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Chapter Text

The scene was found like this:

The victim was a man in a warehouse, later identified as Seth Baxter. His stomach was cut open, and his hands were crushed. The corpse was completely bisected and was brutally torn up by the blade. 

It was obviously the Jigsaw killer. It matched all the way from the complex machinery used to the forced self-mutilation. There was no way for it to be anything other than a Saw Trap. 

"This isn't Jigsaw." Peter had said confidentially after examining the scene, and he would not be convinced otherwise.

Special Agent Peter Strahm was, if anything in his life, damn good at his job. One of the FBI's favorite attack dogs, as he had been jokingly told before, until it was no longer a joke. If there was a crime scene, put him in front of it, and he could figure out whatever the hell happened using logic and a weird ability to reenact crimes in his mind. His expertise in this made dealing with him more bearable, especially when taking in his "horrible" personality.

He was so good at his job that he was shocked when he was called into the director's office. He sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair, feeling like a child called into the principal's office for pulling on another kid's hair. The worst part was that it was only him called down, so his partner Lindsey Perez wasn't there to keep him from blowing up. Being his partner in solving crime for 5 years, Lindsey had a knack for translating for Peter, making him not seem like as much of an asshole as he was. 

"So Peter," Dan Erickson, the director, sat across from Peter and seemed as patronizing as usual. "We're here to discuss your mental health."

"Oh fuck off, Erickson." Peter groaned and placed his head in his hands. "We've had this discussion before."

"Yes, and before I would let you off the hook. But this time the higher-ups are really pushing me this time, Peter, with you getting so close to the Jigsaw case."

With a scoff, Peter said, "Why is this case anything different than anything before? I've seen gory crime scenes for years, and I'm apathetic as always. What about Jigsaw would be different?"

Erickson sighed, clearly knowing the conversation would go this way. "To be frank, it's because of how sensualized Jigsaw has become in the media. The bosses are scared that if Jigsaw is the case to finally break you, it'll come out, and the blame will be placed on them for not doing anything. You're not exactly a perfect picture of mental health, Peter."

"Okay, so what? Will you force me to go on vacation while people continue to get slaughtered?" Peter knew that wouldn't happen. You can't let the dog off leash when he's leading you to the scent.

"Not exactly." Erickson pressed the call button on his desk. "Josie, send him in now, please."

"What?" Peter sat up in his shock. "Who the fuck are you sending in?"

The question was answered when a man walked into the room. The first thing Peter noticed was that he looked like a douchebag, wearing a simple but ironed suit, and having a polite but neutral expression. He was shorter than Peter, but not too short, and he was broad. He looked like he could easily beat up anyone he wanted, probably anyone who made fun of his douchebag suit.

"Dr. Hoffman, thanks for coming." Erickson stood up to greet Hoffman, shaking hands with him. "Please, take a seat." He pointed at the chair next to Peter before returning to his own seat behind the desk.

"It was no problem, Erickson." Hoffman shot him a small smile. "It is my job after all."

"What the fuck is this?" Peter made himself known, looking back and forth at the two men. Erickson sighed again, something he does a lot in Peter's company. 

"Dr. Hoffman, this is Special Agent Peter Strahm, one of our best agents. Peter, this is Doctor Mark Hoffman, a forensic and clinical psychiatrist who occasionally does work with us."

It didn't take much to put two and two together. "You're kidding me." Peter snarled and glared at Hoffman out of the corner of his eye. "You're making me get therapy."

"No, Dr. Hoffman will not become your psychiatrist." Erickson corrected. "But we want you to have conversations with him once before you continue to work on the Jigsaw Case and continuously throughout the case. Not therapy or psychiatry, just someone you can trust."

"Wait, ignoring the future for now, you're saying I can't do my job until this guy," Peter jabbed his thumb in Hoffman's direction. "Says I'm not going to go insane and start killing people?"

"Wow, you really can't hide much from him, can you?" Hoffman laughed and looked at Peter. Peter wanted to jam his fingers in the man's eyes, but saying or doing so wouldn't be doing him any favors. 

"That's the only formality to it, Peter; Dr. Hoffman won't even be listed in your history; everything will be off the record." Erickson explained. "This is really the bare minimum, Peter. Just let Dr. Hoffman talk to you, and he'll, again, unofficially, evaluate your mental health. It's this, or you'll be taken off the case."

Peter froze. If he got taken off the case, he couldn't live with himself. Especially after Seth Baxter's crime scene. Even if he didn't want some posh asshole poking around his head.

With grit teeth, Peter turned to Hoffman. "When can we do the appointment?"

Hoffman grinned.

Hoffman's office was boring, simple, and dressed in a way that was supposed to be comfortable. As soon as Peter had been let in, he refused to sit down in one of the chairs, instead walking up to one of the bookshelves and picking up the first book he saw. 

The book wasn't dusty, and the spine bent comfortably enough that it was obvious that the novel had been thoroughly read throughout the years instead of sitting on display. Peter wouldn't admit it, but he did appreciate people who took care of their items instead of letting them collect dust.

"Here." While Peter was judging Hoffman's offices, the man himself had signed something before handing it over to Peter. Peter skimmed the paper and raised an eyebrow.

"You're rubber stamping me? Before we even talk."

"I want to have an open conversation, Agent Strahm. I figured it would be easier without paperwork looming over us." 

Strahm didn't trust it, but he still took the signature and stuffed it into his pocket. "What's the catch?"

Hoffman gestured to the area with the two chairs and small couch. "Care to sit first?"

He didn't want to sit. If Peter sat, it would more or less be giving in, and he had been obvious about not wanting to attend this. But if he refused, Hoffman could have a phone call made to Erickson that got him sacked. Peter sat on the chair closer to the door. Hoffman grinned as he sat in the other chair. 

"Why am I here, Dr. Hoffman? Why are you so interested in talking to me?"

"I just want to have a conversation." Hoffman, staring at Peter. Peter hated eye contact, but again, if he was too rude, then bye-bye Jigsaw.

"You want to psychoanalyze me. Build a profile on me."

Hoffman huffed out a laugh. "No, but now I know how highly you think of yourself." He leaned forward in his seat, as if trying to make sure Peter didn't look away from it, and for some reason it worked. "You interest me, Agent Strahm. I want to talk to you—just simple, non-official conversations. Think of our sessions less as therapy and more as two friends meeting up to chat."

"We're not friends." Peter said, not to be rude but just to set the record straight. "We've only known each other for a few days; this is the second time we've ever met. It takes much more than that to become a friend of mine." The only person he could consider a friend was Lindsey, but he had been rather neutral to her the first year of their partnership. 

Instead of responding, Hoffman changed the subject. "Y'know, I was told some things about you before we first met. Mind if I confirm how true they are? I know that the bureau can be odd with how subjects are portrayed in reports."

Okay, Hoffman wanted to talk about his job. Peter could do it that, hopefully without blowing up. "Knock yourself out."

"Simple things first." If Hoffman had papers in front of him, Peter had no doubt he would do that thing where you gather them up then straighten them on the table. "You're considered one of the best agents of your unit. Why is that? What makes you special?"

"One, I'm not a dumbass." Hoffman laughed at that. "I mean, I notice smaller details. If I see something is wrong or something doesn't connect, I will point it out. The other part of it is that when I see an undisturbed crime scene, I'm able to put myself in the killers shoes. See what they did, step for step. Doing so lets me build a profile and help catch the killer. That skill is what makes me the bureau's favorite dog."

"Who says you're a dog, you or the bosses?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm not sure. It's just been something I've been called for years, so I accept it as such. Nothing more, nothing less, Doctor."

"Y'know, you can call me Mark, Agent Strahm."

No, it was too familiar, and the man in front of him was anything but. "I'd rather not. Anymore questions, or can I leave?"

"Don't worry, I won't keep you much longer. I just want to ask you something more related to work than yourself."

This was something Peter could get behind. He knew his job better than himself most days. "Go ahead."

"For the most recent Jigsaw victim, Seth Baxter." Hoffman hesitated for a moment before continuing. "In the report, there was a note in the margins. A note that says you don't think that the death was carried out by Jigsaw. I'm curious as to why."

"For starters, there were some differences. After the investigation, it was found that not only was the blade used to bisect them an inferior metal to the previous Jigsaw traps. Also, the knife used to cut the puzzle piece out of Baxter's skin was serrated, unlike all the previous victims."

"Yes, I saw that in the report." Hoffman wasn't smiling anymore. He looked like he was thinking. "But what led you to believe that wasn't Jigsaw at the crime scene before all of the analysis was done?"

"When I put myself in the killers shoes, it was different than Jigsaw. Jigsaw is calm and arrogant; he thinks that by putting victims in traps, he's encouraging them to live better lives. But this copycat? They were angry. This person had something against Baxter, wanted him dead, and wanted it done brutally. This line of thinking adds to the fact that this trap was unwinnable. If Baxter crushed his hands, the pendulum was supposed to stop swinging. Baxter clearly chose to crush his hands, but as you must be aware of, the man still got bisected. The Jigsaw Copy had no intention of 'fixing' Baxter; they just wanted him dead."

"Interesting. So do you think these two people are working together?"

Peter shook his head. "I doubt it. Even though the identities of either are still unknown, the psychological profiles are vastly different."

"I am aware of that, especially considering they asked me to help consult on future cases."

"What?!" Peter blanched. "Not only are you my FBI assigned 'friend', but now you'll be on crime scenes with me? Did they just assign you to babysit?"

"I'm a bit offended by that." Mark narrowed his eyes. "They actually asked me if I was interested quickly after the bodies had started piling up. It's just that my schedule had only cleared up as of recent."

"Ah." Peter had fucked up a little bit. "My apologies."

Hoffman's face shifted back into a polite expression. "No need to apologize, Agent Strahm. I would have assumed the same if I were in your shoes."

"Thank you." Peter looked to the clock on the wall. Without him knowing, 20 minutes had passed.

"You can go Agent Strahm." Hoffman stood up. "I'll walk you out."

"That's not necessary; I can see myself out." Peter insisted. Before Hoffman could interject, Peter's phone rang.

"Ah, sorry one moment." Peter flipped open his phone, and the number revealed it to be Ericksons. "Hello?"

"Strahm, have you finished your meeting with Dr. Hoffman yet?" Erickson sounded rushed, almost out of breath.

Strahm looked at Hoffman suspiciously. "Just finished; I haven't even left his office yet."

"Good, good, and did he approve you to come back to work?"

Peter felt the paper in his pocket. "Yeah, got the signature and everything."

Erickson let out a sigh of relief. "Great, bring that paper and Dr. Hoffman to the location we're sending you. We got a call, Peter; we might catch Jigsaw today."

"What?!" Peter turned on speaker mode and stepped closer to Hoffman. "What's happening?"

"We received an anonymous letter a few hours ago, giving nothing but a location. At first we thought it was a hoax, but then local police received a phone call about hearing screaming and loud thuds from the location. It could be a coincidence, but it would be hell of one."

"We'll head out right away, Erickson." Hoffman spoke as he got his car keys out of his pocket. "What should we do when we arrive?"

"Going off the address, you two should be the first there. Under no circumstances should you go inside without backup. Understood?"

"Of course. We'll meet you outside." After Hoffman said that, Erickson hung up. Not a second later, Peter got sent an address.

"I'll drive." Hoffman spun the keyring of his finger. "We need to hurry."

"Fine whatever," Peter started heading out the door, not waiting for Hoffman to catch up. "But I need to grab something from my car first."

Peter ran out into the parking lot, Hoffman's heavy footsteps behind him. Peter unlocked his car and made his way to the passenger side. He opened the glove department and grabbed his gun before locking it again. Hoffman looked at him questioningly. 

For the first time that day, Peter smirked. "Better safe than sorry."

Hoffman's car was nice, much nicer than Peter's anyway. He couldn't really focus on it that much when he was too busy giving Hoffman directions. Hoffman was borderline speeding, going through yellow lights like they were bright green. They made it in seven minutes.

It was a simple neighborhood, and the house itself was unalarming. It looked like your average, white picket house. 

"Now we wait." Hoffman parked the car on the curb on the other side of the street, and they stared at the house. "Back up should be here in just a few minutes."

"If we catch up Jigsaw today," Peter was talking, mostly to himself. "It would be the end of his fucking reign of terror."

"What about your supposed copycat?"

Peter scoffed. "'Supposed'? Do you not believe me?"

With a shrug, Hoffman turned to face the house again. "Well, it is difficult to do so. Why would someone go to the trouble of copying a famous serial killer but not go all the way with the mimicry? Why use inferior materials or rig it in a way that would go against the original philosophy? In that case, why not just simply kill the man? I think it's more plausible that Jigsaw changed things, just because no one would have a reason to purposely mess up being a Jigsaw copy."

"Well." Peter bit his lip.

"Hm? What is it?"

"What if the killer wanted people to know they were a copy?" Peter came to the realization as he said it aloud. The feeling of the crime—why it had seemed familiar to him before, but not as Jigsaw.

"Why would someone do that? There's no logic in wanting someone to know you weren't the original."

Before Peter could retort that, a loud bang echoed through the neighborhood. Peter had been in the business to recognize a gunshot right away. If that wasn't obvious enough, from the car, the two of them could see a few red specks now covering the window that weren't there before. 

"Fuck!" Peter yelled and turned the safety off of his gun before running into the house.

"Peter, stop!" Hoffman had yelled, but Peter ignored him as he pointed his gun at the door. He waited a moment before turning the knob. The door was unlocked. He burst into the living room, ready to shoot. No one was there at first, until Peter looked to the side, next to the couch. A young woman, with long brown hair laid on the ground, a hand clutching onto her bleeding neck.

Before Peter could yell for help, Hoffman had pushed past him and kneeled down next to the girl, one hand pressed against the bullet hole in her throat and the other grabbing his phone. 

"Go Peter; I'll take care of her and call an ambulance." 

He faltered for a moment, wondering if leaving them was the right thing to do in that moment. But a voice in the back of his head reminded him that Jigsaw, possibly armed, was lurking around and couldn't be far. The voice told Peter that he could end it right then and there if he just walked away for a moment. He tightened his grip on his gun and went down the hallway that led further into the house.

The hall looked as unsuspecting as the outside of the house, besides some of the items being skewed about or the one picture frame that had shattered the floor. With careful steps, it led him into the kitchen, where he could hear movement. He centered his gun and went inside. 

"Freeze! Put your hands up and drop any weapons!" Peter pointed his gun at an old man in a wheelchair. Which sounds horrible in a normal situation, but this old man was wearing a red and black robe, had blood splatter on his face, and had a gun of his own pointed at Peter. 

"Agent Strahm." The man spoke calmly with the gun pointed at his chest. "It's good to finally meet you in person and not just see you on the news."

The way he spoke and carried himself, there was no doubt in Peter's mind. "Jigsaw." He sounded more breathy than he would have liked. 

"That's the name the media gave me. The name's John Kramer."

Strahm quietly cleared his throat, trying to make himself louder. "Put down the gun, and get on the floor."

John shakily stood you, and Peter was surprised that he seemed to be doing as was asked of him. Instead, John rested against the kitchen counter, gun pointed at the floor. "I've always been good at predicting the human mind, Agent. But this was something I had no time to predict for. And it caused me to do something I could never forget myself for."

Peter thought back to the bloody young woman in the living room. 

"Just put down the weapon, John." Peter tried to placate him, remembering the bullshit negotiator skills he was taught years ago. "We can work this out if you drop the gun and come willingly."

John looked Peter's in the eyes. Those were the eyes of a man who had been dead for years and had nothing to lose. That was proven true when John lifted up the gun and pointed it at Peter's chests. His finger twitched near the trigger, and-

Hesitation costs lives. If that wasn't obvious to Peter from the dying girl in the other room who had gotten shot while he was waiting in the car, then he would have had to know from all of his years working for the FBI. The passing thoughts of 'Would this person be alive if we, if anyone, had arrived a bit sooner?', and having to accept that in most cases, you would never know. 

Peter would never know if John was actually reaching for the trigger or if it was the twitch of someone clearly unwell, because as soon as that finger moved, Peter fired three consecutive rounds into John's chest. John grabbed his chest and slumped down against the cabinets, dropping the gun with him.

As the gun skidded away. Peter kneeled down next to him, applying pressure to the wounds despite knowing that one of the bullets definitely hit an artery (maybe the heart itself), and the man wouldn't last long. There were sirens in the background; backup had finally arrived.

"Shit." Peter muttered as blood stained his hands. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Do you see Agent Strahm?" John wheezed out. "Do you see what I see?"

"Shut up!" People had entered the house, but Peter could barely hear them. "You can't die, you son of a bitch! Not when I finally caught you!"

John looked up at him again with those lifeless. The man then spasmed and fell out of Peter's grip onto the floor. It was then that other agents and paramedics had entered the room. Paramedic had immediately pushed Peter out of the room, and he stood there in the hallway, staring at the scene from the outside. He stared until there was a hand on his shoulder, pulling him away and outside of the house.

