Jonathon Redding
Chapter 10
A dog started barking as soon as they entered the house.
"Who's that?" cried a voice from a far room. "Frankie? JohnJohn? Issat you?"
"It's me, Ma! Go back to sleep!" And Det. Sergeant Nelson shoved him into what was obviously the kitchen. It was small, as would be expected in a seventy-five year old home, and it reeked of beer, bacon and cigarettes. The lights were still out and Jane's eyes were wide as he tried to take it all in. Nelson's appearance had been a wild curve ball in his plan, and right now, as the stocky man pushed him into a chair, the Kimber still locked on his head, his mind was spinning with old theories and new ideas. Truth be told, none of it made any sense now and that, he realized, was a very strange and unpleasant sensation.
There was the ticking of claws on linoleum and the shuffle of hard-soled slippers, and Nelson leaned into him, lowering the Kimber to his side.
"Say anything and I'll shoot your head off, got that?"
"Yep," said Jane. "Got it."
"I'll just clean up the blood and she won't remember a thing in the morning."
"Understood."
Suddenly the lights came on in the kitchen.
"Oh god," moaned a woman. She looked to be over seventy and was obviously a smoker. Her voice was like sandpaper. The words came out 'Oh gaad.'
She shook her head. "Not another one."
Nelson waved her off. "Just waiting for JohnJohn, Ma. Go back to bed."
"I left you supper in the fridge." She eyed Jane up and down. "Not enough for him, though."
"Oh, it's alright," Jane smiled. "Lost my appetite a few years back. Nice doggie."
There was a Jack Russell terrier at her heels. It was growling like a badger.
"His name is Jack. Saucy Jack." She looked like she needed another cigarette.
"Of course it is."
"He doesn't like you."
"It's mutual," said Jane.
"JohnJohn thought it up. You a friend of his?"
Jane rolled his eyes toward Nelson, whose Kimber was thankfully hidden behind his windbreaker. Nelson glared at him. He looked back at the woman.
"No, I'm a colleague of Frankie's." He sure hoped Nelson's name was Frank. He'd never actually gotten the man's first name. Figured. The one time he hadn't paid attention.
"You don't look like a cop."
"He ain't no cop, Ma."
"Frankie's right." Jane shook his head in agreement. "I ain't no cop." Anything to diffuse the situation. Keep Momma happy. And Frankie.
"Well," the woman made several attempts to turn. "No loud music. Not this time. Got that, Frankie?"
"Got it, Ma. Go to bed."
"I'm goin'. I'm goin;." And she did, in fact, finish that turn and shuffle back the way she had come, the little dog ticking at her heels. "I need a smoke…Where the hell's my smokes…"
There was silence in the little kitchen for several moments.
"Stand up," said Nelson.
Jane's mind was spinning with possible scenarios. Obediently, he stood.
"You don't need to do that. I just came to apologize," he lied as the cop spun him around, pulling handcuffs from behind his back. "I shouldn't have thrown your gun into the bay and I'm terribly sorry."
"Piece," grunted Nelson. First one wrist – snap - then the other – click. "Weapon or piece. Cops don's say 'gun.'"
"Ah. Sorry. Again." Nelson pushed him roughly back down onto the chair. "Gun just sounds more intimidating."
Nelson stared at him with deadened eyes, and suddenly, Jane knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this man had every intention of killing him. He cleared his throat.
"You see, I got your address from the Joint Law Enforcement Database and thought I'd just come and, you know, make things right between us. Man to man. Like professionals."
"Like professionals, huh?" The Kimber reappeared. Nelson was looking at it like a lover.
"Oh look, I'm glad you got it back," offered Jane. His hands were locked securely behind his back. It was impossible to reach the phone in his pocket.
"This ain't the same one," said the detective. "I got lots of 'em."
"That's nice," said Jane.
"They never did find that one. Still at the bottom of the Bay. Thanks to you."
"Ah." He swallowed, marveling at how life just kept turning around and around. "So, ah, now that I've apologized, I think I should be letting you get to that supper your mom made for you. What a lovely lady, by the way. A real firecracker. My colleagues are anxious to leave first thing in the morn—"
Nelson grinned. "Naw, we're waiting on JohnJohn."
"Oh, I shouldn't really. It's late. You're tired, I'm tired..."
"I said we wait."
Jane nodded, thinking and thinking some more. He had never been good picking cuffs. He vowed to change that once he was free of them. He was running out of options.
"Oh, while we're waiting, may I have a cup of tea?"
Nelson smiled. "With what JohnJohn's gonna do, it's better that you don't."
"Lovely." Jane swallowed again, flashed a doomed smile. And they sat quietly in the kitchen for a while longer, until there was a bump and click of a back door.
A dark clad shape stepped into the room and into the light.
"Oh. Hello," said JohnJohn.
And he smiled.
