Before he left to look for Maya Plaskett, Lisbon watched Jane with a familiar mix of exasperation and affection as he poured on the charm for Rosalind. She'd told him he could come in and say hello, and of course Jane interpreted this as license to make himself at home at Rosalind's kitchen table and settle down with a cup of tea for a nice cozy chat.
Rosalind seemed pleased to see him and it seemed the feeling was mutual. Apparently they had bonded the last time they'd seen each other. Jane displayed a special grace with her, winning smiles from her with a combination of his usual cheeky charm and a softer tenderness Lisbon saw from him much more rarely.
Lisbon couldn't help rolling her eyes when he happily accepted a second cup of tea, however. Catching her look, he grinned at her as though to indicate he was Jane and just couldn't help himself. If she set forth boundaries, he felt compelled to push up against them.
He excused himself eventually and Lisbon was left alone with Rosalind.
Rosalind turned her unseeing gaze towards her with a smile. "Well, what can I do for you today, Agent Lisbon? I know you aren't here for a social call."
"No, I'm not," Lisbon admitted. "I came to talk to you about Roy Tagliaferro."
Rosalind's smile faded. "You still think he's that man. Red John. The one who killed Patrick's family."
"Yes, I do," Lisbon said frankly.
Rosalind's jaw developed a stubborn set to it. "You're wrong. Roy couldn't be that man. He couldn't do such things."
"It's possible you're right," Lisbon conceded. "We might be mistaken about Roy's true identity."
"You don't believe that. You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"Personally, I believe Roy and Red John are the same man," Lisbon said calmly. "I know we disagree about this, but I acknowledge the possibility that we might be wrong about whether they are the same person. All I'm asking is that you answer some questions about Roy to help my team figure out for sure whether he is or is not Red John."
"Why should I help you, if you're determined to find Roy guilty?"
"If Roy is innocent, then what's the harm in answering my questions?" Lisbon countered. "It could help prove his innocence. I'm not determined to find him guilty, as you put it. If the evidence shows that he's innocent, I will be content with that. The only thing I am determined to do is find the truth. And if he's guilty, don't you feel some obligation to help us find him so we can prevent him from hurting anyone else?"
Rosalind was silent for a long moment. "Very well," she said at last. "I will answer any question I can."
"Thank you," Lisbon said sincerely. "I really appreciate your help."
Rosalind sighed. "What do you want to know?"
"I'd like to you to tell me more about Roy as a person in general."
"Like what?"
"You spent a fair amount of time with him. What did the two of you talk about?"
"Oh, everything. Music, literature, philosophy." She smiled. "We once had quite a spirited discussion about Plato's Republic which I very much enjoyed."
"Tell me about it."
"Why on earth would you want to hear about something like that?"
"I'm trying to get a sense of who he is," Lisbon explained. "What interests him, what drives him."
"I can't see how that would help you."
"You'd be surprised. Sometimes the smallest details end up being critical to an investigation."
"Well, all right. I'll tell you about it, if you think it would be useful," Rosalind said doubtfully.
"I do," Lisbon assured her.
"Roy had some very interesting views on Plato's definition of justice, and whether a just man would fare better than an unjust man. He took Glaucon's view of the matter: he believed that the only reason a man would enter the societal agreement to behave in a just manner was because he fears punishment if he acts otherwise. I can't say I agreed with him on that point, but his analysis was fascinating. Very thorough and well-thought out."
"Hm," Lisbon murmured. She didn't think she needed Rosalind to further explain Red John's attitude regarding this issue.
"He did like Plato's idea of the philosopher kings, though," Rosalind continued.
"Philosopher kings?" Lisbon repeated.
"Yes, he believed there were some people who could see the truth of the universe more clearly than others, and that those people had a right to serve as leaders to ordinary mortals, to help them see beyond the constraints of their narrow understanding of the world."
Like that narrow-minded idea that murder was wrong and people shouldn't do it. Lisbon decided she'd heard enough about Red John's philosophical musings and returned to the more mundane issues at hand.
"When he came here, how long would he stay?"
"A couple of days, usually. Once he stayed for a week. That was a lovely week," Rosalind said wistfully.
"You seem to have a lot of fond memories of your time together," Lisbon commented. "Were there any times that were less pleasant? Did the two of you ever argue?"