It was Hoffman who was forcing him out and who had gotten the attention of some of the paramedics outside. "He needs to be checked. I don't know if any of that blood is his, but there's a good chance he'll go into shock any second."

"I'm fucking fine." He muttered but allowed people to manhandle him into sitting down on the edge of the ambulance as they looked him over. Hoffman still stood there, looking at him like Peter would collapse at a moment's notice. 

"What happened to the girl?" Peter asked him so he couldn't be asked about what happened in the kitchen. 

Hoffman obviously didn't appreciate the change of subject but went with it anyway. "They took her away in a different ambulance; when I last had her, she was alive." Peter looked down at the blood on Hoffman's hands. It didn't even look out of place. His mouth open, ready to ask Peter about what happened, but Erickson ran out of the house towards Peter.

"What the hell happened in there, Strahm?!" Erickson yelled, spit flying from his mouth. "Why didn't you wait for backup?!"

Peter sighed, reached into his pocket, and handed over Hoffman's stamp of approval, getting blood on the paper. "I have the signature."

Sleeping never came easy to Peter, but it was impossible that night. Hoffman had taken over explaining from Peter's short explanation as he replayed the whole event in his head over and over again. The lifeless eyes losing light, the bullets ("Do you see what I see?"), and the blood. It was because of his impulsiveness that Jigsaw had died. 

After being excused from the crime scene, Hoffman was driving them back to his office so Peter could get his car. 

"You know, if you hadn't gone in when you had, that girl would have died." Hoffman had told him the only noise in the car. 

"So instead our killer died, without getting information out of him." Peter snarked without looking up from the window.

"Would you have rather let that woman bleed out on the floor and save a killer? Isn't it better that we saved an innocent life?"

"We don't know that she's innocent. She could have been working with him for all we know." 

"That's a good thing for you then, isn't it?" Hoffman asked as they turned into the office parking lot. "When she begins recovery, you can question her. Although I doubt she was working with him, considering he shot her in the neck."

"It wasn't supposed to happen. He told me as much." Strahm stared at his car, sitting in the parking spot. It felt like days since he had last seen it, even though it was only about two hours. "But it did happen, and I need to find out why."

Peter tried to open the door, but it was still locked. Hoffman stared at him with crossed arms.

"I want to set up another time for us to meet."

"You're kidding me." Peter tried the handle again. "You've already approved me, and Jigsaw is dead. What else is there?"

"I can always tell Erickson that it's my professional opinion that you not return to work." Hoffman smirked. "And what about your copycat?" What if they strike soon?"

"Are you fucking blackmailing me into hanging out with you again? And the copycat thing is an issue for a time when I'm not covered in some man's blood."

"It's not blackmail if I think it's true. I think our conversations would be good for you, Agent Strahm. You can vent, confide, or even work out any theories you may have. Don't forget we are on the same payroll."

Annoyed by the man, Peter figured he could handle one more session with him if he could leave. "I'm only promising you one more session. After that, you leave me alone unless necessary."

The car unlocked with a click. "When are you next available?"

He didn't get the next day off. Peter showed up to the office the next day with a large black coffee and the urge to scream in his office. Of course, when Lindsey showed up, he was reminded that it was their office, and any screaming he did would be questioned. 

She came bearing files with new information for the Jigsaw case that Peter was desperate to get his hands on. Of course, she wouldn't jump into it right away.

"How are you doing, Peter?" She sat down and eyed him warily.

"Fine. Where were you yesterday?"

"I showed up with everyone else." Lindsey explained. "They needed me in the kitchen basically the entire time I was there, so I think we just barely missed each other."

"Were you told about everything?"

Lindsey nodded. "Yes, that's why I was asking about you." She looked away for a moment before taking a large breath. "I don't think you're okay, Peter."

"I just told you that I was fine. Hell, I even have a doctor's signature saying so. Have you met him before?"

"Dr. Hoffman, I've heard of him but never officially met before yesterday. I've heard good things."

"See?" Peter waved a hand. "I'm in good hands; I even have another appointment with him tomorrow. So there's nothing to worry about."

"Is this a willing appointment or something Erickson is making you do?"

Honestly, if Peter hadn't set up a date the night before, Erickson would have undoubtedly forced him to go. And if Erickson hadn't, Hoffman would have threatened him into it. "Let's call it a health amount of both."

Lindsey could sense Peter was done talking with the note of finality, so she spread out the files on their desk. "This is all the new information we gathered after last night, containing information on our people in the house."

They opened the first folder, and John Kramer was staring up at him from a black and white photo. "Our Jigsaw was John Kramer, aged 52. Even though he died last night, I doubt he would have lasted long anyway. Stage four colon cancer."

"Yeah, he looked older than 52." Peter admitted. He assumed John was at least mid-60's. "I guess illness does that to a person."

"Anyway, he was a civil engineer, which explains all of the death traps. He was once married to a woman named Jill Tuck, but they've been divorced, seen right before the Jigsaw murders." At the mention of divorce, Strahm subconsciously twists the ring around his finger. "Obviously someone will be talking to her, but not until later today. Besides her, he has no family."

"Really? I assumed the woman at the crime scene was either his daughter or granddaughter."

"Me too; she was listed as his caretaker for the last four months." She flipped the other file open, and Peter stared at the girl, who, unlike the serial killer, had a mugshot. "Amanda Young, age 27. She had been a drug addict in her early 20's and was even thrown in jail because of it. According to her parole officer, she got clean at some clinic. Besides that, she was pretty unassuming."

"Any suspicious of her working with Kramer? It would make sense, considering she was his caretaker."

Lindsey shrugged. "No clue. They're supposed to call us as soon as she wakes up so we can question her. All we know for sure is that John was in fact Jigsaw, and he's dead. Meaning the Jigsaw case should be over."

Her words reminded Peter of his revelation from last night. "Right, should be. Reminded me of something I thought of last night."

"Is this about your copycat?" She knew him too well. "There's less of a chance that he'll strike again, with the original being dead. That way he can't hide behind another name."

"That might not have been the point of it." Peter stood up to grab a file from the other end of their office. "You remember three years, the Montclair Ripper?"

It didn't take a genius to put together what he was implying. "Really? How'd you get there?" Unlike others, Lindsey knew not to doubt Peter unless she found it completely needed. She would question him and even bounce other ideas off of him, never truly doubting him. 

"It was the brutality of the scene." Peter placed the heavy folder on their desk and dug out the psychological profile they did on him. "Look at profile. How similar it is to the fakes."

It was true, even with the little information they had from the fake Jigsaw, that the profiles had similarities. 

"I'll admit that I can see it. But why would he come back after three years just to copy someone else?"

"I'm not sure yet. I think it was almost mocking Jigsaw's philosophy." Peter started to explain.

"Is it because Kramer always had a way for his victim to live? The Ripper never let victims have a chance of survival, and so he could have found Jigsaw's method idiotic."

If Peter was just slightly less emotionally constipated, he would have admitted that he was proud her thoughts went that way too. Instead, he just nodded. "It's just a theory for now. I'll bring it up with Erickson; see what he thinks."

"Even though I do believe you, Peter, I hope that your wrong." Lindsey said, looking back through the Ripper's file. The two of them stopped to stare at one crime photo, which showed a man nailed to a wall by his hands as his stomach was peeled back, open but empty. They never were able to track down his organs. 

"I don't blame you." Peter agreed, looking down at the page.

Even though the life of Jigsaw had ended, they had started something new, and possibly worse.

Chapter Text

The next 'not therapy' session Peter had to go to, he ended up sitting down right away, much to Hoffman's shock.

Peter crossed his arms and slumped down in the chair. "Let's get this over with, shall we? Do you want to talk about childhood trauma or discuss how the weather's getting colder?"

Hoffman quickly composed himself. "Before we start, do you want a coffee?"

The urge to say no was very tempting, but the thought of feeding his caffeine addiction was a bit too tempting. "Black coffee, no decaf."

"I'm not surprised." Hoffman walked up to the coffeemaker that sat in the corner of the room. "You seem like the type of person to despise anything sweet in their drink."

"What does that mean?"

Hoffman raised his hands defensively as the liquid filled the pot. "Nothing bad. I'm just saying you fit the bitter coffee stereotype."

"I'm not sure if I hate this small talk more than the subtle mind probing." Hoffman passed the hot mug to Peter, who muttered out a thanks.

"Sorry about that." Hoffman said as he sat down himself. "I did tell you that you interest me, Agent Strahm. I want to know what makes you tick, even if I don't realize I'm doing it."

"You and every other doctor who hears about me. I have no interest in finding out why my brain works the way it does, and I feel like it's no one else's business."

"Sorry about that. We can talk about what happened two days ago, if you'd like."

"God," Peter groaned. "Is this therapy, or will it turn into a support group?"

Hoffman folded his hands together in his lap. "This can be whatever you need it to be. But if you were going to talk about it with anyone, aren't I the best option?"

Like it or not, the doctor had a point. The two of them entered that house together, and they were the only two of the first four people to walk out rather than be carried out on a stretcher. 

"Fine. As you're aware, we entered a house prematurely because we heard a gun go off. We entered and saw a woman bleeding out on the ground. After that, I left you, confronted a serial killer we had been looking for, and ended up too trigger happy, which resulted in a dead suspect. Any questions?"

"Is it considered trigger happy if he was threatening you first?" Hoffman questioned. "It's not like he was an innocent old man."

"No, he wasn't. But I didn't have to aim for the chest. I could have brought him down with one bullet to the knee. Instead he got three to the chest."

"Why didn't you aim for chest? Was there anything stopping you?"

Peter shook his head. "No, I could have easily shot anywhere else. I just- wasn't thinking."

Hoffman tilted his head to the side. "I find that a little difficult to believe. You seem like the type to always be thinking."

"Yeah, well, I fucking wasn't in that moment. It was just instinct."

"So it was instinct for you to shoot three times instead of one?"

It felt accusing, the way Hoffman was digging for all of the details. "Again, I wasn't thinking. I saw him reach for the gun. "Did he reach? Or did his finger just twitch? "So I reacted first."

The sat in silence for a moment, with Peter waiting for Hoffman to say something. He wasn't expecting Hoffman to say, "Do you enjoy killing Peter?"

"What? What the hell are you talking about?" 

"It was just a simple question, Strahm. Remember, everything is off the record here." 

"You don't just ask someone that!" Peter snarled. 

"You didn't answer my question." 

"I want to leave." Peter said, but made no move to get up. 

"We can move on from this subject." Hoffman tried to placate him. "Whatever you wanna talk about, I'll be here to discuss it with you." 

"Y'know what?" Peter sat forward in his chair. "I want to talk about you, Dr. Hoffman."

"Really? Ask away then, not like I'm hiding anything."

"Why are you so interested in me? Because, to be completely honest," Peter shrugged. "You're not interesting to me. In fact, I find you to be boring."

"I'm boring, Agent Strahm? Maybe that's because you don't know me."

"You haven't really been forthcoming with information. I may be antisocial, but at least I admit it."

"You're right, and that is my mistake." Hoffman thought for a moment. "Let's see, I'm not in a relationship; I have no living family. I used to work in the police force, but now I focus on psychiatry and my hobbies, like cooking."

"Cooking?" Peter looked the man over. "You don't seem to be the type."

Hoffman shrugged. "Something I picked up a bit later in life, but something I enjoy doing. My job allows me to get slightly more exotic ingredients than most common households. Maybe you should come over for dinner sometime."

"I'll eat a lot of things," Peter agreed, if not just out of habit of pretending to be socially polite. "I'm not very picky."

Hoffman cracked a small smile, like there was a joke that Peter wasn't getting there. Before Peter could ask why, his phone rang.

Peter groaned. "Why does this always happen in your office?" 

He didn't bother to check the caller ID. "What is it?"

"Peter." Lindsey greeted him. "It's Amanda Young; she's awake. When can you get to Angel of Mercy Hospital?"

"Right now." Peter stood up from the chair, prompting Hoffman to do the same.

"Are you with Dr. Hoffman right now?"

Peter side-eyed the man in question. "Does it matter?"

"Because of his involvement with the case, Erickson wants him there too. The thought process is he might make her more comfortable because he saved her life."

"Fine," Peter groaned. "We're on our way." He closed the phone and looked at Hoffman, who stared at him expectantly. "Amanda Young is awake; the two of us need to go now. And I'm driving this time." 

Lindsey was waiting for the two of them outside of Amanda's room, where the door was closed, waiting for them to arrive. When they did, Lindsey walked up to Hoffman with a hand extended. "Dr. Hoffman, it's nice to officially meet you. I'm Special Agent Lindsey Perez, Peter's partner."

Hoffman returned her handshake. "Good to meet you too."

"So what's the game plan?" Peter interrupted the meeting.

"We go inside and question her on her relationship with Kramer. Find out if she knew or was involved with the Jigsaw business. Should be an easy in and out thing."

Peter nodded. "Alright, let's not waste time then."

Lindsey nodded and opened the door. All three of them piled in.

Amanda laid down in bed, book in her hands and bandage wrapped around her neck. She looked startled when they entered. 

"Amanda? I'm Agent Perez with the FBI, and we're here just to ask you a few questions."

The book was set on the side table. "This is about John, isn't it?" Her voice was weak, either from meekness or the surgery performed on her. 

"We need to ask you some questions about him." Peter said, drawing her attention to him. Her eyes went slightly wider when she saw him.

"You're the man who killed John." There wasn't anger in her voice. Just despair and acceptance.

Peter didn't know what to say to that, especially when he realized he felt no guilt for doing so.

"He had no choice." Hoffman explained from behind the two of them. Amanda looked even more shocked to see him.

"I remember you too. You were there right after John shot me."

"So it was John who shot you?" Lindsey asked.

Amanda nodded. "Yes, but it's okay."

That wasn't an expected response. "You're saying it's okay that he shot you?" Peter asked slowly, wanting confirmation.

She nodded eagerly. "John saved my life, so if he wanted to take it, I would let him."

"How did John save your life?" Hoffman asked. Peter briefly wondered if he was upset that she forgot it was actually Hoffman who stopped her from bleeding out. 

Amanda delayed in her response. "I used to do drugs a few years back. After I got out of jail, I tried to get clean and get my act together. But addiction is a fucking terrible thing. That along with the depression made life difficult, especially after serving time. But John found me." The way she talked about him was the way one would talk about a missionary who successfully converted them. "He saved and changed my life! I got clean, my depression got better, and he even gave me a job working for him!"

"How did the two of you meet?" Lindsey asked.

The blankness in Amanda's expression for a solid second must have been something only Peter noticed, but he knew it was there. It was replaced quickly with an adoring tone of voice. "The clinic I got clean at. His ex-wife runs it, and I ran into him there. We talked, and doing so changed me. After he started helping me out, he gave me work."

"As his caregiver?"

"Yeah, that's right. I would basically just hang out with him for a few hours each day, make sure he got his medicines, and be there in case there was a medical emergency."

She was lying. Maybe not lying per se, but not telling the full truth. Her hesitation proved it to Peter, but only to Peter. If he brought up that he thought she was lying, he would have no proof, and it would seem like he was bullying a girl who had just gotten shot by her closest confidant. 

Instead, he said, "Let's talk about what we really came here for. Did you know that John was Jigsaw?"

Amanda shook her head, which Peter expected. If his best friend was a serial killer, he wouldn't just flat-out admit it. That would be stupid, and even though Amanda was clearly skittish and idolizing, she was not stupid. "No. I had no idea."

"Really? Any idea on why he shot you then? If he was so kind to you, I doubt he would put a bullet through your neck for no reason."

"Well, that morning he got a weird letter." Amanda admitted, but she avoided eye contact with him. It could have been because Peter was just that intimidating, but the way her voice didn't catch up with her right away told him that she wasn't telling the whole truth. "I don't know what it said, but he started yelling at me. I thought he was having an episode or something, so I let him have some time alone, but he came back wearing dark robes and with a gun. He started yelling more; I tried to get him to calm down, and then he shot me. But I saw in his eyes right after that he regretted it, and he was coming closer to help me." Her eyes flitted between Peter and Hoffman. "Until the two of you came in and scared him off. Then you guys know the rest."

"We're sorry about all of this, Amanda." Lindsey bowed her head slightly. 

"Yeah, well, me too. If there's nothing else right now, do you guys mind? Talking too much right now isn't good for me, according to my doctor."

Peter nodded. "We'll be in touch with you later." She wouldn't be able to get away with hiding what she knew. Peter caught onto the scent and wouldn't stop until he tracked it down. 

"Before I forget," Hoffman pulled a small card out of his pocket and handed it to her. "This is my business card; it has my contact information on it. Feel free to use it if you want to talk about anything."

Amanda flipped the card around and stopped to look at it. "Thanks, Dr. Hoffman. Maybe I will." She placed it down next to her book. 

