The Lengths That I Would Go To

[abrightboy]

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."

Comments

[abrightboy]

Malcolm turned and noted the stairs. It had been close, though he'd fallen down the stairs before, when he was fourteen. Before the restraints.

"Sometimes I go back to sleep but... I won't tonight. Not here."

He pushed himself to his feet, flexing his right hand.

"You can. I'll work on my notes. I'm used to keeping myself occupied."

[tinstar]

"I could always tie ya to a chair," Raylan offered innocently, but his brain quickly caught up, evident in the pinched, slightly offended at himself expression. Phrasing, goddamnit.

"Kick you if you start twitchin." But whatever happened, it was happening downstairs, and Raylan headed that way, 98% sure Malcolm would politely decline, as he had much more reasonable things like food and beer.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm offered a tight smile in response.

"I have to be able to release myself," he said in explanation. "I'll just... stay up here. I'll be quiet. Don't worry. I can't... I can't sleep now anyway. Nothing is going to happen."

[tinstar]

"Suit yourself. Ain't like I'm getting back to sleep after that," he said as he disappeared down onto the first floor. There was something about upstairs that bothered him, something else he wasn't willing to look too closely at.

Once he got back into the kitchen, he set the coffee pot to start filling and leaned against the counter, rubbing at his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Tomorrow was going to be a long day and coffee with a shot of whiskey was going to be what got him through it.

He was sure he could catch a nap.. at the office.. in his car..

[abrightboy]

In his relatively flustered state, it took Malcolm a moment to realize that the upstairs was making Raylan uncomfortable at least as much as Malcolm was and, as Raylan retreated downstairs, Malcolm, also barefoot, followed him.

Lingering in the kitchen doorway, he watched Raylan put the coffee on.

"What happened up there?" he asked curiously. "Is that where he punished you?"

[tinstar]

Water into reservoir, grounds into filter, button pressed. Wasn't technology great?

Raylan hummed in question as he looked over, squinting faintly. "You do this to everyone?" Sighing, he shifted, putting his back to the counter as he crossed his arms and ankles, casually comfortable in his standing.

"That's where I was sent when he was laying into my mama. Any night that Arlo came home drunk was ripe for him getting pissed at her for one thing or another and trying to beat her within an inch of her life or until he got tired. It got so bad after a while, she started running off to Noble's Holler. Arlo and his bluster wasn't getting past Limehouse and his well armed friends, and they were known for taking in white women for protection."

If Raylan went up to the hollar, he'd get one good favor outta Limehouse in exchange for the fondness of his mother. Social currency at it's best and better not used at all.

"My face pressed up against those wooden rails, listening to him hit her again and again and again..." He cleared his throat and shifted on his feet uncomfortable in the retelling. "Arlo didn't kill her, but he sure as hell tried."

[abrightboy]

In response to Raylan's first question, Malcolm huffed a laugh and glanced down at the floor.

"Yes."

He did it to everyone. Everyone hated it.

Malcolm listened to Raylan carefully, nodding as he wrapped up. He would guess that Noble's Holler was a Native reservation. But the earlier crimes of Arlo's that Raylan had casually described hadn't touched wife-beating in severity. Of course Raylan didn't want this house.

And yet he used it when convenient.

"Did he beat his second wife?" Malcolm asked.

[tinstar]

At least Malcolm recognized it. Raylan put on a good face, but it could be worse. Maybe he was just used to being given shit by Tim and others.

The idea of Arlo getting a solid swing on Helen made Raylan huff a chuckle, mouth morphing back into an amused smirk. "I remember the first night he tried. Helen pulled her shotgun and threatened to blow his nuts into chunks for his next dinner. There's a reason there's a bat in the kitchen. A few of 'em."

Said bat was to Malcolm's left, leaning against the counter and the doorframe.

"Aunt Helen didn't take shit from anyone, least of all Arlo. She couldn't stop him from being a murderer and a crook but.." He sighed deeply. "She loved him, for some reason or another. Dealt with all the bad blood and luck he brought to his door and helped handle him when I pissed him off. Which was a lot when I was a teenager. I think she woulda liked you, actually."

Mainly because a good smile from Malcolm would have any red-blooded woman pleased to have it.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm followed Raylan's gaze to the bat and stared at it a moment.