Rosalind shook her head. "Not in the way you mean. We had lively conversations, that's all. We're both very opinionated."
"He never got upset with you?"
"No. I've told you, he's really a very kind and gentle person."
"Can you give me an example of something kind that he did?" Lisbon asked, trying to reconcile this version of Red John with the sadistic killer she knew him to be.
Rosalind considered this. "It was little things, mostly. Small gifts, thoughtful gestures. He brought me a bottle of perfume once. It smelled like jasmine. He knew that jasmine is my favorite flower, you see. It was a fragrance called 'Starry Night.' It reminded me of summer evenings in the garden."
Lisbon hesitated. "May I ask you something personal?"
"So far, all your questions have been personal."
"Well, this one is even more personal."
"Go ahead."
"What was Roy like, as a lover?"
Rosalind didn't seem the least bit embarrassed by the question. "Very attentive," she said, smiling in remembrance. "He paid a great attention to detail."
For some reason, this made Lisbon think of Jane.
"He didn't like to talk when making love," Rosalind continued. "He was quiet. Totally absorbed by touch."
That part didn't sound like Jane. Lisbon had a feeling he was the type who never shut up in bed. Although that probably wasn't entirely fair. He did have his quiet moments. Maybe it was just because even in moments of quiet intensity, Jane could still make you feel like you were having a conversation. One where more was communicated in a look than could be said in hours of talking.
Lisbon realized abruptly she'd gotten sidetracked musing about Jane's qualities as a potential lover. She was glad Rosalind couldn't see her blush, and profoundly relieved that the man in question wasn't there to intuit the reason behind it.
She refocused. It was interesting, learning about this other side of Red John. She just wished she knew what it meant.
Lisbon opened her mouth to ask another question, but was interrupted by the chiming of the grandfather clock in the corner, signaling the top of the hour.
"I'm sorry," Rosalind said. "Would you please excuse me, Agent Lisbon? I really must feed the chickens. They get very noisy if I'm late."
"Of course," Lisbon said.
"Please make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a few moments."
"Would you mind if I looked around the house a little bit?" Lisbon asked. "You're under no obligation to, of course. I don't want to trespass on your privacy any more than I already have."
"Go ahead," Rosalind said with a smile. "I don't have any secrets to hide."
"Thank you."
Rosalind went out the back door to attend to the chickens, and Lisbon got up to look around. She meandered through the downstairs, noting the comfortable, if old fashioned furniture, the bookshelves lined with volumes in Braille. The piano in pride of place in the living room. When she got upstairs, she explored the guest room and bath for a few moments before heading into the master bedroom.
It was a pretty room, with lots of light streaming through the windows. Lisbon could imagine Rosalind sitting in the chair by the corner with a book, soaking in the warmth of the sun's rays, even if she couldn't see by its light. She saw the bottle of perfume Rosalind had mentioned on the dresser next to an old fashioned hairbrush and comb. Then she glanced over at the bed and froze when she saw the smiley face on the wall.
Jane had told her about it, of course, but she had never seen it for herself. She found that even though she'd known about it, it was still a shock to see it there, drawn over the center of the bed like some kind of perverse piece of art placed there in lieu of a headboard. She couldn't believe Rosalind slept under that thing every night. Although, she realized suddenly, it was possible she didn't know it was there. In fact, it was likely she wasn't aware of it at all. Rosalind didn't seem to have many visitors, and those she did have probably had little reason to go into her bedroom. When Jane had told Lisbon about it, he'd confessed he hadn't been able to bring himself to tell Rosalind about it, let alone explain its significance. It was one of the few times in Lisbon's memory that she'd seen Jane visibly unsettled by anything.
It was different than the other smiley faces. Smaller than the others. Also, less… drippy. Unlike his usual signature, it was not painted in blood. That made sense, Lisbon reasoned. After all, Rosalind was very much alive, and even she would have noticed if Red John had asked her to participate in some blood-letting in the name of an art project. Lisbon went over to inspect it more closely. It was still a brilliant red. If it had been drawn in blood, it would have faded to a dark rust color by now. Lisbon got out her pocket knife and a small evidence bag from her pocket—two things a good team leader should never be without—and carefully scraped a small amount of the stuff into the evidence bag, wondering what it was. Lipstick, was her guess. Not quite as disturbing as blood, but still intimate enough to be decidedly creepy.
