“She still here, Karev?”
“Same as every day, Boss. Wants to know what leads we have. And I tell her the same thing as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. That we can’t divulge anything on an ongoing investigation.”
“She’s persistent, I’ll give you that.”
“Why don’t you just tell her to leave? We’ll call her when we have something concrete.”
“Somehow I doubt procedure will cut it with this one. And, I feel bad for her. She feels guilty… and responsible. It makes you wonder how she has the strength to get out of bed in the mornings.”
“Thoughts and prayers?”
“Unlikely that she hangs with the Tikki Torch Parade crowd, Heiling their Citrus Golem.”
“You paint quite the colorful picture there, Boss. So you profiling family members now, huh? She’s a crazy one. Weird.”
“Don’t call her crazy.”
“You sayin’ you believe in all that psychic mumbo jumbo, Avery?”
A has-been carnie consulting for the SBI? Now ain’t that a kick in the head.
Having always depended on the kindness of strangers – or rather, on a sliding scale of naïveté to basic self-interest and all the way to envy, avarice and all-consuming greed; any one of which made them an easy mark – the current magnanimity of allowing the intrusion into the case was still surprising, to say the least. This benevolence courtesy of a place named person. Or maybe even – something which she wasn’t exactly enamored of – someone having a last name as a first name. Sounded pompous, right?
Anyway, was it Lisbon, perhaps? Of course the reach was understandable, for Portugal had always been a fave. Kinda outa the norm and unusual… luscious and exotic. Nothing plain Jane about it.
Maybe some Ronaldo flamboyancy though? Not the Brazilian, of course. And speaking of Brazilians... not any of its alternative usages, like The Full Monty, The Works, or a Brazilian Wax. And that’s a double negatory on the first, so not Monty of ‘The 100’ fame. Each of that trio of colloquialisms actually referenced the depilatory down under. She sniggered at the thought of an unintended fourth creation segueing from that... but no it didn’t have anything to do with hairy Australians.
Also not the nuts. Okay, not the mental ones like the Rolling Neymar – for a pro footballer his put-on pained expressions left a lotta room for yellow-card doubt – but actual nuts. The physical, eatable ones. Most delicious when chocolate coated.
On the subject of nuts... It really tickled the funny bone, this amusing correlation between Brazilians and both male and female genitalia. Nuts … Full Brazilian … Nevermind. You had to be there.
So yeah, it was the other guy. Cristiano Ronaldo: Portugal’s famous professional soccer player. One of two Ronaldo football legends. Who, let’s be honest, was currently being upstaged by the Taekwondo goal-scoring stylings of that Swede, with his Ibra flair... Dare to Zlatan! 500 Club? Welcome to Zlatan Ibrahimović.
Still, it was neither Brazilian nor Portuguese. Or even Swedish meatballs.
So nah, all this was just projecting.
He was Avery, of the city named Jackson.
Extraordinary sleuthing skills to be sure, but this was not something she was prepared to leave to chance or in the mildly competent but ultimately incapable hands of Investigators, or even The Feds.
This was her personal vendetta.
And while she, April Kepner, may have been a con artist, she’d paid her dues and her debts. Finally, she was a contender. Mayhap even hitting that Emmy nomination high note? Or at the very least, her abilities garnering her alter ego that modest accolade. Not that she anticipated praise and glory. If the unexpected happened, she would be completely gobsmacked.
Nonetheless… this was a big one owed. Vengeance. Retribution. Boycott (err, what…?)
A stake through the heart of Red John.
A bullet to the brain of Grey John.
Whichever descriptor fit.
Considering the killers penchant for mind games though, the more appropriate reckoning would be blade through the brain. Squeamishly literal, unfortunately. With surgical precision but not in any curative capacity. For John had graduated from Blood Red to the inclusion of Pasty Grey. One could even call it the season’s palette. Fashioning crime scenes with his victim’s innards and body fluids by constructing grotesque caricatures, creating macabre blood drawn emojis with the new addition of painted brain matter tears.
Red John to John Grey.
It was entirely plausible that the prefix could be Jane, akin to Jane Doe whenever an unknown female identity was in question. Due to the gruesome and horrifically messy nature of the murders however, and taking into account the strength required to decapitate a body, shred human flesh while also ripping out internal organs, the authorities were sticking with the hypothesis of it being a male culprit.
Even with the known appalling acts of violence committed, rape was one that had been ruled out as part of the killer’s modus operandi, though the targets were mainly women. So to their rationale, it was not a factor worthy of consideration. Discounting motive, this simply left the viciousness of the action as the sole criteria governing gender, it seemed. The reasoning inherent in their outdated thought processes implicated MAN as the viable suspect. Following therefrom, Red John became the name coined by a frenzied media.
The La-la land of Hollywood would probably hashtag this absurdity of linear thought – well according to their standard of measurement – as a kind of reverse feminism. Just ask Pompeo, the Queen Pee of Playing Victim and hence, Peversism; she who was expert at defecating bullshit through the mouth. Consequently, taking into account her generalized, erroneous justifications – and butt-hurt feelings – valid social ills suffered by minorities or certain demographics to the extent of being life-threatening to them, would be ‘All-lives-mattered.’ Which slogan was, quite ironically, an unequal equalization as a way of propping up white patriarchal society.
