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Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist, the poems and quotes I use, or any of the pop culture references herein.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
-Robert Frost, Fire and Ice
Red Tiger Hymn
In. Out. The rhythm of breathing and running, feet slapping against pavement, air stuttering in his lungs.
Patrick Jane runs like the Devil himself is after him. Which might be true. He doesn't know, anymore, how much Red John watches him.
So he runs. He can't escape, he knows this. Red John won't let him escape. But he can run, and running gives him the illusion of escape, like a hamster spinning its wheel or a dog racing alongside a fence.
He can do this. He can keep running.
His lungs burn. He's gone five or six miles this morning and it's starting to hurt now, low in his chest. It spreads like fire, and he tries not to think about it.
Tyger, tyger, Timothy Carter's voice whispers. Burning bright.
Whispers, whispers, always whispering. Timothy Carter, Todd Johnson, Red John laughing over the phone. Whispers that he can't get out of his head, no matter what he's doing.
He dreams about them, sometimes, Red John's tigers, and they're all standing outside his house laughing and burning, waving their fiery hands.
"Daddy," his daughter whispers in his dreams (always whispers), "Daddy, can I go play?"
He wants to say no, Charlie, no, they'll eat you alive, but instead he smiles and pushes her forward. "Go ahead, sweetie."
And she plays with burning tigers while he watches from the window, and the walls around him drip blood.
Tyger, tyger, burning bright.
He runs.
He should get back to the case. They have three new bodies to go over, three more people killed like Rusty Moore. A crime scene too, a motel room where the most recent vic was found. He'd wanted to go last night, but Lisbon said no, said go home, Jane, rest up.
Rest up. Yeah right.
She should know better than all of them that he's not going to be sleeping much until this is over. Tyger, tyger, this new killer wrote.
Those words are calling to Jane. Red John is calling to Jane.
He comes around the house now, Red John does. Ever since they killed the San Joaquin Killer he's been dropping by, once or twice a week when Jane's been gone.
He leaves things. Flowers, once, a new teapot another time. Some food when Jane stopped going to the grocery story.
It's a form of love, Brett Stiles said. He's courting you.
Jane runs. Sacramento is beautiful this time of year but it's god-awful hot, and his insides are dry like sandpaper.
Every step starts to burn and his lungs ache, his heart scrapes against his ribs, but he keeps running.
He has to keep running.
If he stops…
If he stops, he feels like he's going to fall.
Tyger, tyger, burning bright.
Patrick Jane wipes sweat from his face and doesn't stop.
"Oh God," Lisbon says, looking down at the three bodies. Jane wrinkles his nose unhappily. Sam Peters, the Rio PD coroner, flicks the light off and looks at them expectantly.
"Well?" he says. "Think these are your guy's?"
They're in the Rio PD Coroner's office and there are three dead bodies stretched out on stainless steel tables. Each body is horribly mutilated, just like Rusty Moore's was, and there's no doubt in Lisbon's mind that these three are his earlier victims.
"Where were they found?"
Peters shrugs. "We found these one in the motel," he says, pointing to a skinny guy with sandy hair, "this one in an alleyway," he points to a balding Asian man covered in tattoos, "and this guy was found under the overpass." He nods at the third vic, a huge, middle-aged man with a bulging moustache.
"And there wasn't any writing on the walls where they were found?"
The ME shakes his head. "No. I was at all three scenes and there was no writing anywhere. There was a lot of blood in the hotel, though."
"Were all of them drugged prior to capture?"
"Tox screens came back with high amounts of suxamethonium chloride."
"And that is…?"
"A muscle relaxant and paralytic," the ME clarifies. "Often used as a horse tranquilizer and in emergency rooms. It's incredibly fast-acting and doesn't last very long."
"So we're looking for someone with access to this drug," Lisbon says thoughtfully. "Does it come over the counter?"
"No. It comes as itself or the refined pharmaceutical forms Anectine, Scoline, and Quelicin."
"So it's hard to get ahold of?"
The ME shrugs. "I wouldn't know."
"Our killer is probably a doctor or a vet, then," she says, turning to Jane. "Someone with easy access to this drug."
