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

The Hat comes to the Big Apple

[tinstar]

This was not what Raylan had expected. Standing on 4th Avenue uptown, Raylan felt a little like the great city of New York was threatening to eat him alive with the oppressive loom of it's buildings alone. It was a concrete jungle that Raylan couldn't help but feel out of place and uncomfortable in.

But when 'Charles' of the Bronx went back home after causing far too much chaos in the simpler, slower lives of those in Kentucky, the US Marshal's service followed.

Which left one down home country boy way out of his element.

While the department had already contacted the NYPD about the person of interest, Raylan found himself staring at a number that had been put in his phone months before hand. Malcolm Bright.

If anyone could piece out and understand the way the Big Apple worked, it was a native. Raylan took a deep breath and hit 'call' on the number he'd been given, not sure who or what would answer.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm Bright answered Malcolm Bright's phone. More often than not, he let calls go to voicemail, but when he saw Raylan Givens' name come up, he had to answer.

Bright had just left his therapist's office when the call came in and he was also on a busy New York street. He grinned widely when he picked it up.

"Raylan! Hi!"

[tinstar]

Raylan chuckled. Malcolm was probably the only person to ever sound that happy to be getting a call from him. There were plenty of people who were, at one point, but they didn't have quite as much bounce in their greetings.

"Hey. Wasn't sure you'd still have my number saved." It had been several months and some people went through phones like underwear. "You'll never guess where I am," he continued, peering up at what felt like an impossibly tall building.

[abrightboy]

"You are not in New York!" Malcolm exclaimed. "Where are you staying? Do you want me to meet you? Or I can text you my address and you can take a cab? I'm just heading home right now."

[tinstar]

"I haven't found a motel yet." For what he felt were obvious reasons. "But yeah, I seem to be here." Meeting anyone in this place also felt sort of impossible. "I can do a cab, so long as you don't mind my travel bag coming with me til I find a place to crash. Feel like it might run away if I leave it in the towncar."

[abrightboy]

"Bring anything you like! I'll text you the address. Just wave a cab down. They'll know where it is. I can find you somewhere to stay if you want."

Wait, how do you go somewhere without arranging that in advance?

"...You're not on vacation, are you?"

[tinstar]

"Sounds good." He knew how cabs worked, Malcolm.

The question made him scoff out a laugh. "Hell no. To be completely honest, this call is half business." But only half. "But I figure you owe me for showing you around the sights of Harlan," he said, grinning.

[abrightboy]

"Absolutely. I'll see you shortly. If you have crime scene photos, I'll pour you an extra large glass of scotch."

[tinstar]

"You're way to happy about that," he accused. "See you in a few."

'A Few' turned out to be almost 30 minutes and Raylan had almost tried to walk at least four times before better sense reminded him that he had no idea where in the good hell he was really going. But soon enough he was dropped out onto a sidewalk and, after checking the address again, found a button to hit, buzzing upstairs.

"Um.. Hello," he said into it, perhaps a little more close than was strictly necessary.

[abrightboy]

"Raylan? Come on up," said Malcolm's voice from the speaker, followed by a buzz that unlocked the outside door.

There was a set of stairs up, which lead to a small landing with a bizarre mural on one wall and a door opposite the top step. The door was slightly ajar. Beyond the door was a sprawling open concept loft apartment, with the living room at one end, dominated by two massive cases displaying medieval weapons on a background of red velvet and the bedroom at the other end, a large half circle window dominating the wall and a set of leather restraints just laying on top of the neatly made bed. Malcolm was at the kitchen island, right in between the two rooms, pouring two fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler. Another set of steps just inside the front door led to a closed door at the top.

[tinstar]

With a glance up at the half-moon window before a glance around at the neighbourhood, Raylan opened the door and worked his way up the stairs, pulling off his baseball cap to slide into his back pocket as he came up to the landing. It wasn't unwelcoming, just strange and strangely caging a stairwell. Nudging the door open, Raylan glanced around again before seeing Malcolm.

"Hey. Nice place," he praised, eyeing the birdcage as he came around it. "Somehow didn't imagine a giant wall of medieval weapons in it though, that come standard?"

He hadn't gotten around to looking at the other half of the apartment yet.

[abrightboy]

Sunshine chirped at Raylan as he passed her cage. Malcolm glanced at the weapons collection, then laughed. "That took a lot of work to collect, actually," he admitted. He pushed the glass towards Raylan and picked up his mug of tea.

