Chapter Text
Hannibal watched Alana tuck her hair behind her ear over the rim of his wineglass.
It was her tell, the hair tuck. As though placing a few strands behind her ear would provide protection from any unpleasantries to come. It acted as a talisman of sorts. A shield. It meant she was finally ready to speak.
“I, um, I guess you’re wondering why I asked you to dinner.”
Hannibal quirked his lips in a gentle smile, enough to sway but not seduce. “I am always honored by your attentions, regardless of reason.”
Her cheeks warmed. Thin shoulders relaxed as her previous tension melted away. It seemed even the years between their last encounter and this moment were not enough to kill her romantic interests. Fledgling things, much like Alana herself: desperate to be noticed and kindled yet too timid to reach out and take.
She tilted her head forward, freeing the hair she’d placed behind her ear. “It’s about Will Graham.”
Hannibal blinked. For the first time that night, he didn’t have to feign his interest. “The Chesapeake Ripper?”
The blood in her cheeks immediately fled. She stared at her plate rather than Hannibal, and for the briefest second, he wondered if she’d finally figured out the truth. Then she nodded and demurely murmured, “That’s the one.”
So, not yet aware of Dr. Graham’s innocence then. Which begged the bigger question: What did this have to do with Hannibal?
If not for her blatant displays of affection toward him, he might think that her days consulting for the BAU had finally familiarized her to the scent of a killer. Or perhaps it had, and she simply couldn’t smell it on Hannibal over the artificial daisies she’d bathed in before coming to his door.
He sipped his wine. Enjoyed the wash of rich, red plums on his tongue. Downturned one side of his lips in a show of concern. “I must admit, I didn’t expect this turn of conversation. You were friends in a past life, no?”
She laughed, bitter and humorless. “Something like that.”
“Has he attempted to make contact with you?”
“No. I just… I saw Chilton at a fundraiser earlier this week. He was bragging about the progress he’s made with Will.” Her voice dipped bitterly under the word ‘progress,’ like the very thought repulsed her. “He says he's going to write a book about the murders.”
He swirled the remains of his Malbec, pretending to think. “You don’t believe him.”
She scoffed softly, derisively. “No.”
“Does this mean you’ve reconsidered your stance on Dr. Graham’s plea?”
She clenched her fingers indelicately around the stem of her wineglass, lips drawn into a thin, determined line. “No. No, of course not. The evidence points to Will, and no amount of wishful thinking will change that.”
Hannibal hummed. “Another reason then.”
She shook her head. Guzzled her wine without pausing to savor it. “Will hasn’t spoken in a year and a half. Not to me. Not to anyone.”
Her slip-of-the-tongue sparkled, a diamond in a sea of sand.
“You’ve been to see him.”
“I…” Light blue eyes rose to meet Hannibal’s, and the fight in her drained like water dumped from a bucket. Her shoulders slumped, defeated. “I have.”
“But you do not wish to.”
“Talk about an understatement. All I want is to forget. Forget about him, about what he’s done, but… It’s hard, Hannibal. I cared about him. I still care. Even knowing what horrible things he’s done, I—” She cut herself off and finished her wine. Hannibal waited, patiently, until she found her voice again. “I think about it sometimes. How he probably would have evaded us forever, if not for the encephalitis making him sloppy. And I want to condemn him. I do condemn him. But I also…” She pushed a long, slow sigh out between her teeth. “I want to know why.”
Ah. There it is.
The urge to smile curled within Hannibal at such a perfect opportunity. A chance to converse with the man who’d unwillingly laid claim to Hannibal’s title, giftwrapped in the guise of a favor for a friend.
“You would like for me to speak with him in your stead.”
“I know it’s a lot to ask. But Will… He’s not like other men. He could keep his head down and his lips shut for the rest of his life if he wanted, and nothing and nobody could make him do otherwise.”
“If he is so inclined to his silence, I must wonder what miracles you expect of me.”
A fond smile touched Alana’s lips. “Just talk to him. No one can make him do anything, no, but you’ve always had a way with uncooperative patients. If anyone can get through to him, it’s you.” Slim fingers twitched, momentarily leaving the stem before darting back again. Her urge to reach for his hand – to seek comfort and find comfort in return – was nearly palpable.