Standing there staring at the thing, Lisbon found herself thinking back to an old case. The Wagner case. The whole team had been convinced it was a Red John case, but Jane had insisted it was a copycat killer. Red John was a showman, he'd said. He has a sense of theater. He wants the smiley face to be the first thing you see when you walk into a room where he's killed. He wants you to feel fear, and then see that your fears have come true.
So why had he put the mark here at all? Lisbon wondered. As far as she could tell, Red John had never killed anyone here. Why had he deviated from the pattern? Here, the smiley face wasn't the first thing you'd notice when you entered the room. Well, Lisbon amended, not unless you were making a beeline for the bed. She considered this. Maybe that was the point. Jane had always said that the smiley face was a way for Red John to claim ownership over his kills and the women he'd chosen as his victims. He and Rosalind had been lovers. Maybe the reason for the smiley face in her bedroom was simply a matter of staking a claim on her. Of marking his territory.
Lost in her thoughts, Lisbon made her way back downstairs slowly.
Rosalind, back in the kitchen, looked up when she heard Lisbon's light footsteps in the hall. "Find anything interesting?" she said with a smile. "I told you, I didn't have any secret mystery about me. I'm dreadfully ordinary, I'm afraid."
Lisbon was starting to suspect that in fact, just the opposite was true. "Rosalind," she said slowly. "Tell me about yourself."
"About me?" Rosalind said, clearly taken aback. "Why do you want to know about me?"
Lisbon sighed, dreading the conversation they were about to have, but knowing there was no way around it. Rosalind deserved to know the truth. "Rosalind, did Jane ever tell you about how Red John marks the scene when he's killed someone?"
Rosalind nodded. "Yes. He told me he draws a picture of a smiling face over the bodies of his victims."
"Yes."
Rosalind frowned. "Why are you bringing that up now?"
There was no way to break a piece of information to someone like this gently, Lisbon thought, so she might as well say it straight out. "There is one of those smiling faces on the wall in your bedroom," she said quietly.
Rosalind shook her head. "No. There can't be. Patrick said Red John draws them in blood. I would know if someone had been drawing pictures on my walls in blood."
"This one wasn't drawn in blood," Lisbon told her. "It's something else. But it's the same style, the same image."
"You're lying," Rosalind said stubbornly. "It isn't true."
"I'm not lying, Rosalind," Lisbon said firmly. "I wouldn't do that. I've never lied to you. If I were going to lie to you, I wouldn't start with something like this. It would be a greater lie to keep this from you."
"Show me," Rosalind demanded.
Lisbon trooped back upstairs with Rosalind at her heels. Lisbon moved the bed away from the wall and guided Rosalind towards the smiley face so she could verify its presence for herself.
Rosalind traced her fingertips along the outline. "It's sticky," she said, a look of revulsion on her face. "Or it used to be, anyway. What is it?"
"I don't know," Lisbon admitted. "I think it might be lipstick, but I could be wrong. We'll know for sure once I send a sample to the lab for analysis."
Rosalind drew her hand away from the wall. "I believe you now," was all she said, and then she turned on her heel and left the room.
Lisbon moved the bed back to its normal position so Rosalind wouldn't bump into it later, and then she rejoined the other woman downstairs in the kitchen once again.
Rosalind was pouring herself a cup of tea with shaking hands, looking rather shell-shocked.
"I'm sorry," Lisbon said, feeling horrible. She knew how useless the words would be to Rosalind, but they were all she had to offer. "I thought you would want to know."
"Yes, of course," Rosalind said, her voice sounding as though it were coming from a great distance away. "You were right to tell me." She curled her fingers around the cup of tea, the knuckles white. "You said you had some more questions for me?"
"We don't have to do that now if you need a few moments to collect yourself," Lisbon told her.
Rosalind shook her head. "No. You said you wanted to know more about me. I want to know why you think that is going to help you find this man, Red John."
"If Roy really is Red John, you are a fairly significant exception to his pattern," Lisbon explained. "I'm interested in finding out why that is."
Rosalind sighed. "What do you want to know?"
"How did you come to live in this house?" Lisbon asked. "It's awfully isolated for a young woman living alone."
"I've lived here since I was a little girl," Rosalind told her, a small half-smile gracing her lips. "It's been my home for almost as long as I can remember."
