Jo Robertson - The Avenger

Randolph's voice dripped with superiority. "You have nothing on me, and even if you did, you couldn't possibly fathom what happened with these… " His hand swept over the array of photos. "… offerings." He laughed softly. "Your precious Olivia understands. She was willing to be the greatest sacrifice of all. She wanted it."

Jack catapulted across the table, his chair slamming to the floor with a resounding crack. He grabbed the orange fabric of Randolph's inmate jumpsuit and jerked him to a standing position. "You sick son of a bitch," he growled, breathing heavily into the prisoner's face. "I should've killed you back there in the church."

Recovering quickly, Randolph stretched his neck and eased out of Jack's grasp. "Yes," he smirked, "but you didn't, and even if you manage to prosecute me successfully on one or two of those charges, I'll very much enjoy my reminiscences. They bring me such pleasure."

Jack shoved him back in his chair. His hands itched to throttle Randolph, to unleash the beast and rip this monster to pieces. But he glared instead, barely holding his fury in check.

"You had your chance to kill me," Randolph taunted. "I wonder why you didn't?"

His eyes glinted with amusement. A smile played at the edges of his mouth. "Did you decide that the role of Roger was too dark even for your black soul? Too bad you intervened, Jack. I had a special debitum naturae reserved for Olivia."

Unexpectedly, Slater entered the room and placed a hand on Jack's arm. He shrugged it off.

Slater gave the Judge a knowing look. "Judge Linders, I know you're going to respect the fact that this is my station house, and for the moment at least, my prisoner."

After a long, steady look, the Judge left. Slater took Jack's place in the chair opposite Randolph while Jack turned his back to them, breathing deeply to gain control.

With his cuffed fists, Randolph smoothed back the hair that had fallen over his forehead. After a moment, he held his hands. "Remove these and I'll tell you about them."

Jack turned back, wondering what game Randolph played now.

Randolph gestured with his head to the grisly display of photographs on the table. "Wouldn't you like to know the how? The where? The when? All the gory little details that Jack didn't garner from the crime scenes? The details to make your case? Wouldn't you like to know if that's all there is?"

"You sick bastard," Slater said. "No one's going to take those cuffs off."

The request had fostered an idea in Jack's mind and he stepped forward, nodded toward the door and stepped outside ahead of Slater. "Why not uncuff him?" he suggested. "Let's give him a chance to explain."

"Has he lawyered up yet?" Slater asked.

Jack shook his head. "He doesn't want a lawyer," he snorted. "He wants an audience. No decent attorney would let him run his mouth like that."

He drew in a deep breath and waited until the Judge and Waylon Harris disappeared around the corner. "Randolph is evil. He doesn't want to ease the pain of the victims' families." He glanced meaningfully at Slater to gauge his reaction.

Understanding crossed his old friend's face. "All kinds of dangerous things happen when a suspect's cuffs are taken off." He eyed Jack thoughtfully.

"Things like attempted escape," Jack agreed. "Attack on a police officer. The stress of interrogation often takes its toll on someone."

"Stroke or heart attack?"

Jack returned the stare. "What do you propose?"

His friend bent his head and nodded as though he were coming to a personal conclusion, and Jack knew what it would cost a man like Slater.

He laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder and spoke quietly in his ear. "I’m going to take a break now," he explained carefully. "Barrington’s on his way. You’ve got maybe fifteen, twenty minutes before the D. A. arrives and makes sure Randolph gets his public defender."

Jack kept his gaze steady and voiced with his eyes the unspoken message. Fifteen minutes then. Whatever Jack did would be covered up just like when he'd killed Olivia's stepfather seventeen years ago.

But at what personal cost?

There were a hundred ways to kill someone and make it look like something else, and Jack was an expert at every single one. He told himself that if Randolph expressed a single iota of remorse, guilt, or contrition, he wouldn't do it. He'd let him serve out multiple life sentences in a cage.

Imprisoned, but alive.

He knew it was an empty bargain. Psychopaths were incapable of such emotions.

After a few minutes, Jack returned to the interrogation room. He turned his back to the prisoner, reached up to switch off the video recording camera in the corner at the juncture of the wall and the ceiling, and removed the plastic handcuffs. When he turned back to Randolph, Jack saw pure terror on the man’s face.

He’d give Randolph one more chance. He sat down opposite the prisoner. One more chance, you fucking monster, he thought, one more chance at redemption. He fought through the euphoria of the fentanyl and forced himself to step into Howard Randolph's mind one last time.

A ghastly montage raced through his head like the jerky movement of a silent film. The sexual thrill Randolph experienced even in the face of his death sickened Jack. Blood and death, gore and violence. Pain beyond imagination, exultation and sheer primal pleasure in the suffering of another human being.

Jack knew what he had to do.

He stared impassively at the Dead Language Killer, remembered the years of suffering he'd caused, the fear and pain of his victims. He read the lust in Randolph by the slackness of his mouth and the glitter in his eyes and tried to conjure up the beast inside himself.

No regret at all.

Randolph sat calmly, a pleasant expression on his face, and clearly had no idea what Jack intended for him. "That bully posturing won't work on me," Randolph said as he rubbed his wrists theatrically. "But I'd love to tell you all about my exploits."

Seven minutes later the Judge's words reverberated in Jack's head as if he were actually in the room. Finish the mission, Jack, one last detail to take care of. Do whatever you have to.

Revulsion swept over him. Disgust at himself, at the Judge, at the whole self-righteous organization that'd sucked the humanity out of him.

"Go to hell, Warren," he spat and walked out of the interview room.

When they were childhood friends, Olivia had always known when Jack was lying to her. Right now his right eye jerked in a telltale movement so miniscule that if she hadn't been looking for it and straight at him, she would've missed it. His face was composed, his hands were steady, and his voice was calm.

But Jack was lying to her.

She had agreed to try, no conditions attached. They loved each other, and she believed against rational thought that they belonged to each other, always had. She couldn't envision a deeply satisfying life without Jack.

But still, she was afraid of the future. And Jack was lying to her.

They stood in her kitchen. She leaned against the counter by the sink and he sat on a bar stool, his hands dangling between his knees. He looked weary and defeated and she wanted more than her next breath to go to him. Hold onto him.

Instead, she rooted her feet to the floor.

She freely admitted that she didn't know quite how her life could go on without him in it. But she wasn't blind. Jack had to care more about her than his Invictus family, and right now she was afraid that he'd done something terribly wrong.

"A heart attack?" She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and looked again for the minute jerking of his right eye. Gone now. "I don't understand. Howard was so fit, so healthy."