“Your faith in me is flattering.” He pressed his lips into a pleased smile, allowing her to believe him oblivious to her inner plight. “While I’m afraid I cannot promise a breakthrough, I assure you I will do my best.”
Her hopeful gaze brightened adoringly. The ardor seeped into her voice. “You’re a life saver, Hannibal. You don’t know what this means to me.”
He waved his free hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “Think nothing of it. I am pleased to be of assistance.”
“No, I’m serious. This is… a lot. He’s the Chesapeake Ripper.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She sighed, the furrow of her brows relaying affection even as the downward curve of her lips screamed concern. “Just be careful, alright?”
“I will. He is, after all, a very dangerous criminal.”
“Dangerous doesn’t even begin to cover it.” She lifted her glass only to realize it was empty. She put it back down. The tired set of her jaw told Hannibal she was about to change the subject, and despite wanting to hear more about his own alter ego and the man who’d taken the lashes for his crimes, he prepared to acquiesce.
There would come a time where Alana was desperate to delve into the delightful topic of Will Graham. A time when she would question the jury’s verdict and her own handling of his ‘guilt.’ It could take a year, or two, or five. The justice system was slow, and the real Chesapeake Ripper had no plans to emerge any time soon. But Hannibal was nothing if not patient.
He could wait.
(***Paragon***)
Hannibal entered the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane with low expectations.
While Dr. Graham’s diagnosis as a pure empath made him out as something exquisitely rare and interesting, Hannibal had doubts. After all, Dr. Graham had become a police officer while earning his doctorate, been discharged from the force for an unwillingness to fire his weapon, and secured a teaching position at Quantico all by the ripe age of twenty. He’d been headhunted by the FBI to be a consulting profiler a short two years later. It wasn’t out of the question to think his high IQ and knack for reading people could have been incorrectly interpreted as a hyper empathy disorder.
Aside from his questionable emotional state, the only interesting thing about Dr. Graham was the fact that he could be mistaken for the Ripper. Though, considering he’d been in the deepest throws of encephalitis at the time of arrest, it was hardly a promising lead.
That being said, the wrongly convicted profiler didn’t necessarily need to be interesting to glean Hannibal’s interest. So long as Dr. Graham wore the Chesapeake Ripper’s reputation like an ill-fitting suit, Hannibal would keep a bookmark over his name and actions. Something to glance at in his spare time. A smooth nightcap with which to relax before bed.
An orderly – his nametag read M. Brown – led Hannibal to Dr. Chilton’s office. Mr. Brown used an affected lisp to say, “Dr. Chilton will be out soon. He has to do a bunch of preparations any time somebody comes to see Dr. Graham.”
There was a gleam in Mr. Brown’s eyes. A young, wild beast with no knowledge of humility. Its craving for acceptance and acknowledgement slobbered all over the words ‘Dr. Graham.’
Hannibal smiled. “Does Dr. Graham often receive visitors?”
“Not often, no.”
“No family of which to speak?”
Mr. Brown’s head jerked from side-to-side, a feral dog shaking water out of his ears. “No. Dr. Graham doesn’t need family though. He’s doing just fine.”
Hannibal hummed, mildly curious as to whether Mr. Brown’s devotional attitude would remain even after learning the truth of Dr. Graham’s involvement in the Ripper murders.
That curiosity was placed on hold as Dr. Chilton emerged from his office.
A moment settled between them, thick like sludge, where Dr. Chilton recognized Hannibal as better. Better job. Better reputation. Better suit (by at least seven thousand dollars). Jealousy and irritation seeded in that moment, then time moved on. Dr. Chilton smoothed the lapels of his suit, tailored but not designer, in an attempt to preen what few feathers he had.
Hannibal nodded in greeting. “Dr. Chilton.”
“Dr. Lecter! I knew you’d come ‘round eventually. You tried to stand above it, uncaring of one of the most complex criminal minds of the century, but no one is immune to curiosity. Isn’t that right?”
Hannibal twisted his lips into a professionally clip smile. “As I mentioned over the phone, Alana is worried about him. She says he hasn’t spoken in a year and a half.”