""""""""""""""""""""""
Patten University was small compared to Berkeley, with the average class size being twelve, and it boasted perhaps one tenth of the number of buildings. But the campus was similar, even at night, with Beaux-Arts design mingling with Spanish, twisted oaks and California palms dotting the greenspaces. The Dean had been notified, was on his way, and a custodian had given them access to Edward Casey's office, but nothing inside had been touched. It wasn't surprising.
Casey would not be murdered here.
So she and Cho stood outside, breathing in the damp night air. The custodian was still with them, as both he and the Dean had insisted on giving them access to every building on campus if needed. A forensics team had been called, as well as the K-9 unit, but right now, as they waited, the night was calm and quiet, with only a small smattering of students wandering across the grounds.
Rigsby was on the phone.
"He's dead? Damn. No, no, I understand. It just would have helped put some of these pieces together… You what? Why? Yeah, I don't believe him either. Okay, call Grace. Get her to pull up Jane's phone server, see if they can determine a location from your call. I'll try calling too… Right, good work."
She folded the phone and slipped it into her pocket.
"Rayer's dead. He was in Stockton."
Cho looked at her. "He found the body."
"Yep. Rigsby needs stitches."
"Cool." Deadpan.
"He doesn't think Jane's at the hotel."
"Really." Completely deadpan.
She slid her eyes to look at him, the hint of a smile tugging into one cheek. "You're really good at that."
"I know."
And they stared out into the night, knowing that without some sort of lead, it was impossible to know where to start.
Another group of students was crossing the green, laughing.
She glanced at Cho. He raised his brows. She pushed off toward the students.
"Excuse me," she called after them. There were two guys, two girls, and they all paused as she approached. She flashed her badge. "Teresa Lisbon. CBI. May I ask you a very strange question?"
They exchanged glances, nodded. "Sure."
"Have you seen anything weird on campus tonight?"
She thought she would need to elaborate, explain herself, anything, but immediately, the four burst out laughing.
"Excuse me?" she asked again, her smirk sliding back onto her face. "What's so funny?"
"Raccoons!" howled the first student.
"Raccoons?"
"Yeah, raccoons!"
She felt her heart sink.
"It's crazy! Becky is from Tennessee and she's never seen a raccoon!"
"Yeah, that's like the raccoon capital of the world!"
"Not a single one!"
"Right…raccoons..." She sighed, felt Cho's energy drain away behind her.
"Yeah, she has to come to California to see raccoons!"
Suddenly, she looked up. "Where… did you see this raccoon?"
"Three!" exclaimed one of the students. "We saw three tonight, just over there behind the Auditorium!"
She didn't even need to look at Cho this time. Together, they bolted from the group of students and sprinted across the grass toward Faith Hall Auditorium.
There were several lights illuminating the front of the building, but the back was dark, so they pulled weapons and pocket flashes and slowly headed into the shadows.
They could hear the hiss and trill of the animals as the thin beams of light swept across the base of the building, and they could see movement on top of movement in the darkness. Lisbon swallowed and cast her light toward it.
"Oh god," she moaned.
They had found the body of Edward Casey. But apparently the raccoons had found him first.
"""""""""""""""""""
"Not basements. I really don't like basements. Bad things happen to me in basements…"
"Shut up," the cop growled over his shoulder and he shoved again, sending Jane staggering toward the narrow door, hands still cuffed behind his back. He was actually grateful for Nelson's arms on him as they pushed him down the steep stairs towards the bottom. He would have fallen otherwise, and that would not be a good thing given this unexpected turn of events. No, he needed more than his proverbial feet under him if he was to survive this night.
The basement was finished in a decor consistent with men living with their mother. Red carpets, wood paneled walls, big screen TV, bar fridge, ugly reclining chairs. But it was very narrow, clearly not the full basement, and as he regained some sense of balance, he could see a door to the right, with a sign posted on it with clear tape.
"Forensics Unit. Do Not Enter."
He swallowed again. This was quickly going from bad to worse.
The man named JohnJohn pushed past him, carrying a black satchel and pulling a key from his pocket. As he moved toward the door, Jane watched him, marveling at how genetics could allow one brother to look like Nelson and the other to look like Piper. Different fathers, most likely, but still. John R. Piper was perhaps thirty, with thick dark hair and light blue eyes. In fact, to Jane, he looked rather feminine, being slender of build and fine of bone, and he had a pouting mouth and high cheekbones that would be the envy of any supermodel. No, JohnJohn Piper was as beautiful as his brother was not, and it was also then likely that he was clever, articulate and cultured. And while Frank was dangerous, it was JohnJohn who was deadly.
As the younger brother opened the door and disappeared inside, Jane wondered with a detached sort of thought, what genetics would have thrown if he had had a brother.
With a shove between the shoulders, Nelson bullied him inside and closed the door behind them.