The three of them walked to the door. "I hope you recover soon, Amanda." Lindsey said before opening the door and walking out.

After that, they stood in the hallway in silence before Peter sighed. "Hoffman." The man in question turned to him. "When can I make my next appointment?"

Mark was in a good mood that night, as he started to prep his dinner. Even if Strahm was still acting aloof, he was starting to warm up to him, even asking for an appointment without anyone else prompting him to. Mark had no doubt he just wanted to talk about work, but it was progress nonetheless. With all of the work Mark had already put into this and the amount he still had to do, he would have to accept that he would have to take his time.

The knife he was using to score the meat felt light and natural in his grip. After the cutting was done, he would season it and let it rest before throwing it in the oven. He thought back briefly to how years before he couldn't properly chop an onion, let allow score a steak as while as he had. But things in life change, so Mark adapted. 

After putting the steak in the marinade into the fridge, he was washing his hands when his phone went off. He remembered that he still needed Strahm's number, and even though he could get it through less moral ways, Strahm would definitely not appreciate that. The number was unknown, but recalling who he had just given his card to hours ago, Mark could make a guess.

"Dr. Hoffman speaking." He grunted as he walked back over to his fridge, pulling out a beer bottle.

"It's Amanda Young. I wanted to talk to you."

She called him faster than he expected. "Hello Amanda. What did you need?"

The other line went silent for a moment before she cleared her throat. "You knew John. You knew what he was doing."

There it was. Mark suspected that Kramer had mentioned him, at least once to his apprentice, so his name would be recognizable if she heard it. "So did you. He told me a lot of what you helped with, even how you started to truly work for him."

Mark let her soak in that information. "So we both know things then." She concluded. 

"Things we wouldn't want any mutual acquaintances of ours to find out about." He agreed. "It would probably be better to talk in person. When are you getting out of the hospital?" 

"In about two days, if everything's fine."

"Okay, I'll give you my address then. This Sunday, about five, you can come over for dinner. We'll talk then. Is that good?"

With shaky breath, Amanda said, "That's fine. Give me your address; I'll write it down."

He recited the address to her and had her confirm it back to him. This was a conversation that couldn't be halted by something like a mistake of location. 

"Good. I'll see you Sunday then, unless you have anything else you want to discuss."

"No." She was quick in her response. "I'll see you then." The line went dead.

Mark normally hated rude people, people who were assholes. But lately he'd been needing to be around them often enough that he might as well swallow down his hatred. His eyes wandered back to his fridge and remembered the steak. It won't have to marinate much longer.

It was Friday, and Peter still hated having to go outside. Especially because he was supposed to have a free day of sitting at home, drinking, and writing down notes for cases (just because he didn't have to go into work didn't mean he would stop thinking), someone just had to go and die, thus resulting in him having to drive to a crime scene an hour away. Why couldn't people get murdered when it was convenient for him?

He pulled up to an old warehouse, where cars were already parked outside and coworkers filtered in and out of the building. As Peter got out of his car and started looking for someone to give him details, Lindsey came out of the building and made her way over to him.

"What happened?"

Lindsey looked irritated, something that she normally wasn't. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

It had to be related because Lindsey didn't ask stupid questions. Although to Peter, it sounded like one. "No? What are you talking about?"

She gestured for him to come follow her inside. "Because our killer here is either a ghost or a dedicated fan."

They walked in, and Peter immediately understood. The scene in front of them was undoubtedly a Saw Trap. The victim was still there, a man with a device strapped to his back who was facing them stomach up. There was a puzzle piece patch of skin missing from his stomach. 

"Any ID on him?" Peter asked as he put on his gloves before kneeling down next to the corpse. 

"Art Blank, a lawyer. And you'll never guess who he has a connection to."

"Kramer?"

"Yep. They used to own a small real estate company together until they had a falling out and Kramer pulled out of the business. So this guy would be a perfect victim if—"

"If this was actually Jigsaw?"

Lindsey nodded. "Good for you; it seems like people are all for your Copycat idea now."

As he was examining the body, he noticed a scar just underneath the missing skin. "Did he have any recent surgeries done?"

"Not that I'm aware of." 

Peter stood up and pointed at Blank's gut. "During the autopsy, they'll find at least one organ missing. Our copycat might have a thing for taking what's not his, just like another killer we were just talking about the other day."

Lindsey's eyes went wide, but before she could say anything, a voice from behind them spoke up. "I guess you were right, Agent Strahm. I might owe you a drink." Hoffman stood there, eyes looking around the crime scene. 

"I might be right about much more than that." Peter looked at Lindsey, who nodded. Erickson wouldn't be able to completely deny his Ripper theory if this guy was missing anything.

"What are you thinking?" Hoffman asked them.

"Have you heard of the Montclair Ripper?" Peter asked, sure that the man had.

Hoffman nodded. "Yeah, although I didn't work on that case. Wasn't that a few years ago? Why would he decide to come back now?"

"Who knows. But the Ripper likes taking trophies. If that's the case here, then along with the brutality pattern, we could prove a connection." Lindsey cut in. "For all we know, he never stopped killing. Maybe something happened in his personal life that made him start doing it in a big way again."

"We'll find out eventually." Peter concluded. "Either way, I have a feeling that the bodies won't stop piling up."

The next day Peter didn't have to come into the office, but Erickson sent him a message. It was found during the autopsy that Art Blank was missing his liver and a kidney, and Erickson added a sidenote about them possibly reopening the Montclair Ripper case if these connections continued. After that, Peter turned off his phone, left it on his bedside table, and went into his kitchen. He decided for breakfast he would have a bottle of whiskey and then probably pass out on his couch for a few hours. 

He plopped down on his couch and turned on the news. Not really watching it, but it added background noise so that Peter could at least pretend to think about something that didn't involve death. Of course, if he wanted that, he shouldn't have turned on the news. 

"Despite the death of John Kramer, the Jigsaw Killer, a week ago, a new murder matching the exact description of one of his kills happened just yesterday." A woman on the news explained as a picture of Kramer appeared in the corner. "Even in the afterlife, the Jigsaw legacy continues. Can John Kramer truly be considered dead if others carry out his work for him?" Peter turned off the TV and threw the remote somewhere across his living room. 

("Do you see Agent Strahm?"

"Do you see what I see?")

Peter looked over to see John sitting next to him, bullet holes and all. The man looked at Peter and grinned at him with bloody teeth. "See?"

Pain bloomed in his chest, and Peter looked down. Blood was spreading across the shirt in the same places as he had shot John.

There was a knock at the door, and glass shattered as Peter jumped up. His TV was still on, and they were talking about some boring local story that Peter gave no shits about. There was no blood on his shirt, and the only pain was from his head. He looked down at the ground, and the empty whiskey bottle had broken as Peter woke up on the couch. 

"Fucking hell." Peter groaned as he rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. He almost forgot about the knocking until someone banged at the door again. 

Deciding the glass on the floor was a future problem, Peter stumbled up to answer the door. 

Hoffman stood outside, holding a container and bottle of brandy. 

"What are you doing here?" Peter felt much more awake now. "And how do you know where I live?"

"I work with the FBI. If I want to know something, I can usually find it out." He held up the bottle of brandy higher. "Plus, I said that I owed you a drink, didn't I?"

With an eyeroll, Peter opened the door completely. "Most people don't invite themselves over for a container of something and a bottle of alcohol, especially not this early."

Hoffman forced Peter to hold onto the items while he shrugged off his jacket. "I'll think you'll find that I'm not like most people, Agent Strahm. Also," he pointed to the small window, which showed the sun setting. "It's 6 in the evening; I'd hardly consider that early."

"Whatever. What's in the container?"

"Steak bites and garlic potatoes." Hoffman answered. He was about to elaborate but saw the glass on the floor. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No, I just dropped something a minute ago. Didn't have time to clean it up." 

"You're bleeding." Hoffman pointed at the pants leg that had a small red stain on it. Looking closer at the floor, Peter could see a few drops of blood on the hardwood.

"I didn't even notice." Peter muttered. "I'll clean up the glass."

"Where's your bathroom?" 

Peter pointed in some random direction, not paying attention as he was grabbing the broom and dustpan. "Door on the right."

Retreating footsteps walked away, and Peter tossed the pan onto the ground and swept the glass into it. The broom spread the blood on the floor, which would have to be washed away with water. 

Mark wanted to walk into Strahm's bedroom and probably could, using the lack of directions as an excuse. But for the moment he chose not to, entering the door to his right. Strahm's bathroom reflected his personality, seemingly normal, but when you looked closer, you could tell how messy it was. 

The shelves had pill bottles haphazardly shoved onto them. Mark picked up a few and looked at the labels. 

Amitriptyline. Zaleplon. Aflaxen. Risperdal. The man could probably become wealthy fast if he sold of these. Mark wondered what would happen if he took some of the pills out of the bottles or took a bottle in general, especially the Risperdal. How would Strahm change? Would he become more trusting of Mark or push him away even more? 

Deciding it was too early to try anything, Mark placed the bottles back. Instead, he opened the cabinet next to the mirror and saw a first aid kit. Mark opened it, took out a bandage, then placed the kit back. He was about to walk out but saw Strahm's hairbrush. Using his shirt so his fingers would directly touch the hair, Mark pulled out a few strands and placed them in his pocket. Something he might be able to use later. 

The glass fell into the trash when Hoffman returned, small Band-Aid in hand. "I don't need that. It's just a small cut."

"It's an open wound. Put it on or I'll do it." 

The bandage was snatched away by Peter, who sat down at his small dining table to roll up his pants. It really was a small cut, maybe only an inch long. Still, Peter covered it as the doctor was staring at him. He stood up to throw the wrapper away. "Are you happy now?" 

"For the moment, yeah. I'll heat up dinner; you get plates and glasses out for us."

"Yes Dear." Peter snarked but found himself getting everything out regardless. 

It didn't take long for the table to be set and for food to be served. Peter was about to eat a bite of the steak but saw Hoffman staring at him. "What? Did you poison this?"

Hoffman rolled his eyes, picked up the fork, and took a bite of his own. "Happy?"

Peter figured it was probably fine and started to eat his own. It was honestly one of the better things he had eaten in years.

"How do you like it?"

"It's fine." Peter said in-between bites. Despite the dismissive tone, Hoffman beamed. 

"I'm glad you like it. As I mentioned to you before, cooking is a hobby of mine." 

"Well, you're good at it." Peter admitted taking a drink right after. 

"Thanks; I've been practicing for years. It takes time to properly cook certain meats."

Peter hummed, and the two continued to eat in silence. The food was good enough that he forgave Hoffman for essentially stalking him, even if the man kept weirdly staring at him as he ate. 

It didn't take long for the food to be gone and the bottle to empty. Peter stood up to put their plates into his sink, which he probably wouldn't wash for a few days.

The men stood up and walked to the door, where Hoffman put on his jacket and turned back to Peter. "I noticed you don't have much food in your home. Feel free to come over for dinner anytime."

"Don't think I didn't notice how that first part was an insult." Peter grinned at the sass, finding himself enjoying it. "But I may take you up on it if you cook like that all the time."

"I pick ingredients I know I can trust."

"Friends with a butcher?"

"Something along those lines. I should head out; I have a long day of work tomorrow."

"Yeah, I understand." Peter opened the door. "Have a good night, Dr. Hoffman."

"You too, Agent Strahm. I'll see you on Tuesday for our next appointment." With the reminder, Hoffman walked out the front door and got into his car that Peter was still slightly envious of. Until he said that, Peter had forgotten that Hoffman was his unofficial psychiatrist and not just an occasional coworker. He watched Hoffman's car until it was out of sight, then closed the door. He was going to go to bed, despite it only being 7:30 and not bothering to change out of his day clothes. 

The blood on his hardwood floor was also forgotten about.

The dinner Mark had prepared Sunday evening was creamy liver pasta, which had finished just as his doorbell rang. 

Amanda was on his doorsteps, wearing a hoodie with a scarf around her neck. She was bouncing on her heels, looking uncomfortable.

"Come in."

The woman looked like that was the last thing she wanted to do, but she shuffled in. "Dinner's on the table; we can talk as we eat."

The two sat across from each other, at first in silence as Mark ate and Amanda stared at the plate. He would wait for her to ask; otherwise, he wouldn't answer.

It didn't take long for her to ask. "How did you meet John?"

"The same way as you did. Well, not exactly that." He pointed to the corners of his mouth, where she had matching scars so faint you wouldn't see them unless you were looking. 

"But you don't believe in John's message. Not like I do."

She was smart, but she already saw him as an enemy. "I don't have the same thought process, but John and I had something in common."

"And that is?"

"Wanting to get rid of assholes." Mark answered bluntly. "In his traps, people either died or became too traumatized to be dicks. I bet before you met John you weren't exactly making the best choices."

"You know I wasn't; I know you've seen my files." Amanda glared at him and pushed her untouched plate farther away from her. "I was tested because I was an addict wasting my life. Why did John choose you?"

He had to be careful not to reveal too much information to her, but figured throwing her a small bone might help her trust him. "Something similar. I spent my days either drinking or acting wrathful. John found out a few months into his whole Jigsaw thing, and he didn't like that. I was strapped to a chair, and there was a half-and-half chance of getting a bullet through my head. Obviously, I lived, so John decided I would work with him." That was a nicer way of phrasing it; rather than telling her, John said he would go to the police with evidence if he didn't become his accomplice.

"Is it you? Continuing on with the traps?" She must have seen the news.

"Does it matter?"

"It does if you're just killing people!" She shouted. "John saved, but you killed."

"That was bullshit, you know? It's like telling someone to drink a glass of poison or I would kill their family, then saying that I didn't kill them, but they killed themselves because they drank the poison. Besides," Hoffman pointed his fork at her. "You can't lecture me about killing. Remember Donnie Greco?" 

Amanda's hand touched the scars near her mouth. "It was him or me." She said in a tone that made it obvious she told herself that all the time. "And I chose me."

"Doesn't change the fact that you killed him. We've both killed people, Amanda; do you really want to try to take the moral high ground here?"

"You're a jackass." Amanda spat. "John didn't help you at all."

"I could say the same about you, bitch. Like me or not, I'm your biggest ally right now, and I'm the reason you didn't bleed out in that house."

"You're probably the reason he shot me in the first place! Plus, it was your friend who killed him in the first place."

"Do you have any proof?" Mark put down the fork, trying to compose himself. "That it was my doing?"

With nails digging into the palms of her nails, Amanda gritted out, "No, I don't."

Mark nodded. "Good. Just like how I don't have any proof that you knew anything about John being Jigsaw."

Like he said, like it or not, they were allies now. "I don't need your protection. I've handled myself fine so far."

Mark laughed. "They're not done with you. The one who shot John, Agent Strahm, is an obsessive, blood-sniffing hound, and I'm well aware of the fact that he finds you suspicious. But," Mark went back to eating, despite not feeling hungry anymore. "If you don't mention the fact that I knew John before all of this, I won't tell them that you knew Jigsaw. Get what I'm saying?"

"I'm not an idiot. If I don't screw you over, you won't screw me over, and vice versa." Amanda pushed her chair back and stood up. "Fine. I don't like you, but I guess we need to rely on each other for this. But if there's nothing else, I'm leaving."

Just to be a bit of an asshole, Mark pointed at her plate. "Don't you want to eat?"

She looked like she would rather smash the ceramic over his head. "I'm a vegetarian." 

Chapter Text

"What do you think of Amanda Young?" Is what Peter asked Hoffman when their next meeting happened. Hoffman had just gotten the two of them coffee and was barely sitting before Peter asked his question.

"What do you mean?"

"I think she was lying, back at the hospital. She had nervous ticks and was hesitating before answering certain questions."

"Well," Hoffman readjusted himself on his chair. "To be fair, she had just entered recovery after the man she idolized lost it and shot her in the throat. If I were her, I would be confused about everything too. Plus, you are a bit intimidating." Hoffman laughed a bit to himself at the last part.

"I guess that could explain it, but I still don't trust her." Peter was adamant on the fact that she was hiding something. 

"Trauma does a lot of things to a person. And is there anyone out there that you truly trust?"

It was a bit sad that Peter had to think about it for a moment. "Lindsey. I've been working with her for 5 years now, and I trust her with a lot of things."

"Is there no one else? Not Erickson, any other friends, family?" Hoffman looked at Peter's ring. "Lovers?"

"Erickson can be a condescending coward; my personality doesn't really allow me to have many friends, and I don't talk to my parents beyond giving them a phone call at Christmas." He stopped before adding, "And I'm not in a relationship, despite what you may think."

"Oh? Then why are you wearing a wedding ring?"

Peter looked down at the golden band on his finger. "I was married once," he admitted, fiddling with the ring. "We divorced about 6 years ago; wearing the ring has become a habit."

"If you don't mind me asking, why did you get divorced?"

