Chapter Text
Sunday, November 20th, 2016
“How’s it going, Dr. Gideon?” Will asks, hoisting his book-bag up higher onto his shoulder.
Dr. Gideon looks up from his book with a grin. “Significantly better now that you’ve finally arrived. How’s old Farley doing?”
“Better,” he answers, smiling. “He’s starting to respond to direct questions, and he’s been drawing a lot. They’re hopeful he’ll continue improving.”
Gideon sighs, throwing his head back. “Oh, the lucky man. You must be so pleased. Only a month in a new hospital and he’s already a success story.”
Will shakes his head. “They’re treating him as best they can, but he has a long way to go.”
“I should send him a card,” Gideon mumbles, and then sits up, a manic grin on his face. “Speaking of cards…heard anything from your old pal, Dr. Lecter, lately?”
He huffs, looking away with a faint blush. “No, nothing.”
Nothing since his birthday, at least. A card wishing him a happy birthday had been sent to Dr. Bloom’s home on June 19th. After the FBI had finished examining it for forensic evidence that Hannibal wasn’t stupid enough to leave, he’d been allowed to look at it for a few moments. The only thing he’d been able to conclude was that Hannibal had drawn the flower – dianthus barbatus – on the cover himself.
Will hadn’t been too concerned, though Alana and Margot had decided to move into another house just to be on the safe side.
Gideon hums to himself. “Too bad. Maybe he’s moved on. Found himself a new budding psychiatrist to fuck with.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, probably.”
“Oh, I’m just teasing, Graham. Dr. Lecter would never forget about you.”
Will smiles thinly. “That’s flattering, Dr. Gideon, but I’m pretty sure he has bigger things to worry about than me right now.”
Gideon shrugs and turns back to his book. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Will shakes his head and walks away. “Nice talking to you, Dr. Gideon,” he calls out over his shoulder.
“You too, Mr. Graham!”
His next stop is Adam Rain’s cell.
Unlike Farley Portlock – whom Alana Bloom had campaigned to have charges against dropped so he could be transferred to a different hospital – Mr. Rain is unlikely to ever leave the BSHCI, (now properly renamed the Baltimore State Hospital for High-Risk Patients). However, since Dr. Bloom took over the hospital after the investigation into Hannibal Lecter’s escape exposed the security flaws and rampant misapplication of funds under Frederick Chilton’s administration, things have improved immensely.
Chilton went against the FBI’s advice and was last seen boarding a plane to the Bahamas.
No one has heard from him in months.
“Hey, Mr. Rain,” Will greets softly, kneeling down in front of the man’s cell.
The middle-aged man looks up, setting the two dolls he was playing with on the floor. “Hi!” he says cheerfully. “We’re having a dance battle.” He points to the dark-haired doll. “Mitch is winning, but Stephanie is getting better.”
“Oh?” Will answers, humouring the man like he would a young child. “Who decides who’s winning?”
“I do, of course,” Rain proclaims, picking the dolls up again and making them swing their legs around.
He nods. “Mitch and Stephanie. Those are the names of the puppets your dad used to show you, aren’t they?” The puppets who Adam Rain believed failed to save his father during a robbery. The ones he’d tried to recreate in human flesh.
Rain hunches over at the mention of his father. “I don’t want to talk about that,” he says, sounding like he’s almost in tears.
“Hey, it’s alright,” Will whispers. “We don’t have to. I just think it’s nice that you’re okay with using those names when you’re playing.”
Rain sniffs. “Dr. Bloom said that it wasn’t Mitch and Stephanie’s fault. She said they couldn’t move without daddy’s help.”
“That’s right, Mr. Rain. Do you know why they couldn’t move?”
Rain’s shoulders tremble and he turns away completely. “No! You’re going to say they weren’t real, but they were! They were my friends.” He breaks down in tears and begins rocking himself back and forth.
Will’s face crumbles. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rain. I didn’t mean to upset you. Here, Dr. Bloom said that it was alright for you to have these.” He reaches into his book-bag, pulls out a small, red gift bag, and pushes it through the bars.
Rain sniffles, but reaches out to open it up and gasps. He pulls out the two tiny outfits – one a blue dress, and the other a black tuxedo – and sets them down next to his dolls. “Are these for them?” he asks in wonder.
Will smiles. “Yes. Now you can dress them up when they dance.” He reaches into the cell and takes the gift bag back while Rain is distracted. “I’ll be back in the morning. Maybe they’ll put on a show for me.”
Rain nods, already undressing Mitch. “Thank you. They love them.”
“You’re welcome.”
Seeing that Mr. Rain is retreating back into his fantasies, Will gets up and leaves. He heads over to what was once Frederick Chilton’s office. The door is open, and Dr. Bloom can be heard conversing in a childish voice.
“Yes, Marky, you have to eat all your carrots before you’re allowed a cookie.” She holds up her finger when she sees him enter, giving him an apologetic look. He takes a moment to look around, seeing the redecorated room filled with half a dozen pictures drawn by Marquise Verger-Bloom instead of Chilton’s many minor awards. It feels warmer and less sterile than it used to.
