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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"Less secure than a private home in the middle of nowhere?" Malcolm countered. ”He'd change the pattern for her because it's always all been for her. He wants her there; he wants her to see what she means to him and what he's done for her." There was a brief pause and he added "And what he'll do to her."

"A private home with open land and a gun." Everyone had a gun here. "Clear view? Safer then some motel that no one knows you for stayin' in." Considering that some of these hotels weren't exactly right next to a cop station or hell, a gas station.

"Private showing," Raylan echoed with a distasteful sigh. "We'll see what the log says."

It only took them 15 minutes to get to the hotel - a dirty little two level building that sprawled further than it felt like it should. Like it was meant to look grander, despite being out in the middle of nearly nowhere and clearly on its way towards ShitHole.

Raylan kept his face as quiet as he could, face still wrinkling at his continued distaste. "Never liked these corporate type places. Always expect roaches and bedbugs," he grumbled as he adjusted his jacket and hat, heading for the front office.

"Actually, 98 percent of all hotels in America have some sort of ongoing bedbug prevention program and corporate places are more likely to have it mandated for them," Malcolm said conversationally as they walked up to the door.

He didn't mention why he had statistics like that to hand.

He let Raylan do the talking as they approached the front desk, but he was watchful, both of the room itself and the receptionist's face when Raylan spoke to her.

Raylan looked at him, face expressing just how weird he thought how easily Malcolm pulled that number from his head.

"Why do you know that?"

Malcolm would have only a few seconds before Raylan was pulling open the door and striding in, nodding his head at the young guy behind the counter.

"Hey, we need to see you sign in log," he started, pulling off his badge and lifting it up for a clear viewing. "And your security cameras, for the past three days." A finger was getstured at the cams he knew was out there.

"What kinda badge is that?" The kid asked, the oil on his skin reflecting every inch of life. He could have been all of 18, if Raylan had to guess.

"US Marshal," he replied, his disappointment clear in his tone. "Like the FBI but with less rules. Your log," he prompted, eyebrows rising as he pointed his finger at the book in front of the kid.

"Please." It was added but not strictly meant and the kid behind the counter handed it over.

"Y-you can see the cameras in the back."

Malcolm used to travel a lot for work, but his answer to Raylan's question to him was only a shrug, because they were approaching the desk.

As they moved around to head into the back, Malcolm waited for the door to shut behind them before he grinned at Raylan. "Like the FBI but with fewer rules," he repeated, nodding, pleased. "I like it. I don't know if it's strictly true, but I knew I came to your office for a reason."

Raylan smirked at him, eyebrows rising into his own wrinkles in amusement. "We don't even kick people out for a few wayward punches. God knows I've done worse than that, they ain't got rid of me yet."

It helped that he was very good at his job.

"I take it you know how to work this stuff," he said, pointing at the cameras. "Unless you'd rather do the light reading.." The log book was wiggled in his hand.

"...A few wayward punches?"

He surveyed the equipment. "I know how to work it."

He sat down at the station and punched some buttons, going back to the beginning of their timeframe. Once the grainy images started moving, he was transfixed. 'Obsessed' was how the FBI had described Malcolm's technique at doing his job, but he had unquestionably achieved results.

Raylan shrugged with his face again. "Sometimes those punches were with bullets, but I've always been justified."

The book was opened and Raylan started flipping through pages to yesterday.

"If the guy bought the room, we've got no name. You get a car, we might be able to narrow down on a time." He didn't mind if Malcolm was transfixed just yet - it served their purposes and kept the twitchy, borderline hyperactive man busy.

"What kind of car would a guy like this drive?"

Malcolm wished justification had mattered to the FBI, but they had never been comfortable with his existence in their ranks and they had been looking for an excuse. He hadn't been good at avoiding giving them excuses.

"He's avoided detection for this long by being nondescript. That being said, it had to be big enough to keep a body in while he set up his accident scene. A larger sedan or maybe an SUV. Something common as dirt, though."

"This is Kentucky. Most everything has a bed, deep toolbox optional. Or a Blazer. Those things are like ticks, everywhere and not even in production anymore. You got either of those on your screen?"

The way Malcolm looked like he was trying to press himself into the screen, Raylan was somehow sure the man had a list in his head of all the cars he'd already seen.

He looked up at Raylan. "Yeah. A dirty pickup truck with a bed cover. Couldn't even tell what colour it was." He ran the tape back and waited for the truck to reverse into the scene. "We have to find out the last time it was here," he said, pointing to it. "And we need a plate number." He ran the tape backwards and forwards and backwards and forwards. "I can only get a partial, but I might get a better look next time he drives in." He started running forward, looking for the truck to arrive again.

"You got a time?" Even as Malcolm was answering, Raylan was squinting at the screen, though if that was from a failing eyesight or just it being Raylan's face, no one would know.

"Got 'em. Room 303." He dug out his notepad and pen, dropping it next to Malcolm. "Get the plate number, whatever you can and let's go see what kinda mess he left this time." Despite the levity of the words, with the body of the previous woman still dancing behind his eyes, Raylan had gotten his taste of blood and that was dangerous for whomever he was after.

