Chapter 44: Problem Permanently Solved
A/N: Dialog marked with an asterisk ("*") is quoted from The Mentalist Byzantium episode script.
San Francisco, Early Monday Morning
The trim, balding man looked up as his new agent entered his office. "Kimball Cho?" he asked, rising from behind his desk and extending his hand.
Cho extended his hand, "Yes, sir, Agent McMerric–"
"-'Mac,'" he corrected. "And you go by–"
"Cho." Mac's extra 25 years hadn't blunted a sharp gaze or brisk manner.
Mac sat and motioned Cho to take a chair. Forearms on his desk with hands loosely clasped, he eyed Cho speculatively. "You worked for the CBI."
"Yes." Cho waited for the inevitable. How long till guilt-by-Blake-association stops dogging me?
"Minelli vouches for you." A corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile at Cho's suppressed startle. "We rubbed shoulders when he headed SFPD. –Forget Virgil. Your CBI team got Red John and uncovered Blake, right?"
"My boss Agent Lisbon's team. She's FBI now."
"And you planned the round up of Blake leaders a few months ago."
Not a question. Cho nodded his acknowledgment.
Mac gruffly said, "Abbott doesn't give commendations lightly. Retiring will be easier if my team's in good hands. Don Davis's been here almost as long as me, excellent agent. Our newbie rookie is just out of Quantico, lotta potential. One more position to fill."
Cho considered then risked asking, "Why so many – me, the rookie, and a vacancy?"
"Danny Miyaki moved on to head a team and Art Hart went with him." Catching the question in Cho's eyes, "With my blessings. Good men who deserve their own team. An embedded tech position was just added so each team has their own." He glanced at a wall clock. "I've got a meeting. Don will get you set up, show you around, and start you on our current case."
"Yes, sir."
Mac let the "sir" pass and introduced Cho to Davis.
FBI, Austin, Mid-Morning Monday
Jane shifted on the couch to pull the vibrating cell out of a pocket. Seeing the caller ID he answered, "I'll call you back," and terminated the call. He rolled to his feet and was outside a minute later, carry-out tea in hand. He slid into his car and closed the door for privacy before returning the call. Jane put it on speaker so he could drink his tea while it was hot. Both avoided names or identifiers.
Mildly, "I take it the hearing is underway."
Taut with tension, "You said it would never surface!"
"Best way to play it."
Tightly, "Why?"
"Scandals generate press. You'll get a ton of attention–"
Bitterly, "–smearing my wife!"
Patiently, "The more attention the better. When the evidence proves false you'll be victims of slander and that rumor will be discredited forever. Problem permanently solved."
Abbott struggled with warring emotions, relieved that Jane – apparently – hadn't double-crossed him, but pissed they were being folded, spindled, and mutilated in the hearing. Anger tightly leashed he said coldly, "You're a sonofabitch for putting her through this."
Jane's voice was bleak as a winter sun, "A few hours of anxiety is a reasonable price, considering. You let the SCU twist in the wind for months."
Abbott exhaled sharply. There was nothing he could say. He had done exactly that to people who were blameless – exemplary, even. "The evidence will be discredited?"
"Yes."
Finally, "I'll call after," and cut the connection.
Jane's cell chimed with an incoming text. He read it and hurried toward the FBI building.
FBI, Austin, Mid-Morning
A woman stepped out of the elevator trailed by a younger man. She approached the first person she saw, a lanky, near white-blonde male sitting at a desk.
"Can I help you, ma'am?"
Hesitantly, "We were told to ask for Agent Tork?"
"I'm Agent Wylie. I'll take you to his office."
Wylie closed the door behind them, leaving the civilians in Tork's office.
Tork emerged fifteen minutes later. Urgently, "Lisbon, where's Jane?"
She was irked at still being seen as Jane's handler, but answered reasonably, "He's around. Haven't seen him for a bit." She tried calling him. "Goes to voice mail. I'll text him."
"Have him go to the lobby pronto. I want him to meet this guy." At Lisbon's raised eyebrows he added. "Claims to be a psychic. Just bullcrap or does he know something?" He smirked, "And not from visions."