Dr. Chilton’s smug grin faltered at the use of Alana’s first name. He had been not-so-subtly vying for her attention ever since their school days, and his inability to foster anything past professional courtesy painted a clean target. He recovered with a quick, “Yes, well, he was hardly communicative even before his vow of silence. Professed his innocence and nothing else. Luckily, words are hardly the only form of communication. His childhood, for example. Absent mother, workaholic father, no stable home of which to speak, and an inability to connect with his peers. Excluding his love of animals, he’s a veritable how-to manual for creating a killer.”
Dr. Chilton took obvious pride in his assessment, chest puffing out like a gorilla seeking a mate. Beside him, Mr. Brown stared with wide, hungry eyes. Hannibal wondered if the orderly had already taken a life, or if that was a desire yet to be indulged.
Perhaps he’d offer the boy a free therapy session and find out.
“I shall have to take your word for it. I’m afraid I haven’t done much research into Dr. Graham outside what Alana shared.”
Dr. Chilton’s lips twitched downward, jilted yet again by the casual use of Alana’s name. “You’ll find a lack of preparedness can mean more than just an unhappy patient within these walls, Dr. Lecter. Mr. Graham is exactly as volatile as you’d expect.”
Mister Graham, not Doctor. As though being a serial killer stripped him of his worldly titles and due respects.
“I appreciate the warning.” Hannibal held out an arm, gliding easily into the role of host despite being in socially hostile territory. “Shall we?”
Dr. Chilton stepped forward before recognizing the role reversal. He bristled, irritation clear in the stretch of his lips, but said nothing. He knew as well as Hannibal did that the time to take control had passed. Hannibal fell in step beside Dr. Chilton a moment later.
Mr. Brown, ahead of them but continually glancing back, was not unaware of the intricacies of their social dance. As someone who was neither born into money nor had the opportunity to rub elbows with those who were, he was clearly out of his depths. Not recognizing the steps, however, didn’t equate to not hearing the music. The way he watched Hannibal from beneath his lashes, barely daring to meet his eyes, said he, too, knew who led and who followed.
They reached the Maximum-Security wing without further conversation. Bars lined the walls, and behind them stood prisoners, each in their own cell. These were the men and women society deemed depraved. Insane. Slaves to their baser instincts. Hannibal could read each and every one of them in a glance, but he wouldn’t. Not now, at least. Not with a much finer delicacy sitting in a special kind of cage at the end of the wing, cut off from the rest.
Will Graham was not behind bars. He was cased in glass.
Hannibal knew from the media frenzy covering the Ripper trial that Dr. Graham was handsome. That had never been in question. As he approached the cell, however, he began to think ‘handsome’ was the ill-gotten cousin of whatever word correctly described the prisoner. Luminous, perhaps. Or stunning. Kerintis. Asombroso. Lovely.
Laid back in his chair with all the calm of Angel playing the lute, but drawn with the hollow, choking duality of Rustici’s Woman Standing with Child in her Arms and Man Begging. Though looking at his figure – lithe musculature apparent even through the baggy white uniform – he’d likely be better suited to appear in Les raboteurs. Not an angel or a streetwalker, but a physical laborer.
Dr. Graham was lax in his seat: the only furnishing in his cell aside from a bolted-down cot. His head was tilted so his neck rested against the back of the chair, eyes closed. Long fingers moved in a steady motion next to his outer thigh, massaging something only he could see. Hannibal was curious until Dr. Graham’s pointer and middle fingers twitched in what was almost certainly a scratching motion, and it clicked.
His dogs.
Alana had complained about them once, just after Dr. Graham had been imprisoned but before she’d started avoiding Hannibal (avoiding the inevitable questions about her mental state, which would in turn bring the conversation back to Dr. Graham). There were seven of them, if Hannibal’s memory served him correctly. Seven strays, picked up and cared for by a man whose height of human intimacy (according to Alana) was running into a colleague outside of work and not immediately fleeing.
Hannibal took the chair on the left. Dr. Chilton the one on the right. Mr. Brown stood off to the side, hands clasped behind his back, eyes riveted on Dr. Graham. Not that Hannibal could blame him. Dr. Graham was art in the flesh, and he deserved to be admired.