("You're paranoid and obsessive, Peter." Eleanor had told him that last night, not angry anymore, but resigned and done. "You can't love anyone if you don't trust them, and neither of us trust the other one now.")

"My darling personality." Peter said instead of telling him what his ex-wife had told him. "As you're aware, most people aren't fond of it."

"I find it interesting." 

Of course he did. "As you've said before, you're not most people, Dr. Hoffman."

"Is that a compliment?" Hoffman grinned.

"No, just a statement, neither positive nor negative."

"I get it; you're neutral when it comes to me." Hoffman waved him off. "Let me ask you something else then. What do you think of the Montclair Ripper?"

The subject caught Peter off guard. "Why do you ask?"

"If he's also our fake Jigsaw, there's a chance I'll be asked to help consult on any future cases they think are his. It'll be good for me to become informed."

"Well," Peter started. "He's an interesting killer, to begin with."

"What makes him different from other serial killers?"

"Most other killers have a true motive for killing. Take Jigsaw, for example, whose reasoning was trying to 'change' people for the better. Whether it be a goal, from trauma, or whatever, most killers have an obvious reason for what they do. But the Ripper is different. All we know of him right now is from our profile, but he doesn't seem to have a reason or excuse. There's no reason or pattern we could find; he just kills as he pleases, because he thrives on the act of killing itself, on the brutality. He takes trophies from his victims, and although we don't know why, I believe he sees it as a reward for himself. He committed the slaughter, so he gets his pick, type of thing."

Hoffman looked at him in shock. "How do you know this?"

"I've told you before, I can get into people's heads. See as they see." ("Do you see what I see?", no he fucking didn't.)

"Yes, but I didn't think," Hoffman stopped to think about his phrasing. "You could see so much detail. How are you able to see so much just with crime scenes?"

Peter shrugged. "I honestly can't explain it. It's just the details my head puts together, and I haven't been proven wrong yet."

"Still, when you were talking about the Ripper." Hoffman took a drink from his cup. "Your eyes lit up, and you talked as if you've personally met him before. Do you relate to him in anyway?"

"You're asking if I relate to a serial killer with an unconfirmed but high kill count?"

"Yes, but I'm not asking you about your kill count. I just want to know if you relate to him in any way at all."

Peter bit his lip. "All humans have thoughts of violence, however brief. The difference between me and him is that I don't act on them."

"So do you see yourself as better than him?"

"You've gone too much into doctor territory today, rather than simple chatting." Peter chugged down the rest of his coffee in one gulp. "It's probably time for me to leave anyway." 

The next day he was in the office; Peter, Lindsey, and even Hoffman sat in Erickson's office. Peter felt less like a kid in trouble and more like he was getting ready for a funeral, going off of Erickson's grave face. 

"We think you may be right, Peter, about the Ripper being the Jigsaw copy and starting kills again. We even have a suspect."

Peter jumped up from his chair and placed both hands on the desk. "Who? And how?"

Erickson turned behind him to grab a file, and the first thing was the mugshot of a man. "This is Zep Hindle. He was arrested for 3 years, just around the time that the Ripper murders stopped, for attempting to kill his coworkers family and murdering a local police officer. About a month ago, Hindle faked a medical emergency, attacked a nurse, and killed two guards in his escape. Look at the photo's taken of the scene." They weren't pretty. The nurse had five syringes stuck in her neck and slashes on her legs. The guards were much more gruesome, one of them having his throat slashed to the point it looked like it was barely hanging out, and the other one's arm was thrown feet away from the body itself. "Do you think it matches the Ripper?"

The urge to say no was strong, and Peter didn't know why. "It's difficult to tell from these, but it is a possibility." Peter admitted. 

"That's what I thought." Erickson looked smug, and Peter wanted to grab his head and smash that conceited face into his desk until he bled. "Luckily, two nights ago Hindle was caught again and has gone back into his cell. We sent people to question him yesterday, and when asked if he was the Ripper or the copycat, he avoided the question. The doctor in charge of the institute that Hindle belongs to is sure that he's the one."

"And who is this doctor?" Lindsey asked. 

"He actually worked here a few years back, Dr. Eric Matthews."

Lindsey and Peter looked at each other in annoyance. Matthews was an arrogant bastard who, even if he knew someone didn't commit a crime, would still point a finger if he thought it would benefit him. That, along with anger issues that rivaled even Peter's and being an overall asshole, made him a pain to work with. 

"We want at least one of you to talk to him and to Hindle; see if you can confirm if Hindle is our guy or if this is guy a rumor." Erickson continued. "We need confirmation, and soon. The reporters already have caught Hindle's name. I have no doubt that today Jenkin's paper will focus on the paper."

"Who's Jenkins?" Hoffman asked. Peter had forgotten that man probably never heard of her, especially if he only started to recently work more on the scene.

"Pamela Jenkins is a 'reporter' with her own tabloid who does borderline illegal things to get a story, true or not." Lindsey explained bitterly, remembering some of their past interactions. "She loves focusing on popular serial killers, like the Montclair Ripper and Jigsaw. This whole thing must be intoxicating for her."

"We'll have to watch out for her." Erickson agreed. "Which is why we need to get some answers from Hindle and release an official report. So who's it going to be?"

Lindsey stood alone in front of Edison City Hospital for the Criminally Insane. She was only there because Hoffman didn't know Matthews well enough to deal with him, and she had drawn the short straw between her and Peter. It was probably better that way, because Peter would have ended up yelling at Matthews and gotten kicked out before he could learn anything. At least Lindsey was composed enough to keep her anger off the clock. 

She decided she needed to go inside before someone told security about a suspicious-looking woman outside. She took one more deep breath before walking into the lion's den. 

The pride's male was waiting for her in the lobby. Matthews saw her and stuck his hand out. "It's good to see you again, Agent Perez." He was smiling, and Lindsey just knew he thought he was better than her. 

"Likewise." She lied and shook his hand for the shortest amount of time that she could. "Let's get business over with, shall we?"

"Of course. Let's make our way to Hindle, and we'll talk on the way. Because of the recent incident, we had him moved to solitary, but for your visit, he's waiting behind bulletproof glass."

The halls of the hospital that he led Lindsey down were bland and gray, and it reminded her more of a prison than a place trying to help people with mental illnesses. Knowing Matthews, she wasn't surprised but was disgusted nonetheless. 

"So why do you think Zep Hindle is our ripper?"

Matthews threw his a look over his shoulder, like she was a naive child. "Not think, I know."

"Do you have proof?" She did wish that Peter was here, if only so he could fight with him instead of her. But if she needed to verbally spar with him, Lindsey was going to win.

"There's too many things that add up for it to be a coincidence." He said, avoiding her question. That meant Matthews didn't have anything beyond speculation and guesswork in his favor. "The timeline of the deaths, the profile, even though vague, could be a match for Hindle. Plus, I've talked to him many times, and although imprecise in some answers, I have no doubt he is our Montclair Ripper."

"So he confessed to you that he was the Ripper?" She knew he didn't. If that was the case, Matthews would have never shut up about it.

"Not yet." Matthews sighed. "But with all of this, he won't be able to deny it much longer." 

They reached the room that held Hindle, but Lindsey didn't go in yet. She looked Matthews in the eye. "So you want this clearly mentally unwell man to be a known serial killer?" 

She and Peter had talked before she left ("He just wants the damn bragging rights." Peter scoffed. "If he was the one to be in charge of the mental state of one of the most popular killers right now, he could write a book about how smart he thinks he is."). Lindsey had a feeling that was exactly what he wanted but didn't know if he had just enough tact not to admit it. 

"If you were in my shoes, wouldn't you?"

There went a bit of Lindsey's hope in humanity. She hopes she didn't sigh too loudly before facing the door. "Is there anything I need to be aware of before I go in?"

"Just the usual, security will be outside and watching the whole time; don't give him anything at all, yadda yadda. Ask him as much as you want, although I doubt that if I couldn't get anything from him that anyone else could."

Lindsey ignored the jab and nodded at the security guard for opening the door for her. Zep Hindle was inside of what was basically a glass cube with breathing holes, sitting on a chair that seemed to be the only thing inside with him. Lindsey sat on the chair in front of the cage and nodded at him. "Zep Hindle, I'm Agent Perez. I need to ask you some questions."

Zep Hindle didn't look like a serial killer. He looked perfectly content and had a polite smile as he sat. "I know who you are, Special Agent Lindsey Perez. I also know about your partner, Special Agent Peter Strahm. You're here because you think I'm the Montclair Ripper."

It was creepy how he knew that, but she had dealt with worse. She knew there was no point in asking how he knew that. "And are you the ripper?"

"I could be. I could also not be."

She leaned forward in her seat. "It's a yes or no answer, Mr. Hindle. I know that the doctor in charge of you seems confident that you are."

Hindle's face turned sour at the mention of Matthews. "Dr. Matthews is an egotist who wants to say that he had front row seats to the mind of a brutal and known serial killer. You can't really trust his claims."

It reminded her so much of what Peter had told her before she left. Lindsey didn't want to compare him to a serial killer, but the words were essentially the same. "So is he wrong?"

"He could be. But he could also be correct." Hindle shrugged. "Is there anything stopping me from saying that I am the Ripper? With the rumors going around, no one would bat an eye if I confessed to all those murders."

"That's not completely true. For your confirmed killings, all four deaths have something in common."

"Really?" Hindle hunched down in his chair but kept his eyes on her. "And those are?"

"All brutalization was done after the murders. Like that nurse you killed? Her neck may have had new holes in it, but those were done after you strangled her. Unlike yours, every single Ripper kill, the attack happens during the deaths."

Hindle's eyes went dark, and he turned away from Lindsey. "I don't need to prove anything to you."

Lindsey stood up, feeling accomplished. "Really? Because I think that's exactly what you need to do."

"I called it!" Peter exclaimed after Lindsey told him what happened. "Matthews is just screwing around with us! Maybe Hindle is too, with him trying to copy the Ripper's style."

"For all we know, Matthews could be screwing around with his head." Lindsey theorized. "Hindle may seem put together, but he is mentally unwell, and with Matthews as his doctor for years, manipulation is a possible we can't toss out yet."

"Still, we need actual proof." Peter groaned. "Your point with the timing of the brutalization is a good one, but could easily be disregarded if Hindle testifies something about why he had to change the order. We need something harder that proves their full of bullshit."

It was the next day that Peter was greeted with a familiar sight, but one he hadn't seen for a few years. He and Lindsey were called down to a crime scene, this time in a field. There was a singular man, forced into a kneeling position postmortem. Blood from his body turned all the grass surrounding him into a dark red, bleeding from a cross in his stomach that was large enough for someone to reach a hand inside and take out whatever they wanted. The man's hands were cupped together, and in them were his eyeballs, staring up at the sky.

As soon as Peter had seen the scene, he knew that it was the true Montclair Ripper—not someone pretending to be him, not even him hiding behind Jigsaw, but authentically him.

Hoffman was already at the scene and looked at Peter. "Is this him? Not Hindle, but your actual killer?"

Peter nodded. "This is without a doubt the Montclair Ripper." He turned to Lindsey. "Meaning that you were right, and Hindle is nothing but a fake."

"Can you prove that though?" Hoffman asked. "You don't know the true identity of the Ripper, and even if his proves that this kill wasn't done by Hindle, there's nothing to stop him or Matthews from claiming that this kill was done by a copy. Like it or not, Hindle still has a better case of saying he's the real ripper."

"I don't like it, but you're right." Peter looked back at the body and grinned. "And I have a feeling our real Ripper doesn't like it either. Look at the eyes." Peter pointed at the eyeballs in the man's hands. "The man can't see. It's meant to symbolize how people can't see the truth about the Ripper."

"But you can." Hoffman looked at him. His eyes looked cold to Peter. "Do you think the Ripper knows that?"

"We don't know if the Ripper knows about any of us." Lindsey injected. "Personally, I hope he doesn't; otherwise, we're in danger." 

"Maybe we use that to our advantage." Peter muttered. "We need to have a meeting with Erickson. I have an idea, even if I don't like all of it."

If Peter was nice, he could describe Pamela Jenkins as goal-driven and ambitious. But Peter isn't nice, but honest, and Jenkins is a menace. If Peter was a bloodhound for catching the scent of killers, then Jenkins was a piranha, attacking a story whenever she smelled blood in the water. Peter and Lindsey stood to the sides of Erickson's office while Jenkins sat in front of the man himself.

"I'm surprised the FBI wants my help." She laughed while taking a notepad and pen out of her purse. "You've never been that kind before. Although I'll have to know what I'm getting into before I agree to anything."

"We need you to write an article on the Montclair Ripper." Erickson started to explain. "Saying that his identity is Zep Hindle."

She started to write something down before raising an eyebrow. "'Saying' he is? Is Zep Hindle not the Ripper?"

"We heavily doubt it." Lindsey confessed. "But when we suspected him more, our real ripper didn't like that."

Jenkins nodded. "You mean the murder from yesterday, the man with his eyes cut out and his heart missing." Peter resisted the desire to yell at her because she shouldn't have had access to that information yet. 

"That's correct." Erickson confirmed. "The real killer seems to not like the fact that someone else is getting the praise for his work."

"So you figured that if an article came out completely confirming that Hindle is the Ripper, the real one would come out of hiding?" She guessed, and at Ericksons nod she sighed. "What's in it for me? And how do you know that your guy will even see it?"

"If you write this, we'll help spread your article to every place possible. It'll probably be the most publicity you've gotten in your life." Peter said, appealing to the woman's desire for notoriety. "Plus, we'll even let you interview Zep Hindle himself, as long as you say that he's the ripper."

Jenkins stopped to think to herself, but as Peter suspected, she gave in. "When can I interview him?"

"We can get you in right now." Erickson said. 

Jenkins grinned and stood up, placing her items back in her bag. "Then the article will be out tomorrow morning."

Mark was getting ready for work, drinking a cup of coffee as he read a newspaper. He was a bit surprised to see an article written by Pamela Jenkins, who, to his understanding, was a glorified tabloid writer, in there. The True Face Behind the Montclair Ripper Reveal was staring him in the face. He took another sip as he made his way through the article.

Peter knew the article was bullshit, but people out of the FBI didn't. Luckily he had the day off to sit in bed all day and pretend like he wasn't always one bad day away from having a mental breakdown. Speaking of having a bad day, while he was staring at his bedroom ceiling, his phone rang. 

"It's my day off; dead people will still be dead tomorrow." He said in lieu of greeting. 

"Peter, we need you to come down right now." Erickson told him.

"Why bother giving me days off if you'll just call me whenever you want?" Peter made no move to get up.

"It's the Ripper." That got Peter to jump up from his bed. "There's been a scene found, and..."

"And what?"

"He left a message. We think it's for you."

Peter stopped getting dressed for a moment, shocked by the news. 

"I'll send you the address." Erickson didn't sound very empathetic towards him. "Get here as soon as possible."

On the drive over, Peter felt numb. If he got into a car crash, there would have been a chance that he barely noticed it. Luckily, he got there without incident and parked outside the shitty hotel. Other investigators saw him and pointed him in the direction of the room. Erickson was waiting outside for him, and wordless gestured for Peter to come inside. 

Looking at the room made Peter realize that Erickson never said that a murder was committed, only that a scene was found. It made sense because there was no body. On the bed was a picture of Peter himself; luckily it was just his ID photo. Meaning if the Ripper was stalking him, he wasn't actively taking photographs yet. Sitting on either of his picture was an eyeball; both pointed to be staring at him. If that wasn't obvious enough, Erickson pointed to the wall behind him.

There was a message painted out in blood (for a moment, John Kramer stood on one side of the wall, and Amanda Young lay on the floor on the other side).

"What do you see, Agent Strahm? Do you see me?"

Chapter Text

Mark hated being a psychiatrist some days. He loved the days where he had patients like Peter Strahm, who were so mentally unstable and fun to play with. Then there were the annoying people that he had to also see in his office, like Jeff Denlon. Jeff was a depressed and divorced man who would have booked appointments with Mark every day if given the option. It was obvious that somewhere in his head, Jeff had gotten the idea that he could be fixed, and Mark had the ability to do so. Instead of trying to get better, Jeff would just rant to Mark and try and hang out with him outside of work. Mark would have prayed for his downfall if Jeff wasn't paying him what he was. 

At least that was only at work, where he was in the mindset to deal with Jeff's bullshit. Which is why seeing Jeff at the grocery store made Mark want to throw his carton of eggs at the man. 

Jeff was shaking like always, and he had an unsteady grin. He had no groceries with him. "Dr. Hoffman! It's great to see you."

Mark nodded at him. "Jeff." He hoped that would be the end of it. Of course, he knew Jeff well enough by now that it wouldn't be that easy.

"You shop here too? Of course you do." Jeff laughed and gestured to his cart. 

"Are you shopping, Jeff?" Mark was referring to the man's lack of anything. 