“I love you too, sweetie.” She makes a kissy noise into her phone and hangs up, blushing a little. “Sorry about that. Dinner emergency.”
He smiles. “Oh, it’s fine,” he reassures her. “I gave Mr. Rain the doll clothes. He seemed really happy.”
She sighs. “Good, that’s about all we can do for him. His brain damage was worse than initially thought. There have been some signs of regression. I’m starting to think we should consult a neurologist just to be on the safe side.”
Will frowns. “Is it that bad?”
“We won’t know until we check. I’ll schedule an appointment with Dr. Sutcliffe.” She ruffles through some papers on her desk. “Oh, where did I put his business card?”
Will glances at her computer. “You could try emailing the hospital where he works to get his number.”
She pauses, then nods. “Good idea. Thanks, Will.”
He glances down at her desk as she types a quick email to Johns Hopkins. There’s a printout from a website he recognizes all too well on top of a pile of papers.
Bill’s First Victim Found!
Dr. Bloom sees what he’s looking at and quickly covers it. “Jack Crawford dropped it off this morning. There’s apparently a fourth victim now as well.”
Will nods, still staring at the spot where a blurred-out photo of a bloated body lies underneath. “I heard he got his old job back.”
She frowns. “That’s right. I guess after Bella…passed…they re-evaluated him for the position. The only difference is now he’s working under Miriam Lass.”
“Probably because of the public outcry,” Will reasons. “With Hannibal out of prison, they think they’ll be safer if the man who caught him is working on his case.”
She nods. “Partially.”
“And then there’s Buffalo Bill,” he says flippantly.
She rubs at her temples. “Oh, please don’t. Jack was already here asking me for my opinion.”
He scoffs. “Which is another way of saying he wants you to ask for my opinion.”
She sighs. “That’s about right.”
“They found another victim?”
“Will,” she says hopelessly.
“I promise I won’t get involved, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a look.” He gives her a weak smile.
She’s silent for a moment, and then pulls out the printout. “If you think it’s necessary.”
He takes it, looking at the picture. The image is a sad one. A girl no older than Will, chubby, though most of that is probably bloating from the water. There are mottled bruises around her neck. The skin of her feet has been degloved – meaning that it slid off somehow. Bev has told him about that happening to corpses. It’s exactly as disgusting as it sounds.
Considering how long it took to find her…
“He weighed her down?”
Dr. Bloom nods hesitantly.
“She must’ve been special to him.”
Dr. Bloom closes her eyes and gets up to stare out the window. “Will, please, I know you mean well, but I’d really rather not think about this right now.”
He blinks at her, then tucks the printout into his bag. “Sorry.”
She tries to smile, but it comes out looking broken. “I know. How are your classes going?”
“Well enough. Hard to believe I’ll be in school for five more years.”
“You’ll graduate sooner than that,” she predicts. “You have enough experience.”
“Thanks to you,” he says, once again grateful that she’d allowed him to volunteer at the hospital.
“You’re a big help.”
He shrugs. “I just talk.”
“Sometimes that’s all they need, someone to talk to.” She looks uncomfortable again, but shakes herself out of it. “Go on home, Will. You have studying to do.”
“Yeah,” he says, gathering his things. “I’ll drop by before class starts.”
She glances at his book-bag. “To drop off your profile?”
He shrugs again. “Would you rather I take it to Crawford and have him talk me into going to a crime scene?”
She huffs. “It’s fine. I can play the middle-man for now, but you’re going to have to speak to him eventually.”
“I’ll wait until I have a degree and a good reputation to shield me.” He smiles as he leaves, trying to convey that he doesn’t want her to worry. She will, of course, but he still tries to comfort her.
Done for the day, Will heads home. He doesn’t have roommates anymore. His father’s life insurance, plus the savings from his business have basically ensured he’ll never go hungry as long as he budgets properly. The house he’s renting is small, just one storey, and a little rundown, but it’s just a twenty minute drive to his new school, and just over thirty to the hospital. It’s also surrounded by one of the only green areas in Baltimore.
He loves the city, but sometimes it’s nice to be alone. He can play music as loud as he wants, and doesn’t have to worry about his neighbours spying on him. He’s even thinking of getting a dog.
It’s dark out by the time he gets there, and the temperature is dropping rapidly. He hurries inside and shuts the door behind him, then he hangs his coat up and heads for his bedroom.
His room is a place of peace, with teal walls and a wooden floor. A framed picture of his father, mother, and his three-year-old self sits on the end table next to his bed. They almost look like a real family.
He sets his bag down on his desk and pulls out his laptop, plugging it in to charge.
“Let’s see what you’ve been up to,” Will says, studying the printout as his laptop boots up.
The girl in the picture – Fredrica Bimmel – was clearly submerged for a while. Strange, because Bill’s two other victims were found out floating on the open water, skinned and displayed for all the world to see just days after they disappeared. The fact that he took to time to weigh her down means something.