Dr. Chilton cleared his throat: a forced, guttural sound. “Mr. Graham. Dr. Lecter is here for your interview.”
Dr. Graham’s hand cut a smooth crescent through the air, perhaps to pet across the dog’s head and down its neck. Hannibal waited as Dr. Graham came back to himself: shoulders tensing minutely, chapped lips pulling in displeasure, breathing purposefully evened. When Dr. Graham flattened his hand against his pantleg and rapidly tapped his middle finger, Hannibal knew he was present.
And then, the high note of a siren’s song, he opened his eyes.
Hannibal’s breath caught, fingers nearly physically twitching with the urge to sketch. No, to paint. For as much as the tilt and shape of Dr. Graham’s eyes were pleasant, it was the color that astounded Hannibal. Like an aurora borealis coupled with the fading blue of a clear night’s sky to make the perfect blend of Dr. Graham’s eyes. Hannibal could stare for hours without losing attention, he was sure.
Dr. Graham met Hannibal’s eyes for the briefest flicker of a moment before focusing on Hannibal’s shoes. Hannibal swallowed the seductive tones that tried to come out in the face of such devastating beauty, instead using a flat yet friendly voice to say, “Hello, Dr. Graham.”
Dr. Graham’s eyes flitted up to Hannibal’s tie then down to his knee. He said nothing, but the angle of his torso betrayed him. He wanted to know why Hannibal was there.
“My name is Dr. Lecter. I’m not here to interview you, but to converse. I am not your doctor, and you are not my patient. While I won’t say I have no interest in psychoanalyzing you, as that would be a lie, I do it with no ulterior motive. I can no more turn off my observations than you can yours.”
Dr. Graham’s eyes jerked up this time, near to meeting Hannibal’s but not quite. The lack of eye contact was a good sign. An honest sign that lent credence to the theory of pure empathy. Dr. Graham didn’t want to understand people as well as he did.
Better still, he didn’t expect any understanding in return.
“If those terms sound amenable to you, I’d like to proceed. May I call you Will?”
Dr. Graham’s eyes trailed down: sliding across Hannibal’s torso and caressing his legs before coming to a soft pause on the tip of his shoe. They hopped up again a second later, past Hannibal’s eyes to rest in his hair. A minute passed in silence. Two minutes. Just before the three minute mark, his chin dipped half an inch in consent.
Hannibal nearly purred. “Very good. Thank you, Will.”
Will’s fingers stilled. His eyes dilated, though whether from the praise or the use of his name was unknown. Barely furrowed brows told Hannibal that Will wasn’t sure why he was reacting either. An anomaly Hannibal looked forward to exploring together.
“Dr. Lecter came a long way to see you, Will.” Dr. Chilton’s obnoxiously over-confident voice crashed through their spider-web thin rapport, ruining it. “Aren’t you even going to say hello?”
Anger chilled Hannibal’s chest as he turned his head sharply to Dr. Chilton. The number of sins Dr. Chilton had committed with two simple sentences was staggering. Inserting himself in Hannibal’s conversation, for one. Using Will’s name when he had not asked, had not earned, was another. The greatest offense, however, came in the form of Will’s teeth baring as he remembered where, exactly, he was. Will tilted his head back, resting it against the chair. Eyes closed.
While he was nowhere near as relaxed as before they’d arrived, indicating he hadn’t yet retreated to his version of a Mind Palace, it was clear he felt their conversation finished.
Whatever progress Hannibal had made was locked away.
Dr. Chilton, oblivious to the damage he’d done, prattled on. “Don’t be discouraged, Dr. Lecter. He’s always like this. Arrogant in his silence, believing himself above us and everything we do. A classic narcissist.”
Will snorted, his thoughts on Dr. Chilton’s analysis apparently mirroring Hannibal’s own.
Hannibal returned his attention to Will, noting the hunch of his shoulders and tension in his legs. Will’s body language was withdrawn. Protective. Defensive. These were not the markers of someone who thought themselves above the chaff, but someone who was aware that he must fight through the chaff for no greater purpose than to survive. Will was used to being ignored, misdiagnosed, and misused.
Perhaps Dr. Chilton’s imbecilic nature could prove useful yet.