In these scenarios and with the absence of genuine physical or mental injury, the role play of white female victimhood was obnoxious, to say the least. A Cheap White Whine.
Essentially she and her ilk would be protesting the right to be equally considered as suspects of heinous crimes, and not to be excluded based on sex. Threatening to cry foul... or was it foul cry? The latter, evidenced by her pretend grieving face resembling that of a constipated fowl.
Undoubtedly enough of her type idiocy going around to incite a Hollywood Elite Red-carpet Protest Parade, hyped up with designer Pussy Hats.
A likely pinkwashing propaganda too. Or even a ScarJo-type appropriation ambush. And did that perchance fall within the ambit of artwashing? Strange that language had evolved to where the word washing affixed to some other did refer to cleaning-up, yet simultaneously and quite paradoxically, it became a pejorative slur.
At any rate, the end result was having ‘reverse racism’, ‘reverse sexism’ and ‘heterophobia’ become created conditions to soothe fragile white egos.
The other side of the coin of creating huge blowout regarding frivolous issues of individual feelings of offence, would in the long run, have the effect of downplaying or even trivializing actual incidents of physical harm. Sympathy switching to the wrongdoer with recent past showing those degenerates – referencing the violent transgressor, of course – turning it around, crying their copious tears of counterfeit victimhood... Brockodile Tears: sobbing like a white man having to face the consequences of his actions. The magnitude of which depended on where the hue of his skin fell within the color chart and, based on the results, how swiftly the law could be interchanged to ‘How to get away with it...’
And they did. Following the white entitlement recipe of Brock Turners growing up to be Brett Kavanaughs who bend the rules and disappear evidence for Brock Turners. White bro code entrenched in the cycle of systemic misogyny, patriarchy and cronyism.
In getting away with it, an aspect of the guilty party’s defensive strategy becoming that of relegating accusers to the category of those who cry wolf and subsequently lumping together all complainants as purveyors of false claims of sexual assault or rape. Destroying credibility and locking the voice of the affected. Equating a victim mentality to them and inciting disbelief as to the veracity of their experiences.
The lack of accountability for and no repercussions towards the offenders thus becoming an ultimate betrayal of what the feminist movement should represent… marching for true equality, for fairness, for restitution, for justice and justness.
She supposed it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility to consider a woman as the perpetrator. Women could be predatory. Women could be manipulative. Women could be violent. Women could be rapists. Women could be enablers to violence. And Women could be abusive.
Women could even underhandedly derail feminist solidarity, like hypocritically paying lip service to the #MeToo Movement, for example, while concurrently defending and collaborating with guilty parties in covering up sexual harassment and assault. Siding with the wrongdoers and ultimately adding the title of rape apologist to their résumés.
Another example along the same track was The Women’s Suffrage Movement. Where, in the march for women’s voting rights, white feminism trumped racism. With the Black Woman being stepped upon and booted to the back of the line by her white compatriot. Equality of the sexes? Looked like progress, like the glass ceiling being shattered... but turned out that some were more equal than others. Color hierarchy reigning supreme.
And let’s not forget the unscrupulous scheming that women could perpetuate. For instance, an unable to cut it actor turned pseudo writer churning out incestuous teen drama drivel, by putting Fatal Attraction moves on sub-ordinates, twitter trolling vulnerable youth and jumping on the bandwagon of current social issues by faking victimization. Toxic. And all this simply as a proxy caché; fame by appropriation... and association. The drive to appear relevant by suborning celebrity status.
Also, how could history disremember the violent murder, torture and lynching of a young Black Boy – 14 year old Emmett Till – at the behest of one white woman’s lie, based on her allegations of an imagined offence. Which untruths she admitted to propagating, but only coming clean sixty-one years later. For the slaughter that she instigated and for her fabrications, she would never be prosecuted. No accountability for her crimes, no justice for the child, who through her actions was so badly mutilated that his swollen and disfigured body was unrecognizable.
So, Women could be toxic, abhorrent, putrid liars too.
History numbered it as a rarity nonetheless, the existence of serial killers of the feminine persuasion. General consensus and statistics went with a high probability of poison as being the weapon of choice for females, but that narrow margin of other did exist. Even if it was not an immediate go to on a Profiler’s manual. Driven to heights of excessive negative emotion – or facetiously adding the caveat of ‘that time of the month’ – a woman was just as capable of cleaving a head from its torso.
In terms of conversational access, a gender neutral label, while not impossible, would swiftly become arduous, as well as cumbersome. Like a yoke around the voice box. So, John it remained.
To be contrary, the Federales dithered between Red and Grey. Greyed? ... Rey? ... GRed? They were just as confused as to which mash-up to consider.
SBI – Seattle Bureau of Investigation – on the other hand, came up with their own unique moniker once it was established that the murderous butcher had escalated from simple body disembowelment to include brain excerebration. Icepick John. The precursor referenced the thin, cold column of steel that strongly resembled an Orbitoclast, and which was the supposed instrument the killer used to fully lobotomize his victims.