[tinstar]

Opting to slip his travel bag on one of the barstools seats, Raylan gathered the glass and freely ambled towards it, one hand propping on his hip as he considered it.

"Do you actually use them?" He couldn't imagine that Malcolm did but he was learning to not assume much with the profiler. "I mean.. why?"

He wasn't pissing on it, he just... didn't understand. There were weapons here that he didn't even know the name for.

[abrightboy]

"No, I don't use them for anything," he replied, stepping out from behind the island to join Raylan in the livingroom. "I just think they're... cool. I think the development of weaponry sort of reached its peak around that time, where form was as important as function. Everything is about efficiency now."

[tinstar]

"They are," he assured with a bob of his head. "I've heard people say that before, or something like it. Something about a gun taking little skill, but I would argue against that. The Wild West would too." He gestured at it all again.

"But can you use them? Do you know how? Or are they purely ornamental?"

Talk about a conversation piece.

[abrightboy]

"I know some hand to hand; I could defend myself with... most of them," he replied. "But I treat them as ornamental. None of them is a replica, though. They're all original and fully functional."

[tinstar]

Raylan let out a low whistle after the first comment, but the second made him look over at Malcolm like he was an alien.

"You're fucking kidding me." He didn't swear like that often, but somehow, it felt appropriate here. Raylan shook his head once as he looked back. "Bet that cost you a pretty penny and then some."

Finally, he took a shallow sip of the scotch, smacking his lips with an furrow of surprised approval at it's smoothness.

[abrightboy]

"It's not a cheap hobby," Malcolm conceded, "but I don't have, like, a car or.... a boat or something." He moved to the case on the left, pointing at a particular mace. "This morning star is from the thirteenth century," he told Raylan. "I think it's my favourite."

[tinstar]

"Right, the not driving thing." Raylan followed in step, leaning in to stare at the mace. "I didn't think they let stuff like this outta museums. Ya know, government and cultural historical rights and all that crap. Thirteenth century?" he asked, turning to look back at Malcolm. He trusted that Malcolm was telling the truth, no question, but he was clearly impressed.

"This was not the level of fancy I expected, I will be honest. This is something I'd expect in some.. BDSM dungeon or something as a backdrop."

[abrightboy]

"Well, maybe," Malcolm conceded good-naturedly. "But not real ones," he asserted, pointing at the case." He gestured between the cases. "Do you want to try any of them?" he asked.

[tinstar]

Raylan nodded once with an 'ah' like he knew what that meant, specifically. He didn't. The question had him shaking his head and chuckling with a self deprecating sound. "Oh no. No, I shouldn't."

He wanted to. Like a little boy playing Knight, he wanted to but a Man's pride and not wanting to look foolish was a more powerful force.

"Marshal's salary ain't one that allows me to replace.. anything I might break in here," he chuckled.

[abrightboy]

"Well, let me know if you change your mind," Malcolm told him, heading back towards the counter to refresh his tea. "Want a top up?" he asked, gesturing towards his glass.

[tinstar]

Naturally, Raylan followed, lifting his glass in agreement and setting it on the counter in favor of pulling up his travel bag.

"As promised, terrible, awful photos of my guy's victims." Getting into it, he pulls out a file and drops it on the counter towards Malcolm.

"The guy we're after is named Robert Quarles. Twisted guy under the surface but he wears a smile like a salesman. Grew up in Hell's Kitchen. His father abused him, like I assume most do, at this point. He works for the Dixie Mafia, a real carpetbagger in the truest sense."

The pictures were the last three victims, all young boys, all partially flayed and abused in unspeakable ways, detailed out by the files themselves.

"His.. proclivities cause more trouble than what he owes Limehouse, but after Limehouse tried to call in the debt, Mr. Quarles ran. I think he mighta come home."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm refilled Raylan's glass and glanced at the file while Raylan spoke, nodding. But before he picked it up, he had one burning question he'd tried hard not to ask.

"What sort of 'fancy' were you expecting?"

[tinstar]

Oho, so there was something that could pause Malcolm from his incessant need to Know a Case.

Raylan smirked, a half laugh huffed with a single breath as he took the glass back and settled into a stool, forced to pull out his ballcap to set on the counter next to him.

"I don't know. Something more expansive than a narrow rectangle. Possibly with pillars and a butler. A cat maybe. A place that your voice might echo in."