Chapter 9: Team Bonding & Pranks
July 14, 2008 - CBI Headquarters
The bullpen had settled into a comfortable rhythm by the second week.
Rigsby dropped into the chair beside my desk during lunch, unwrapping a sandwich that smelled like pastrami and regret. His expression was conspiratorial, voice low enough that Lisbon wouldn't hear from her office.
"Jane put salt in my coffee last week," he said. "Like, a lot of salt. I need payback ideas."
I looked up from the case file I'd been reviewing. Across the bullpen, Jane lay on his couch reading a book, picture of innocence. The smile on my face came naturally.
"Oh, I have thoughts."
Rigsby leaned closer. "I'm listening."
"Subtlety. Jane expects direct retaliation. So we go psychological." I tapped my pen against the desk. "His couch cushions. Move them exactly one inch forward. Nothing dramatic. Just enough that something feels wrong but he can't immediately identify what."
Rigsby's grin widened. "That's evil. I love it."
"We do it tomorrow morning. Before he arrives."
"Count me in."
The conspiracy was born over pastrami sandwiches and shared frustration with Patrick Jane's pranks. Rigsby had been enduring them for months—salt in coffee, hidden car keys, fake phone calls. The team had learned to tolerate Jane's chaos because his brilliance made it worthwhile.
But tolerance wasn't the same as passive acceptance.
July 15, 2008 - Morning
Six-fifteen AM. The bullpen was empty except for Rigsby and me.
The brown leather couch sat waiting, Jane's sacred territory. We worked quickly—lifting cushions, marking their positions with masking tape on the frame, then replacing them one inch forward. The change was barely visible, but it would register subconsciously.
"Think he'll notice?" Rigsby whispered.
"Immediately. The question is whether he can prove anything."
We were back at our desks, coffees in hand, looking entirely innocent when Jane arrived at seven-twenty.
He walked straight to his couch, already pulling out his book. Then he stopped. Tilted his head. Set the book down and examined the cushions like they'd personally offended him.
"Something's wrong," he announced to the empty bullpen.
Rigsby kept typing. I sipped my coffee.
Jane pressed his hand against the cushions, testing firmness. Measured the distance from armrest to edge with his fingers. Then he turned, scanning the bullpen with laser focus.
"Which one of you did this?"
"Did what?" I asked, not looking up from my computer.
"My couch. Someone moved the cushions."
Rigsby glanced over, expression perfectly confused. "Looks normal to me."
"It's one inch forward." Jane pointed accusingly. "Someone moved them exactly one inch forward."
Cho arrived, coffee in hand, and assessed the situation immediately. "Did you measure?"
"I don't need to measure. I know my couch."
"So you're upset about something you can't prove." Cho sat at his desk. "Sounds productive."
Jane studied Rigsby first—reading body language, searching for tells. But Rigsby had spent the last two weeks watching me maintain poker face around Jane. He'd learned to mask his reactions, keeping his expression neutral while his stress levels probably spiked.
Then Jane turned to me.
[ **WARNING: ACTIVE ANALYSIS DETECTED** ]
[ **RED HERRING PROJECTOR: ACTIVE** ]
[ **ENERGY: 66/100** ]
Whatever Jane was seeing, it wasn't truth. The Red Herring scrambled every signal, feeding him contradictory data that his brilliant mind couldn't parse. His expression cycled through frustration and fascination.
"You're involved," he said finally. "I don't know how, but you're involved."
"I don't even know what you're upset about."
"The cushions—" He stopped, realizing how insane he sounded. "You know what? Fine. But I'm watching you both."
He reclaimed his couch, adjusting the cushions back to their original position with exaggerated care. Rigsby caught my eye, fighting a smile.
"Victory."
July 15, 2008 - Afternoon
The warehouse worker's murder was straightforward until it wasn't.
Three suspects, all with motive and opportunity. Jerry Klein had been killed during night shift, found in the loading dock with blunt force trauma. His three coworkers were the only people with access.
We brought them in for questioning separately. I took point on the interrogations while Jane observed from behind the glass.
Suspect A—Marcus Webb, forty-one, shift supervisor. Nervous but cooperative. The Lie Probability Gauge activated automatically as he spoke.
[ **ANALYZING: MARCUS WEBB** ]
[ **LIE PROBABILITY: 23% - MOSTLY TRUTHFUL** ]
[ **STRESS: ELEVATED (NORMAL FOR INTERROGATION)** ]
[ **DECEPTION MARKERS: MINIMAL** ]
[ **ENERGY: 64/100** ]
He was hiding something minor—probably took longer breaks than policy allowed—but nothing murder-related. I moved on.