"He wouldn't kill in his own hotel room," Malcolm said, getting up to follow him. "But he might leave evidence of where he's going next or who his second victim is going to be."

"Is it really his if he's renting it by the hour? You pay cash and you can sign any name to these logbooks." Raylan had been looking at who'd checked in around that time, after the timestamp, and there'd only been one entry.

Said logbook was dropped on the counter as Raylan passed by with a loud thunk. "Thank you kindly," he said, tipping his hat as he walked out the door, circling back around Malcolm to stick his head back into the office. "And uh, do me a favor? Don't go anywhere."

Now they could go.

Edited 2019-12-27 03:28 (UTC)

Malcolm wondered where the receptionist might go, but he didn't ask. He followed Raylan out into the parking lot. "If this isn't where he's really staying, then he's staying somewhere else. He has a base in this area. Where could he go that nobody would spot him, say, carrying a woman out of the car?"

There was never any telling. Kids got spooked from a high breeze it seemed, sometime. Plus. Raylan wanted to ask him some questions. The kid was the only person who'd seen their perp so far - they needed a better description, anything that would help.

"With as many hollars and abandoned places? Hell, if he knows the area, he could ghost us. But what I take from you is that he's not - he's travelin', right?" Might narrow down the choices, or at least give Raylan a hint of someone he might talk to about newcomers showing their face.

"There's a lot of land between here and there. Maybe he left a map," he replied with a sardonic but positive kind of vibe as he pulls his gun out. No way were they walking up on a door without his weapon in his hand.

"A figurative map, maybe," Malcolm suggested. He stayed a little behind Raylan as they approached the room; he was used to Gil's insistence on it. He hung back, but stayed close enough that he could see inside the door when it was opened. And get shot in the face if anyone inside decided to fire on whoever opened the door.

As they came up to it, the door was technically already open, cracked and silent beyond. Raylan glanced at Malcolm with a surprised little shrug of his eyebrows before he was pressing against the door frame and using his boot to slowly push in the door. Just as slowly, he slid forward and peeked around the door.

It was clear. Oddly clear. The room had been half trashed - a struggle had happened. Malcolm would note the claw marks on the headboard of one of the two twin beds, both slept in. One foot in front of the other led Raylan in, muzzle swinging up to the ready as he checked the bathroom with the same skillful caution.

"Clear," he called, going far enough to check the single closet as well, just in case. "If they were here, they're gone now," he sighed, lowering his weapon.

Malcolm stepped into the room behind him, moving past him, looking around.

"They were here," Malcolm said, nodding towards the scratched headboard. He glanced around, pulling on a paid of nitrile gloves from his pocket. He opened a couple of drawers, then picked up the knocked over waste basket and riffled through it.

"A receipt from the hardware store for a circular saw, duct tape, some garage door opener chain..." He looked at Raylan. "Well, we know what he did with the circular saw," he remarked, continuing to glance around. "If you have scene of crime people, they might be able to lift prints off of some of this," he said, gesturing to the furniture strewn and broken around the room.

"Which means you were right. He did want her to see. He made sure she saw." Raylan sucked his teeth, eyes brighter than they were before as he glanced around, face a little vicious with purpose as the proof settled things in his head.

"How long you think he'll take to find another look alike and set up a new twisted display room?"

"That depends on whether he's already targeted someone or if he still has to find her. But he'll have his last intended victim with him until then. Which means they need someplace more discreet than this motel to stay until then."

He looked at Raylan. "Any idea where we should start looking? Anyone you can send to cover more ground?"

"There's about a hundred of 'em in a 6 mile radius," he replied, sucking his teeth again in irritation. He needed to regroup. He needed more leads.

"Short answer, no." Without much explanation, Raylan holstered his gun and strode out of the room, making short work of the stairs to get back down to the front desk.

"What'd he look like," Raylan demanded as he brust back into the front office. "What do you remember about this guy," he asked, busy furious hands flipping open the login book open and turning it around, tapping on the page with an thinly veiled intensity.

The kid stammered and spilled what he could - a guy, mid 30's, white, New York type accent. Rough looking and a tattoo crawling up his neck.

"I don't suppose you noticed a woman in his company? Maybe he brought her back here late? Maybe she seemed to be passed out drunk from the bar?" Malcolm asked. "Did anyone report any noise complaints from the room?"

The kid shook his head. "Came in alone, paid in cash. We're kinda light on business this time of year," he explained nervously.

Raylan sucked his teeth again and nodded, lifting his finger towards the security room. "We're gonna have to take those tapes. That gonna be a problem?"

The kid shook his head and Raylan nodded at Malcolm. "I'll call the room in, you get the tape and we'll head over to Arlo's for the night, unless you feel like a 3 hour drive back, only to come back tomorrow."

He pulled out his phone and headed out the door to get Rachel and Tim on the line.

Malcolm fetched the tape while Raylan was on the phone, but his anxiety was ramping up. When Raylan was off the phone, he had to clarify.

"...You mean... sleep? At-at Arlo's? For the night? I... need some things from my hotel room," he said with a frown.

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Maybe a receipt and a that partial is enough for them to go back to the office? Dark is coming?

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