After stalling as long as he could, Tork escorted the brother and sister down to the lobby. He caught sight of his resident thorn-in-his-side fake psychic. Unnoticed, a visitor standing near the reception desk looked curiously at the four. Sounds echoed and carried in the open marble-and-glass lobby.
"Jane. This is Gabriel Osborne and his sister, Ree Osborne."
"Patrick Jane." Jane nodded, still a half-dozen feet from the brother and sister. He threw Tork an inquiring glance as he approached.
"Mr. Osborne–"
"-Call me 'Gabriel'"
"–knows something about our recent double murder."
Gabriel expanded, "I saw the crime. In my head. The bodies were moved and the killer took something. – A, uh, finger? No, finger ... nail. He'll keep killing." The man by reception knelt and pretended to retie a shoelace. He surreptitiously took photos with his cell phone.
Jane smoothly picked it up. "I just want to ask you a few questions."*
Ree Osborne asked, "You're an FBI agent?"*
"He's not,"* her brother said, certain.
Jane scrutinized him intensely, "He's right. You – you know that because you're a psychic?"*
"No. Because I'm not stupid."*
"You know that because of the way I dress, my posture, the way I cut my hair. Any number of things."*
"What do you want from me?"*
"Well, I'm a student of the form. I just want to shake your hand."*
Gabriel didn't take his extended hand. "You think I'm a fraud."*
Voice hardening, "I don't think you're a fraud. You are a fraud."*
"Might just be looking at a reflection."*
Challenging, "So make a prediction for me."*
"So you can mock me?"*
"Maybe."*
"There's this thing inside you. It's eating you. Thing has lingered in your mind for many years."*
Dismissive, "It's called the human condition."*
"You'll be cured."*
Sarcastic, "Wonderful!"*
"The cure will come with the number 3."*
"Number 3. –Ah, that's it?"*
"I could embellish it but that'd be a lie. –Number 3. You'll know it when you see it."*
Jane called as they turned to leave, "Thanks for your time."* The Osborne's were followed out by the man near the reception desk.
Tork, "So what do you think?"*
"Well, he's obviously not a real psychic. But he knows what he's doing. Very smart, very controlled. Either that or he's an insane killer. I'd keep an eye on him."*
Tork shook his head as they took the elevator to the bullpen. Tork and Jane found Fischer, Lisbon and Wylie glued to a TV broadcast on Wylie's computer monitor.
Fischer motioned them over. "Look at this!"
Wylie tuned up the audio.
"...Committee's hearing took an unexpected dramatic turn. The nominee's husband was accused of murdering an important drug cartel figure nearly 20 years ago. Stay tuned to KXAN for NBC news updates as this breaking story continues..." The camera drew back to show a crowd milling around outside a meeting room.
Wylie muted it when the broadcast returned to its regular daytime programming.
Fischer, "What the hell is going on?!"
Face sporting a puzzled frown, Tork asked, "What was that?"
"Abbott's been accused of murder by Peterson!"
"DEA Peterson? Where we just investigated in San Antonio?" Fischer nodded. Lisbon, Jane, and Wylie listened without comment. "I'll ask if Pike knows anything, but we've gotta keep tabs on this Osborne guy. –Wylie, learn anything?" The group reluctantly turned to the case.
Wylie pulled up a window on his computer. "Austin born and raised. Former bookstore clerk. No criminal record. Currently unemployed."*
"Not much to go on. It's suspicious he had information about the murders that hasn't been made public. Can't ignore that."
Lisbon, "Either he was involved. Or knew someone who was. –Or," with a sly glance at Jane, "he's really psychic." Provoked, Jane gave her the scornful look she expected.
"We need to stake this guy out." He ignored Wylie's hopeful expression. "Lisbon, Fischer, go sit on Gabriel Osborne. Let's make sure that–" he looked at Jane, "fake psychic isn't really a budding psycho. Wylie, keep digging. Jane – whatever." Tork left in search of Pike.
Congressional Meeting Room, Washington D.C., Monday Afternoon
Dennis Abbott, Lena Abbott, and her boss had used a vacant meeting room to talk over what to do about Peterson. With the hearing about to reconvene, they left the room. And stopped dead. During the recess a large crowd had gathered and was now spilling out the door. They caught sight of nationally known journalists. Murder and intrigue had just made the important but boring confirmation of an international trade negotiator headline material, sure to lead nightly newscasts.