Suspect B—Daniel Cross, thirty-three, forklift operator. Twitchy, defensive, answered questions with questions. The System tracked every verbal tic.
[ **ANALYZING: DANIEL CROSS** ]
[ **LIE PROBABILITY: 78% - SIGNIFICANT DECEPTION** ]
[ **STRESS: VERY HIGH** ]
[ **HIDING SOMETHING: CONFIRMED** ]
[ **ENERGY: 62/100** ]
"Where were you when Jerry was killed?" I asked.
"Loading dock. Like I said."
[ **LIE PROBABILITY: 82%** ]
"Security footage shows you left the loading dock at 11:47 PM. Jerry was killed around midnight. Where did you go?"
His eye contact broke. Hands fidgeted with his shirt collar.
"Bathroom. I was in the bathroom."
[ **LIE PROBABILITY: 91%** ]
I leaned forward. "Daniel, lying to me makes this worse. Tell me where you actually were."
The confession came in fragments. He'd been stealing equipment—small tools, nothing major—and was in the storage room when Jerry died. Theft, not murder. We'd charge him for the stealing, but he wasn't our killer.
Suspect C—Rachel Morrison, twenty-eight, quality control. Calm, collected, answered every question with perfect composure. Too perfect.
[ **ANALYZING: RACHEL MORRISON** ]
[ **LIE PROBABILITY: 91% - EXTREME DECEPTION** ]
[ **STRESS: CONTROLLED BUT PRESENT** ]
[ **PRACTICED LIAR: CONFIRMED** ]
[ **MICROEXPRESSION: CONCEALED SATISFACTION WHEN DISCUSSING VICTIM** ]
[ **ENERGY: 59/100** ]
"You and Jerry got along well?" I asked.
"Professional relationship. Nothing more."
[ **LIE PROBABILITY: 94%** ]
"His supervisor mentioned Jerry filed a harassment complaint against you three weeks ago."
Her mask slipped—just for a second. Anger flashed across her features before the calm returned.
"That complaint was baseless."
[ **LIE PROBABILITY: 97%** ]
I spent the next forty minutes breaking her down. The System guided every question, highlighting when stress spiked, when lies became more elaborate, when her composure started cracking. By the time I finished, she'd confessed to the murder—Jerry had threatened to file another complaint, and she'd confronted him in the loading dock.
Lisbon met me in the observation room afterward, expression thoughtful.
"You're good at spotting the liars," she said.
Cho appeared beside her, rare approval in his voice. "Better than most."
Jane had been silent throughout, watching from the corner. Now he stepped forward, that curious expression firmly in place.
"It's almost like you can see something the rest of us can't," he said. "How do you know who's lying?"
"Careful. Can't reveal the System."
"Practice. Body language. Verbal patterns." I shrugged. "Same tools you use."
"But I've been doing this for decades." Jane tilted his head. "You've been here two weeks and you're already matching my accuracy rate. That's... unusual."
[ **RED HERRING PROJECTOR: MAINTAINING DEFENSE** ]
[ **ENERGY: 57/100** ]
Lisbon cut the tension. "Unusual or not, it closes cases. Good work, Colen."
We processed Rachel Morrison's arrest, filed the paperwork, and wrapped the case by six PM. Another success. Another step toward proving I belonged on this team.
July 16, 2008 - Late Morning
The coffee incident was entirely planned.
Jane had reclaimed his couch after morning briefing, lying with his eyes closed, probably not sleeping. I approached with a full cup of coffee—actually just water with food coloring—and staged the perfect stumble.
The liquid splashed across the leather cushions.
Jane's eyes snapped open. He sat up so fast he nearly fell off the couch.
"You—that's—" He stared at the spreading stain. "You've desecrated sacred ground!"
The entire bullpen went silent. Van Pelt stopped mid-phone call. Cho's typing paused. Rigsby turned in his chair, eyes wide.
I channeled every ounce of innocent contrition. "I'm so sorry. Here, let me help clean it."
I grabbed paper towels from the break room, returned with furniture polish I'd specifically purchased for this moment, and began scrubbing the couch. Thoroughly. The lemon scent of the polish filled the air.
Jane watched in horror. "What are you doing?"
"Cleaning. The coffee will stain if I don't treat it immediately."