Jeff rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, yeah, I am. Just saw you, wanted to say hi." He was trailing off. Mark decided he needed to end it here before Jeff tried to have a therapy session in the middle of the produce section.

"I have to go. I have an appointment soon, so I can't be late." Without waiting, Mark turned away and started going towards the check-out. 

"Have a good day, Dr. Hoffman!" Jeff called from behind him. As he was walking, Mark snatched a six-pack of beer and threw it in his cart.

The crime scene was in a public bathroom, the murder only making it slightly less disgusting. The victim had already been identified as Danica Scott, although it was only because her wallet was on her person. Her face was completely mutilated, with knife holes and slashes completely all over. Along with her cut, messily cut throat, it had been an overall bloodbath.

"This isn't the Ripper." Peter answered confidently. He pointed to her face. "That was completely impulsive and way too messy. The Montclair Ripper does things with purpose and knows what he does. Plus, his kills seem to not be personal." Peter thought back to the last Montclair Ripper crime scene, which they found a few days ago. Some woman from a local church was found dead but tucked into bed, holding a bible. Her tongue had been ripped out and placed into her bible, Proverbs 10:12 (Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs). It was precise and planned. "This person, who was clumsy with the kill, must have had a vendetta against her to feel this angry. Either way, I can say with confidence that this is someone new."

Erickson groaned. "Great, just great. More killers out there, making more work."

"At least if this killer has a connection to her, we may be able to find it." Lindsey said. "We find the connection; we find the killer."

Mark's next session with Jeff felt awkward, but as long as the man paid, Mark couldn't care that much. 

"A woman who wronged me died." 

That piqued Mark's interest. "Oh?" He prompted Jeff to continue. 

"In the accident that killed my son a few years back, she saw what happened but refused to testify. She was found murdered in some bathroom two days ago."

"And how does that make you feel?"

Jeff grinned. "Good. It makes me feel like some things can be right in this world. You feel that too, don't you, doctor?"

"What makes you say that?" And Mark was becoming bored again. 

"It's because we're similar!" Jeff laughed, and if Mark was a more sane man, he would have been frightened. "I looked you up, Dr. Hoffman. I know what happened to your sister and how you were wronged too. I also know that the guy who did died about a month ago."

Mark imagined taking a knife and slowly slashing it across Jeff's neck, then letting the man bleed out on the floor while Mark did paperwork. The fact that Mark had another appointment right after stopped him. "Why were you looking me up?"

"Because I know how alike we are! We could be good friends, you know, and see each other outside of your office."

Mark knew that Jeff had an inner obsession with revenge, or at least fantasizing about it. But it looked like that obsession had leaked into his therapy, and by extension, Mark. It was the same that the one person he wouldn't mind being obsessed with him thought he was 'boring' (not for much longer, if things continued as he planned). Mark stood up and loomed over Jeff. 

"I'm your psychiatrist, Jeff; you pay me to see you. Nothing more, and you need to accept that. Your session for today is over anyway."

Jeff looked like a startled animal but stood up. "Is there anyway we can extend it?" 

Luckily for Mark, he had an excuse that wasn't even a lie. "I have another session in 15 minutes. We can arrange your next appointment later. Have a good evening, Jeff." Mark said, leaving no room for arguing. Luckily Jeff gave up, grabbed his jacket, and left.

Now, Mark could actually have fun.

"I'm honestly ready to just lose it." Peter said after chugging half the mug of coffee that Hoffman handed him. "I think I've already lost it."

"And 'it' is?"

"My sanity, or whatever small part I had left." Peter shrugged. "I'll be honest with you. I'm seeing dead people."

"Hallucinations?" Hoffman looked surprised.

"Yeah. Mostly Kramer; sometimes I'll see Amanda Young, bleeding out." He confessed.

"What do you think is causing these hallucinations?" 

"Who knows. Maybe this is the part in my career where I succumb to insanity."

"Even though I'm not officially your doctor, I could get you a prescription to help with that."

Peter shook his head. "I don't need to be stuffed with pills. I can suck it, Hoffman."

"I have an idea, if you'd like. No pills, just a bit of an expose thing, if you will."

"And that is?"

Hoffman folded his hands into his lap. "As you're aware, Amanda isn't dead. We can arrange for the two of you to meet up, and maybe seeing her alive and well will help to stop your visions of her."

"I still don't trust her." Peter crossed his arms, looking like a child throwing a tantrum. "She's hiding something."

"That could be." Hoffman admits. "But that's not stopping you from seeing her dying in a puddle of her own blood, is it?"

Peter huffed. "I'll let you know my schedule."

Mark was running low on ingredients, and not the kind that could be easily bought at the grocery store. Luckily, he had his own pick of the crop. He kept a small box of business cards under his sink and looked through the box carefully. Finally, he decided on a card and pulled it out. 

He dialed the number on his spare phone, then threw the card away after. It's not like it would have a use anyway.

The body laid on an examination table, a white sheet covering the lower half. "This was Michael Marks, a police informant who was found dead in his car. His car had run out of gas, and he was left stranded there." Dr. Heffner explained, pointing at the rib cage. "After doing an autopsy, we found the spleen and liver had been removed, along with some of the muscles from his upper torse. Definitely done by someone who knows what they're doing."

"This is our ripper." Peter confirmed. "Not the messy killer from before."

"I'm not surprised." Erickson admitted. "But why take the spleen and only the spleen? It's not like they can be used for transplants."

"There is a lot of variety in what he takes." Lindsey pointed out. "But why?"

Peter sighed. "For right now, only the Ripper knows."

Of course Jeff had made another appointment for the following week, even after the awkwardness from before. Even if Mark had some revelations that made Jeff more intriguing, the guy was still unbearably annoying. 

"I saw you again in public, at a different grocery store." Jeff admitted. "But I didn't approach you this time; I had a feeling you would have preferred it that way."

"Yes, thank you."

"Honestly, I'm just scared and angry. I'm just alone in life after the death of my son and my wife leaving me. They won't even let me see my daughter anymore!" Jeff tugged on his hair in frustration. "Everyone is so fucking awful, but at least they're people. Right now, I'm just alone, and I'm probably going to die alone. If I have to die alone, why don't they? If they have no face, then they can't see what they've done." Jeff didn't specify who 'they' were, but Mark had a good guess, considering he knew that Judge Halden, the one who sentenced his son's killer, had been found dead a few days ago.

The rest of the session was as per usual, with Jeff ranting and Mark saying basic phrases until time passed. When Jeff finally had run out of time, Mark looked into his waiting room, expecting his next patient to be there. When he was greeted with an empty room, Mark grabbed his car keys.

Peter was looking at crime scene photos when a knock came from his office door before Hoffman let himself in.

"What are you doing here?" Peter grunted out, barely looking up from the photos. 

"You forgot we had an appointment scheduled for right now." Hoffman explained, making himself comfortable in the seat that Lindsey usually used. She wasn't here because it was a day off for them.

That got Peter to look up from pictures. "Fuck." He dragged a hand down his face. "Sorry about that. I kind of forgot what day it was."

"You look like you don't even know what week it is."

"Thanks." Peter sighed. "I've been busy looking at the Ripper's victims. Especially with the killings reemerging, we have to catch him soon."

"You probably don't have enough information to get him now." Hoffman answered bluntly. "So focus on what you do know; list it out."

"Fine. The Ripper is most likely a man, going off of stereotypical male profiling and strength required for certain activities. He seems to fall underneath the psychopath scale more so than the sociopath one, and because of the way he kills, most likely a narcissist, or shows some narcissistic tendencies. He kills like it's a performance, something he does because he can. Highly sadist but not messy; we don't know if he's a surgeon or if he's good at removing the organs due to personal practice, but either way, he kills in a certain way. He takes organs and different body parts, maybe to sell as transplant parts. Because of how long he's been killing and how much experience he seems to have with his kills, we assume that he's older than 30."

"That's certainly a lot of information you've gathered." Hoffman praised. "But most of it is still vague enough that suspects can't be brought in."

"It's because his kills don't seem to be personal." Peter complained. "He does as he pleases when he performs."

"Performs?" Hoffman raised an eyebrow. "You make him sound like an artist."

"Well, that's what he does. He puts together the crime scenes going off of how he wants us, his audience, to see him."

"I think you may be an important member of his audience, going off of the hotel room scene."

"I'm not sure why." Peter admitted. 

"It's because you see him better than anyone else. You understand him, but not completely. He wants you to see him."

"If he wants me to see him, why doesn't he turn himself in?"

Hoffman smiled. "It's part of the game, Peter. Like it or not, you're playing with him until one of you ends the game."

Peter groaned. "Great, that's just fan-fucking-tastic." Peter looked at Hoffman. "Thanks. That did actually help me out a bit; I'll probably write all of that down."

"I'm here to help." Hoffman stood up. "But I'll leave you to work for now; we can arrange another time to meet."

"Yeah, plus we have your weird therapy dinner tomorrow night." Peter rolled his eyes. "But I'll see you later. Right now, I have a date with the Montclair Ripper."

Peter regretted everything. Sure, Hoffman's house was nice and the food was good, but the tension was enough that Peter wanted to pretend a family member had died so he could leave. Hoffman was sitting at the head of the table, in-between Peter and Amanda, who were sitting across from each other but not making any eye contact.

"So, how do you like the food?" Hoffman asked them, breaking the silence. He and Peter were eating some type of beef organ pie, while Amanda had a salad in front of her. 

"Good." Peter said, before clearing his throat and going back to eating.

"It's fine." Amanda mumbled before shoving a piece of lettuce in her mouth. 

"I'm glad. I enjoy having people over to eat with me."

Amanda placed her fork down and sighed. "Okay, cut the shit. Why am I here?"

"Peter wanted to check up on you after the whole incident." That asshole. Peter shot a glare at the man; it was ignored. "It really effected him, and I thought the two of you seeing each other in person could help both of you heal from the trauma."

"He's partly responsible for my trauma." She snarked, seeming to get more pissed off with every passing second. 

"You mean him shooting the man who shot you?" Hoffman threw the snark back at her. "Why not blame the one who shot the first bullet?"

"John saved my life." Amanda said, like she was repeating a mantra to herself. "If he needed it, it was his to take."

"Why would he shoot you if he saved you?" Peter spoke up, and Amanda turned her glare onto him. 

"His motives weren't mine to question." Was all she said. It went quiet before everyone returned to silently eating. 

The rest of dinner was quiet, and Amanda stood up as soon as her salad bowl was empty. Before she left, she turned to Peter and took out her phone. 

"Here's my phone number. Take it if you ever need to confirm that I'm alive; that way we can cut out the middleman." She sent a glare at Hoffman. 

Peter silently typed the number in his phone and sent her a message so she would have his. 

"Alright, goodbye." With that, Amanda grabbed her coat and walked out. 

Hoffman smiled. "That's some progress. I think she likes you better than me."

"She was glaring at you a lot." Peter noted. "How did you piss her off?"

"I've been checking in on her periodically since she got out of the hospital. She undoubtedly finds me annoying." Then he shrugged his shoulders. "Or maybe it's because last time I invited her over for dinner, I didn't realize she was a vegetarian."

Peter looked down at his empty plate. "Luckily for you, I'll eat whenever is put in front of me."

Hoffman stood up. "Good thing we have dessert then."

Peter might be losing his mind even more. A few nights after the eating at Hoffman's, there was a noise outside. Not the noise of asshole neighbors or city cars, but the faint wail of an animal coming from inside his house. He looked everywhere in his house, but it was only a one-story building with only a few rooms. Even after making sure each window was closed and that no doors were left open, the whining continued to go in and out of his ears. 

He put a pillow against his ears and passed out to the wailing.

"Danica and Halden were killed by the same person." Peter said, pointing to the murder photos. "It's the same messy violence and destruction of their faces. One more death and we'll have a serial killer on our hands."

"Goddamnit." Erickson sighed. "We don't need anymore serial killers in this line of work."

"I know who you are, Dr. Hoffman." Was the first thing Jeff said during their next session.

"I'm glad, considering how long you've been seeing me."

"No, I mean," Jeff leaned closer and lowered his tone. "I know. About the murders. I followed you one night and saw you with the man in the car! I knew you were like me."

"What do you mean, like you?"

"You know how I mentioned that someone who wronged me died?" Mark nodded, knowing his suspicions would be confirmed. "I'm the one who killed her. Then, I killed someone else, the judge who gave the man who killed my son too short of a sentencing."

Mark wasn't worried. Jeff wouldn't turn him in, but he might turn more annoying and obsessive after his reveal. "How are we similar? Death happens every day; being the cause of it doesn't bring people together."

"We could work together!" Jeff said with a grin full of teeth. "Get rid of the assholes who deserve it, and watch each others backs as we do so."

If Mark was going to consider a partnership with anyone, Jeff would be the last person he did it with. Even working with John wasn't too bad as long as he stayed out of the way. "I think this is a discussion for next time, so we have the full time to do what needs to be done. Let's end early for today and reconvene later."

Jeff didn't seem upset. "I understand. I only have one more person I need to get rid of personally, but that doesn't mean I'm not ready to kill whoever needs it next."

After Jeff left, Mark started planning. Maybe Jeff could help him out, in one way at least. 

There was a knock at Mark's door a couple nights later. He was a bit annoyed, considering it was 7 in the evening and he wasn't expecting anyone, but that went away when he was greeted with Peter on the other side, pale and looking ready to pass out.

"Sorry about this." Peter said as Mark led him over to his couch to sit. "I just needed to get out of the house, and you were the only person I could talk to."

"What about Perez?" Not that Mark wasn't happy to see Peter coming to him willingly, but was still curious why he couldn't see one of the only people he claimed to trust.

"Lindsey will freak out and try and get me to go on medical leave." He mumbled, letting his head fall onto the back of the couch. 

"Are you hurt?" Mark looked him over, but beyond being washed out, he seemed fine.

"Not physically." Peter explained. "But I'm losing my mind. I can't sleep because I keep hearing a noise that I know isn't real."

Interesting—something new to add to the hallucinations. "What noise?"

"Whining. Like there's a hurt animal inside of my house, but even checking it over and over doesn't stop it."

"Are you sure you're alright, Peter?"

Peter turned his head to lazily glare at him. "I'm not here as a patient for you to diagnose. I'm here as a friend to complain to you."

Mark felt elated at hearing that. Peter considered him a friend, someone he could come to when things were rough. Mark couldn't wait to see what that would entail for them in the future. 

"What do you think is troubling you?"

"Maybe the fact that there's a new killer out there. He seems to mimic the Montclair Ripper, albeit in terms of brutality. But this clumsy asshole could never compare to the Ripper. I just want to catch him and get this over with."

This was perfect, albeit a bit earlier than he planned. "You mean the killer of Danica Scott and Judge Halden?"

"Yep. Hopefully the idiot will get caught soon, but you never know with these people."

"I have something to confess." Mark started. Peter fixed it so he was sitting up to properly look at him. "This is breaking patient confidentiality, but I'm concerned about one of my patients. I think he may be involved in those deaths."

"What?" Peter leaned close enough that Mark could smell his shampoo. "Tell me everything."

"His name is Jeff Denlon, a divorcee who lost his son in a car accident a few years ago. He told me in our sessions how badly he wants revenge and that some people don't deserve to live. After doing some research, I found that Danica Scott witnessed the death but refused to testify, and Halden was the judge who gave the driver a lower sentence than usual. I think it's highly likely that Jeff is the one behind their deaths."

"And he would be working himself up to the driver, the one he wanted the most revenge on." Peter muttered. "We'll look into him, but because this is all just going off of your word, it might take a few days for us to get him."

"I have an appointment with him again this Tuesday." That was in two days. Two days until Mark could end this part of his plan. "Think anything can be done beforehand?"

"I'll try, but I wouldn't count on it." Peter huffed. "Just be careful with the guy. He's obviously unstable and could turn on you at any given point."

"Don't forget that I have similar training to you, and I worked the police for a few years when I was younger. I know how to defend myself." 

Peter nodded, then let his head fall back onto the couch. "Good, good. I've seen too much death lately." He looked like he was fighting to keep his eyes open.

"You can sleep here. I have a guestroom you can use." No one had used that room since Angie had last visited him years ago. 

"I'm fine; I can go." He insisted but made no move to get up.

"I don't trust you to drive right now." Mark said bluntly. "At least sleep on the couch."

With closed eyes, Peter nodded and let himself relax. "Fine. Your couch is more comfortable than my bed anyway."

Mark said nothing, getting up to get a blanket from his upstairs closet. When he came back down, Peter was spread out across the couch and passed out. Mark gently put the blanket over him, ran a hand, threw his hair once, then left him alone for the night. 

Mark didn't hear any news from Peter before Tuesday, so it looked like his plan would happen as he thought. He didn't waste anytime after Jeff sat down.

"Jeff, you need to change psychiatrists." Mark stated calmly. "I have a few colleagues I can refer you to, but I can't see you anymore."

