abrightboy | The Lengths That I Would Go To

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The Lengths That I Would Go To

The killer was moving around the country. Malcolm Bright could see the pattern, but he wasn't working for the FBI these days and they weren't exactly taking his calls. Short sighted of them, but they did fire him on suspicion of being crazy. The NYPD's jurisdiction was New York. With the killer beyond its borders, they handed it upwards and left it at that.

Let it go, Bright, had been Gil's sage advice. You can't catch every killer in America single-handedly.

Challenge accepted, some part of him retorted, though he'd only nodded mutely and forced a smile. Gil knew he hadn't simply let it go, but he wasn't going to have him followed to stop him doing anything stupid, either. He didn't have the will or the resources to keep tabs on Malcolm Bright 24/7 and Malcolm Bright knew it.

His mother, on the other hand, had extensive resources, so he simply didn't tell her he was leaving town. He did arrange for Ainsley to feed his bird, so the truth would come out eventually, but he'd be several states away by then.

He rode the bus. There was something oddly comforting about the anonymity of being in a crowd of strangers who had no interest in him whatsoever. He stared out the window and watched the country go by. When he stepped off the Greyhound in Lexington, Kentucky, he walked to a nearby hotel and checked in, then headed straight to the US Marshals office. There was no point in trying to talk to the FBI. If he was going to stop a killer from killing again, he needed someone in law enforcement to listen to him. The pattern suggested the next murder would happen in one of the rural communities around Lexington and it would be precipitated by a young woman's disappearance. He needed law enforcement with local knowledge, specifically.

He wandered into the Marshals' offices in a tidy three piece suit, charcoal grey with a burgundy tie perfectly knotted at his collar. He got a few suspicious sidelong glances but nobody asked if they could help him. He cleared his throat.

"Um, hello? I'm wondering if there's anyone here I can talk to about murder." He held up his hands. "Stopping murder, specifically, not... like... smalltalk."

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Raylan was more worried about some dim-minded idiot with a sawed off coming out of nowhere to get these strangers out of their house but then again, he'd been shot at so many times, it was no surprise.

He tries to stop Malcolm with a half raised hand and a half given sound that was clearly brushed off by Malcolm's weird enthusiasm and Raylan followed him in a couple of steps as he glanced around for other archways that someone might come out of.

"So this was what, a preview of what he's plannin' on doing to her?" Raylan came up to a window and glanced out. "Where's the reward in not seeing her reaction?"

AKA is he a runner or a vouger? Either way, Raylan pulled out his phone and hit a few buttons, ringing up his office. It was a short call, one for the corner and the techs - this was a crime scene now. He added a BOLO on the lady they were supposed to find here before hanging it up.

"I need to clear the upper floor and the kitchen, stay here."

"We don't know that he didn't see her reaction," Malcolm pointed out. "We have to assume he has her now."

He looked up from the body at Raylan's instructions.

"Don't you need backup?" he asked. "What if he's still here?"

"We don't know that he did. Stay here," he reiterated with one hand lifting up in prompt, ignoring the question in favor of working his way out of the room, boots nearly silent as he walked, dark eyes darting around the hallway as he left Malcolm's sight.

The backdoor was open, making Raylan think their guy probably ran off when they pulled up, but just in case, Malcolm would be able to see Raylan going up the stairs. Room by room, he cleared the house, calling out when he was done. "CLEAR."

A few seconds later, he was trotting back down the stairs.

"To answer your question, I woulda shot him."

"Is that the outcome you want?" Malcolm asked him bluntly, still standing near the body.

Raylan shrugged. "It's not an outcome I'm against, strictly speaking. If they make me," he said, pulling an over the top, unbothered expression, face wrinkling in his unique way as he shrugged.

"What makes you so sure he's got her?"

Malcolm wasn't sure someone could argue that the perpetrator 'made them' shoot if that was the first thing they tried, but he didn't know enough about Givens to say so yet.

"It's what he came for," Malcolm said simply, in answer to his question. "She's not here. A corpse with his signature is. I think it's a pretty reasonable assumption." He gestured to the body. "When will your ME get here?"

It'd only take one internet search of his name to bring up the most famous bullshit that Raylan's temper had gotten himself into - Miami. He'd given the guy 24 hours to get out of town before Raylan was going to shoot him.

The guy drew, Raylan shot and was consequently reassigned as he was investigated. His file of sins was a bit bigger than punching a FBI and Malcolm would surely find the paper trail of bodies that followed Raylan Givens.

