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*
The scene that greets Will Graham at his client’s house on Tuesday, May the twenty-first, would be enough to send any normal person into shock, hysterics, vomiting, or any combination of the three. To Will, dog trainer extraordinaire, it merely reaffirms the deep and abiding gratitude he holds for the evaluating psychologist who blacklisted him before he could ever get deep into law enforcement.
The client is – was – an elderly lady, too frail to take proper care of her ungainly new hound puppy (which Will could’ve predicted, but people only ever visited him after the problems started, not while they were considering starting them) but not frail enough to retire when her pension was nothing to look forward to. Staring at her gruesome remains now, Will’s first thought is for whoever will be responsible for cleaning up the scene, because there really is a lot of blood. Next, and perhaps more reassuringly, a degree of disgust for the kind of killer who sees a little old lady with a puppy and thinks, yes, that looks like fun.
But of course that’s a step too far, and usually Will knows better than that, but this morning he’s been caught unprepared before his first full cup of coffee, and so it goes:
This kill will be easy, he knows that, that’s not the point. The point is to send a message, to make an example. He’s a teacher, and these…these cattle are just props, useful but disposable. A good shepherd kills the weak to keep the rest of the herd strong, the old and the sick, for the good of the young and the healthy…
So he will show Him, and the hunters, that he is strong. He will make a good shepherd. He strings her up like a side of meat in a butcher’s, tender parts exposed and ready for harvest. It wouldn’t do to waste, after all, but his students are slow and he must make it obvious for them. Taking care to leave the ribs intact for his students, he cuts out the heart and places it on a plate of the best china the little house had to offer. This, he will take with him; but only this. Even the weak must be treated with respect, and their gifts not wasted.
He leaves the knife on the table, still bloody from his hand and her body, for them to use. They won’t use it yet, he knows, not in the right way, but it’s early days yet. All he hopes is for one, just one to see—
Will jerks, manages to slam his head into the wall, and ends his confused stumble on the floor with his back against the door. As his eyes struggle to focus he makes out the little hound puppy, trembling and nervous as only a very young puppy can be, hunched against his legs and timidly licking his hand. Little red paw prints dot the hallway in confused patterns, but the trail ends here.
Will sighs. When the room stops spinning and his nausea has settles as much as can be expected around a dead body, he scoops his newest stray in his arms and staggers to his feet. He has no desire to remain in the house for a moment longer.
Once outside, even the puppy seems to calm. They stand together in the bright, green May morning, taking great gasps of clean air, and it’s not until he stops that Will realizes he was trembling too. The puppy wriggles in his arms and licks his nose.
After what he just saw – felt – the last thing he wants to do is talk to the police about it, but he knows the whole situation will just look even worse otherwise. So after one last check to make sure his hands are still clean – his hands holding the knife, parting the skin to expose useful meat – Will Graham pulls out his cell phone and calls nine-one-one.
He’s not going to get involved. He’ll just explain the situation, and leave with the puppy. He’ll make it clear he’s not a useful witness. He won’t mention what he saw, he’ll just leave.
…It’s not his fault the police get it completely wrong.
*
Tagging along with Jack Crawford is not Hannibal’s favourite way to spend a beautiful spring morning, but he has sacrificed greater pleasures for the sake of appearances. This will be the third tableau from this particular killer, and the FBI still has no significant leads. Hannibal is the first to admit that he hasn’t been particularly helpful thus far, but he recognizes the importance of being present when Jack is distressed. He is, after all, a practicing psychologist.
The house is tiny and suburban, with a pleasant flowering garden and cobblestone walk. It is clearly the home of someone with little means but gentle tastes, and if Hannibal was disposed to softer feelings, he thinks he would find this death sad. It certainly makes Jack Crawford angry, if his heavy steps up to the door are any indication, and for him that is essentially the same thing.
The first thing he notices about the crime scene is the dog. Or rather, the lack of dog. The blood on the floor has dried and clotted, but the paw prints are still visible if one pays attention. It is not, however, his practice to give the FBI information that they do not specifically ask for, and so he does not mention the dog. Instead, he opines that the victims seem entirely random and that it is unlikely the killer will stop on his or her own, and watches as Jack’s barely controlled fury pushes ever closer to the surface. Crawford is predictable, but even predictable breakdowns are amusing, and his promises to be so loud.
Hannibal has nothing further to contribute, and so he leaves the agents to their bagging and tagging and goes outside. To his surprise Jack Crawford follows him, and together they strike out purposefully across the lawn because, apparently, they have a witness to interview.
And suddenly Hannibal’s dog problem has its answer, because said witness is sitting in the little park across the street and playing with a foxhound puppy. Hannibal tries not to jump to conclusions, but the dog is the right size and its presence here is far too convenient. He wonders if the witness will admit to it, and whether Crawford will notice if he doesn’t.