Jeff looked horrified. "What? But—But what about us teaming up?"

"You focus too much on your doctor than your own healing, which is obvious considering I'm the fifth doctor to drop you as a patient."

"You can't!" Jeff yells, standing up. "If you do, I'll turn you in."

"You could." Mark agreed, standing up himself. He walked over to the desk and took out a pair of scissors. "Or you could just kill me right now?"

"What are you talking about?" The man looked like he was about to pass out, which Mark couldn't have him doing. "Take this." He held the scissors out to Jeff, who wordlessly took them. "Can you do it, Jeff? Can you end the life of someone you had such an obsession over?"

When the man didn't move, Mark tsked and took the scissors back from him, careful not to touch the handle too much. "I thought so. This confirmed, Jeff, that you and I are nothing alike." Mark took a deep breath before jamming the scissors in his side. 

Shocked, Jeff took a step back. "What are you doing?"

Mark mostly ignored him and slowly (due to the blade in him) started to mess up the office. He threw down one of the chairs and kicked the side table so that everything neatly on it would be on the ground. He picked a metal paperweight off of his desk and then pushed it over. 

Looking Jeff right in the eye, Mark punched himself in the nose hard. 

"You're fucking insane!" Jeff looked towards the door one moment, and the next Mark was right in front of him, the paperweight raised high above their heads. Despite knowing what was about to happen, Jeff was frozen to the spot.

"No, Jeff." Mark corrected. "You're the one who's insane." Mark brought the paperweight down on Jeff's head, and the man crumpled to the ground. Just for good measure, Mark brought the paperweight down on the same spot until the bottom was completely covered in blood and Jeff was completely still. Mark tossed the paperweight carelessly onto the ground and sat himself on the floor, a few feet away from the bloody mess on his carpet. That was going to be a bitch to clean. 

Mark took out his cellphone and dialed Dan Erickson.

To say Peter was pissed when they were called down to Mark's office was an understatement.

"I fucking warned you about this guy!" Peter gestured to the dead man lying in the middle of Mark's office, who was only dead because he tried to take a life. "If you were able to arrest him earlier, this wouldn't have happened."

To be fair, Erickson looked guilty as it was. "I'm sorry that it came to this, but at least Dr. Hoffman will be alright."

Mark's injuries weren't pleasant, but the stab wound wasn't deep enough that he had to go to the hospital, and his bloody nose wasn't broken, but he had still gotten attacked. 

"He was this time. But what about next time some crazy guy tries to kill him?" Peter barked, and Erickson shrunk away. Peter turned to Lindsey. "You can handle this alone, right?"

"It's pretty straightforward." Lindsey agreed. "Go ahead."

Mark was forced to sit on his couch, paramedics just in that moment leaving him be. Peter sat next to him. "I'm sorry."

Mark tilted his head. "For what? It's not like you told him to try to kill me."

"But I knew he was dangerous. And now, I've dragged you into my world of nightmares." 

Mark sighed. "I've told you before, Peter, I've had similar experiences before. I'm not a civilian who needs protecting."

"Still, I feel like it's my fault."

"Guilt is one interesting feeling, isn't it? Even when you're not holding the knife, you can still feel responsible for the blood that spills."

With Peter by his side, Mark knew everything was working as he wanted. With each thoroughly thought-out plan, he was a step closer to bringing Peter into his world.

Chapter Text

Peter was getting worse, and he was worried that everyone could see it. He would still see John Kramer walking around crime scenes; sometimes he would even see Amanda clutching her throat with bulging eyes. He was still hearing the goddamn whining. 

He was standing at the crime scene of the Ripper's latest kill. It was a woman with her arms broken and both lungs removed when her body was resting against the trunk of a tree, almost as if she were calm just sitting there. 

There was a blink, and the next moment he was sitting in Mark's office, covered in sweat.

"How did I get here?" Peter asked, looking around. Mark stood up and placed a hand on his forehead. 

"I think you need to see a doctor." 

Peter shrugged away from Mark's hand, although the coolness of it admittedly felt nice. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "I mean a medical doctor, smart guy. There's something wrong with you, if not physically, then mentally. Seeing someone could help you out."

"I'm fine; I'll get over this like I do with everything."

"You might not." Mark fought back. "Has it gotten this bad before, with hallucinations, both visual and auditory? Those could have been chalked up to simple PTSD, but with the memory loss, I'm worried that there could be something much worse going on with you."

Peter sighed. "Look, it could just be a really off day for me, alright? But if it gets worse, I'll book an appointment with someone to see if there's something else going on."

"Good. For now, I think you should go back home and rest."

Mark had to admit, he knew the truth behind Peter's current problem, and some of it was completely his fault. But the other part was because of his job, getting so close to killers and the destruction they caused. Being the FBI's hound was crushing Peter, to the point it would get him killed soon enough. Peter seeing a doctor could be good or bad for Mark, depending on how much input he had. When he got home, Mark would have to look through his box of business cards and see if there were any doctors that would fit Peter.

Amanda's shithole apartment could have been worse. She had running water, and rent was the cheapest she could find, so it was a pretty solid deal. She couldn't work at the moment because of the neck injury, so more or less staying inside her shithole was all she could do. The most interaction she had after leaving the hospital was Hoffman 'checking up' on her, basically making sure she hadn't said anything to anyone. That was part of the reason she traded numbers with Strahm, because even if he killed John, he was honest. If she needed to tell someone about Hoffman, it would be him. 

She didn't have the strength to carry on John's message, and even if she did, she couldn't with the FBI so close to her now. There was no meaning left for her in life. Maybe she could give herself a shitty hair cut and bask in the endorphins for half an hour until it all came crashing down again.

A knock on the door interrupted her thinking. Amanda stopped, wondering if she should trust it. But if it was Hoffman and she ignored him, the bastard probably would have gone to the cops. She decided to not risk it and answer the door.

There was a smiling blonde woman on the other side. "Amanda Young?"

That was already a red flag. "Who's asking?"

The woman laughed and held out her hand. "I'm Pamela Jenkins, a journalist. I wanted to talk to you about John Kramer and offer you an opportunity."

Amanda wanted to slam the door in this woman's face. There was nothing that could convince her to go against John. "I'm not interested." She started closing the door, but Jenkins automatically stuck her foot out.

"I want to give you a chance to tell your story." She explained. "No influence from the FBI or anyone, just you, me, and a book."

Nothing from the FBI or anyone else. Maybe there was a way to get Hoffman to leave her alone. 

"Come in, but I'm only hearing you out." Amanda opened the door. She had to be careful, but she had an idea. "I'm not promising anything."

"Of course not."

When Peter answered his phone at five in the afternoon, he expected it to be from work. He was surprised to hear Amanda on the other line.

"Hello, Agent Strahm?"

"Amanda?" Peter had been eating leftovers the Mark forced him to take, but pushed the plate away to focus on the phone. "Why are you calling?"

"This is a heads up." Amanda admitted. "A journalist came to see me today. She wants to write a book with me about John, so I can tell my side of the story."

Peter had a bad feeling. "This isn't Pamela Jenkins, is it?"

"How'd you know?"

Great, just fucking great. "Jenkins isn't known for writing the most informative stories. She could make it out for you to be a bad guy."

"Just how you see me?" Amanda barked out. "I know you think I was helping John with being Jigsaw, and I know that even if your worried about me from some misplaced sense of guilt, you'll still throw my ass in prison if you find any proof."

She had hit him right on target, and it made Peter want to punch a hole through his wall. "Just tell me the truth. Did you help him?"

The other end went dead, and Peter assumed he was hung up on until she quietly said, "Think whatever you want to think. Why are you focused on only me instead of looking for anyone else who could have been helping John out?"

Peter didn't have an answer. Was that basically a confession on her part? In his silence, Amanda said, "I only called because if I do go through with writing the book, you'll probably be mentioned. This is a courtesy, and nothing else."

That's when the line actually went dead. Peter threw his cellphone across the room, and his plate of food was long forgotten.

Peter had to tell Mark, which was why he showed up to the man's house the next day.

"Amanda Young called me yesterday."

Mark was getting them drinks from the fridge and raised an eyebrow as he sat down. "Why?"

"She's considering writing a book, with Pamela Jenkins of people, about her experiences with Kramer."

"I don't think that's a good idea." Mark grunted. He looked almost angry. 

"Neither do I." Peter took a swig of his beer. "But that's not the main reason I'm here."

"What else is there?" 

"I think she confessed that she at least knew that Kramer was Jigsaw, albeit indirectly. I think she also implied that she knows of another accomplice to him."

Mark looked down at his own drink. "I had a suspicion she was involved," he confessed. "But no proof beyond certain things being off."

"Should we turn her in?" Peter asked, surprising even himself. The old him wouldn't have asked anyone and would have reported her as soon as he got off of the call.

"What's the point?" Mark shrugged. "The girl is weak now; John was her anchor. Without him, she can't do anything. We know as much considering there haven't been any Jigsaw kills since Kramer."

"So we let her go? Even though she could have killed innocent people?"

Both of their beer bottles were teetering on empty. "She's not even 30 yet, and you heard of her life before meeting John. I doubt she'll even have the motivation for the stupid book. Why bother hurting the girl when she'll probably be hurting herself every day for the rest of her life?"

Peter wordlessly nodded. "Fine. But if there's another Jigsaw killing, I'm saying something."

Mark smirked and stood up. "I wouldn't expect anything else from you. Want another beer?"

Peter nodded. He would take as much alcohol as Mark would offer him after this conversation.

Peter was at home trying to sleep when he heard the whining again. But it was different this time, higher pitched. Despite knowing it wouldn't produce any results, he got up to check on it anyway.

As he walked his house, there was something different from normal. As he got closer to his kitchen, the wails got louder. That hadn't happened before. 

Through the backdoor, Peter saw movement in his backyard. Instead of having any caution, like a saner person might, Peter slammed open the door and ran out. 

Looking up at him was a fox, completely unharmed and deadly silent. It wasn't too weird; Peter didn't have a fence, so it made sense that a fox could have wandered in his yard. But he had never seen any foxes in New Jersey, and he had no damn clue why that one was whining before. 

The fox tilted its head, like it was questioning why Peter was staring at it.

"Was it you?" Peter muttered as he got closer. "Were you the fucker that's been crying this whole damn time?"

It was odd that the animal didn't get scared as Peter got closer to it. Even when Peter started to reach a hand out to it, the fox just stared. 

Peter put his hand against it's face, feeling the soft, course fur of the animal. "Peter, what the hell?!" A hand pulled him away from the fox and back into reality, where he was the latest Ripper scene. Peter was horrified to look up and find that instead of the fox sitting there, there was the corpse of a man who had been gutted and placed in his bed, missing his stomach and heart.

Lindsey was looking at him in concern, still holding onto his shoulder, but Erickson looked pissed. "What are you doing, Peter? You're not wearing gloves; you contaminated the crime scene! Doing stupid shit like that could be means for a firing!"

Even though he was still startled by the change in the scene, Peter glared at Erickson. "As if you could find someone who does my job better than me. No one else is willing to be your bloodhound." Peter ripped himself out of Lindsey's grasp.

Even though Erickson was clearly unhappy, he just grinded his teeth and said, "Fine, but this better not happen again." Before walking away. 

Lindsey looked at him, clearly wanting to say something. Instead, she quietly sighed and walked away to look at something else.

Peter looked back at the body. He had contaminated a crime scene, even if just a little. Accident or not, it was something that he couldn't just be doing. 

A tap on his tap made him jump, but he relaxed when he saw it was Mark, who wordlessly handed him a business card. "This is for Dr. Cecilia Pederson, a neurologist that I know. She would be willing to do an MRI scan and blood test, but if she can't find anything wrong with you physically, I want you to see someone to get properly diagnosed for a mental condition."

The last part made Peter hesitate. "I don't know about that."

"Peter." Mark said lowly. "You messed with a crime scene today. Do you want to risk fucking up again in the future?"

The idea of messing up one of the only things Peter's ever been good at made him want to smash his hand against the floor until it was bloody. He gripped the card in his hand until he felt the edge digging into his skin. "Fine."

"Good." Mark looked satisfied. "I'll make the appointment and escort you there."

He knew there was no chance of winning an argument against Mark, so he just nodded. "I'm free Thursday." 

Peter didn't like Dr. Pederson. She seemed condescending, would only talk to Mark, and acted sloppy when drawing his blood. Peter saw Mark glaring at her from the corner, so he probably wasn't imagining the carelessness.

"Alright Peter, we'll do an MRI next; it should only take about 20 minutes. After we'll wait an hour or so, and then we'll give you both your blood and MRI results." 

Everything was a blur between her saying that and him being shoved inside the machine. It was quiet inside, and he felt kind of claustrophobic. 

He wasn't sure how long he had been in there. But after a little bit, he started to hear it again. The fox wailing that was high pitched and so loud to him in that moment. He would have killed for it to stop, done anything to make the noise stop existing. 

It continued the entire time he was inside, and he had to brace his teeth so he wouldn't start to tell. It only stopped when he exited the machine, and Mark and Dr. Pederson stared down at him.

"That's all, Peter. If you two either go into our waiting room or come back once I give you a call." 

"We'll be down the block getting lunch; give me a call when the results are complete." Mark said before Peter could say anything. 

There was a cafe a few buildings down. Peter got a sandwich and a large black coffee. All Mark got was a singular coffee. "I don't trust many restaurants to feed me." Mark admitted. 

"You can act so damn snobby sometimes." Peter remarked before taking a bite of his sandwich.

"I didn't always get the better things in life when I was younger. Now I appreciate what I can." Mark explained. 

"I understand, but still. The simple things in life can be just fine." Peter stood up. "I'm going to the bathroom; I'll be right back."

Mark walked him away, and once he was out of sight, he pulled out his phone and called Dr. Pederson.

"Dr. Pederson, it's Mark Hoffman."

"Dr. Hoffman, did you forget to tell me something when I saw you mere minutes ago?"

"More like something I couldn't say at the time. When you get Peter's blood results, you'll find that he'll have multiple drugs in his blood that caused the symptoms he described to you earlier. I want you to tell him that his blood results are completely normal, and I'm not sure what you'll find from the MRI, but I want the same said for that. Along with that, I want both results sent to me, and obviously not to Peter."

Pederson laughed. "Why would I do that?"

"The reason that you do anything. I'll wire 500 dollars to your bank account this evening."

The other side went quiet before she said. "Fine. Anything else?"

"Just keep this between us. Have everything ready for us in about forty minutes."

Sitting down in the uncomfortable chair made waiting for the news worse. Peter was waiting to hear about what was wrong with his brain and/or blood and get prescribed drugs so he could borderline function had he had for so many years beforehand. 

"So Mr. Strahm." Pederson smiled as she stood in front of Peter and Mark. "Your results are completely clean. Nothing found from the blood tests or the MRI."

Fuck. Peter didn't know what he was supposed to do. Mark just looked at him pitifully. 

"I understand." Peter nodded and stood up. "Thank you for letting me know."

Mark stood up as well and looked at Peter. "I'll take you home; let you rest. I'm sure you've had a long day." Peter nodded and absentmindedly made his way out the door. Mark followed him from behind, catching Pederson's eyes. She nodded at him, and Mark grinned.

It was that same night that Mark was sent both the blood and the MRI results, which he locked away in his bedside table. It was annoying that he had just wasted 500 dollars, but worth it with the information that he knew, and soon only he would know.

The next scene was apparently at some hospital and a confirmed Ripper scene, according to Erickson from over the phone. He had given Lindsey the address, and she was driving both of them.

Peter felt antsy, but in some small part of himself elated. For some reason he couldn't and didn't want to know, Peter was excited to get to the crime scene to see what the Ripper had done (to feel as close to the Ripper as he ever could be). 

"You okay, Peter?" Lindsey asked him while keeping her eyes on the road.

"You seem to be asking me that a lot these days."

"Probably because you seem worse these days."

Peter rolled his eyes Lindsey. "I'm fine. I'm just a bit tired lately. Maybe Erickson needs to give me a vacation soon."

Despite Peter trying to lighten the mood, Lindsey wasn't amused. They spent the rest of the car ride in silence. 

When they pulled in front of the clinic that Peter was at just a few days ago, he knew something awful had happened, and he would somehow be linked to it. 

Entering it revealed Mark there, a grimace on his face. He looked Peter dead in the eye, and Peter knew who was dead. 

Once again, Peter was proven right when Dr. Pederson slumped back in her chair, with her head ripped apart at its jaw.

"Goddamnit." Peter didn't have any proof, but he knew it was because of him that the Montclair Ripper had killed her. 

Mark invited him over for dinner that night. 

"It's my fault that she's dead." Peter explained over that night's dinner, which was homemade sausages. "The Ripper somehow knew that I saw her, probably through stalking, and killed her."

"We don't know for sure; that's why. It could have been because he disliked her."

