The first one stunned him.

They caught the case on a Monday evening. A husband had come home from work to find his wife and 5-year-old daughter murdered. Traffic on I5 to Lodi was a nightmare and Jane arrived first to the gated subdivision on the edge of town. He followed the flow of procedural activity up to the master bedroom and that's where he felt the electric bolt of shock course through his entire body.

The scene was staged just for him, the woman arranged on the bed just as Angela was when he found her, the bloody smiley face exactly placed above her. And the little girl. Red John had killed her in her own bed, arranged her exactly, and then dragged the twin mattress into the master bedroom so Jane would see them both at the same time.

He was leaving the house as the rest of the team showed up.

"Jane," Lisbon said as he passed her. "Where you going?"

He stopped but couldn't look at her. Rigsby and Cho strolled across the lawn towards them. Talking to the ground, Jane said, "It's Red John. There's nothing more for me to see here." He left before she had time to respond.

"Where's he going?" Rigsby asked as he and Cho joined her.

"I don't know," Lisbon said, "but I'm thinking this is not good."

The second one numbed him.

He'd spent the previous week hanging out in the attic, only occasionally going down to glance at the victim board. Every time Lisbon asked him if he was alright, he deflected and shrugged, "Sure."

By Friday afternoon Lisbon had had enough. She came up to the attic room and said, "You're not okay. No one would be okay after seeing that. He's messing with you."

"And how is that new?" Jane asked.

"This is Red John. You've never avoided a Red John case."

"I'm not avoiding it. It's just like every other Red John case. The evidence at the scene isn't going to lead us to him, so I don't need to scour the details. I've seen them all before. I know them by heart."

He had her there. It was true and she knew it.

"But this one is different," she said.

He knew she wanted him to admit this truth, but he couldn't. He wouldn't. He had such a sense of dread and shame of what was coming, he pretended ignorance just for the relief. Soon enough he wouldn't be able to do even that, and he wasn't sure what was on the other side of that particular reality.

He shrugged, looked out the window. "So, he's messing with me. What else is new?"

The following Monday, they caught the second one.

Another husband coming home from work, but in Stockton this time. Another upscale community, a gargantuan house that was more conceit than function. None of it was lost on Jane as he walked up the winding path to the wide open front door where Cho was obviously waiting for him.

"Hey," Cho said as he stepped in front of Jane.

"Hello," Jane said, feigning amusement.

"It's Red John," Cho said.

"I know."

"It's just like the last one."

Jane saw Lisbon coming down the stairs fast, like she knew he was there.

"Hey Jane."

"Hello Lisbon. Is Cho blocking my way on your orders?"

She frowned at him. "No."

"Good," he said and walked around both of them towards the stairs.

"Jane!" She caught up with him on the stairs and pulled his arm, making him stop. She waited for a forensics tech to pass by them before speaking. "You don't want to go up there. You don't need to, I mean." Her hand fell away from his arm.

He knew she was right. Of course, she was right, but he knew he had to see it anyway. He turned and walked up the stairs, following the activity to the master bedroom. And Cho was right too. It was exactly the same as last time, exactly the same as the night he lost his whole world.

And he felt nothing. No, that wasn't exactly right. He felt like his whole body had been shot up with Novocain. He felt numb and swollen, and if anyone wanted to cut him or shoot him right then, he knew he wouldn't feel a thing.

He surveyed the scene. He knew he didn't need to look at the details of this family's life, the photos on the dresser, the books on the bedstand. The details were not the message, and Jane was getting Red John's psychopathic message loud and clear. He turned and headed back to the stairs.

"Jane." Lisbon was following him again.

"What," he said over his shoulder. The stairs were wide and curved down to an expansive foyer. When he reached the top of them, he felt a little vertigo, like he had just stepped to the edge of a cavernous abyss. He grabbed the railing and used it as he descended, his legs somehow functioning properly.

Lisbon fell in step beside him. "Jane, you cannot take this personally. You cannot blame yourself for this."

He stopped short, still holding onto the railing, and looked at her. She went down a couple stairs before realizing he had stopped. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with—and here was something else he didn't want to admit—fear. She was really afraid for him and that made him afraid. And then angry.

"That up there is very personal, Lisbon," he said loud enough to make the uniformed officers in the foyer look up. "That up there is all about me."

She climbed back up the stairs to him. "No, that is a crazy person going off the deep end of the deep end."

He started down the stairs again, needing to get out of that house, away from the evidence of his own failures.

The third one he didn't even bother going to.

It was in Bakersfield, the following Monday. When the team got up to head for the parking lot, Jane veered for the attic and nobody said anything about it.

Patrick Jane had never before had reason to hate Mondays. That kind of hatred was for those imprisoned in schools and dead-end jobs, neither of which Jane had ever experienced. Mondays were always just another day to figure out what to do.

But now he absolutely hated Mondays.

He heard the team return late in the night but he didn't go down. He tried to sleep but couldn't. When Lisbon came up, he pretended he was asleep and she didn't try to wake him.

When he went down in the morning, the team was still there, processing all the evidence. A third victim board was up, but Jane wouldn't look. He couldn't. He went to the kitchen to make tea, drawing Lisbon's attention.

"There you are," she said, following him. "You get some sleep?"

"Yes," he lied and went to fill the tea kettle.

"You look like hell."

"I'm fine." He put the kettle on the stove and turned to her.

"Right." She looked at him and shook her head. "You know what, Jane? Me and everyone out there—" she crooked her thumb over her shoulder, "knows what this is doing to you. Why do you have to pretend like nothing is happening?"

"I'm not pretending that nothing is happening. I'm choosing to not participate in the investigations."

Lisbon took a moment to absorb this information.

"Okay. That's… okay."

He saw her faltering, which meant she was using the soft gloves on him, and that made him angry again.

And she must have seen his anger because she stopped short and said, "You know what? That's not okay, Jane. Red John has gone freaking nuts and you're telling us you're going to sit this one out? What the hell?"

Jane turned to find the box of tea. He couldn't look at her. He felt the old wave of shame wash over him, the knowledge that his own prideful actions had caused such gruesome results. "He's not going to stop, Lisbon. He's going to keep killing innocent women and children until… I don't know when."

Lisbon came over and stood next to him. "He's off pattern. There's no way he can keep up this pace. Every week, the same scenario. He can't keep it up. He's playing a game to see who will fold first. You can't fold on this, Jane. You can't."

"Don't ask me to go in there and look at those boards," he said, "because I can't do that." He felt her watching him, but he couldn't meet her gaze.

"Are you going to be okay, Jane?" she asked him quietly.

He knew what she was asking. "I don't know," he said. "But I'm doing what I need to do for now."

"Okay," she said. "Then that's that. You do what you need to do. We'll manage."

Jane looked at her and saw she meant it and that she wouldn't hold it against him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Rigsby popped his head in and said, "Boss?"

"Not now," Lisbon said.

"Well," Rigsby said, "um, you might want to hear this."

Jane and Lisbon both looked at him.

"Well, what?" Lisbon asked.

"There's a woman in interrogation room #3 who says she's Jane's mother."