He drags his fingers along the picture. “You were almost kind to her.”
It’s true. Compared to his more recent kills, strangulation and post-mortem skinning is nothing. His last victim was beaten to death with a hammer. Whatever Bill’s intentions were initially, he’s gotten a taste for violence.
Will shakes his head, going over the details again and printing out a few more pictures before he goes to bed.
He doesn’t sleep for long before he wakes from a nightmare just after midnight. He’s worked hard at building his memory palace, but occasionally, when he dreams, dangerous thoughts still slip into his head. Tonight’s featured the image of strips of his own skin falling off, and a faceless man with a hammer hovering over him.
He stumbles to the bathroom in the dark, stripping off his shirt, and grabbing a towel to wipe off his sweaty torso. He gives his back a cursory exam, unable to stop himself from checking that all his skin is still there. He splashes water on his face and contemplates just staying up, but decides against it, knowing he doesn’t want to be sleep-deprived today.
To delay a bit longer, he navigates his way to the desk in his room, switches on his lamp, and picks up the notes he made for the Buffalo Bill case.
He knows he shouldn’t be looking into it. The nightmares are just the start. Soon he’ll start speaking with the voice of a murderer, daydreaming about what he must be feeling when he starts cutting. He knows how bad it is for him, but he can’t seem to keep away.
Fredrica Bimmel, his first victim, yet the third one found.
He closes his eyes.
The pendulum swings.
I know her. She’s special to me. That’s why I weighed her down, so no one would disturb her.
Will opens his eyes again. “So, you knew her? Did she know you? Were you friends?”
He grabs his notebook and flips to a blank page. The pictures are laid out next to it, and as he starts to jot down this new information, he gets a glimpse of their wounds – skin neatly cut and peeled off after death, always in a different place. It’s like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
He freezes, pen hovering over paper, and repeats that thought in his head, then he grabs the pictures and holds them up to the window, squinting in the dim moonlight.
I need the extra fabric to make it fit.
“Oh my god,” Will whispers, putting the pictures down. He makes his notes quickly, gripping the pen so tightly his hand cramps.
- Building a suit made of skin
- May be physically disfigured or believes himself to be
- Possibly is transgender or believes himself to be transgender (considering he is using female skin)
- Knew Fredrica Bimmel (possibly loved her)
- Check with psychologists specializing in gender identity disorders and screening for transition therapy
- Look for patients who were rejected due to disturbances not associated with gender
- Almost certainly a history of abuse
- Look for people who specialize in tailoring or sewing (making clothes)
He reads over his notes, satisfied for now.
He contemplates calling Jack Crawford immediately, but ultimately decides not to. He’ll give his notes to Dr. Bloom in the morning. He doesn’t want Crawford to start believing that Will regrets not going into forensics. He loves psychology. He loves helping people at the hospital. It makes him feel like he’s doing some good.
After a few more minutes, he slips back into bed, closing his eyes.
He’s just starting to drift off when a hand clamps down over his mouth.
His eyes open in shock, adrenaline jolting through him as he sees the glint of a knife in the darkness before it sinks into his stomach lightning fast.
He chokes, arching his back. The pain hasn’t reached him yet, but he knows it will soon. He whimpers.
“Shh,” a soft voice implores. It’s one he’d recognize anywhere. Will’s eyes flick to the right, seeing the shadow rising up beside his bed. “It’s alright, Will. Don’t move. You’re in shock now. I don’t want you to feel any pain. In a moment, you’ll begin to feel light-headed, then drowsy. Don’t resist. It’s so gentle, like slipping into a warm bath.”
He can feel warmth spreading across his torso, dripping down onto the sheets.
That’s my blood, he thinks sluggishly. I’m bleeding. Hannibal stabbed me. He tastes betrayal on his tongue, and his next thought rises from somewhere in the darkest corner of his mind. I thought we were friends.
His hand moves up – so slowly – to touch Hannibal’s face. He still can’t see anything, vision going blurry and dark around the edges as he lays there dying.
Hannibal sucks in a breath as Will touches him.
“Remarkable boy. I do admire your courage.”
Hannibal moves his hand off Will’s mouth, and slides his thumb across Will’s cheek, catching a tear.
“I think I’ll eat your heart.”
Will startles awake with a choked-off cry, then grabs at his blankets and pushes them away to reveal his uninjured stomach.
He breathes heavily, checking the clock and realizing he must have fallen asleep again. It’s just after 4:00 a.m.
He rubs his face, groaning as he stretches himself out on the bed.
“Damn it.” He lays there in silence, trying to settle his racing heart.
He pinches himself just to be sure he’s awake this time, feeling like a stupid kid for getting worked up over a nightmare.
He’s just about ready to get out of bed when a hand presses against his mouth again.
His eyes spring open.
Hannibal is there, holding a knife just like he dreamt.
The doctor smiles as their eyes meet.
“Hello, Will.”