Hannibal adopted a low, conversational tone akin to a murmur. “Is that true, Will? Has Dr. Chilton seen through your façade? Are you really so simple?”
Will’s tapping fingers curled, bitten-down nails digging into the leg of his jumpsuit.
Hannibal hummed, pleased. “I thought not.”
“You’re giving him too much credit. He’s an intelligent psychopath capable of faking extreme empathy. Nothing more. Don’t let his reputation fool you.” Dr. Chilton swiveled to face Will. “Unless, of course, you’d like to refute that, Mr. Graham? Refute your status as a narcissist. Refute your role as the Chesapeake Ripper. Refute your feelings on me. You could do it all, if only you’d speak.” Dr. Chilton turned again toward Hannibal, giving Will no time to say anything. “I suppose you weren’t privy to the why of Mr. Graham’s vow of silence, were you? Allow me to clue you in. It’s a game of sorts, born out of respect for my expertise. He knows that if he actually talks to me, I’ll have him figured out within the week. All of his secrets – his air of mystery and intrigue – gone. He doesn’t speak because he’s afraid of me. He knows he’s met his match.”
Will’s eyes cracked open the barest amount, just enough to watch Hannibal from beneath a canopy of dark lashes. His glance was an almost audible: You’re hearing this too, right?
Hannibal rolled his shoulders a fourth of an inch forward.
I am.
Will closed his eyes again, calmer now.
Dr. Chiton frowned, returning his attention to Will. “It’s really no wonder Dr. Bloom sent Dr. Lecter to check on you rather than returning herself. Another bridge burned, eh, Mr. Graham?”
Will opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. His body tensed, but not in the defensive, angry manner to which he naturally gravitated. This tenseness was soft. Worried, almost. Will stopped tapping a tuneless rhythm against his leg to instead raise his hand and, almost delicately, tuck a few curls behind his ear.
The interest that had been sparking in Hannibal’s chest exploded into brilliant, obsessive fireworks.
Not only was pure empathy not a misdiagnosis, it was even more captivating than Hannibal had imagined. Will, in that motion, was more Alana than himself. If Hannibal breathed in deeply enough, he could almost smell the artificial daisies.
Except Will wouldn’t wear pretty, flowered scents, would he? And if he did, it wouldn’t be often. Certainly not with the intent of attracting a suitable partner. No, Will struck Hannibal as a minimalist. Whatever scent Will bore, it was one of convenience.
For now, he would smell mostly of prison soap. But beneath that? Would his skin, free of chemicals, be musky or sweet? What about when he was out and about, free from Dr. Chilton’s cage? Would he wear cologne? Aftershave? If so, it was unlikely to be anything expensive. Probably something with a ship on the bottle.
Hannibal would need to know Will’s natural scent before recommending a suitable cologne, though there was a certain appeal in simply sprinkling him with Hannibal’s own. A claim, of sorts, to ward off undesirables.
Dr. Chilton, completely unaware of Hannibal’s revelation, continued, “Face it, Mr. Graham. I’m the only person willing to put up with you in the long-term. No one cares about you or your supposed innocence. No one wants to play your game, be it forced silence or faux empathy. You are nothing.” Dr. Chilton leaned forward, greedily taking in the (admittedly stunning) hurt splashed across Will’s face. “That doesn’t have to be the case though. Speak to me. Let me tell your story. I’ll write a book – your book – on the Chesapeake Ripper murders, and you’ll go down in history as a brilliant, shining star. Doesn’t that sound good, Mr. Graham? And all you have to do is open your mouth.
“You can start out slow. One word answers so the audience knows you were defiant to the end. Just tell me how you felt when you killed them. Or how you chose your victims. Was it your mother or father who drove you to insanity? Or maybe you’d like to start with more recent events. How do you feel about your stay here? The staff? Me?”
Will’s posture abruptly shifted: a cornered animal gliding smoothly into the skin of a predator. His spine straightened as he sat up, poised yet languid. Commanding. The unshakable confidence of someone born into opulence. He lifted his head casually, as though they were on his time rather than the other way around, and bypassed Dr. Chilton completely to stare at Hannibal.
Right into his eyes.