When they are within yelling distance, Jack yells. (He is, after all, predictable.) The witness, apparently one Will Graham, startles and stands. The puppy cowers behind him, and Hannibal is surprised by the regret he feels at its fear. He does not usually care for animals (nor they for him), but this young hunter’s paws are already stained with blood, and Hannibal finds the notion appealing.
Will Graham is decidedly less so. The man is twitchy and trembling, refusing to look either of them directly in the eye. His clothes are shabby and ill-fitting, his mop of curly brown hair messy and unkempt, and his oversized glasses seem to be in need of constant adjustment. As they near he makes an abortive motion toward the puppy, as if for reassurance, and only manages to highlight his own weakness in Hannibal’s professional eyes. The man is a caricature of an adult, and reminds Hannibal far too much of his own patients for this interview to be at all enjoyable.
Jack does not help. He is clearly trying to be civil, but his frustration does not allow him to maintain a neutral tone. “Why were you in the victim’s house?” he tries to ask, but it sounds more like a demand, or an accusation.
“I…I train dogs,” Graham stutters, eyes fixed firmly on a point left of Jack’s head. He gestures vaguely at the puppy, now pressed against the back of his legs. “I had an appointment with her puppy, she just got her last month. She was supposed to be leaving for work.”
Jack’s gaze sharpens like a senile bloodhound, scenting a trail that only exists in his own mind. Hannibal can already tell this man is no killer. “You have a key?”
Graham’s head jerks in a jagged sort of shake. “No. She lets me in before she goes to work, and then I lock the door on my way out. The killer…didn’t lock the door.”
Crawford is visibly still suspicious, but he is prudent enough to move on. He adopts his most serious demeanor and leans towards Graham, making the witness tense even further and sending his gaze skittering away. The move is obviously intended to intimidate, but is so clearly unnecessary here that Hannibal would have interfered, had he cared anything for either of them. As it is, he remains silent, and watches as Graham searches in vain for something safe to look at.
“This man is a serial killer,” Crawford rumbles, even though as far as Hannibal knows there has been nothing to suggest the killer’s gender either way. “He has already killed two people and will kill again if we cannot stop him. These are ritual killings, sacrifices, and entirely random. If—”
And then something incredible happens. Will Graham laughs in Jack Crawford’s face.
Crawford is so stunned he falls silent, but Hannibal is far more interested in Will’s reaction. After the initial bark of laughter he manages to swallow the rest, and a wide range of complicated emotions chase each other across his face, of which Hannibal only manages to decipher a few. It is clear, however, that Graham had not intended to laugh. The resignation that finally settles on his face, clear as day, is the most interesting reaction of them all. Hannibal takes an involuntary step closer and, though he is still significantly more distant than Jack, is pleased when Will does not react.
In the meantime, Crawford has recovered. “Did I say something amusing, Mr. Graham?” The way he says it makes it clear that the answer had better be no, even when it clearly is not.
Will shrugs, reluctant but resigned. “They’re not sacrifices,” he mutters, so soft that Hannibal would have missed it were he not paying such rapt attention.
“They’re not what?” Jack barks.
“Sacrifices,” Will repeats, louder. “He’s…he’s culling the herd, targeting the weak and the sick. He thinks he’s doing us a service.”
Hannibal is staring, he is being rude, but he cannot look away. Who is this man?
“Who are you?” Jack booms. “I don’t see a badge! Yet you think you know this killer’s mind, better than trained agents who have been studying him for weeks?”
Will shrugs again, not looking up. Hannibal suspects the lack of eye contact is not helping Crawford’s mood. “I saw the crime scene. He strung her up like…meat, like an animal. He took the heart, but nothing else, as if it had value. And he left the knife for us—you, for you. He’s trying to teach you the proper way.”
“The proper way?” Jack repeats, voice as dangerous as Hannibal has ever heard it. Will gulps.
“Or so he thinks.” Will pauses, still seeking something safe to look at. The puppy reaches up and licks his fingers, and a tiny smile flickers across his face. It dies as fast as it appears, and Hannibal finds he mourns its passing. “I…understand people, sometimes. I try not to, but I can’t always help it. I didn’t mean to say anything, and I don’t want to interfere with your investigation. It’s just my…opinion.” Will’s tone curdles on the last word, and Hannibal knows he is lying. A fission of heat runs through him, like he has never felt outside of his kitchen. This man is possibly the most interesting person he has ever met.
Crawford does not look even slightly appeased, but Hannibal has lost patience with his heavy-handedness. Will requires a gentle touch. “Jack. You have said yourself that you can see no connection between the killings, and yet one must exist. It would be foolish to dismiss new insights.”
It is the first time he has spoken, and Will had clearly dismissed and forgotten him. Now he startles, accidentally makes eye contact – and then, to Hannibal’s surprise and pleasure, does not look away. Something he sees there calms him; his twitchiness eases, and he lowers his shoulders and straightens. After a moment his gaze falls to rest on Hannibal’s paisley pocket square, and there it remains, safe at last.
