Jacob had assumed when he'd left the DMV that morning the most trying part of his day was over. He'd downed some of his newly acquired Scotch which, despite not being of his usual quality, had taken the edge off. His trip to Bradford Bank had been uneventful. The case file, such as it was, had been in the deposit box. Reddington's inside man had delivered as promised.
The thinness of the manila envelope spoke to the general cluelessness of the FBI. Under ordinary circumstances, witnessing the Feds chase their own tails was amusing to him. This time, however, Jacob couldn't find it within himself to laugh.
"This is boring." Hartwell's complaint drew Jacob out of his thoughts. He glanced over to the bed where she was lounging, her eyes narrowed at Jacob's improvised case wall. He'd hoped mapping out the scant evidence would yield some kind of breakthrough, but so far no brilliant insights had been forthcoming.
"This is your job. One you're being well compensated for." It irritated Jacob to have to remind the woman she was under contract. Reddington had paid top dollar because Hartwell was supposed to the best of the best. Maybe McCready had sold them substandard merchandise after all.
"No, this the target's job, and I have no interest in doing it for her." Was it his imagination or had he heard an undercurrent of resentment in her comment? Her face was the picture of apathy, yet he could have sworn he'd caught a tone. It was one thing for Hartwell to be indifferent, or even disdainful of Liz. It was another if the agent was nurturing an active dislike.
"You said yourself the killer she's hunting might be our mystery man." Jacob watched carefully as Hartwell dismissively tossed her hair.
"That was before I saw the pathetic excuse for dossier the target had compiled. Three victims. No leads. No theories, just the stupid name. Why bother targeting someone so clearly incompetent?" He weighed the agent's words. She had a point. Perhaps the resentment hadn't been directed at Liz at all, but at him for wasting her time. He understood her perspective, and she was almost certainly right. The odds the Good Samaritan was involved in the break-in were exceeding slim. Still after what he'd witnessed earlier this evening Jacob had his own reasons for wanting this case cracked.
"If you're so much smarte,r then you tell me what the pattern is. We got three victims. Two Caucasian, one African American. Ages 46, 52, and 37. Two men, one woman. One mechanic. One lawyer. One electrician. Two have children, one doesn't. They are from different regions of the state. Their injuries aren't even the same." Nothing connected these people, with the exception of that 911 call. It was a small wonder that Liz and her colleagues had hit a wall.
"This "Good Samaritan" killer is insane. There is no reason for the things he does, just bad wiring in the brain. Trying to ascribe logic to his behavior is a fool's errand. He kills because he wishes to, and that is all." Jacob sighed and laced his fingers behind his head. Hartwell was over-simplifying. If Reddington had taught him anything, it was that nothing was random.
"No, there's more. If the point was the killing, why call for the ambulance? Why take the risk the victims live to identify him, or share something with the police?" These murders must have filled some kind of need. What was it Reddington always said? Make it personal.
"Perhaps the thrill is not the kill. Perhaps it's the torture." Something clicked within Jacob's mind. He was transported back to a conversation he'd had with Brimley, about five years ago. He'd asked the old man why he never seemed to repeat himself, methodology-wise with his interrogations. Brimley had explained that he tailored his tactics to individuals. Perhaps the Samaritan also subscribed to this philosophy, hence the variations in the attacks. Maybe that's the pattern the FBI missed, the connection, not between the victims, but between the victims and their injuries.
"That could be it." Jacob felt a strange rush of elation. He had no proof he was right except a gut instinct, and yet that instinct almost never failed him.
"What could be it?" He fought to suppress the giddiness in his tone. He didn't want Hartwell thinking he'd gone round the bend.
"Torture isn't one size fits all. That could be why the wounds were so varied. They're customized to the victims somehow." He'd done it. The thing he'd sworn to himself he'd accomplish as he'd watched Liz desperately trying to save Samaritan's third victim. A few scant hours ago she'd cradled the woman in her arms, not caring about the blood soaking into her slacks and blouse. Liz had done her best to save the victim, pressing down on her gushing wounds, but it had been an unwinnable battle from the start.
Even through his binoculars, at a distance of a 100 yards, he's known the second the woman had passed. Liz's body had hunched over in weary defeat, and as she'd turned toward the sound of the approaching sirens, he'd glimpsed her face. Anger, grief, and guilt. Most of all, guilt.
In that moment he'd learned something about Elizabeth Scott of which he'd been completely ignorant. She was a good person. A kind person. She cared about people, the same way Dembe did. He'd assumed it was the danger of the job that had attracted her to the FBI. He knew now it was more than that. She wanted to help others. A rare breed, and one that lived a far more painful life than people like him.
It had been dumb bad luck that Liz had been driving home when the killer had called in his latest victim. Even worse that she'd arrived before the ambulance. Now she'd spend the night torturing herself about how she'd failed. What she could have done differently. Hopefully her boyfriend would be up to helping her through it. He was a doctor. They were supposed to be good at good at compartmentalizing, right?
"It's certainly a theory, but what do you hope to do with it? Call the FBI tip line?" Hartwell's sarcasm jerked him out of his revelries. She had a point. He might have potentially cracked the case, but it wasn't like he could share it with the Feds. He couldn't afford draw attention by sending them an anonymous clue. Beside more likely than not they'd assume his note came from the killer and they'd waste more time chasing him than the actual Samaritan.