Hannibal’s heartrate sped as he recognized the cool indifference pinning him to his seat. This version of Will felt no anger or pain over Dr. Chilton’s remarks. And why would he, when Dr. Chilton was no more than an animal beneath his feet? A pig to the slaughter.
Those eyes were Hannibal’s just before he requested a business card. They were the Chesapeake Ripper’s, unmasked and exposed. And it was in seeing the Ripper’s eyes on Will that Hannibal, for the first time in his life, felt seen. Seen and known and it was addicting. Ambrosia of the finest quality seeping into Hannibal’s lungs and poisoning his veins.
He wanted more. More of that look, more of this feeling, more of Will. More, more, more. To be looked at not only in the dark, with his baser cravings on display, but in the sweet light of day. To be wholly understood by this vessel of perfection.
Oh, what he wouldn’t do.
Before Hannibal could contemplate it further, Will (glorious, generous Will) opened his mouth. He shaped his lips around a single word, delivered it with a voice roughened from lack of use.
“Rude.”
Just like that, his vow of silence ended. A year and a half of self-imposed solitude broken for no other reason than to slight an arrogant doctor with a wayward tongue. A year and a half of work: discarded on a whim.
Hannibal could have sighed in appreciation, but the moment was too short, and their audience too broad. Will came back to himself in a blink. A frown twisted on cupid’s bow lips as he retreated into his previous defensive posture. The slump of his shoulders was more pronounced than before, signaling exhaustion, and regardless of Dr. Chilton’s excited babbling, Hannibal decided he would push no further.
When Will came to him – and Will would come – it would be in search of solidarity. He’d need a place to rest his head without fear. A sanctuary where he could Become.
And Hannibal would provide.
(***Paragon***)
When Hannibal left the BSHCI, he got Matthew Brown to write his information on the back of one of Dr. Chilton’s business cards. While Mr. Brown hadn’t been rude, per se, the way he stared at Will was unacceptable.
Not that Hannibal didn’t understand the fascination. Will was nothing short of divine, and street urchin like Matthew Brown had to take their brushes with beauty where they could get it. Like a starving mongrel staring through a window at a warm fireplace and nourishing meal, Mr. Brown knew that Will Graham could complete him. He also knew (had to know, on some instinctual level) that a luxury like Will was not meant for his grubby, clumsy fingers to bruise and smudge.
Will was meant to be worshipped. To be pampered and cared for by an acolyte devoted enough to lick the blood of the undeserving from his flesh. The most Mr. Brown would be able to provide was a sordid, daily struggle to obtain scraps off the streets.
And that, Hannibal would not allow.
He supposed if Mr. Brown were content with admiring from afar, things would be different. Not even Hannibal could kill every person who tossed Will a lustful glance.
(Nor would he want to. Will had barely moved during their meeting, and already Hannibal could tell that his boy was the epitome of sensuality. He could no more expect people to overlook Will’s sexual potential than he could ask an artist to overlook the Louvre.)
Unfortunately for Mr. Brown, Hannibal recognized the yearning – the avarice – in his fevered stares. The orderly would never be content with looking. He would want to reach, to touch, leaving Hannibal no choice but to cut him off at the wrists.
Hannibal closed his eyes, savoring the thought. Another time.
The important thing now was to get Will out of the BSHCI, away from both Dr. Chilton and Mr. Brown, and into Hannibal’s daily life. Not an impossible goal, all things considered, but a lengthy one.
And the first step toward his goal, his Will, was Jack Crawford.
Agent Crawford didn’t look up as Hannibal entered his office, too concerned with one of the many files stacked and strewn across his desk. The office reeked of chemicals (ointments, chemo, expensive perfume, cheap cologne), and Hannibal knew without asking that Agent Crawford’s much-beloved wife had late-stage cancer.
Agent Crawford ignored Hannibal for another forty-five seconds. In that time, Hannibal learned Agent Crawford spent more time at work than was strictly proper, given his wife’s diagnosis. Many a meal was taken in the office, judging by the stale smell of food and the myriad of take-out menus. Hannibal also learned that catching the Chesapeake Ripper was the agent’s crowning achievement: the newspaper clipping of Will’s sentencing framed and centered amongst a sea of diplomas, certificates, and awards.