If Will Graham finds Hannibal comforting, perhaps Crawford is right to be suspicious – not that Hannibal will ever enlighten him. He knows now that he was right: Will Graham is the most interesting person he has ever met. He is also possibly the most dangerous, but that seems to matter less than it should.
Crawford glares at him, and then again at Will for good measure, but with his eyes glued to Hannibal’s suit, Will does not wilt. Hannibal feels pride swell in his chest, and wonders if this is what an ordinary person would call love at first sight.
“With all due respect, Dr. Lecter,” Crawford growls, switching targets once more, “your specialty is neither profiling nor forensics. Unless this…savant,” and here another glare at Will, which dear William stubbornly ignores, “can come up with some proof or, hell, even precedent to back up his opinions, he’ll keep them to himself.” He points (with unnecessary aggression, Hannibal thinks) at Will, who flinches but otherwise does not react. “Don’t leave town.”
With this final dire warning, Crawford stomps off just as aggressively as he had come. This leaves Hannibal alone with Will, an opportunity he fully intends to exploit. Now that they are alone, he is disappointed to note that Will has abandoned his pocket square in favour of something more distant. Fortunately, Hannibal is adept at reading body language, and has extensive experience breaking down walls. In this case, surprises seem to work best.
“You are remarkable, you know.”
He says it in his customary even tone, but Will jumps as if he had shouted. His eyes flick briefly to Hannibal’s and then away, and his mouth twitches oddly as if it wants to smile but doesn’t quite remember how. They will have to work on that.
“I’m surprised you believe me,” he mutters. Much of what Will says seems to fall just on the edge of hearing; they will have to work on that, too. “Most people don’t.”
“I believe all views are worthy of consideration,” Hannibal says, even but soft now to match Will’s preference for quiet. He realizes now that Crawford’s presence earlier worked to his advantage, in presenting the best possible contrast. “But that’s not all people say, is it?”
“No,” Will admits easily, with a bitter sort of laugh. He hesitates, but a millisecond of eye contact seems to give him courage. “Crazy is a favourite. Creepy. Dangerous.” He says this last with a sneer which he apparently thinks is threatening, but reminds Hannibal more of a baby lion. Adorable, but it carries no weight; Will Graham has the potential to roar, but does not yet know how. It is another thing they will have to work on.
“People have always feared that which they do not understand. Their fear does not lessen your gift, Will.”
Will laughs that bitter laugh again. “Gift, right. Don’t think anyone’s ever called it that before.”
“Then that is their mistake. No gift is without its dark sides, it is true. But if one learns how to use a gift effectively, they can accomplish things far beyond the meagre abilities of others.”
Will’s eyes jerk up to his at that, and narrow. Hannibal realizes he’s pushed too far for an acquaintance of mere minutes, overplayed his hand.
“A word of caution, Doctor Lecter,” Will hisses, and oh, there’s his mongoose, “don’t try to psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.” And then he is turning and walking away, the puppy trotting at his heels, and Hannibal’s breath catches. He made a misstep, yes, but it is not irrecoverable. He’s sure he made a good enough first impression for that, at least. But he does need an in, some excuse to maintain contact; he cannot lose this man…
“Will!”
At first he thinks Will will not stop, but he does, albeit with clear reluctance. The puppy stumbles and bumps into his leg.
“I assume you are keeping the dog? Does she have a name?”
Will’s face is still shuttered, but Hannibal can tell he won some points by remembering the correct gender. “Abby.”
“Very well. Would you permit me to visit Abby? I have a preference for…hunters.”
Will’s expression flickers, and Hannibal wonders if he has done it again, and revealed something he should not. That this has happened twice in under five minutes should be enough warning to make Hannibal forever avoid Will Graham, or eat him, but Hannibal knows he will do neither.
“Fine,” Will huffs, and Hannibal smiles. Will waves a hand vaguely at the house. “I’m sure the feds can give you my information.” He turns, and then pauses again, as cobwebbed memories of manners no doubt stir feebly in his brain. “…Bye,” he mutters, and keeps walking.
Hannibal watches him go, and is struck by how his posture straightens and his stride steadies the farther he gets from the crime scene. He may have encountered Will Graham in a vulnerable moment, but it is clear the man has learned to manage his abilities and his sanity. It is unfortunate, and will make him much harder to influence, but Hannibal will have to make do. Crawford will be resistant, but Hannibal is confident he can make him see Will’s potential usefulness. If nothing else, desperation will overcome his pride and suspicions, and Hannibal is not beyond creating a desperate situation if need be. In the meantime, he will carefully cultivate a friendship with Will, and ensure that when Jack inevitably pushes Will beyond his limits, Hannibal will be the one he goes to for support. It is a start.
Will Graham will be Hannibal Lecter’s doom, of that he is certain, but he finds he does not care. The decision to pursue Will is not so much a choice as an inevitability. He will make a masterpiece of Will and, like all great artists who have completed their masterwork, will rest easy in the knowing.
The only thing he requires now is time.