Jacob was spared having to respond by the sound of Liz's cell phone ringing. Hartwell swiftly hopped from the bed and opened a window on her computer.
"It's the boyfriend." She click on an icon and suddenly Jacob could hear both sides of the conversation.
"-understaffed tonight and they asked if I could cover for a few more hours...I know tonight date night but-"
"No, it's fine. It's not like I've never bailed on you for work before." Why the hell wasn't she saying anything? The second Liz had walked through the door, she had grabbed a vase and hurled it across the room. Following that she had sunk to the floor and cried for a good half hour. It was NOT fine. She was NOT fine.
"You sure? What are you going to do for dinner?" Couldn't this asshole hear the lie in her voice? Jacob sure as hell could. Couldn't he tell his girlfriend, whom he claimed to love, was in pain?
"I'll probably just pick-up some dim sum from Wing Yees. I am capable of feeding myself, you know." Jacob ground his molars. This was ridiculous. He wasn't sure who he was more irritated with: the boyfriend for being oblivious, or Liz for putting on this performance of normalcy.
"I just wanted to make sure you weren't planning on doing something rash, like using the stove again. I'm pretty sure we won't get the security deposit back if you burn the place to the ground." Haha. Real cute. Dumb jackass.
"Funny man. See if I get you any Kung Pow Chicken." Kung Pow Chicken? Did the man lack taste buds as well as brain.
"Just so long as you don't steal my cookie. I love you. Bye."
"Bye." Was Jacob the only one who noticed Liz hadn't returned the endearment? Did that mean something? More important question: Why did he care if it did?
"He's lying." That got Jacob's attention fast.
"What do you mean?" Hartwell tapped the screen.
"His tracking data says he's not at his work." What the hell? Jacob pulled out his phone and tapped in the address she had indicated.
"It's an italian bistro, thirty minutes away from the hospital." Blood boiled beneath Jacob's skin, the symptom of an anger he hadn't felt so acutely in years. He inhaled slowly. He needed to be calm. Rational.
He looked up at Hartwell, his face schooled in what he hoped was an expression of polite inquiry. "Shouldn't you go investigate that? I can keep Scott covered while you're gone."
The operative's eyebrow rose a half inch. "Investigate a man for lying to his girlfriend about where he is?"
"It's irregular behavior and there has been a security breach recently." That sounded nice and impersonal. Not at all like Jacob wanted to know if the doctor was cheating, so he could determine if he needed to wring the man's neck. Or give him a Mexican bow tie. Whichever.
"Nik Korpal's behavior isn't irregular, it's common enough to keep the world's PIs in business."
"How do you know he'd not involved in the break in?" Jacob was perfectly aware it wasn't exactly LIKELY, but it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. Stranger things had happened.
Hartwell stared at him as though he'd suggested that black was white and down was up. "Because the man BROKE IN and Nik Korpal has a key. Besides the man is squeaky clean. Not even a parking ticket."
"He has a large student loan debt, which makes him susceptible to bribery." Everybody had a price, even supposed boy scouts like the doctor. It was unwise to underestimate anyone's capacity for treachery.
The operative's lips pressed together, becoming a thin line, but Jacob stared her down. It might be completely unconnected to the larger crisis at hand, but Reddington didn't pay her to take chances. At last the woman relented.
"Fine. You stay with Scott, I'll look into Korpal. I'm telling you though, there's nothing there but a man tired of fucking the same woman for six months straight." With that pronouncement she grabbed her gun, her coat, and swept out of the apartment. Jacob had a feeling the moment Hartwell returned, he was going to be unceremoniously kicked out of her apartment. What's more, he didn't feel more than a twinge of regret at the prospect. Odd.
He turned his focus to Scott, who at the moment was not dialing Wing Yees or turning on that ridiculous reality show she found so relaxing. Instead she was just sitting there on her coach, mulling things over in her minds. It was exactly as he'd feared. She was obsessing, stewing in her guilt. Five minutes passed without her moving from her position. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. At last Jacob couldn't take it it any more.
In an admittedly impulsive move, he pulled out his burner and dialled the landline in Liz's apartment. He watched her jump at the sudden noise interrupting her drawn out silence.
"Hello?"
Jacob summoned his best frat boy persona, lowering his voice an octave for good measure. "Hey babe. This is Kyle. You gave me your number the other night? You free to hook up? We could hang out and watch Netflix, or...whatever." Jacob layered that "whatever" with as much sexual innuendo as he could manage.
"You have the wrong number." Liz didn't wait for a response before she hung up on him. Jacob smiled at her peeved tone. Annoyed was far and away better than sad. He briefly considered re-dialing, just to see if he could rile her into full blown anger, but thought better of it. He was gratified to see that after only a minute's pause Liz herself was punching numbers into her cordless.
"I'd like to place an order for pick-up." Jacob own stomach started to grumble as Liz spoke. Damn, he could go for some Chinese himself. That thought stuck in his head for longer than it should have. He couldn't. Could he? He heard Reddington's voice in his mind: You were reckless. Except wasn't Reddington the poster boy for 'nothing ventured, nothing gained'? Wasn't this a perfect solution on so many levels? Elizabeth shouldn't be by herself and he was sure that he could somehow find a way to share his insight, without revealing too much. It was possible, wasn't it? Jacob straighten his spine, having come to a decision. Whether it was or it wasn't, he was about to find out.