It was news of the Chesapeake Ripper, coupled with Alana’s name, that earned Hannibal this short-notice meeting.
Hard, tired brown eyes raised to meet Hannibal’s. “Dr. Lecter. You wanted to see me?”
Hannibal stuck out a hand. “Please, call me Hannibal.”
Agent Crawford reached across the cluttered desk to accept. His grip was tight and professional. He pumped twice, then leaned back in his chair. “Jack. What can I do for you?”
“Not much, I suspect. I only came to tell you that I visited Dr. Will Graham this morning.”
Jack’s meaty hand fisted into a tight ball, the dark skin around his knuckles paling. His voice dropped to a low bark. “And?”
“And I believe he is innocent.”
A train wreck of emotions piled up on Jack’s face. Shock. Disbelief. Anger. Fear. Denial. Self-doubt. Anger again. He settled on anger as he shouted, “What the hell are you going on about?”
Hannibal kept his expression neutral and tone professional. “I met him, today, at Alana’s request. He bears none of the personality markers of the Chesapeake Ripper, and it is my professional opinion that he is not the man society claims him to be.”
“Where are you getting your personality analysis, Doctor? Will hasn’t spoken in over a year.”
“He spoke today.”
More self-doubt. More denial. More anger. Anger, anger, anger. “What did he say?”
“He said Dr. Chilton was rude.”
Jack waited for more. Hannibal met his gaze unflinchingly, silently daring him to bark another order, as though Hannibal were one of his obedient pawns.
Jack looked away first. “Anything else?”
“No.”
A string of curses fell from plump lips. He slammed his palm on the file he had been reading. “I don’t have time for this. Will Graham is the Chesapeake Ripper, and I’ve got a dozen more, active serial killers on my desk. I’m not reopening the Ripper case just because Chilton is rude.”
“Not because Dr. Chilton is rude. Because Will Graham is innocent.”
A fissure opened up in the anger to reveal sweet, vulnerable fear. Then, like a bear trap, the anger snapped it back up. “Thank you for your concern, Doctor, but I’m very busy. I’m sure you can show yourself out.”
Hannibal nodded, easily acquiescing. He bid Jack a good day.
They wouldn’t reopen the Ripper case because of this conversation, but Hannibal hadn’t expected them to. The point of their meeting wasn’t to pick fruit, after all, but to plant a seed. Now, when the Ripper’s next victim revealed itself to the world, Jack’s first thoughts wouldn’t be of a copy-cat, but this conversation.
Hannibal pressed his lips together into what was almost a smile and slid into his car. He’d gone to Jack directly after the BSHCI not only to add weight to the claim of Will’s innocence, but because he was a man who enjoyed saving the best for last. Ending his day in Jack’s office may have left a sour taste on his tongue. Ending the day in Will’s house, on the other hand?
Anticipation thrummed steady in his chest throughout the hour-long drive. He was greeted by a broken gate at the end of the driveway, a beaten-up old sedan, and a dilapidated house. Vandals and rebellious youths made their mark on the place: faded red and black paint splashing every available insult across the aging wood. Murderer. Cannibal. Psycho. Sicko. Freak. All slurs meant for the Ripper, aimed at an innocent.
The front door was unlocked, splinters of wood around the latch and faceplate denoting the first entry wasn’t gentle. Two fingers and a soft prod later, the door was open. The house’s innards were in even worse shape than the shell. Crude drawings and graffiti smeared the walls. Satanic symbols sank into hardwood floors. Garbage was everywhere.
Red solo cups, crushed cans, and empty bottles. Fecal matter and fur.
Hannibal wrinkled his nose at the smell of the place, almost overwhelmingly old alcohol and urine, then strode to the left. If not for the mattress rotting in the back corner, he would think this a living room. As it was, he decided it was either a bedroom or an everything room. Considering Will’s empathy, job history, and childhood, having a clear line of sight was probably very important to him.
Hannibal took his time exploring the room, cataloguing everything he could about Will Graham. The mattress was old, stained with rainwater and bodily fluids. Its only adornments were a single sheet and a thin blanket. Will, at least when sleeping, likely ran hot. The couch perpendicular to the bed was in no better shape, its once-tan upholstery irreparably torn and soiled. The chimney above the fireplace had a hole in it, possibly from a sledgehammer. The remains of a lure crafting station haunted a desk beneath a window, and two unfinished boat motors rusted away on the floor.