"Jesus," Dennis said under his breath.
Fearful eyes gazed from Lena's frozen features.
"This way," her boss motioned. They entered the hearing room through another door.
"-Ms. Abbott-
"–Do you deny that–"
"–Agent!"
"–Any comment on–
"–Chairman Gordon!"
Journalists jostled and shouted, trying to get a comment or at least a good face-shot before the hearing resumed. The three seated themselves and resolutely ignored the noise and crush of press figures hungry for usable news scraps.
The crack of the gavel sounded twice, three times before the room quieted.
Calmly, "The meeting of the Commerce Department Qualifications Committee will come to order. The hearing on the nomination of Ms. Abbott will resume," stated Gordon. "I direct the attention of the Committee to two material packets before you. During the recess, copies were made of the materials Congressman Blatt provided relating to DEA Director Peterson's testimony. Also, Special Agent in Charge Stanley Withring of the D.C. FBI office conducted tests on FBI Agent Dennis Abbott's service firearm on a rush basis. The results are in the second packet before you. Agent Withring is available to provide expert testimony on both sets of materials. DEA Director Peterson is also available for further questions."
Gordon slid his set of materials to the side. "Committee protocols were violated by the way both sets of materials were submitted. The last minute addition of Agent Withring as a witness is similarly irregular. However, it appears that further consideration of this nominee – much less a vote – cannot proceed until the matter raised by Mr. Blatt is thoroughly explored. Therefore, I move that these materials and the addition of Agent Withring as a witness be accepted by the Committee despite the irregularities. Is the motion seconded?"
"I second the motion," responded a committee member from Gordon's party.
"So moved. Congressman Jacoby has graciously offered to cede his time to me–"
"I cede my time to Chairman Gordon," affirmed Jacoby.
"–Let the record so show. I will begin by asking DEA Director Peterson to provide further testimony. Director Peterson, please be seated." The room was silent for the minute it took. "Director Peterson, thank you for making yourself available this afternoon on short notice." Peterson nodded graciously. "Please be aware that you are still under oath."
"Yes, sir."
"I want to confirm the main points of your testimony from earlier today. I understand that Dennis Abbott was a DEA agent working under your supervision at the Rio Bravo Station in 2000. Mr. Abbott was married to nominee Lena Abbott then and remains so today."
"Yes, sir."
"Raul Caudillo, Mexican citizen and known drug cartel lieutenant, was shot and killed in Mexico in 2000. His murder was never solved."
"Correct."
"You allege that Dennis Abbott's service weapon fired the bullet that killed Caudillo. Your proof is the bullet recovered from Caudillo's body and the rifling marks from that bullet and the file photo of rifling marks from Dennis Abbott's service weapon."
"Yes, sir."
Gordon pulled the two original photos from Blatt's materials and had them handed to Peterson. "Can you confirm that these are the two photos you provided to Congressman Blatt?"
Peterson glanced at the front and then turned them over. "Yes. I initialed them on the back before I gave them to the congressman."
"You followed chain of custody protocol for the bullet from evidence?" Peterson nodded.
"If you could give a verbal response, please."
"Yes I did"
"You secured the photo of Dennis Abbott's service weapon rifling from the official government database?"
"Yes I did."
Gordon pulled two photos from the second materials packet and had them handed to Peterson. "Are these rifling photos the same as each other?"
"Yes, they appear so."
"Please compare all the photos. Do all four appear to be the same?"
Peterson's eyes narrowed and a crease appeared between his eyes. "I, um – The two sets are not the same." He looked up. "Two photos list the file identification as being Dennis Abbott's service weapon, but they're different." He angrily tossed them down. "The other set is fake. I printed the rifling photo for Abbott from the Federal data base myself!"
"Thank you Director Peterson. That is all."
"But –" Gordon stared at him, daring him to challenge the dismissal. Jaw clenched, Peterson got up and moved away from the table. He was pale under a tan baked in by decades of Texas sun. The committee clerk gathered the photos and returned them to Gordon.
