AN: My sincerest apologies for having put this on the shelf for over six months, it was never a conscious decision, and time just kept ticking! Looking forward to S7 and for getting this back up and running - there's only three chapters left after this one and I'm excited to hear what you think of the characters I've picked. This one is from Pat the Coroner's point of view - you may remember her from some S2-S4 episodes and her and Lisbon always seemed to get on well. Anyways, I took a shine to her and wanted to give her a voice. Shoutout to Sarah for also being a Pat fan! Please review if you can, and apologies for the delay again :)
Looking up from where she pours a much anticipated cup of coffee into a travel mug, Pat glances up at the clock on her kitchen wall. 5:32 she makes it, and with a sigh she sets the kettle back onto its holder, softly, so as not to wake the sleeping house. Barely fifteen minutes earlier she'd awoken to a call from her boss: gunshot victim in the west inner city with an ending that meant that she and her expertise were needed out of bed and awake at this time of night.
She pulls her jacket on and zips it up, pulls her hair into a pony tail and leaves the kitchen, treading lightly across the hall and silently into the opened door across the way. A quick loving glance into one room, and then another, and she is satisfied.
Bundling herself into the car, Pat settles herself into the seat and turns the ignition on, gets on her way. She has grown to enjoy these midnight journeys as much as she can – as much as you can enjoy driving to a murder scene; but this is her life, and she enjoys the quiet roads at this time, the chance to get her thoughts together and the chance to enjoy an uninterrupted cup of coffee. The early morning road is a respite from the rest of her life for her and despite her tiredness, she enjoys the journey.
She flips the radio on when she is suitably awake and ready for it, and she listens to it half-heartedly, the presenter's voice just a tad too cheery for the hour. The jingle of the 6 a.m. news is just starting as she pulls up on the street at the crime scene, and only for the strap of her bag getting caught under the passenger seat, she would have missed the headline completely. She is leaning down to untangle it, almost nose-to-nose with the radio when the words register. "The serial killer known as Red John, who had terrorised the wider Sacramento area for over fifteen years has been killed, it was confirmed late last night," she hears, and her hand drops from the bag's strap with fright. Fear gathers in her throat.
Before she knows what she's doing, she's turned the ignition on and is pulling away from the crime scene. She can see a colleague gesturing to her, trying to figure the situation out, confused as to why she's driving away. He'd be guessing a long time. She just needs a second. She'll just drive round the block, collect her thoughts, ideally hear a little more information on the news.
She can't believe it. She knows these people, had known these people. Teresa, especially, she'd known for years. God, she hopes she's alright. She's just imagining how this will make her career when the radio confirms that the C.B.I. has been disbanded and the unit dealing with the Red John case have been arrested on a variety of charges. More words. "Ongoing manhunt", the radio says. "Patrick Jane," it says. "Undetained as of yet."
Oh, God. Poor Teresa. And her team. It's all a misunderstanding, she's sure. Like that last time. Something comes to mind then, an old memory from years before. When Jane was in trouble in Vegas, when she'd had to break the news of his arrest to Lisbon herself. The way her face had fallen, the way she'd tried to hide it. The way Pat had pretended not to notice how it had affected her. How she'd checked in with Teresa more often then, made a bigger effort. How she had advised her to let Jane go. How Teresa had denied the advice. How a few weeks later, Lisbon and the team had been arrested because of him. How unfair it was that Lisbon be punished for Jane's actions, then and now. She'd been doing that for a long time, Pat thought.
She makes her way around the block and tries to focus on the details she's getting from the radio. This is happening, big headlines, history is happening right now, but the city sleeps on. For a horrid moment she considers the body she is about to tend to. They are dead too, but they won't be heard about. Their family won't care about Red John, only about this body, her body, the other, forgotten body.
Someone in the same job as her is looking after Red John's body right now, and she thanks her lucky stars it isn't her. She's seen it before, more times than she'd like: ruthless and feared killers reduced to pitiful corpses. But this was different. Today was different. Today she knew this killer. Today she knew this killer's killer. Today she is on that killer's side.
"Morning," she says, avoiding eye contact.
"If you call this morning," Jonah says.
She raises her lips in a half-smile. He is scanning through the pages of the clipboard in his hand. "Some serious situation they've got going down in Sacramento tonight, eh?"
She snaps her head up. "You heard?"
"I heard? Of course I heard. It's been splashed across the headlines since last night. Red John's dead. Big news, Pat," he says as he begins walking away. "Big news."
"Yeah," she says, sure her voice must be giving her away. Her heart is beating fast, still. Jonah stops on the spot. She closes her eyes and opens them to see him turning back around to her.
"Didn't you used to work with them?" he's saying, eyeing her.
She nods. "The odd time. Good people."
He nods. She can see the scepticism, the mistrust creeping in.
"I knew Lisbon best, known her for years. Salt of the earth, she is. A good agent."
Jonah nods. He doesn't believe her. "Time will tell," he says, and walks away.
Pat does her job quickly, quietly, efficiently, and sends the body off to the morgue, where she'll meet it at 9 a.m. for the full examination. For now, it's time to go home. She says goodbye quietly to her colleagues and takes off her plastic gloves and discards of them as she walks to the car.
She stops at the shop on her way home, collects milk and the morning newspaper. She makes her way to the till, says good morning to the cashier. It's a normal day, only today she knows the faces splayed across the front page of the newspaper the cashier lazily slides into a paper bag.
When she gets back to her car, they're no longer discussing Red John on the radio, or any news at all. They're discussing a competition that will be on after the break.
Pat sighs. Life goes on. Other people die, others sleep on, unaware. Milk is bought and lives are lived. The world never stops turning and they all move on. Maybe Lisbon could too. From the stories she'd heard from her about Jane, if he wanted to remain uncovered, he would do so. This could break Lisbon. She'd been fairly broken after Jane's stint in Las Vegas. Pat had tried to warn her off him for good while he'd been gone, but to no avail. And then he'd swooped back into her life, and of course then there was no way to make Lisbon see sense. For although she'd been broken, devastated by his departure, a desperation she'd tried to hide, she'd been soothed by his return, and Pat had known her pleas would fall on deaf ears. Not that Lisbon was naive, just desperate to help. Perhaps now she'd have a chance to help herself. Maybe she too would get the chance to move on, finally. It might not be a bad thing.
The air outside her car is cool, the sky clear, and Pat spares another thought for Teresa, for her team. They won't have been sleeping tonight either.
Pat enters her home quietly, through the back door, and leaves her bag on one of the kitchen stools. She takes the milk and puts it in the fridge. She leaves the kitchen then, and a quick glance into the bedroom she left much too long ago tells her of the movement that has taken place since her departure, as she sees the smallest figure of the house snuggled into her father's side. Pat smiles. The floorboards creak as she crosses the hall and enters the second darkened room, a solitary strip of early sunlight peeking out from between the pulled curtains. Two silhouettes are all she can make out, each sleeping soundly in his own bed. She makes her way over to each one, brushes her hand across each head, kisses each forehead softly and closes their door behind her.
They've a while longer before they will be woken, before chaos will reign once more, before the milk will once again be removed from the fridge in which it has just been placed, and poured into bowls of cereal just a tad too sugary to be good. She lets them sleep on as the rest of the world, unaware, and hopes they will remain so.