"Did you dislike her?" 

Mark shrugged. "Who didn't? She was a careless doctor, only in medicine for the cash it brought. That's probably why the Ripper killed her."

"No, it was too coincidental with the timing." Peter shot down. "I was the reason, and yes, her personally could have been an influence, but the Ripper only ended her life at that moment because of me."

"Why do you think the Ripper is so obsessed with you? As far as we're aware, he's never targeted or talked to anyone else."

Peter sighed. "I think he relates to me. I'm the one who usually explains his crime, and I do the majority of the work on his profile. He's probably looking for someone to see life as he sees it."

"Do you?" Mark was completely focused on Peter. "Do you see it as he does?"

"No." Peter said confidently. "To see exactly how he does, I would have to completely fall off my rocker. But I'll admit one thing to you, and I'll only say this once. It was just after we met for the first time, and you asked me if I enjoyed killing. I never answered your question."

Mark gestured for Peter to continue, not wanting to interrupt the confession. 

"Honestly, I did like the feeling a bit. When I put those bullets in Kramer's chest, it felt good to me, like I was doing something just, ridding the world of him."

"I see. But why answer this question, know?"

"That's how the Ripper feels. He likes killing, thinking that the people who he chooses to die deserve it. So I can see where he is coming from, but I doubt I could ever completely see as he does."

That night, Peter dreamed of drowning. It was a painfully cliche nightmare, but that's just what happened. He wasn't sure if, instead of being water, blood was more or less basic. At least when he woke up, the only thing he was drowning in was sweat.

The next time Peter was called down to check out a scene, it thankfully wasn't the Ripper, but it was another familiar name. 

"Zep Hindle escaped." Erickson explained the scene to him and Lindsey. "He was being transported to his court hearing in this truck, but he killed both the guards in the back and then the driver." That explained why the truck had left tire marks on the road and was swerved into the grass. Hindle had ripped out the organs of all three of his victims and hung them on nearby trees, like fucked up Christmas tinsel. 

"He's heading back to the city, going off of the footprints we found. It's stupid though, because why would a wanted criminal go back to where he's wanted?" Lindsey pointed. 

"I think he wants the real Ripper's attention." Peter said, pointing to the guts in the trees. "Because if he were the real deal, he wouldn't have left them behind."

"The real Ripper probably won't like it." Lindsey looked around at the scene. "Especially if all of his attention getters are like this."

Eric Matthews may have talked big, but deep inside he was a coward. This whole escape proved so. 

"This is your fault!" Matthews growled and pointed at Lindsey, who, to her credit, kept calm. The two of them sat in Matthew's office, trying to question him in case he had anything to do with Hindle's escape. Unlikely, but not impossible.

"How so?"

"You made him doubt everything, so he escaped to prove himself." Peter had never seen someone look so red in his life. "He is the Montclair Ripper; I'm sure of it."

"That's not important right now, Matthews." Lindsey glared at him. "What's important is the fact that a dangerous man is on the loose and could possibly kill more people while he's out there."

"There is no possibility." Matthews sighed. "The reason he broke out was probably to prove that he is the Montclair Ripper. So agents," Matthews looked between the two of them. "I hope you're ready for the blood to be shed."

"I'm not completely sure who I am anymore, and it makes me want to punch someone until the bleed." Peter admitted to Mark at the man's office. "I think Hindle probably feels the same way."

"Maybe that's why he's looking for the real Ripper?" Mark suggested. "To help him find out his true self."

Peter smiled humorlessly. "Did you know that Dr. Heffner found that Hindle had scrambled the brains of the three people he killed? He found something long and thin, and just fucking went for it. That's how he feels, like his head is wrong. At least he's self-aware in that aspect."

"You feel like that? Like your brain is scrambled."

"Sometimes," Peter admitted. "But instead of seeking out a serial killer to tell me who I am, I just book an appointment with you." 

Pamela Jenkins had an appointment. Dr. Gus Colyard had contacted her to help him cowrite for The Journal of Abnormal Psychology. It was a project that would definitely pay well, and she could use some of her own expertise to help. 

She knocked on his office but got no response. "Dr. Colyard?" She called out, knocking again, but got no response. She checked her watch, and she was right on time. She knocked again before she reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked, so she decided just to let herself inside. 

Inside waiting for her was Dr. Colyard, but not how she expected. His mouth was all bloody, and his tongue had been cut out and sewn onto his throat; he was obviously dead. Standing above him was Hindle, who was smiling at her. He was wearing hospital scrubs that had sprinkles of blood on them.

"Hello, Ms. Jenkins!" Hindle greeted her. "Close the door behind you and have a seat, will you?"

Dr. Gus Colyard's death was obviously done by Hindle. The lack of missing organs proved that it wasn't the Ripper, and they confirmed it when they DNA tested the scene and found Hindle's fingerprints. 

"He's not trying to hide it." Peter looked at the corpse with the messily stitched on tongue. "All he wants is to be seen by the Ripper; otherwise, he would have been more careful about this killing."

Lindsey, who was outside checking on something, ran back inside with a laptop inside. "Peter, you need to see this! It's Pamela Jenkin's blog."

Peter honestly forgot she had a blog where she posted all of her bullshit. They made room for Lindsey to set down the laptop and for them to look at it. There was an article, surprisingly covering Colyard's death. That wasn't even the odd part, which was the fact that she had photographs of the crime scene, completely undisturbed from their investigation. 

He turned to Lindsey. "We need to have someone find Jenkin's now."

Not only was Jenkin's missing, but so was Eric Matthews. His home had been trashed, and Hindle's DNA was found. Peter was feeling more and more tired every day that Hindle was on the loose, but if it started to effect his job, Peter didn't know what he would do. 

Peter was relieved when he saw a killing at Western General that was obviously the Ripper. Although the man's tongue was attached to his throat, it was clear that the Ripper had done it because of the lack of any organs inside the doctor's gut. 

"The Ripper isn't too pleased about Hindle." Mark had noted. "As you know, he doesn't like to share attention."

"If Hindle keeps this up, we'll end up with twice as much death because of the Ripper." Lindsey didn't look the best herself, with visible bags under her eyes.

"We just need to find Hindle then." Peter said. "Then we can go back to focusing on the Ripper."

Peter, Lindsey, and Erickson had been called over by Dr. Heffner the next day because he found something in the dead doctor's empty gut. With a gloved hand, Heffner pulled out a brochure, which Peter snatched from him. 

"It's from some observatory that's been closed for a few years, and it was obviously placed inside postmortem."

"Why would the Ripper do that?" Erickson asked. "In all his years, he's never added anything to his victims, just removed."

Peter read over the brochure. If the place was closed and presumably abandoned, that would be a good place for someone to hide out in.

He said as much out to the room. Erickson's eyes went wide. "We need to head over right now. I'll call for backup, and we'll see if anything comes from it."

As they made their way out, Peter heard Lindsey muttering to herself, "I guess the Ripper really doesn't like to share the stage."

They stood outside the windowless observatory, guns out, and waiting for the word to go in. Lindsey was worried about Peter, but she couldn't focus on him at that moment. 

"In, now!" Erickson ordered, and people rushed into the building. 

Even though Lindsey wasn't on the frontlines, she saw what was inside quickly enough. Two of their three missing people had been found, with Pamela Jenkins standing over a barely conscious and very bloody Eric Matthews. 

"I need help!" She screamed once they came inside. "He was cutting him open, heard you guys arrive, then he bolted out the back door! I need someone to fucking help me with this!"

Someone ran up to relieve Jenkins of keeping Matthews alive, while another agent called an ambulance. 

"We need to search the area!" Erickson yelled. "No one stops until we find any sign of Hindle."

Lindsey was about to run outside to help look when she finally noticed. Peter was not next to her or even inside the building. 

"Fuck."

Peter saw the fox walking in the darkness behind the observatory, and he wanted to know more about the damn thing that was following him. He assumed it would be a quick thing, then he could return just before they went inside. 

Following the shadowy outline of the fox with his gun in hand led him to a car, parked in a dark enough spot that you could only see it if you stumbled upon it accidentally or knew where it was. The backdoor was unlocked, so Peter let himself inside, gun ready, and pointed. 

Like he thought, Hindle threw himself into the driver seat, but before he could do anything, Peter pointed the gun at the back of his head. 

Hindle stopped. "Ah, Agent Strahm. This is our first time meeting in person, right?"

"Shut the fuck up!" Peter slurred out. He didn't know why he was slurring his words. "You're going to do what I say or I'll blow your fucking brains out of your skulls."

The world around him swam as the car moved, but Peter managed to keep the gun pointed steadily at Hindle (when he looked out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw the fox sitting next to him). 

Eventually the car pulled into a driveway.

Mark wasn't expecting a knock at the door, and seeing Peter holding a gun to the escapee Hindle was even more shocking. 

The two of them stormed in as soon as Mark opened the door. Peter turned towards him, looking worse for the wear with all of the sweat drenching him. The drugs Mark had been slipping him had definitely been taking their toll.

"I found him!" Peter yelled, swaying on his feet. Hindle looked more amused than anything, despite the gun to his head. "I found the son of a bitch!" 

The gun fell out of his hand and onto the floor. Peter started to go down too, but Mark grabbed him from behind and gently laid him on the ground.

"Who did you find, Peter?" Mark asked as he kneeled down next to him. 

"Hindle!" Peter weakly raised a hand to point at him. "I found him and brought him here!"

"Peter." Mark said calmly. "You came here alone."

Hindle raised an eyebrow but kept quiet, observing the scene.

"You're fucking with me. He's right fucking there!"

Mark put a hand in his hair and started gently combing through it. "You showed up here alone, Peter, pale and sweating. You're having an episode."

Peter let out a dry sob. "Fucking hell. What the fuck is happening to me?"

"It's alright, Peter." Mark assured him. "You'll get help." 

Before Peter could respond, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he was unconscious. Now that he was placated, Mark turned to his other guest. He didn't like the man, purely for his attempting to steal his title. "I'm sorry, but I can be a bit possessive over what I consider to be mine; it's a flaw. But you can find some people more worthy of your wrath at the FBI headquarters, if you'd like the address."

Peter woke up on Mark's couch, with the man himself sitting next to him, reading a book. He closed it when he saw Peter was awake. 

"How do you feel?"

"Like shit," Peter groaned.

"I'm not surprised. You had an episode where your hallucinations heavily spiked and then you passed out, but you should be fine now. Tea?" Mark held out a cup towards him, which Peter greedily took to help out his dry mouth. Once the cup was empty, it was placed back on the small table, which also held Peter's gun and a pair of car keys that he was pretty sure he used to get here. 

"What's happened? How long have I been out?"

"A few hours. Dr. Matthews is in critical condition at the hospital, and Ms. Jenkins is very traumatized, but both are alive at the moment. Although I'm more concerned about your condition at the moment, to be honest."

"I'm fine." Peter sat himself up. "I need to go, because I think I know where Hindle could be going next." Both Matthews and Jenkins had ties to the bureau, and with them escaping alive, it was likely Hindle would go there next to find new targets.

"I don't think that's a good idea." Mark said, standing up. "Stay here; I'm calling Erickson and then taking you to the hospital. This is getting out of hand, Peter, and I only want what's best for you." Mark walked out of the room, leaving Peter sitting there alone. 

The gun and keys were still on the table. Mark wasn't in the room anymore. Without anymore planning, Peter snatched both items and ran out of the house. 

Mark came back in as soon as he heard the door slam, and when he saw no trace of Peter or the gun, he smiled. 

Speeding can get you places much sooner, which Peter was happy for. He parked the car in the back of the parking lot then got out, not bothering to bring the keys with him. Not his car, and he wouldn't need it anymore. 

It had only been a few hours, so Hindle probably wasn't inside yet, but it had been enough time that the man was definitely prowling around. Peter would catch him, one way or another.

Peter walked around the building, checking everywhere for a place that Hindle could hide. He was becoming frustrated because he couldn't find him, and if he couldn't find him, Peter was missing someone. 

There was a man looking through one of the only windows on the first floor of the place. Lo and behold, when Peter got closer, he saw that it was Hindle, calmly staring through it. 

Peter pointed the gun at Hindle. "Get on your fucking knees."

Hindle turned around and smiled at him. "Hello, Agent Strahm. This has been an interesting evening for the both of us, hasn't it?"

"I won't ask you again!" 

"I don't know who I am anymore." Hindle ignored Peter. "Maybe because of that asshole Matthews, or maybe because of my own brain trying to scramble itself. But either way, I think you know who I am. We've become the same, haven't we, Agent? Two killers who seek out the blood. I know who you are, the FBI's favorite kid. I know that you can understand me, so you must be me in some way." Hindle laughed. "I doubt you can be yourself anymore. You're close to that one doctor, Hoffman, right? You find yourself yearning to get close to him, because you think he understands you. But how can you get close to him when you're so stuck in your own head all the time? You only understand death agent because it follows you. Unless there's blood, you'll never fully understand."

Peter didn't fully register himself pulling on the trigger, but he must have, because a bullet came from his gun and went through Hindle's forehead, making the man go down and splattering the window in the process. Even though the man was dead now, he still wanted to kick him or choke him. It wouldn't have mattered though, because the man was, in fact, dead. Peter dropped the gun carelessly onto the ground and sat next to the corpse. 

Peter was recovering in the hospital, according to Erickson. Luckily they weren't running any tests; otherwise, Mark's plans would have to come to life a bit too early. 

That night, Mark had to think to himself. Why was he so obsessed with Peter's mental health? Was it an oil spill Mark felt the urge to contain, or was it something that he wanted to completely spill out? Peter was both a chance for someone that Mark could get close to and someone he wanted to pry open and see what was inside. Why couldn't he have both? What was stopping him from having both?

Chapter Text

Mark gave Peter a week to recover before he brought up the serious conversation again, as the two of them sat in his office.

"I think everything going on with you is more than just being tired, sick, or whatever you want to try and come up with with Peter." Mark explained, looking Peter dead in the eye. "For all we know, it could be dementia. You need help, probably in a more mental sense."

Peter sighed. "I can't fucking deal with this, Mark. Not right now, not after everything that's happened."

"Is this because you took a life again?"

"I don't fucking know. I doubt it, because, to be blunt, the situation was simple: he was a wanted murderer who planned to break into a building to murder people, so I shot him. Open and shut case."

Mark leaned forward in his seat. "Did you enjoy killing him as you did John Kramer?"

"I'm not sure." Peter admitted. "I'm not sure if I can properly feel enjoyment in my life right now."

Even though Mark didn't say anything, Peter knew what he was thinking—something was mentally wrong with Peter. "Don't say it, Mark. I'm not ready for this shit."

"I think it should be called The Missing Puzzle Piece of the Jigsaw Killer." Jenkins pitched to Amanda. They sat inside a small cafe, with a laptop and multiple documents spread out between them. 

"Long title." Amanda said. 

Jenkins shrugged. "Yeah, but it sounds smart and catchy."

"I guess so." She muttered and looked down at her tea. 

"Amanda, hey." Jenkins reached a hand out to cover Amanda's. "This book is just to tell people what your side of the story is about. John Kramer as you remember him."

"How I knew him and how everyone else can see him are vastly different. People will probably think I'm delusional."

"Delusional or not, we'll get your words out there, I promise Amanda."

Peter hadn't even gotten a phone call the next time Amanda contacted him. 

Amanda Young: I'm doing the book. Be ready for whatever comes from it, Strahm.

She would probably make him out to be a killer. It made sense, considering his kill count had recently risen. Peter could see it now, with him having an honorable mention as the mentally ill man who shot an old man. There was more to the situation, but would it even matter?

Dan Erickson sitting in Mark's office was something new. 

"How can I help you, Erickson?" He set down a cup of coffee in front of the man, who took it gratefully.

"Honestly, it's Peter." Erickson admitted. "I'm worried about him."

"How so?"

"He's been spacing out, wandering around. Just a little bit ago, he contaminated a crime scene, but he seemed to barely be in the moment! I think there's something wrong with him, and I wanted to know what you thought."

"Honestly?" Erickson nodded at the question. "I think the job is killing him. During the line of duty, he's had to shoot two murderers in the span of a couple months. I think he has some type of mental illness, but I'm not officially his doctor, and he's been too stubborn to see anyone to get a proper diagnosis. But mentally ill or not, his work is wearing him down. Getting into the mind of a killer as intimately as Peter has can't be good for anyone."

"I see where you're coming from, but still, what can we do about that?"

Mark shrugged. "What do you do with a dog that catches too many scents? You can give it a temporary break, try, and let it sort itself out. Although I doubt that Peter could mentally take a day off from work. But sometimes you're not even completely sure if the dog has gone rabid or not, so you have to think quick about what can be done. Do you think that Peter could ever recover back to the state that he was in before all of this started?"

Instead of answering, Erickson smiled grimly. "You seem very loyal to Peter."