Will was a laborer, as Hannibal had thought he would be.
He was also, unexpectedly, a musician. An old piano sat to the left of the fireplace, bench positioned so Will could feel the flames at his back while he played. If the state of the rest of the room was anything to go by, it was likely out of tune. Possibly even damaged beyond repair. Luckily, Hannibal had a grand piano in his own home, and he was more than willing to share.
In terms of art and whimsical personalization, the room was bare. Rather than devoting space to aesthetic pleasures, Will collected books. Shelves upon shelves, filled to bursting. Many of the books were ruined, either by weather or intruders, but the few that remained intact were clearly well-loved. Hannibal made note of the ones which looked like they had been read countless times so that he could read them himself. A stack of printed-out articles laid atop the books on a higher shelf, and Hannibal needed only to glance at the sharp, messy handwriting in the margins before tucking them under his arm to take with him.
The kitchen was unimpressive, with several bowls on the floor for the dogs and almost no kitchenware of which to speak. It was clear Will preferred to take better care of his dogs than himself.
Upstairs was much more utilitarian than the rest of the house, with the majority of the rooms sitting empty. The only indication that the upper floor was inhabited at all came from Will’s closet, and even then, it was questionable. Unlike Hannibal’s ever-expanding wardrobe, Will’s choice of clothing was scarce. A few pairs of jeans lay crumpled on the ground. Six long-sleeved shirts sagged from mismatched plastic hangers. A pile of sweat-stained undershirts clumped together on a shelf above them. Boxer-briefs pressed against the wall beside the undershirts, old and worn enough to have holes near the waistbands.
It would have been a sorry excuse for a wardrobe even before Will’s imprisonment, but two years of neglect had done it no favors. The materials were moth-bitten and mildewed. Practically unwearable. Hannibal didn’t touch, but he did catalogue the type of clothing Will preferred. Winter was only three short months away, and Hannibal refused to let these scraps be the only thing standing between Will and hypothermia.
The bathroom was his final stop within the house. It was mostly bare, populated only by a single bottle of cheap shampoo, a bar of soap, a towel, a razor, and a bottle of cologne with the (expected) ship on the label. Hannibal tossed the cologne in the trash as he left.
He made his way to the shed out back. While the smaller building didn’t escape the obligatory painted slurs, the padlock was unbroken. Hunger flared in his chest at the thought of seeing a room made by Will, untouched by swine. He picked the lock in seconds and pushed his way in.
First came the obvious odors: dust, dust-mites, oil, sawdust, and rust. Beneath that, barely detectable even by Hannibal, rested something sweeter. Sunshine and warm rain misted with coffee and fresh herbs. Perfection. Hannibal breathed deeper, imagined pressing his nose to Will’s neck and taking his fill. Within his Mind Palace, he bottled the scent in a fine crystal perfume glass and placed it gently on a shelf inside a room meant solely for Will.
The shed itself was unremarkable, if a bit cluttered. Woodworking tools – handsaws, hand sanders, a small bandsaw, and a planar – littered the back-left corner in a gentle proclamation of Will’s talents. Multiple toolboxes sat open on the floor, and coupled with the tools strewn about them, they made a circle around where Will must have commonly sat and worked. The medium-sized woodstove and spare generator on the right made the room feel smaller than it was. What interested Hannibal most, however, was the bag of cement mix and stack of bricks by the door. They suggested the hole in the chimney had been there before the vandals arrived.
Hannibal exited the shed, locking the door behind him.
While the house didn’t provide the peek into Will’s personal life that Hannibal had wanted, it was hardly a waste. Hannibal now knew which room in his own home he’d be remodeling to Will’s tastes. He also had an idea of Will’s hobbies, though the finer details of what, exactly, Will would need to enjoy them required more research.
He slid into his Bentley, placing the annotated articles in the passenger seat as he went, and thought of the day when he wouldn’t need to pilfer to gain access to Will’s thoughts. The day when Will would speak freely, with no glass between them or swine to steal his attention away.
The day when Will would really and truly belong to Hannibal.
Soon.