"Not necessarily. He also has religious delusions, and not a lot of doctors and veterinarians are highly religious."
Lisbon chews her lip, thinking. Jane does have a point, but still. "I'll have Van Pelt look into it," she says.
"All four victims have been male," Jane says slowly.
"Could the killer be a woman?" Peters asks, leaning forward.
"Probably not," Lisbon says. "Most female killers prefer to poison or shoot their victims. In rare cases we've seen female serial killers who stab, but that's generally only one quick stab to the heart or throat, not multiple gashes."
"Women are typically calmer about it than men," Jane explains. "Female serial killers tend to be hyper-organized and almost detached about the whole process. They prefer poisons and guns, anonymous, impersonal weapons. Knives, on the other hand…"
"Are extremely personal," the coroner says, nodding. "So not a woman?"
"Probably not," Lisbon says. "Do you have identities on these three guys?"
"Yes. Motel guy is Adam Wright, twenty-four, a heroin addict. Arrested twice for aggravated assault, spent six months in jail and was then released. He's from the area. His body was found two weeks ago and the scene has been preserved."
The ME moves on, points to the tattooed man. "Jimmy Yuen, thirty-seven. He is not from the area. We found him in an alley three weeks ago. Dump job, the alley was clean."
He nods at the last victim, the big, mustached man. "Anthony Wallace, fifty-two, a biker and a drifter. H was found a month ago, also a dump job."
"So he's the first," Jane mutters, stepping up to peer at the body.
"So three people murdered in the same area within a month, and nobody thought to link them together?" Lisbon asks, incredulous. That just rings of sloppy police work to her.
Peters shrugs again. "We didn't have reason to think they were the same guy. Three different men, all different ages, found in different locations. That doesn't fit a serial killers profile—he's going across race, age, even hair color. The styles of killing are different too."
The ME moves over to the big, mustached man found under the overpass. "This guy, for example, is covered in hesitation marks. He was found nearly a month ago. You can see here and here that the knife went in a couple of times in shallow little cuts. The edges are extremely shallow and the wounds themselves are jagged, like he was shaking. Our killer was nervous."
"He was killed by two people," Jane says, apparently done. "Look at these cuts here. No hesitation, but big, strong, confident strokes. These cuts here," he pointed at gashes along the ribs and legs, "are lighter and shakier in comparison."
Peters leans in, frowning.
Oh God, Lisbon thinks, shooting Jane a glance. She can't read his face in this light, but she can see that his lips are pressed together in a thin white line and his hands are shaking minutely. He's been… off all day, and she can't help but make a mental note to go buy some sleeping pills later.
"Holy shit," Peters says. "You're right."
"Same with this victim," Jane continues, nodding at Jimmy Yuen. "Found in an alleyway instead of an overpass, but still killed by two people. You can see the strong cuts here, and the shakier cuts here and here, though they're steadying out."
"And this one?" Peters gestures at the last victim, Adam Wright. "Same thing?"
"Harder to say, but I'd bet on it."
"And he was found," Lisbon says, because she can kind of see where Jane's going with this.
"In a motel. That and the stronger cuts suggest that the killer was evolving through these murders, getting more comfortable, as it were."
"And the warehouse and the writings are him spreading his wings," Lisbon says, understanding. She remembers Jane saying that on the Johnson case—he's learning to enjoy himself.
Jane smiles. "Exactly. Through these four bodies—and there are probably more, you just haven't found them—our killer has grown. His mentor—" Red John goes unsaid, but Lisbon hears it anyway "—has taught him well. He was present for the first two murders, probably the third, but Moore? No. That was all our killer."
The ME nods, looking a little dazed.
"Where can we find Rowcliff?" Lisbon asks. "We'll need him to take us to the crime scene. And have these bodies sent to the CBI Coroner's Office, will you?"
Peters nods, not even arguing this time. He looks faintly sick. "My team will send over all the forensics from those scenes too."
Lisbon nods. "Good. If you find any more records of similarly-killed bodies, let us know."
"Will do," Peters says, and Lisbon beckons to Jane. "Rowcliff should be at the station. If he's not, he's down at the Badge, the cop's bar."
"Thank you," Lisbon nods, and they leave Peters with three mutilated bodies.
