? Oh, Red John thought you would understand. I got rid of Bosco and his team so that you could have the case back. Red John misses you, and it's what you wanted too… Isn't it?", Rebecca jerks an eyebrow up to force the point.

So just for that? The reason doesn't even qualify for murder and yet she says it so nonchalantly! I am roiling, writhing, twisting inside, remembering Bosco, unconscious, possibly never getting up again. No, she might have been told to say that, He would know this addition of blame and guilt could destroy me... There's a pretence of a shallow stretched smile outside because I refuse, absolutely refuse to show how it truly feels! Did I, in my naïve ruthlessness, ask for this? It doesn't come to me if I did. But we had built a rapport these past few weeks, Bosco and I! I was making it work so that everything would filter by me, if only Red John hadn't killed them, Bosco would have already told me of his new discoveries in the case and we would have been steps closer instead of him lying in the hospital right now.. I loathe thinking of 'ifs' and 'buts' and 'would happens' but now I can't help it! It is the one time I let the wishes slide, wash over to imagine.

"Don't touch her!" Jane heaves breaths. "Of course, he poisoned her…. He poisoned her… of course…"

I am smiling but there's so much pain, pain like Rebecca must have felt as the poison spread, probably something that killed in a few seconds, potent but that hardly matters. He couldn't afford to let her tongue find an ear. She had already said much more than he would have liked. Of course. I should have anticipated it! And these people would remember nothing because they must have seen nothing! I hurl curses at myself. More and more and some more. I wish Lisbon were here to say that next time we'll get him but I want that to erase away, close and fast. Why couldn't it have been this time?! It was all so close, I could snatch it. Now it is all but vapour. I can't even bring myself to wipe off the condensation...

"Jane? You and Bosco, at the hospital, what did he say?"

Ah! Lisbon, in the hailstorm of a week that has passed for her, she has conducted everything wonderfully. I see the vestiges of the grief she feels after having a farewell with Minelli. The man must be like a father for her all these years, almost… There have been too many goodbyes, so fleet-footed; I am in awe of how she handles everyday. But this is an answer I can't share with her. How do I tell her that Bosco, passionate man that he is, wished for his own vengeance against Red John… How do I admit that I promised that it would be carried out to the letter, his request… It was the only moment I felt we had a similar streak and the friendship lost before it could be forged...

So I tell her a kind lie. It's a matter of no concern. He must have hidden this emotion somewhere in the illegible words at the end. My little thing that might help her burden, who knows. I must not be presumptuous.

Rigsby and Van Pelt carry a mournful rendition of 'Amazing Grace'. It's too much. I do not have the strength to stay here. So I go to the files now in my possession after people have been killed for them to be here. It is the least I could do, restart into what is already beating and inscribed inside my veins. Even if I would rather sing in my horrible voice, with my terrible guilt, locked at heart, an amazing grace that could save a wretch like me…