"You lived here with your parents?"
The smile faded. "No. I lived here with my grandmother. My parents were killed when I was very young."
"How did they die?" Lisbon asked curiously.
A shadow passed over Rosalind's face. "They were murdered," she said shortly. "The police never found out who killed them, or why."
"How old were you when they were killed?"
"I was just a baby. A little less than a year old."
"And your grandmother took you in after that?"
She shook her head. "Not right away. My parents and my grandmother had a falling out when my parents first got married, and they hadn't been in touch with each other for several years. She didn't even know that I had been born."
"Who took care of you, then?"
"I was in foster care for two years," Rosalind told her. "But there were some difficulties placing me after I lost my sight, so the foster system exerted a greater effort to find a blood relative to take me in."
Lisbon was surprised by this. "How did you lose your vision?" she asked. She'd assumed that Rosalind had been blind since birth, though now that she thought about it, she had no earthly reason to have come to this conclusion. Perhaps it was only that Rosalind seemed so self-possessed that it seemed difficult to imagine someone adapting so well to living without sight if they had lost the ability to see as an adult.
"The place I was in when I was in foster care… it was a terrible place. My foster parents owned a restaurant, and they would leave us children in the back when they had to mind the front. They had chemicals, cleaning products everywhere and they never troubled to child proof the place. I'm sure if it had ever been inspected by the health department it would have been closed down due to health code violations. But that's neither here nor there at this point, I suppose. The point is, when I was three years old, my foster brother threw lye in my eyes."
Lisbon drew a sharp intake of breath, horrified. "Oh, my God."
"I was in the hospital for three weeks," Rosalind told her. "I almost died. I'll never forget that feeling as long as I live. Like someone had thrown liquid fire into my eyes. The doctors repaired the burns to my skin, but they said I'd never see again."
"What happened to your foster parents?"
"They were charged with criminal neglect and were both sentenced to jail time. My foster brother was placed in a state home. Then the social worker found my grandmother, and she saved me. I came here to live with her, and she taught me to see in the dark. She taught me how to play the piano and how to bake cookies. She showed me how to get around on my own, how to live as a blind person."
"And you've lived here ever since?"
"For the most part. She thought I had a special talent with the piano, and she encouraged me to further my musical studies. When I was seventeen, I auditioned for a place at Juilliard, and I was accepted."
Lisbon was impressed. "That was an incredible opportunity. You didn't go?"
"No, I did go. I studied there for a year. I loved it. I had wonderful teachers and classmates, and I learned a tremendous amount."
"So what happened? Why did you leave?"
"When I was nineteen, my grandmother grew very ill. She tried to keep it from me, but I knew something was wrong. She didn't want me to abandon my studies, you see. But I came back here to visit and she finally admitted to me that she was sick. I stayed here to take care of her and never went back. She didn't approve of my choice, but I never regretted it. I stayed here with her for six years after that, and then one day, after all that suffering, she just slipped away. I was holding her hand and I felt the life leave her body." She smiled sadly. "After that, I didn't much feel like leaving here again."
"How long ago did your grandmother pass away?"
"About seven years ago. It was a little over a year after she died that Roy first came into my life."
Lisbon could see now how a charismatic stranger might have appealed to this lonely, grief-stricken young woman. She'd had so much loss in her life that having a charming, attentive man show up on her doorstep must have felt like God was finally rewarding her forbearance. Like he'd tailor made her a companion who shared her love of music and literature and delivered him right to her.
It all seemed entirely coincidental for Lisbon's liking. "You told Jane and me that Roy first came here because his car broke down nearby. He never said anything that made you suspect he might have sought you out on purpose, for some other reason?"
"No. What other reason could he have?"
Lisbon had no answer to this, unless it was to gain entry to her home and earn her trust so it would be easier to kill her, but he hadn't done that. None of this made any sense. Nothing about Rosalind's part in this story made any sense.
Rosalind didn't seem to be waiting for a response; she had moved on with her own thoughts. "He called me a precious jewel, once. More valuable than a chest of rubies."
"It sounds like he was very gentlemanly towards you," Lisbon commented.
"He was. And now you're telling me that man killed all those women. That he cut them up. Those hands that loved me killed other women and drew that mark in their blood. And then he made that same mark in my home." She shook her head. "I can't believe it. I still can't believe Roy would do something like that."