Gordon then said, "I would like Agent Withring to be seated." Withering promptly took the seat at the table. Gordon looked up and tapped the gavel to silence the low murmur of conversation. "You are FBI Special Agent In Charge Stanley Withring, assigned to the Washington D.C. FBI field office?"
"I am."
"Do you solemnly swear or affirm that the testimony that you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
"I do."
"Did you conduct rifling tests on Dennis Abbott's service weapon earlier today?"
"Yes, sir."
Gordon had the entire second packet of materials handed to Withring. "Please describe the materials in your hands."
"These are the materials I prepared for the Committee. Two photos show rifling marks for a 9 mm SIG-Sauer P228. This is the standard DEA service weapon. The FBI has used it as well. Dennis Abbott's service weapon of record has remained the same since he started serving as a DEA agent in 1999. I printed the first photo from the Federal data base. The second is from rifling tests done on Dennis Abbott's weapon earlier today. An FBI forensics expert verified that they are the same. His stamp and signature are on the back of each photo."
"How do you know this is, in fact, Dennis Abbott's service weapon?"
"The serial number on the firearm I received today matches the serial number in the data base and shown on the data base photo. –The third photo shows the rifling marks from the bullet that was given to me in the evidence bag labeled 'Caudillo, raul - Cranial GSW 1 of 1, August 3, 2016.'"
"'GSW' is an acronym for–"
"Gun shot wound."
"Are all three photos identical?"
"No. The rifling for the bullet from the evidence bag differs from the others."
"In your opinion, is there any way the rifling marks could actually have been made by the same firearm?"
"No. The marks are grossly different, as attested to by this form signed by FBI forensics expert Sandra Mei."
"Do you know Dennis Abbott or his wife personally?"
"I have never met them. I am familiar with the name Dennis Abbott from his recent work in apprehending the corrupt Blake Association leaders."
"Agent Withring, this committee has been presented with two rifling photos, both of which are claimed to be from the Federal data base showing Dennis Abbott's service weapon. What is the Committee to conclude about the accuracy of these photos?"
"I printed the rifling photo for Dennis Abbott's service weapon, confirmed that it matches the rifling on the bullet I fired at 12:13 p.m. today, and verified the serial numbers in the data base, on the data base photo, and on the service weapon secured from Agent Abbott. I can only conclude that the other photo was falsified."
"Thank you, Agent Withring."
As the hearing droned on, Peterson and Withring left, plowing through media personnel illegally clogging the aisle.
Once in the corridor, the press nailed Peterson, greedy for juicy and embarrassing news.
"-Director Peterson, did you falsify evidence for that–"
"–Is it true you were investigated by Dennis Abbott for failed drug raids in Texas?"
"–Where did the fake photos come fr–"
"–Are you being investigated for taking drug money by th-"
"–We'd like an interview so–"
Peterson kept silent, teeth clenched shut. Press attention waned as it became clear he wouldn't comment. As he pushed his way through the crowd a man in a black suit approached. "William Peterson?"
"Get out of my way." Peterson angrily shouldered past. The angry exchange renewed press attention and the pair was quickly surrounded.
The man stepped in front of Peterson. "Mr. Peterson, the FBI requests you accompany me to answer a few questions." He brushed aside his suit jacket to show his badge.
"Go fuck yourself. I don't have to talk to you."
Under his breath the agent said, "Then we'll do it the hard way." Louder, "Mr. Peterson, I have a subpoena for your arrest–"
"You what?!" Crowd noise swelled, almost drowning them out. "The FBI trumped up this bullshit because I exposed murder by your agent." Peterson let the subpoena fall to the floor.
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Come with me, please." The agent lightly took his arm, each of them shifting their feet to stay upright as the crowd jostled them. The agent finally addressed the crowd, "Official FBI business. Stand back!"
Peterson jerked away, face beet red and furious. When he continued to struggle, the FBI agent shoved him against the wall and cuffed him.
"You bastards! Abbott set this up, didn't he? You have no right! I didn't do anything – what are the charges, you prick?"
Evenly, "Lying under oath, obstructing justice, and falsifying official government documents. To start." The agent pulled Peterson close and added quietly, "Bet the search warrant turns up more."