"That's not—you can't just—" He grabbed my wrist. "Stop."
I stopped, looking up with perfect confusion. "You want the stain to set?"
"I want you to stop touching my couch with that chemical lemon death."
Lisbon emerged from her office, exasperated. "It's a couch, Jane."
"No." He pointed at me accusingly. "This is psychological warfare."
"It's furniture maintenance."
"It smells like lemons now. Everything smells like lemons. This is a calculated attack on my sensory experience."
Rigsby was barely containing laughter. Van Pelt had given up pretending to work. Even Cho's expression suggested amusement.
Lisbon rubbed her temples. "Both of you. Conference room. Now."
We followed her in. She closed the door and turned on us.
"I don't care who started this couch war, but it ends today. Jane, it's just furniture. Colen, stop antagonizing him." She looked between us. "Am I clear?"
"Crystal," I said.
"Perfectly transparent," Jane added.
We left the conference room. Jane returned to his couch, lying down gingerly, nose wrinkling at the lemon scent. I went back to my desk.
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. Text from Rigsby: That was beautiful.
July 16, 2008 - Evening
The text came at seven PM, just as I was packing up for the day.
Unknown Number: It's Lorelei. About that Italian place—Saturday at 7?
My response was immediate: Absolutely. I'll pick you up. What's your address?
Her reply included an address in midtown Sacramento and a simple: Looking forward to it.
Rigsby noticed me grinning at my phone. He nudged my shoulder, eyebrows raised.
"Someone special?"
"Maybe."
Van Pelt appeared beside my desk, sensing gossip. "Ooh, Colen has a date. Who is she?"
"None of your business."
"That means yes." She grinned. "Is she pretty?"
"Devastatingly."
Rigsby laughed. "Man's got game. How long have you known her?"
"Few weeks. We met at a bar."
"Smooth operator." Rigsby clapped my shoulder. "Good for you."
Jane had been pretending not to listen from his lemon-scented couch. Now he sat up, openly curious.
"A romantic interest. Fascinating. Tell me about her."
"Absolutely not."
"Oh, come on. I can help. Relationship advice is one of my many talents."
"Your wife left you," Cho said without looking up from his computer.
The bullpen went silent. Jane's expression froze, then carefully relaxed into something neutral. The moment stretched uncomfortable and sharp.
"Wrong thing to say. Jane's family was murdered. Cho doesn't know that yet."
"Actually," Jane said lightly, "she died. But thank you for that delightful reminder."
Cho looked up, something like regret flashing across his usually impassive face. "My condolences."
"Ancient history." Jane stood, grabbed his jacket. "I'm going home. Enjoy your date, Colen. Try not to spill coffee on her."
He left before anyone could respond. The atmosphere in the bullpen shifted, heavier now.
Lisbon emerged from her office. "What happened?"
"Cho made a comment about Jane's wife," Van Pelt said quietly. "Didn't know she'd passed."
"She was murdered." Lisbon's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Along with their daughter. That's why he works with CBI—he's hunting the killer."
The information settled over the team like a weight. I'd known, of course. The show had been explicit about Jane's backstory. But hearing it stated so bluntly, seeing the team's reactions—it made the tragedy real in a way fiction never had.
"Red John. The serial killer I can't remember details about. The one who destroyed Patrick Jane's life."
[ **ENERGY: 54/100** ]
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the elevator, mind racing. Saturday was three days away. A date with Lorelei Martins, a woman whose sister had been murdered by the same killer who'd destroyed Jane's family. The connections were forming, threads pulling tight.
And I was standing in the middle, trying to change outcomes I barely understood.
The System chimed as I reached my car.
[ **RELATIONSHIP PROGRESS: TEAM INTEGRATION** ]
[ **RIGSBY: ALLIED (PRANK PARTNERSHIP)** ]
[ **LISBON: RESPECT EARNED (CASE COMPETENCE)** ]
[ **CHO: NEUTRAL-POSITIVE (RARE APPROVAL GIVEN)** ]
[ **VAN PELT: FRIENDLY (GOSSIP INTEREST)** ]
[ **JANE: COMPLICATED (CURIOSITY + RIVALRY + WOUNDED)** ]
[ **LIE PROBABILITY GAUGE: 77% ACCURACY** ]
[ **PROFILE GENERATOR: 69% ACCURACY** ]
[ **ENERGY: 52/100** ]
Saturday couldn't come fast enough.
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