"'Bout 30 minutes. We're gonna have to hold tight. I saw some bread in the kitchen and frankly, I'm hungry enough to chase a horse," he declared, striding that way.

No, a murder scene didn't bother him, even one like this.

Malcolm's albatross was more about his father's actions than his own, though his bouquet of mental illness didn't help lend him more credibility than that.

"...You're going to eat her food?"

Was that adding insult to injury or was it tampering with evidence? He wasn't sure it was either of those. Maybe it was an unspoken rule. Maybe it was fine around here?

"Is that normal?"

"She ain't dead yet, she can get more. What's a ham sandwich in the face of the Marshal's protection and service? If it'll make you feel better, I can leave a few bucks," he replied, his amusement clear in his voice.

"Not that it'll put much of a dent in the screen and glass costs this place's got."

Raylan was utterly unworried and unapologetic as he got into the kitchen and spun open the bread.

"Hey, how much does a PB&J cost in New York?"

"I don't actually know," Malcolm admitted, following him into the kitchen to lean in the doorway. "I haven't eaten one since I was eleven. Can you buy those in a sandwich shop?" he mused. "I suppose you can buy pretty much everything in New York," he concluded.

"You got enough money, I'm sure that you can," Raylan said, dropping the bread on the counter to open the fridge door and pull out mayo, a pack of cheap ham and a couple of slices of cheese. After a pause, he dug back in and pulled out a small butter container, covered in foil, peeking inside and deciding it was worth the keeping.

"Big City and all. Get your tamales with a side of Lo Mein and curry, I imagine. Not to say that Kentucky doesn't have some culture and class," he continued, setting about the swift and practiced movements of making his sandwich. The mayo was spread to the crust, slight pains were taken to make sure the cheese didn't go outside those crusts and the ham was almost artfully piled before he laid over a few tomato slices, curtosy of the butter tub. Once everything was put away, Raylan would meander back towards the table in the center of the room, nabbing the salt and pepper.

"Up north, Louisville is almost civilized, compared to the hills here. 5 star restaurants, booming metropolis and all." With the sandwich made and seasoned, Raylan put everything away before cutting it in half. "Normally, I eat breakfast," he finished in way of explanation before picking up one half of the sandwich and leaning against the countertop as he bit into it.

"Don't tell Art."

"Don't tell Art which part?" Malcolm asked. "That you didn't have breakfast or that you stole a sandwich from a witness' house?"

He walked through the kitchen, looking at where the oven mitts hung and what sort of tea towels she had and the family photos on her refrigerator.

"Both secrets are safe with me," he added with a smile, looking at Raylan over his shoulder from where he stood looking at the fridge door.

"He tends to frown on grazing potential victim's houses," Raylan admitted before taking another bite, far too casual for being where and when he was.

"'Course, he tends to frown on a lotta things that I tend to piss him off on," he ceded with a chuckle and another bite, curious eyes wondering why Malcolm was so put off food. Didn't seem natural.

"I'm trying to not give him a heart attack til he's really ready to retire, though I might not manage that. The way I'm goin'."

"Do you do it on purpose?" Malcolm asked with vague curiosity, his eyes still examining the items pinned to the fridge door with brightly coloured magnets. "For the reaction? Or is it just a basic clash of personality types?"

Raylan scoffed, chuckling as he eyed his sandwich, dark eyes flitting up to meet Malcolm's starkly brilliant blue.

"No. Art is just an older, stricter generation than I am. Doesn't quite understand my situations. Doesn't understand why I don't deal with them the way he would." But then again, Art wasn't as angry as Raylan was against the type of people he came up against. Criminals, openly and happy to be so.

"The way of the world, our elders resisting change and telling us how things outta be done." At least out here. The carefree sentiment was coupled with a deft bite of his quickly vanishing sandwich.

"Where'd you grow up?"

Malcolm met his gaze as he spoke, moving to sit down at the table with him as he asked the question.

"New York. I moved back after my stint in the FBI," he explained. "I guess I figured you can't just...keep running away. Eventually you have to go home."

"Don't mean you have to stay there. Unfinished business?"

Malcolm considered that a moment.

"When I left, I really thought it was done," he admitted. "Long done. But also... never done, I suppose and when I got back I realized it was less done than I thought." He shrugged and started unconsciously wringing his hands together. "It's complicated."