At Raylan's final observation, he looked at the other man's face.

"She would have liked me?" If he sounded a little surprised, it was because most people didn't. "It sounds like she was... very capable," he concluded. "That must have made your life easier. But I expect you left as soon as you could. How old were you?"

[tinstar]

He nodded. "Yeah. She liked perceptive people. She liked messin' with 'em too." And oh the fun she would have had with Malcolm. "Kept her sharp."

Helen was a woman to be admired. She was tough, scrappy, cooked a hellva dinner and was a wry business woman to boot, though not in the traditional way that someone like Malcolm might think of. Raylan had loved her, did love her, even if those weren't the kinda words to pass his lips.

"I was 20 when I decided to join the Marshal's service. After the coal mines and the good ol' boy bullshit that comes with this place, I bucked. It was worse than joining the army; becoming anything close to law enforcement. An utter betrayal of everything he tried to teach me."

The smell of coffee filled the kitchen, crickets of 1 am still rubbing their symphonies with no sign of easing. It was the warmer air, it made everything feel alive, even now.

[abrightboy]

"He wanted to make you in his image," Malcolm surmised. "He wanted to apprentice you into his trade." He nodded. "Some fathers are like that," he allowed, and if his tone seemed heavy, it was because he knew it well. "But it was your life to live and there's nothing that obliges you to be like him, no matter what he said."

Oops, maybe he got a little too heartfelt in that message, but only because it was close to his heart.

He heard it, though.

"So her bats are still all over the house?" he asked conversationally.

Smooth change of topic, Bright, he mentally admonished himself.

[tinstar]

There was no arguing Malcolm's true hits, not after providing all that context and information. Raylan nodded and glanced at the coffee pot before pulling down two cups.

"All over. You can take one if you want; she had four and they'll come with the house when it sels. Sit down." Pouring out, he moved the cups to the table and sat down.

"Sounds like you know a thing or two about asshole dads. You feel like sharing or should I cut you a check for therapy?" Malcolm wasn't getting out of the quid pro quo that easily and while Raylan could guess, it would be clumsy and way off mark. He didn't have the information he needed in return.

"Is he what caused.." Raylan pointed a finger up at the ceiling, as though it was towards the bed Malcolm had just thrown himself out of.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm sat with a rueful smile, gathering his cup between his hands.

"Too late," he told Raylan. "I've been in therapy since I was eleven." He looked over at Raylan. "That's when my father was arrested for the serial murders of twenty-three people," he explained with a sort of brittle matter-of-factness.

[tinstar]

Raylan could only blink at Malcolm. "Well shit. Guess you won the Crap Dad award. 23? Sounds like an overachiever if you ask me," he joked without much humor. 23 people was more than serious. More than passion, more than anger. It was pleasure and joy. A different level.

"I'm guessing that New York had a field day with that. Had to be rough on a young kid." He was almost afraid to ask what Malcolm's father did to cause the screaming upstairs, which Raylan naturally assumed was the source, but it was 1:30, they were up and he knew he'd get around to it, but he couldn't help but give Malcolm the room to talk and fill in what he would on his own, much like he would a suspect he was sympathizing with.

He wasn't just sympathizing here. It happened in a snap but Arlo's indiscretions suddenly seemed like minor church sins in comparison. It was an odd feeling.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm nodded.

"More than New York, though. My father's name is Dr Martin Whitly, but he's more popularly well-known as the Surgeon."

Malcolm watched Raylan's face; pretty much everyone everywhere had heard of one of the most notorious serial killers of the twentieth century. He expected at least a flicker of passing recognition from someone in law enforcement.

"And when I was a child, I accidentally found one of his victims. A girl in a box in his hobby room." He gestured to his temple with his right hand, which was shaking again.

"And then I'm missing memories. I'm pretty certain at this point that he started drugging me with chloroform that night. To make me sleep. To make me forget. But some time after that, it stopped working so well or he slipped up, because I came out of it and called the police."

He looked up at the ceiling.

"Most of the nightmares are memories, or fragments of memories or...twisted fragments of memories or fears. Of him. Of the girl in the box." He looked at Raylan. "They never found her. Dr Whitly says she wasn't real, but I know she was."