Rowcliff is, unfortunately, off duty and so at the bar, and he's not too happy when Lisbon shows up.
He bitches a little but takes them, and if only Lisbon could get Jane to stop watching the man like he's planning the best way to ruin him psychologically, it'd be great.
"Stop it," she hisses, hands tight on the wheel. Rowcliff's car is just in front of theirs and Jane hasn't taken his eyes off the back of the LEO's head since they started.
He does now, though, blinking at her. "What?"
"Stop staring at Rowcliff like you're going to destroy him."
"I'm not gonna destroy him."
"Or make him cry."
"Not even a little?"
"No, not even a little."
Jane sighs heavily but raises his hands. "Fine, fine, I won't take him down a peg. He could use it, though."
"Play nice," Lisbon orders. "We need his help and cooperation to get this done, and he won't give it if you ruin him."
"Buzzkill," Jane mutters, but he doesn't mean it. He's trying to make her smile, and she does just so he can feel better.
He probably knows what she's doing, but whatever. He smiles back and it makes him look less sharp around the edges.
Jane doesn't look so good.
Not like he's sick or anything (physically, at least), but drawn, tired. She knows he didn't sleep last night. He says he did, but she's not an idiot. She can see the circles under his eyes and the tremors in his hands.
He's not the only one who sees things.
"Are you okay?"
Jane blinks. "Fine," he says.
Lisbon looks him up and down. "Jane, I know this is a Red John case, but if you're gonna crack up on me, I need to know now."
So I can plan for it, she doesn't say. So I can get all my excuses in line and save both our asses.
He grins crookedly. "I won't crack up," he says. "Promise."
"Oh yeah? How many miles did you run today?"
He actually looks impressed, but he might be faking it. He's good at faking emotion like that, she's noticed. "Eight," he says.
"You better not do that," she says warningly. "You're not a runner, Jane, and you'll end up pulling something."
"Yes, Mother Theresa," he says with a smile, and his eyes flash teasing fire. "Want me to take my vitamins too?"
"Oh, shut up," Lisbon mutters, but she feels better. If he's teasing, then he's okay. It's when the teasing stops, when he turns sharp and spiteful, that she has to worry. He's okay for now.
She plans on keeping it that way.
"…Are you taking your vitamins?"
"I drink tea."
"Tea isn't the answer to everything, Jane. It'll ruin your iron count if you're not careful."
"Blasphemy! Tea is perfect! There's nothing wrong with tea!"
"Keep telling yourself that, Jane. When you develop anemia, don't come crying to me."
Traffic in Rio Linda itself isn't so bad, and so they get to the motel pretty quickly, pulling up behind Rowcliff's car.
"Are you ready?" she asks, looking sidelong at Jane.
He smiles and stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Ready," he says. "At least there won't be any writing in this one, right?"
It's an admission, she knows, of just how much the writing and the tyger tyger and the bleeding smiley faces bother him.
"Right," she says, and together they follow Rowcliff to the local Super 8.
"Scene's still being picked over by analysts," Rowcliff says darkly, reaching for his key. "It's pretty bad in there."
"Lot of blood?"
"Oh yeah. We think the killer did it here."
"Ers," Jane mutters under his breath. "Killers, get it right you irksome idiot."
She pats his arm comfortingly. "Behave."
Rowcliff, fortunately, doesn't hear their little exchange and opens a door criss-crossed with crime scene tape. "In you go," he says.
They step inside, and Lisbon's first impression is that one episode of Dexter where Dexter walks into the hotel room and everything is so soaked in blood he throws up.
Neither Lisbon nor Jane throws up, but for Lisbon it's a close thing and Jane goes so stiff and pale he looks like he's on the verge of a seizure.
There's blood everywhere. Soaked into the stripped bed, the carpet, pooled around discarded sheets.
"Why wasn't the CBI called?" Lisbon demands, turning to glare at Rowcliff. He doesn't answer her, because he's gone white too, and she slowly turns back around.
Rowcliff and Jane are both staring at the same thing, and when Lisbon sees it, she feels ice creep down her spine.
Sitting on the stripped, blood-crusted bed is a little stuffed tiger, and a bright red bow is tied around its neck.