"I know he didn't show you that side of himself. That's why it seems strange to me that he would risk someone discovering his true identity by leaving his signature in your home."
"Why do you think he put it there?" Rosalind asked her. "Why would he put his mark in my room?"
"I'm not sure," Lisbon said. "I suspect it was a way for him to claim you as his own, but that's just a guess. I think he feels possessive towards you, and that's why he put the mark there."
"Do you think he wants to kill me?" Rosalind didn't sound afraid, merely interested.
"No, I don't," Lisbon told her honestly.
"Why not? That's what the mark usually means, isn't it?"
"Usually he doesn't leave the mark until he's already killed someone," Lisbon told her. "Besides, if he was going to kill you, why hasn't he done it already?"
Rosalind pursed her lips. "Yes, I see what you mean." She shook her head. "You know the crazy part?"
"What's that?"
"I know I should be upset about the mark, and I am. But it's not for the reason you'd think. At least, not only for that reason."
Lisbon was having a little trouble following this. "What reason is it, then?"
"I'm actually jealous," Rosalind said with an ironic smile. "Isn't that horrible? I mean, I don't want to die, of course. I'm not jealous of that. And I still can't really believe in my heart of hearts that Roy is capable of such things. But if he is this man you say, I'm jealous that there's something in me that he sees as equivalent to those other women. I suppose that's just vanity talking. I wanted to think I was special. But if he's who you say he is, and he really did put that mark on my wall, that proves that I'm not. I'm just another woman to be used for his own purposes. That's the part that gets me. That he made me just one of many, by putting that mark on my wall."
Lisbon had no idea what to say to this. "Do you want me to get rid of it for you?" she asked finally.
Rosalind nodded slowly. "Yes, I think that would be for the best. If you don't mind, that is."
"It's the least I can do," Lisbon assured her, still feeling guilty for the distress she had brought to this kind young woman.
Accordingly, Rosalind went outside to sit in the garden and Lisbon went upstairs armed with a bucket and a sponge, intent on wiping any trace of Red John's mark from Rosalind's life.
The damn thing wouldn't come off, though. She scrubbed at it for an hour and a half, and while she did a creditable job of removing the sticky residue, she couldn't manage to do more to the stain beneath than render it a blurry mess. Finally she called Jane and asked him to pick up some paint from the hardware store in San Angelo.
He was there within the hour.
He didn't say anything when he walked into the room with two bags of painting supplies. He just set down the bags and peeled off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves and handing her a roller before taking one himself and opening the first can of paint.
They painted in silence. Lisbon couldn't help sneaking glances at him every so often, watching him paint over the familiar smiley face. He didn't seem upset, just intent on the task at hand. But then, why should Jane be upset about removing the horrible face from Rosalind's wall? It was only the stain of his own guilt that prevented him from doing the same to the mark on the wall of his Malibu home.
She wondered if he would ever paint over that wall the way he was now, and if she would be there to help him when he did.
They made short work of it, working together. Afterwards, Rosalind insisted that they stay to dinner. Lisbon would have thought she'd have been pleased to be rid of her, given all the havoc she'd wreaked on Rosalind's worldview over the course of the afternoon, but then again, maybe she didn't want to be alone after the unpleasant revelations she'd suffered that day. This thought made Lisbon feel guilty all over again. She asked Rosalind if she would be more comfortable with a police detail watching the house for a few days, but Rosalind declined. Jane didn't accuse the woman of lying when Rosalind claimed she wasn't afraid, so Lisbon figured that was about as good of an assurance as she could reasonably expect to get.
After a warm good-bye to their host, Jane went outside to admire the garden, inhaling deeply as he paused by the honeysuckle vines.
Lisbon lingered in the doorway. "Rosalind, can I ask you one more thing? It's not about the case."
"What is it?"
"Do you remember what it's like, being able to see?"
"Bits and pieces."
"Do you think it's better, to have had sight, and then to lose it? Or do you think it would have been easier if you'd never been able to see at all?"
"I don't know," Rosalind said. "Perhaps it might have been easier, but I suppose there's no real way to know that. I know I wouldn't trade the memories I have, though."
"What do you remember the best?" Lisbon asked curiously.
Rosalind gave her a slow, brilliant smile, the memory clearly called up at the mention of it. "Red," she said. "I remember the color red."