The corridor was filled and humming with voices. Press camcorders captured every detail. The first agent was joined by another to escort Peterson from the building and deposit him into a waiting FBI SUV. The crowd remained, open-mouthed and talking about the shocking developments in a normally boring committee hearing.
The rest of the hearing met expectations for staid and soporific. Lena Abbott's nomination was confirmed. On-camera, Congressman Blatt expressed his sincere regret that he was lied to, that false testimony had been provided by a government official! With the guidance of her boss, Lena Abbott provided a brief, scripted statement thanking the committee and promising to champion US trade interests in her new position. Dennis Abbott stated he was glad the materials Peterson submitted were exposed as false. He said it was the last time he would comment on ugly rumors regarding Caudillo. Aided by Lena's boss and a back door, the three escaped to anonymity, drinks and, eventually, a celebratory dinner.
The Abbott's reached their hotel room by 9 p.m., drained, stunned, glad, and – most of all – thankful the day was done. Lena claimed the bathroom. Dennis shucked his shoes and jacket, loosened his tie and dropped to the sofa, exhausted. He gradually became aware that a weight he'd carried for 16 years ... was gone. He wearily rose and got a drink from the room's mini-bar. The thought of never again worrying about Rio Bravo triggered relief so intense it was near pain. He sat awhile, getting used to a new, unusual lightness of mind, body, and spirit. Finally he pulled out the prepaid phone he'd picked up after dinner and placed the call.
Osbornes' Home, Austin
Lisbon and Fischer spent the afternoon in an FBI SUV parked outside Gabriel and Ree Osborne's house, waiting for something – anything – of note to happen. Ree Osborne soon left, probably for work since she was dressed in a nurse's uniform. They killed time by talking about the murder accusation of Abbott by Peterson. Lisbon let Fischer do most of the talking. Fischer resolutely maintained it had to be a set-up, that Abbott just couldn't have done it...
The boredom was broken when a young woman entered Osborne's house then left 15 minutes later. Fischer got out and questioned her, learning the woman thought Gabriel was crazy ... but right in matters of the heart. Gabriel had provided romantic advice, which was of zero use for their investigation. When Fischer rejoined Lisbon, that got them started talking about whether real psychics might exist.
By the third hour of stakeout duty, Fischer's hard and fast stance about Abbott softened. She acknowledged, based on bitter experience, that even good agents could make mistakes and that the law couldn't always deliver justice. Lisbon admitted her world had more shades of gray than it used to. She quietly declined to make any comment whatsoever about Red John. They agreed that the Washington mess about Abbott would somehow sort itself out, though based on vastly different, unspoken assumptions.
Talked out and still bored, Fischer checked the news on her smart phone.
"Holy- Look! "
Lisbon leaned over and saw streaming news video of Peterson being hauled away in cuffs. Dryly, "Seems Peterson's version didn't hold water."
Smugly, "Told you. I always thought Peterson was–"
"Look." Lisbon nodded toward the house.
Gabriel Osborne waved at them as he got the mail. He turned. And collapsed. The agents dashed to his still form. He was semi-conscious, mumbling with white froth spilling from his mouth. Still holding her cell, Fischer stood and called an ambulance.
Lisbon said, "Gabriel, relax. Ambulance will be here soon," checking to be sure he wouldn't suffocate or bite his tongue.
"Don't need – want – that," he gasped. Startlingly, his eyes opened wide, capturing her gaze. "Your fake – your boyfriend. Be careful-" His head rolled left and right from pain.
"Take it easy, it'll be okay. Help is coming."
He pressed his head with both hands, groaning in pain. "Killer will take him. I see red clay. White bones wrapped in red clay. You have to protect–" He fell unconscious.
A few minutes later they watched the ambulance drive away.
"Follow him to the hospital?"
Lisbon frowned. "Almost quitting time. Flynn's team is helping man the stakeout. I'll call Tork and have them meet Osborne at the hospital. I'd like to go back and debrief."
"Debrief what? Nothing useful."
Lisbon flexed her shoulders uneasily. "He said something about 'red clay and white bones.'"
Fischer grinned, "Believer now?"