Mark smiled much more genuinely than Erickson was. "I guess I might be. Peter has become very dear to me over the amount of time we've gotten to know each other."

"Well, I'm glad. Peter could use more friends like you, Dr. Hoffman."

"I can't tell if the Montclair Ripper is in love with me or is trying to get me thrown in jail." Was the first thing Peter said upon walking into Mark's office. 

"Oh?" Mark got up to make them drinks. He always made them drinks. "Why does it have to be either?"

"He's obsession with me is too obvious to be something more normal. That one scene crime a while back with my photo showed that he was interested in me. That interest must have grown, especially to the point that he was helping to catch Hindle. But I was thinking back to the Dr. Pederson crime scene and that if the death was a little less obvious, I could have been a suspect for killing her. I was a new patient, unhappy with my results, who could have taken it out on her. If he tried just a little bit harder, I could have easily been framed for her death."

"Alright, you've convinced me." Mark said, handing over the coffee. "But why does it have to be one or the other? Why can't he be in love with you while also knowing that you have to go? If I were him, I would be painfully aware of the fact that you'd turn me in as soon as you could."

"You're right about that. The Ripper is a dangerous killer, and I wouldn't let him go just because he has a little crush on me."

"I doubt he would just want you to let him go, Peter. He's playing a game with you and wants you to catch him."

Peter smirked, teeth showing and all. "I'll fucking catch him; he doesn't need to worry about that."

Amanda got home and knew something was off. She locked the door behind her and grabbed an umbrella that she kept by the door. She gripped it like a baseball bat and slowly walked further inside. Everything was as shitty as she left it, but the entire apartment still felt disturbed to her. 

She knew why when she got to her kitchen, and a note sat neatly folded on the counter. Still holding the umbrella with one hand, she unfolded the note and read through it. 

Peter was trying to take a 4 in the afternoon nap when he was rudely interrupted by his cell phone ringing. Without opening his eyes, Peter grabbed the phone and answered. 

"Who the hell is calling me?"

"Agent Strahm, it's Amanda." Peter's eyes snapped open. She sounded nervous. "I need to talk to you in person."

Peter was already getting out of bed. "Yeah, where?"

"I'll text you the address of this place I know. It has to be as secluded as possible; otherwise, I might be completely fucked."

"Are you okay? Do I need to call the cops?"

"Fuck no. Please, just show up. You're the only one I can talk to about this."

The place Amanda texted him was an abandoned warehouse. It looked sketchy as hell, and it looked like just stepping inside would give him a disease, but remembering Amanda's distressed tone made him forget all of that. Coming from inside the warehouse was the wailing of the fox.

He walked inside, and Amanda was pacing nervously. She stopped when he arrived and ran up to him. 

"Thank God, you're here!" She had tear streaks on her face, and her hair was a mess. 

"What happened?" He grabbed her by the shoulders and looked down to look her eye level.

"I'm in danger; he's going to fucking kill me!" She yelled the last part, and Peter squeezed her shoulders in a way he was hoping was comforting. 

"I promise Amanda, I won't let anyone hurt you. But in order to help you, you need to explain what's going on."

Amanda nodded but looked away (for a brief second, her neck was covered in blood, but it disappeared as soon as it appeared). "I lied to you, Strahm. I knew that John was Jigsaw. Not only that, but I helped him out with someone of the traps."

It was shocking to hear in person, but going back to the conversation he and Mark had, he just nodded. "I assumed that was the case. I'm pretty good at my job."

She let out another sob. "I'm sorry. After John tested my will to live, he recruited me and was like the father I never fucking had."

"If you tested, how come you weren't in any police reports?"

"John helped me heal, so I saw no point in going to see the police." She brought up a hand to the corner of her mouth, where Peter could faintly see two matching scars. "I thought as long as I had him, I would be okay."

"We can handle all of that later, okay? But what prompted you to tell me this now?"

She opened her mouth to speak. Peter blinked. 

He woke up at home, sweaty, lying on top of his sheets. 

Amanda had started to speak, but Strahm's eyes rolled into the back of his head. She waved a hand in front of his face, but nothing.

"Shit. Shit!" She backed away. She knew she needed to call an ambulance. But how would she explain to the cops why they were out there? And if Amanda didn't tell Strahm the truth about Hoffman soon, she was dead. 

She looked back at the man, still unresponsive. Amanda let out a short yell, pulled out her phone, and ran outside so she could get signal. She could make one anonymous phone call to 911, run like hell, then go see Strahm when he got to the hospital. 

When she got outside, Amanda typed 911 on her phone, but before she could hit call, the phone was taken from her grasp. Hoffman held it, looking smug. 

"You don't need this; he's fine." He dropped her phone onto the ground and crushed it beneath his foot. She took a step back, but he clamped a hand onto her shoulder. It was so different from how Strahm did it, trying to comfort her. Hoffman did it like he was the spider who caught the fly.

"Why the fuck did you get involved with all of this?!" She shouted at him. "If you had never come to the hospital that day, I would have never known who you were, and you never would have been in any danger. Hell, if you stopped Strahm from running into the house, I would be dead, and this definitely wouldn't be something you had to deal with, so fucking why?!"

Hoffman shrugged. "Probably the same reason I sent an anonymous letter to John that day, saying the police knew where he was and if he wasn't there when they arrived, they would find evidence of Jill Tuck being Jigsaw. Because I was curious about what would happen."

Amanda glared at him. "You're a sick fuck. How many people have you killed?"

"A hell lot more than you ever did with John. Probably even more than John ever did too."

Amanda tried to get away, but she knew that she was truly and utterly fucked. "Are you going to kill me too?"

Mark grinned. 

Peter has been hearing the whining ever since he woke up at home, but there's an added noise in the background. High-pitched screaming. It was loud and made his head hurt, so he refused to get up from bed until frantic knocking became louder and thus more important to make quiet.

Mark was the one to knock and didn't even wait for Peter to let him in. He put a hand to Peter's forehead. "You're burning up."

"No shit sherlock." Peter snarled and sat on his couch. "It's been too long of a day."

"What happened?"

"Amanda. She called me in a hurry, saying she was in danger. I met up with her somewhere shady; she admitted to helping with the Jigsaw murders and was saying more, but I blacked out and ended up here."

"That's odd. I'll get you some water."

Mark walked away, and Peter laid further down into the couch. He felt fucking awful but felt worse about leaving Amanda somewhere without remembering what happened. If he was more put together, he could have helped her instead of probably just leaving her confused. 

"Holy shit!" Peter heard Mark yell from the kitchen. Peter shot up to join him. 

"Was is it?" Mark was looking at the inside of the sink. Peter followed his gaze.

There was a finger, slightly bloody, sitting there. It had black nail polish. Amanda was wearing black nail polish when he met with her earlier. 

The trash can was closer than the sink, so Peter grabbed it and puked. A hand was rubbing his back. "It's okay."

Peter pulled back and set the bin down. "It's not okay! Why the fuck is Amanda Young's finger here?"

"We'll find out one way or another. We need to call Erickson; otherwise, it will seem more suspicious."

Peter grabbed onto Mark's wrist before the man made the phone call. "I didn't kill her."

Mark nodded. "I believe you, Peter, I promise."

Everyone showed up quickly, probably shocked at the fact that the FBI's finest had found a finger in his home. Peter sat on the couch, letting Mark explain everything and watching slowly as everyone worked around him. Their eyes were on him, waiting to see what he would do next. 

He was taken out of his daze when Erickson put handcuffs on him. He jumped up. "The hell?"

"Don't resist Peter." Erickson said. "We're booking you on suspicion of murdering Amanda Young. Don't make this harder than it has to be." 

Peter was led out of his home by his boss while he was wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. He saw some of his neighbors peeking at him from their windows, and even though he didn't talk to them much, he didn't want to leave this kind of impression. 

Lindsey was pissed off, and she made sure that Erickson knew it. "You're insane!"

"Lindsey, just looking at the evidence-."

She slammed her hands down on his desk. "The only evidence you found was the girl's finger, which could have been planted. Even if Peter snapped, you were the one who broke him! Weren't you warned by so many people to be careful with him? You saw the signs of him coming undone, but as long as he could think just well enough, it didn't matter to you."

"Dr. Hoffman gave him a rubber stamp."

"When they first met! So much has happened since then that should have had Peter receiving proper therapy."

"Look," Erickson tried to calm her down. "I'm as surprised as anyone to find Amanda Young's blood on Peter's hands. But what's done is done."

"Her blood isn't on Peter's hands; it's on all of our hands. And that this point, Peter's blood practically on us too."

Lindsey was able to see him in an interrogation room. He looked like shit, much weaker than she had ever seen him before. 

"Hey Lindsey." He croaked out. "How's work without a partner?"

"Shitty. How's being contained?"

"Also shitty." That got him to smile, but then he sighed. "Looked Lindsey. I didn't kill her."

Lindsey wasn't sure what to believe. Peter was always a bit of a hothead, but never in a way that he would harm people unless needed. But with his behavior as of lately and all the messed up physical symptoms, she wasn't completely sure who the man in front of her was.

"I'll take care of your house while you're gone. I know the garage code, so I can get in." She said instead of voicing her doubts. 

"Thanks. If that doesn't work, just go in through the backdoor; if you jiggle the knob enough, you can get in." 

Lindsey filed that away in the back of her head. If someone knew that, they could easily break into Peter's home, perhaps to plant evidence. "Got it."

She looked over him again. He was pale, like he had been so often as of late, but he was sweating despite the room being cold. His bloodshot ideas made Lindsey get another idea.

"Are you on drugs Peter?"

He lurched back suddenly. "Where the hell did that come from?"

She shrugged. "It would explain everything going on with you if you were on certain medications that cause distortion, memory loss, and all the other symptoms you've been having."

"Good guess, but I'm clean. Hell, Mark had me seen a doctor a little bit ago, and my blood tests came back fine; she said I was completely healthy."

That didn't feel right. Even if there weren't drugs involved, any doctor should have seen something was wrong with him and said something about it.

"Which doctor?"

Peter hesitated. "Dr. Pederson. A few days before she died."

That was too weird. Lindsey couldn't fully put it together, but it was off. "I'm ordering a blood test get done on you."

He rolled his eyes. "Do whatever you want, but you can't force the results you want into existence." 

Lindsey looked him over. "I have a hunch we'll find something."

Mark and Lindsey sat in Erickson's office the next day. 

"So," Erickson cleared his throat. "How are the two of you holding up? Lindsey?"

"Did you see my request for a blood test to be done on Peter?" She asked bluntly.

Erickson nodded. "Yes, but we won't be able to do it for a little bit. There's other things on the case that take priority over that. Now, Dr. Hoffman, how are you holding up?"

He obviously didn't care. He just wanted to have small talk before telling them whatever he found. "As well I can be. Mourning the fact that I couldn't save Amanda or Peter, as I had gotten close to the both of them."

"I understand." Erickson bobbed his head sympathetically. "Peter was a great man, and Amanda seemed like a promising young woman."

"Peter's not dead. Don't treat him like he is." Lindsey glared at them.

"Right." Erickson barely spared her a glance. "Anyway, we found more evidence in Peter's home. Scattered through out his house, we found hair from both of our Jigsaw copycat victims."

"I still think something is off." Lindsey said. "There's something wrong with Peter, I think physically. He's not a serial killer."

"The evidence is against him, Lindsey. You should try to accept the facts as they are."

Seeing Erickson in front of him for the first time since his arrest made Peter annoyed. The man was his boss for years, but as soon as Peter is considered too far gone, Erickson can't even bother to check in on him.

"Everything is against you, Peter. The finger, the copycat victim's hair, we found in your home. It's not looking good. It looks like you've completely mimicked Jigsaw, something you could do with your knowledge."

"Tell me something I don't fucking know."

Erickson sighed. "Why Peter? Is this my fault?"

"I didn't kill anybody!" He shouted. Erickson just looked at him like he was a pitiful kid. 

"I'm sure that you believe that." 

He wanted to scream. He had no clue how the finger or any hair could have gotten in his home. The only possible explanation was that someone was setting him up, but it had to have been someone who both knew the case and where Peter lived. Hell, going off of that much information, it could have been the man sitting in front of him.

"I'm just here to read your rights, Peter, because we're officially placing you under arrest."

After that, they placed Peter in a transport to the county jail. He couldn't let whoever was framing him get away with it. Thinking of what to do, he remembered Zep Hindle and how he was able to escape. He looked at the two guards in the back of the truck with him and lunged at the closer one. 

It was bad that Peter escaped, but the fact that he didn't kill anyone was reassuring to Lindsey. He attacked the two guards, knocked them out, then broke the back door and rolled out of the truck. Although he did take the gun of one, which was a bit concerning.

"He was trying to cause as little harm as possible." She explained to Erickson and Mark. "He's not physically well!"

"I can promise you, he was fine a few weeks ago." Mark explained. She was getting a little sick of him, but he was a friend of Peter's too, so she knew he probably had his best interest at heart. "I had him go to a doctor, and he was in top physical shape."

"Mistakes can happen. As soon as we find him, he needs to get tested again."

"We still need to actually find him, and soon." Erickson groaned. "We have a fully-fledged psychopath on the loose."

Peter was waiting for Mark in his office on the couch. He honestly looked like complete shit, but most of that was Mark's own fault. He was just where Mark thought he would be.

"Y'know," Peter stared as soon as Mark closed the door. "I could have believed that I killed Amanda. That I just blacked out and did it then. But when Erickson told me about my other supposed victims, that's what got me. That's how I realized I was being set up."

Mark sat right next to Peter. "Let's go through it then. See if there are ways you could have committed the murders. What about the first known Jigsaw copycat victim, Seth Baxter?"

"There's no way." Peter said right away. "That was before I started to lose track of my time. I would remember killing him, and I know I didn't."

"Then the next one, Art Blank."

Peter shook his head. "No, for the same reasoning. Plus, his crime scene had too many similarities with Baxter to be someone else."

"Alright. But what about Amanda?"

Peter stilled for a moment. "Can you take us to the warehouse where I last saw her?"

Mark picked up his keys. "Whatever you want."

The warehouse was just as he remembered it, minus Amanda. There wasn't any trace of a murder happening.

"Peter." Mark grabbed onto his hand. "I don't think you'll find anything."

"I need to think for a moment. If it wasn't me, it had to have been someone who had access to both all of those crime scenes and Amanda. Because Amanda's body hasn't been found, it had to have been someone who followed her, possibly us, here last time." He muttered quietly to him. "So someone who's not me, who had a connection to both Amanda and at least those two crime scenes, along with my home."

Saying it like that made it obvious. The person who had been assigned to Jigsaw around the time of the copycat rising up, the person who had been checking on Amanda, and most definitely knew where she lived. The man who invited himself to Peter's house often, and the man who knew basically everything Peter knew. Something else clicked too. All of the missing organs, and Mark just happened to be cooking something for him in the next day, something made of meat.

("I pick ingredients I know I can trust."

"Friends with a butcher?"

"Something along those lines.)

Peter yanked his hand away and pointed a gun at Mark. 

"Peter, calm down."

"You don't need to bullshit me anymore, Mark." Peter barked. "I just put it together. You're a psychopath who wanted to frame me for all of these, just because you wanted to see what would happen. You wanted to spin me around the room, then let go and see where I landed. At least I didn't end up on your menu." Recognition shined in Marks eyes, and a bit of pride. "Guess what asshole?" Peter aimed the gun at Mark's head. "I see you now, Ripper!" Mark said nothing, but his monotone face turned into a grin. 

"Fuck you-!" Peter staggered back when a bullet hit his shoulder. Erickson stood in the doorway, gun still in position. After Peter went down, he ran up to Mark.

"Are you alright, Dr. Hoffman? Did he hurt you?"

It was a good thing Mark assumed Peter would want to end up, or he might have been. "I'm fine, Erickson. But Peter is having troubles again."

The two men stood over Peter, nonconscious and handcuffed to a hospital bed. Mark was completely elated. Peter had said that he had seen him. Even if Peter was going to jail, Mark was far from done playing. He didn't get to see Peter covered in blood enough.

"I've seen people get affected by cases before, with PTSD and all." Erickson explained. "But I've never seen it like this before."

It was a shame Peter was getting locked away so soon. Now more than ever, Mark wanted to kiss him and bit his lips until the blood covered both of them.

"I don't think anyone in this room will ever be the same, honestly."

Peter hated the maximum-security holding cell that was his home until his trial. He hated the guards who looked at him like he wasn't a human; he hated Erickson for being so gullible and shooting him in the shoulder; and he especially hated Mark Hoffman. 

The man he hated most stood in front of him at the moment, staring at him from the other side of the cell.

"I just wanted to visit you, Peter." Mark said with a neutral expression. "I still consider us close despite everything."

But Peter saw the look, the light in Mark's eyes. Mark had seen himself as the winner of this, with Peter in jail. 

Peter would prove him wrong, no matter what.