"Tends to be the way of it," Raylan comments before tucking in the rest of his sandwich and checking his watch.

"Sounds like a story I don't care to hear - they outta be pullin up in a minute. C'mon," he said, pushing to his feet and heading towards the door. If he asked, if he heard the story, there'd be some social demand that he share his own and neither of them wanted that. God willin', Arlo wouldn't make enough noise for Raylan to be forced to make a detour.

Adjusting his hat as he came out onto the porch, he propped a thumb into his belt-loop as he leaned on the porch support.

A familiar face, Tim, steps out with sarcasm on his lips. "Couldn't save the exciting stuff for me, huh? Should have known New York was shiny."

Raylan scoffed. "Gotta show the new kid a good time, right?"

Bright looked at Raylan. "Shiny?" he asked.

He really didn't know what they were saying, even though it sounded like English. Sort of.

He also sort of objected to 'new kid', but not enough to make a fuss about it. He felt like that would somehow make him even more kidlike to these.... mountain man types. Besides, it wasn't like Malcolm made an effort to not seem like a soft and dapper gentleman in his fussy, expensive suits. It wouldn't do to have dark and sharp corners on display where people might fail to underestimate them. Men this rugged could call him worse than 'new' and 'kid'. Many of their ilk had.

He stepped aside as Tim approached, allowing him to lead the way back into the crime scene, but Malcolm was quickly at his heels.

"Means you attract dirt because you're new to our dust," Raylan supplied, face curled and wrinkled in amusement. Rachel followed behind Tim with a half amused looked at Raylan, who filed in after them.

Tim let out a low whistle as he steps into the dining room, hands finding his hips. "Messy remodeling," he quips, glancing back at the group of them. "Do we know who she is yet?" As he asked, he stepped further in, giving Rachel a chance to look at the blood bath and direct the new car full of people pulling up. The house was about to get busy.

"Not the lady that's supposed to be here, that's for sure," Raylan said, lifting his chin at Malcolm for the man to take over with his weird specificities.

Edited 2019-11-30 17:49 (UTC)

That... sure was a saying. When Raylan gave him the go-ahead, he did a brief and subtle double take before stepping in to explain his theory to Tim.

"Basically, someone who's in... I suppose infatuation would be the right word. It's more accurate than 'love', love isn't this selfish. Anyway, this person has been traveling around the country murdering women who look like the woman who lives here," he told them. "And until now, his efforts to make the deaths look like accidents have been a lot more... believable than this," he added, giving the scene a distasteful look. "He's in endgame now and he's not as invested in keeping up appearances. This particular murder was a show for the benefit of the resident of this house, who we have to find," he added, turning to Raylan, "before he gets to her part in all this. But, he has to kill one more person first. Ritual is important to him. We need to find another woman who matches their description before he does and maybe we'll save two lives here. Which will be an uphill battle," he informed them, already moving towards the door, "since he's probably already targeted someone and we don't know who the choices even are!"

As Malcolm started gearing himself up and looked at Raylan, the Marshal's only response was a silent acceptance with the raise of his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead as he nodded oh so faintly. It was only after Malcolm started heading towards the door that he dared let his amusement at Malcolm's.. he wasn't even sure what to call it. Tim raised his eyebrows in return and gestured towards the front door in invitation for Raylan.

Smirking, Raylan eyed his best working friend and followed Malcolm out, answering the phone call ringing on his phone.

"Givens," he answered, strolling towards his car and making a brief eye contact with Malcolm before he opened his door and slipped into the driver seat. "Uh-huh, where at? Good. Send me the exact address."

As he closed the phone, Raylan squinted, turning on the car. "The locals found her car at a hotel. Maybe she got spooked. We're heading there now."

"I really don't think she left here of her own accord," Malcolm told him. "He wanted her to see this and I think he has her already. Maybe they left here in her car. Maybe he had a car stashed in the hotel parking lot. Does that hotel have security cameras? It's possible he even stayed there last night."

"If he's looking for another victim, if he's followin' a.. stalk and kill pattern, why scoop her up," he asked, squinting a little against the sun as he glanced over at Malcolm. "Don't that ruin his fun?"

There were security cameras and Raylan was positive they could get a look at them. The badge on his hip got him pretty far, and his fists got him further.

"Could he have laid that out for her, watched the reaction, scared her off and is lookin' to catch her in a less secure place?" Like a hotel. After all, they weren't exactly safe unless no one knew that you were going there.

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