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]

"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."

[abrightboy]

"Oh. My mother's house," Malcolm said with a nod. "Maybe we'll stop by. Wouldn't want you to not have the full experience," he teased.

[tinstar]

"Ah." The sound came with an extended finger across the side of his glass at Malcolm. "So I wasn't totally off. Just.. Late. But I don't know that we're at a point in our relationship where I need to be meeting your mother."

He could only imagine, if she was anything like Malcolm.

"She'd probably hate my jeans."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm smirked and picked up one of the crime scene photos.

"I think she'd quite like them, actually."

They did fit just right.

[tinstar]

Raylan glanced down at the way he was dressed and scoffed. Out in the country, it was fine, hell he was dressed up for the country, but he hadn't seen a pair of jeans since he arrived.

"Not looking to be made quaint, that's for sure," he clarified behind a shallow sip of his scotch. "But unless she's in the gangs in Bronx.."

Raylan figured he didn't have to be worried about that. He was here for business after all. Just.. just business.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm laughed. "If she were, she'd be their queen."

He focused on the picture he was looking at and then he picked up the next one, holding them side by side, comparing them.

"I know some people who know about the gangs in the Bronx," he said. "At the precinct. And we'll be able to see if there are any deaths on record that match this MO around here."

[tinstar]

"Somehow, I do not doubt that," he said, smirking.

"Art should have already reached out to Lieutenant Arroyo about it - we try to not come in stepping on toes. That and we could use the help and knowledge of the locals.. If anyone can be called that with how big this place is. You could fit 4 or 5 Miami's in here."

As he spoke, his eyes continued to wander around the kitchen, easily getting caught on the line of pill bottles and the small card holder of affirmations. That was a few more bottles than he'd thought. Still, he reached out a finger and pulled the affirmations closer, plucking one of the cards out.

"Whatever I do today is enough," he read, flipping the card over with a thoughtful little grunt. "These the daily affirmations you were talkin' about?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm's eyes wandered up from the photos to follow Raylan's arm to his hand. He'd never seen someone other than himself pick one of those up. After he processed that oddity, he nodded at the question.

"Yeah. Yeah, my therapist gave them to me."

A beat.

"You've already been in touch with Gil?"

Gil hadn't called Malcolm.

[tinstar]

Raylan nodded again, lips turned down in a expression of approving 'huh, well how about that' before slotting the card, typeface forward, back into the mix.

"Art has but we just got in. Quarles didn't give us much notice, so we're flying in a little blind up here. It's not big enough for the FBI for some reason. I'm sure you'll hear from him soon. And if not, well, you already know, what's one more ride along."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm snorted. "Well, I'm sure if the FBI hears that I'm involved, they'll elbow us out of the way just on principle," he said perhaps a touch bitterly.

He made a sort of vague gesture towards the half moon window and, thus, the city with his teacup. "Did you really just arrive, then?"

[tinstar]

"In the last hour, and you let Art and the US Marshal's service handle them. If there's one thing we're good at, it's being a pain in the ass. Besides. I got a suit from the Washington office that's got a hard on for trying to make me look like a dangerous liability on account of the number of people I've shot in my line of work. He thinks I'm crooked and in on shit. Seems to be a common theme for them."

Raylan couldn't help but glance over at the window. So it was the one he'd seen from outside. Of course, from there, he could take in the bed on its raised little dias, complete with restraints. There was no stopping the faint lift of his eyebrows.

"How long you been at this place?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm smiled as Raylan outlined his issues with the FBI. Some of them did have a very particular set of blinders. At his question, Malcolm shrugged.

"About six months, now," he estimated, looking around the room. "But I brought most of this from my apartment in DC."

[tinstar]

"Good to know you've got more than what fits in a travel bag," Raylan scoffed. "Guess it's all easy to install then, huh?"

He had to find a different topic.

"Didn't see many Motel 6's here - where do people stay? I get to forward the bill to the office but they frown on us spending a Kings fortune."

[abrightboy]

"Easy to install? Oh, the restraints?" Raylan had a front row seat for one of Malcolm's night terrors; no sense being shy about them now. "Those ones are bolted to the frame of my bed. With heavier duty hardware since I went out the window," he noted, wagging his finger in that direction. "The ones I brought down there just slide under the mattress. They're safe but they don't feel as... firmly secure."

He took a sip of tea at Raylan's next question.

"I'll find you somewhere to stay," Malcolm told him. He was sure someone at the station would know the best budget places to stay.