The room was dark, and he knew JohnJohn was indulging in a moment of power. It smelled of formaldehyde and bleach, and a fan was blowing cold air in from outside. Unlike the outside, however, the room was not damp – forensics units needed dry air. Moist air grew bacteria and assisted decay, both enemies of forensic evidence. It also smelled of concrete and rubber and the echoes in the room reminded him of stainless steel, and so, when JohnJohn finally flicked on the lights, he was not surprised to see that he had been right. Concrete walls and floor. Large shelving unit on the far wall containing jars and bottles and vials and trays. There was a section that looked like it could have once been a shower stall, with stainless steel walls and a drain in the middle of the floor.
And of course, in the middle of the room, a table. A stainless steel table with a rubber mat underneath.
For some reason, he felt lightheaded.
Could be fear, he reckoned. Didn't feel it often. Never really had. Not even as a kid. He had never been that careful with his personal safety and he wondered if that was a sociopathic glitch. It would explain a lot. It would have been interesting to talk to Douglas Rayer about it.
"I'm delighted to finally meet you," said JohnJohn as he began unpacking his satchel. Gloves, gauze, hemostats, laid them carefully on a metal stand by the table. "He's told me so much about you."
"He?" Jane glanced back over his shoulder at Nelson. The bloodshot eyes were inches from his own.
"Not him, silly. Our mutual friend." Knife, oddly shaped and shining. "My mentor."
Once again, Jane was grateful for Nelson's arms, for his knees had suddenly turned to jelly. He swallowed.
"He said you'd be good. I have to admit, I'm impressed." For some reason, Jane noticed the young man's hands. Long, slim, elegant as he pulled item after item from the bag. They were mesmerizing. "Frankie doesn't like you. He thinks you're insane, so I really didn't know what to think. I didn't think you'd catch on, but you did. Right from the start. Good job, Patrick. Well done."
Quietly, with those long elegant hands, JohnJohn pulled out a book, a very old, very small hardcover. Laid it on the tray with the others. Continued unpacking.
Jane stopped breathing.
It was then that he realized, with another detached sort of thought, that he was speaking with a pupil of Red John's and that he was not completely paranoid nor delusional and there was indeed a network operating in the State of California. Once again he was right, although Minelli would be loathe to admit it.
"He thinks very highly of you. In fact, I was surprised when he agreed to this. He's rather protective of you, you know. But he said, 'if you can catch him, you can have him.' And look, here you are…"
His mind was spinning, his breath leaving his body never to return. There was the book, a second book, just feet away. Given to this child, this puppet, by Red John. He needed that book. The way an addict needed a fix, he needed that book.
He couldn't die in here, in this room, this lonely, pathetic little room underneath a kitchen that smelled of beer and bacon and cigarettes. This was not the way it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be Red John, not some lackey, some grad student, some minion. There was no justice in that. And while justice was most certainly not an idol for him, it was admittedly a good one, and suddenly, for the first time in a rather long time, Patrick Jane began to feel angry.
"This is a stupid game," he said abruptly. "You're not Jack the Ripper and I'm not Mary Jane Kelly and I really had hoped you were rather smarter than that."
Finally, JohnJohn turned to study him, an amused almost beatific smile on his smooth, sculpted face. "What did you say?"
"I said that this is a stupid game, but to be honest, I think what I meant was that you are stupid. You're not worthy of this. Neither of you. Pathetic buffoons, the pair of you."
Nelson's grip on him tightened, even as JohnJohn's expression grew unreadable, but Jane didn't care.
"Red John has wasted his time. You are no more worthy of his legacy than you are the Ripper's."
JohnJohn cocked his head. "What do you mean?"
"Mary Jane Kelly doesn't equal Patrick Jane. That's a pathetic leap and you should feel ashamed of your lack of imagination. I have a dozen names that are better. Two dozen, maybe more. Honestly, if you're going to try to make something of yourself, then at least do it with style."
"But you fit perfectly for Mary Jane Kelly."
"Bah. Do not."
"Mary—"
"Means bitter, blah blah boring. Face it, JohnJohn, I'm not bitter. I'm focused."
He seemed to consider this. "Fair enough. My mistake. But Kelly fits you like a glove. Listen Patrick, Kelly comes from Kell, meaning Celtic, a fierce warrior people. It also comes from Ceilidh, which means celebration. Therefore, the name Kelly means lively and aggressive, a scrapper. And you, my friend are all of those, in spades. Don't you see it?"
"Kindergarten onomastics. You should have tried a little harder," said Jane, rolling his eyes. "Besides, it's not my turn."
And that's when JohnJohn Piper smiled and pulled something else out of his satchel. It was small and bloody red and contained within a clear forensics baggie. Jane steeled his jaw.
"Oh, I'm afraid to disappoint you again, Patrick, but it is your turn. It is completely and utterly and only your turn."
It was a kidney.
End of Chapter 10