...'Cause I Already Know...

The Measure

Patrick Jane is a man of many names.

 

The Boy Wonder, The Pretty Boy Psychic, Blondie, Charlatan, Carnac, Kresten, Jerk, Asshole, Son Of a Bitch, Drunk Uncle, or even Lover.

 

He heard it all. Usually accompanying with a shout and/or a punch.

 

The only names that mattered to him though was "daddy" and "husband", a job that he had initially set out to execute perfectly, to defy the example that his own dad and grandfather has set during his childhood.

 

He was from carnival roots, something to be expected from a man who was in his profession. He was a well-known psychic - considered as a bridge for the living to communicate with the dead.

 

He has always wanted to provide his family all the best that he could afford,  thinking that the extravagant lifestyle is something his wife and daughter would appreciate. Unlike others, he still tried to be a hands-on dad for his family, at least if he wasn't scheduled for a TV appearance.

 

A particular TV appearance changed everything, though.

 

As someone who is long enough in the profession that he is in, you start to feel smug about yourself and your so-called "talents". You start to show off and it starts blowing up to your face.

 

And showing off he did.

 

"We understand that the police considers you as this paranormal police detective, if anything of the sort exist.", the male host says with a chuckle. His female co-host just agreed with a nod, her eyes fixated on her psychic interviewee.

 

Impressive, this guy isn't a mark unlike his companion. Though they should totally control themselves, their body language screams "in an affair" like their ratings scream that they would soon be removed in the afternoon TV program lineup of the channel.

 

"Yes, I am helping the police to catch a serial killer named Red John. I'm not calling myself as that though, but I help the police when I can.", he said while he combs over his blonde curls that were gelled back for a professional appearance and straighten up his grey suit jacket. He doesn't need to, but he did it to give the ladies an extra eye candy. At his peripheral vision, he sees a girl in the audience drooling. Marks.

 

"Can you get a psychic fix of him at the moment?", the female co-host told him. Her query was told with a serving of excessive eyelash batting, a subtle hair flip, and a Cheshire cat smile that honestly wasn't half bad.

 

"He's an ugly, tormented little man, a lonely soul, sad, very sad.", he said in his serious tone, "He has dark energy around him, and though I can't get what he looks like, I can feel him.".

 

He, then, proceeded with going in an act of getting tired and of course, lots of them bought it. Once again, marks.

 

"Give the man some water!"

"Oh my,  is he going to die?"

"Stupid, he's just simply tired for getting a psychic fix!"

 

I'm living the life.

 

After a few hours spent on useless chats with the channel head and some boring executives, he was ready to go home.

 

As he was driving his eggshell blue Citroën DS 21 that rainy night, he distinctly remember that he had realized that his life is near from perfect - he has a great wife, a precious little daughter, a pack of savings that can make him live comfortably for the rest of his life, and a good job that pays. A lot. What more can the alumnus Sacramento Carnival's Boy Wonder could ask for?

 

Humbleness.

 

When he reached his Malibu home, he sighed.

 

He nearly forgot to list the house.

 

The house was his dream come true - a beach property that has Bali as the theme. Both him and his only daughter Charlotte share the love of beaches, much of the chagrin of his wife Angela, who loved to live on Alaska just because it snows there all year round. Walls are mostly glass, and there's a little hut filled with his surfing equipment near the shore.

 

He was basically living in paradise.

 

Once again, what can Patrick Jane can ask for?

 

Rewind time.

 

He put his beloved vintage car inside the garage and went inside the house.

 

That's weird.

 

Normally, the lights of the house are all at use, and that the place is so bright that it combats a lighthouse.

 

Oh well, maybe Charlotte crashed down already and Angela is there to read her a bedtime story.

 

He went up, and there he saw a note taped at the master bedroom door.

 

"Mister Jane, I do not like to be slandered in the media, especially by a dirty money-grubbing fraud. If you were a real psychic, instead of a dishonest little worm, you wouldn't need to open the door to see what I've done to your lovely wife and child."

 

He started to feel the dread.

 

Ha, this isn't true. It is just a prank. It's nearing April, no? Angela should think better, being a daughter of carnival royalties.

 

When he opened the door, he saw it.

 

The bloody smiley face on the wall.

 

Red John.

 

He hasn't seen the bodies yet but he knows, he knows that Angela isn't playing tricks on her or even reading Charlotte a bedtime story.

 

They were killed by a serial killer.

 

And the smiley face drawn with the blood of both his daughter and wife mocks the feeling that he experiences that moment.

 

Even a decade later.