Chapter 2
Jane and Rigsby rode in silence for most of the drive to Madera. Rigsby was still rattled by Lisbon thinking he was bad with teenagers, and Jane was wholly occupied, even more so than usual, by the present case. Finally, in the last few minutes of the ride, Rigsby burst out, "I mean, I know when we've had cases with teenagers I haven't always been very patient, but they push my buttons! They have no respect and feel entitled to anything they want! Cases are always way more complicated than they have to be when teenagers are involved! That's what I should have said to Lisbon."
Jane was startled by Rigsby's sudden outburst; having been far too wrapped in his own thoughts to notice him stewing in the driver's seat. Jane cleared his throat and said, "Well, Rigsby, I wouldn't worry about it, Lisbon is perfectly reasonable. I'm sure she was just trying to spare you the bother."
"Yeah, that's easy for you to say, Jane, I actually care what my boss thinks of me. I don't want her to go telling people that there's a high-risk demographic, like teenagers, that I don't know how to deal with. That's the kind of thing that gets in the way of promotions."
Jane raised his eyebrows, suddenly interested. "You looking to get a better job? Higher pay grade?" His voice was playful, but Rigsby wasn't lightening up. If anything he looked even more uncomfortable, knowing he'd shared too much in front of the nosiest person possible.
"Well, I have a son to think about. Ben's starting school soon, I mean, it's only preschool but elementary school isn't far off, and somebody's gotta pay for it. I won't let that burden fall entirely on Sarah."
Jane nodded understandingly, seeming to consider something, "True. Although, I'd be more concerned about what happens when your son hits puberty and you still hate teenagers."
"I do not hate teenagers, Jane, I told you, I-" Rigsby took his eyes off the road for a moment to see Jane grinning, and knew he'd only been screwing with him. "Jesus, Jane, you don't know how worried about that I am too… I know what it's like to have a father that doesn't really like you all that much. " He fell silent and looked like he was wishing he hadn't spoken.
Jane, sympathetic as he could be towards Rigsby, who he'd always liked, was starting to get annoyed. His head was aching and he was losing patience for Rigsby's fears over parenthood. Sure, they were valid, but couldn't he go talk about it with someone else? There was nothing Jane could say to him that wouldn't be exceptionally awkward for the both of them ("Don't worry, Rigs, it's not like you can mess it up any worse than I did"), and he was sure Rigsby knew that. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the case.
Jane was still leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed when the car pulled into the driveway of Mr. and Mrs. Shannon. He had only been half asleep and rose without summons when the car's engine went silent.
Rigsby was still in a sour mood, but seemed to have mainly gotten the complaints out of his system. "You ready for this? I mean, how well do you know these people?" He'd obviously overheard Jane and Lisbon's conversation about Laura Shannon.
Jane shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "Not well, I must have met them maybe two or three times at school events." He didn't appear to want to say anymore and Rigsby let it drop as they approached the front door of a well-kept, if modest, two story house. Rigsby stood directly in front of the door as he rang the bell, while Jane hung back a little, looking away. After a moment of silence the door opened slowly to reveal a petite woman with dark hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail. She was attractive and well-kept, though wrinkles around her eyes and lips betrayed her age. Jane immediately recognized her as Laura Shannon's mother, though she didn't seem to recognize him.
Rigsby spoke first, revealing his badge inside his suit jacket as he said, "Hello, ma'am, we're sorry to bother you, I'm Agent Rigsby, this is Patrick Jane, we're from the California Bureau of Investigation, we're leading the investigation into your daughter's death. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?"
The woman looked sad, but unsurprised, and replied in a quiet voice, "Yes, of course, come in." She hadn't appeared to recognize Jane's name either, and continued to show no signs of recognition as Jane finally made eye contact with her as he and Rigsby walked past the door she held open for them. She then led the way into a very tidy looking living room, where Laura Shannon's father sat on the couch. Mr. Shannon was a physically fit looking man, his age only betrayed by the deep lines on his face, which had undoubtedly been etched deeper in the last 24 hours. As his wife entered the room with Rigsby and Jane following closely behind her he looked up from what had been occupying him: a small black book in his hands, which, upon closer inspection, Jane recognized as a photo album. Though he tried not to look, he couldn't help but notice that pictures of poor Laura were the focus of the album. Even upside-down and across the room, Jane could see Laura as a pretty baby with wisps of downy brunette hair; Laura as a bashful preteen, awkward in a pair of overalls, standing in front of a field; Laura as a post-pubescent college graduate, having grown into her looks and acquired new elegance.
Mrs. Shannon spoke first. "Robert, these gentlemen are from the CBI, they're here to talk about Laurie-" Mrs. Shannon halted her sentence sharply, looking embarrassed to have used an intimate name for her daughter. Sheepishly she amended, "Lauren." Mr. Shannon rose and offered his hand to Rigsby, who shook it. Jane kept his distance, still standing in the doorway, so Mr. Shannon made do with a moment of eye contact that revealed no recognition of Jane. Rigsby spoke first.
"Hello Sir, I'm Agent Wayne Rigsby, this is Patrick Jane, he's a consultant." As Rigsby spoke Mrs. Shannon sat down on the sofa looking frail and distant. Mr. Shannon, however, had become alert, almost frantic.
"You'll find who killed our daughter, won't you? Are you close?" He was still standing, facing Rigsby directly.
Rigsby looked uncomfortable. "We'll certainly do our best sir. We have reason to believe that the murder was committed by a man named Red John."
"Not just reason. Evidence. It's definitely Red John." Jane spoke without even glancing at the others. He was busy scrutinizing the family photographs that adorned the mantelpiece.
Rigsby looked nervously from Jane to the Shannons and continued, "Er, ah, well, yes, the evidence is highly indicative of Red John. He's been a highly prolific-"
Mr. Shannon cut him off urgently. "Red John? You mean that psychopath that's been on the news every six months since the early 90s? If you never caught him before, why should we think you'd catch him now?"
"I'm working on it. Believe me." Jane spoke again, this time turning away from some decorative knick-knacks, and walking towards the couch on which Mrs. Shannon sat. He looked at the woman with sympathy in his eyes, and the touch of mischief that always seemed to live within them.
"Would you happen to have any tea?"