Sharply, "No. I've been around Jane a long time and he said Gabriel's good at this. Someone that observant absorbs information like a sponge. Maybe Osborne picked up on something that he doesn't even know he knows."
Fischer tilted her head, doubting, curious. "That all he said?"
Dismissive, "He said the killer would take my 'boyfriend.'" Fischer raised her eyebrows and smiled a little. "And he used the word 'fake.' I can't put any stock in that, but maybe the red clay and bones thing is specific enough to check out."
"Whatever you say."
Tork and Jane were less than impressed with Gabriel's latest psychic vision. The team chewed over the red clay-white bones detail for awhile. They got more interested when Wylie identified a small, nearby area famous for the red clay used by local potters. Acknowledging that they had no better leads, Tork sourly agreed they would check it out with cadaver dogs the next morning.
Jane-Lisbon Apartment, Austin
Lisbon and Jane sat on the couch after eating take-out for dinner.
Jane looked askance at empty take-out cartons littering the tray and commented idly, "This stuff can't be healthful as a steady diet."
"Why not?"
"Sodium. Fat. Carbs from white rice, white bread."
She looked at him in disbelief and chided, "Mr. Dietician all of a sudden?"
"No, it's just that Angie–" he paused then continued, a little shaky. "Angie got all health conscious when–" he swallowed, "Charlotte started eating regular food."
"Jane." She rubbed his arm, unsure how to respond.
He sipped his tea, giving himself time to regain his composure. "Food's okay for now." He flashed a heart-stopping grin to deflect, one that failed to distract her for years now. "I just kind of ... fast forwarded a bit. When we have a home, make a real life together."
"Oh." After a moment, "We, um, we can make changes I guess. Whenever you want."
He took a deep breath and clicked the TV on with the remote.
"...surprising development in the hearing today. DEA Director for Texas, William Peterson was arrested and taken into custody after his allegedly giving false testimony and providing falsified government documents. He and his attorney gave a brief statement denying all charges. Our San Antonio affiliate reports that his house was searched this afternoon and several boxes of materials were removed. We'll have more..."
Lisbon watched, transfixed at the sight of Peterson being cuffed and hauled away in D.C. Appalled, she said, "They didn't have enough for that treatment. He's not a serial killer–" she winced and turned her head, then plowed on, "or anything."
"Lisbon. Dirty cop. Blackmailer. Incompetent. –He attacked the FBI's golden boy of the hour, very publicly, for maximum embarrassment. How did you expect the FBI to react?"
She sighed and shook her head. "What a waste. Greedy idiot."
"That he is."
"Hey. We done? I've gotta wash my hair tonight. Like to let it air dry."
He nodded, accepting and returning her kiss. She took the tray, loaded the dishwasher, and disappeared into her bathroom through the connecting door.
Jane turned the TV back on and was watching when he got a call.
"Jane," he answered without recognizing the number. "... Abbott, how the hell are you?" He clicked off the TV. " ... Yeah, saw the news. Looks like he reaped what he sowed. –Let me call back." Jane reached over and pulled the burner phone from his suit jacket laid over the couch. He put the return call on speaker.
"No more worries about Peterson or anyone else. –Congratulations to Lena, by the way."
Tiredly, soberly. "Peterson's discredited. No one will touch that mess after this."
Smile in his voice, "So you see my approach was best?"
Begrudgingly, "Helluva day, but ... yeah. Chalk one up for you."
"You'll take that position in D.C. now?"
"How did you know about – never mind. Yes, I'm taking the position. Lena and I will be in the same city."
"Wise. Nothing more important."
"Jane, – how did you do it?"
He countered, "You know the result. What do you think?"
Abbott released his breath slowly, mildly annoyed but unsurprised at the con man's wariness. "You switched bullets, substituted photos, and searched his house."
"Logical guesses."
"You won't tell me, will you?"
"Showman's first rule: Keep 'em guessing."
Abbott snorted, "I'd say 'con man's rule,' but that would be churlish, considering."
Smiling again, "Yes. Considering."
"As much as it pains me to say this - thank you."
"I need flexibility from you on something important to me."
Bluntly, "What?"
"We'll talk when you're in Austin. Don't worry, nothing unreasonable. 'Night, Abbott."
"Jane."