[tinstar]

The name was enough to get Raylan's eyebrows lifting as he blinked again, forehead wrinkling to accomedate. Talk about 'when it rains it pours'. Of course he'd heard about the Surgeon; Martin Whitly was well on his way with being mentioned with the likes of Dahmer and Gein.

He took the rest of the story in quietly, eyes remaining on the wider gauge as he noted the tremble in Malcolm's hand.

"Glad I didn't shoot you." Seems like the last thing Malcolm needed was more.. well.. anything.

"Those been happening since he was picked up or did it creep on ya?"

[abrightboy]

"I'm also glad you didn't shoot me."

At the question, Malcolm glanced at his hand, gave it a tight, rueful smile and clenched it tightly, pressing it down onto the table.

"Psychogenic tremor. It started during the police interrogations." He flexed his hand wide open and then shut again. Open and then shut. "There was a detective that had been working on the Surgeon's crimes before he was identified. After the arrest, he brought me into the police station and questioned me for hours. He said I had to know more than I told the arresting officer. He suggested that maybe I'd helped Dr Whitly with the murders."

[tinstar]

That made Raylan suck his teeth, eyes steeling with a dangerous opinion that transformed his whole expression, swallowed back into its place with a sip of coffee.

"Few bad apples ruin the whole damn barrel." The idea that an 11 year old was a murderer was some backwards shit unless they had proof. "They still got the good Doctor tied up in the ward?"

Raylan was sure that the media would blow it up and everywhere if such a notorious killer had died, but it was possible he missed it. And now that he was thinking back on their earlier conversation, some of Malcolm's perks and understandings make sense.

[abrightboy]

He nodded.

"Dr Whitly has lived very comfortably in the high security ward of Claremont Psychiatric Hospital in New York for the last twenty years. He continues to sell his 'what I have is a sickness' shtick with the strength of all the charisma that made him a successful predator. He managed to avoid a federal death penalty."

[tinstar]

He couldn't stop his scoff at the excuse and bobbed his head to one side. "That's something. So I'd be right in assuming that's the reason you're introduced as 'Bright.' You choose it?"

Names were important. Even if Raylan had no idea where the hell his parents got his name from or what the hell 'Arlo' was supposed to be.

Malcolm was lucker, in that.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm nodded again.

"I changed it before I applied to Quantico. He was darkness. I wanted to make a conscious choice to be... something else."

He finally took a sip of his coffee, even if it wasn't the best idea when he wasn't going to be taking his medication on time. He liked a cup of coffee in the morning. One cup.

He lifted his eyes from the cup to Raylan as he put it down.

"He wanted to apprentice me into his trade, too."

[tinstar]

Raylan nodded back. That made sense. "Like I chose the law instead of Arlo's petty life of crime and murder. You choose to specialize in assholes like your father. Not that not killing twenty three people should be a real choice but, different strokes and all."

If pushed, Raylan would have all sorts of uneducated and too practical to accomedate opinions on overmedication, lack of good eatin' and terrible sleep, but he wasn't one of those kinda people to push or voice those ideas.

"The eternal struggles of Daddy's and their sons," he sighed. "You must be pretty good to still get to work with the NYPD with that kinda history."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm laughed, looking down into his coffee cup for a moment.

"I wasn't too good to get fired by the FBI," he pointed out. "They listed a litany of sins that culminated in a concern that I could share my father's... illness." He looked at Raylan. "Lieutenant Arroyo was the beat cop that answered my 911 call," he revealed. "He came to find me when I got back to New York, told me he needed my brain for a case." He took a sip of coffee and set the cup down, looking at it instead of the Marshall again. "It's not the first time he's saved me. I'm reasonably certain it won't be the last."

[tinstar]

"They were probably right to, but so what. The FBI have so many sticks up their asses you could do a puppet show," he huffed with a chuckle.

The revelation was given with an understanding 'Ah'. Now Gil's tone made a little more sense.

"And if he hadn't? What do you think you'd be doin'?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm couldn't help a self-deprecating laugh.

"I don't know. Sitting in my apartment slowly going crazy? Watching the papers for weird and grisly crimes and showing up on the doorstep of random law enforcement agencies asking if there's anyone I can talk to about murder?"