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“The killer who did, didn’t want us to know he was the Minnesota Shrike…” said Will.
Hannibal, who was walking into the lecture hall with Jack, perked up his ears.
He had met with Jack to discuss Will’s visit to Abigail Hobbs. Hannibal had enthused that the meeting should take place sooner rather than later: if Will could see Abigail, then Hannibal could, and Hannibal very wanted to meet this “suspiciously practical,” “barely emotional” girl. She sounded intriguing. If Hannibal deemed her incompatible with his lifestyle, he would, of course, kill her. She knew the sound of his voice, and such a loose end could not be left untied. The possibility of an ally, however, gave Hannibal a savory inkling of hope that things might not end in red, this time.
This dilemma, however, was of little importance compared to what he was about to see. Will Graham, the gifted profiler, was about to profile the copycat killer. He was about to profile Hannibal. How could one refuse such instant, perfect gratification?
“… He was better than that,” Will finished, looking around at his students guardedly.
Hannibal preened under the unwitting praise. Of course he didn’t want to be mistaken with the Minnesota Shrike—he was the Chesapeake Ripper, the most feared serial killer in recent history, why would he debase himself by forging another killer’s signature?—but the profiler didn’t know that. No one yet knew that the copycat was the Chesapeake Ripper. That Hannibal was so evocative, even in a crime not of his design, was pleasing.
A projector clicked, switching to the picture of the copycat murder’s crime scene. Beautiful, lush, young Cassie Boyle, spread out on a bed of antlers like a feast. Hannibal analyses the slide critically, as a painter would his canvas. Her limbs were arranged in such a way that they presented her fully. The cameraman had found an angle that salvaged her modesty; Hannibal didn’t much care for that. Still, the crime was beautiful. Impeccable. He wasted Cassie’s body just as Hobbs hoarded those of his victims. He wanted this murder to be different enough for the FBI to notice, and he succeeded magnificently, if he did say so himself.
“He is an intelligent psychopath, he is a sadist. He will never kill like this again,” said Will.
Good, Hannibal rejoiced. This was good. This was an inference, the first Will had made so far. Perhaps calling Hannibal a “sadist” was a bit extreme though. Psychopaths and their ilk feel no remorse for their victims; feeling enjoyment at their pain seemed like a similarly fallacious emotion to Hannibal. He would argue that the brunt of his enjoyment came from crafting a display, a performance of stabs and impalements designed for a very specific audience. Humans were meat bound by the energy derived from cellular respiration and little more. Human life was just as transient, just as evanescent, as the life of any other species on this planet.
This flaw in Will’s analysis was a mere snag in an otherwise perfect list of characteristics. Will knew that he was intelligent; that was more relevant. This wasn’t about Garret Jacob Hobbs, not really, and Will could see that.
“So how do we catch him?” Will posed to his students.
“Giving a lecture on Hobbs’ copycat?” Hannibal asked Jack, though the answer was obvious. Going this long without saying something would be conspicuous: criminal profilers should not be revealing confidential facts about an ongoing case to students, and such a transgression should be commented upon. Hannibal hated diverting his attention away from Will, but appearances, as they say, are everything.
“Well, we need every good mind we can get on it,” Jack replied tiredly. It was satisfying to hear. It implied that Hannibal could outsmart every professional (and, judging by the students’ silence, every amateur) investigator in Quantico. Watching Will, however, was making Hannibal think that maybe he hadn’t bested every professional.
“This copycat,” spat Will, “is an avid reader of Freddie Lounds and TattleCrime.com. He had intimate knowledge of Garret Jacob Hobbs’ murders, motives, patterns, enough to recreate them and, arguably, elevate them to art.”
Wow. That rocked Hannibal, made him forget his mask and his whereabouts. Will knew. He understood. He recognized the differences (oh so carefully crafted) for what they were: poetry. Cassie Boyle was a sonnet, a serenade to a fellow psychopath. Hannibal knew talent when he saw it: it was something Garret Jacob Hobbs and Will Graham had in common. Different ends of the spectrum, perhaps, but that’s neither here nor there.
“How intimately did he know Garret Jacob Hobbs? Did he appreciate him from afar, or did he engage him, did he ingratiate himself into Hobbs’ life? Did Hobbs know his copycat as he was known?” Will sat on the edge of his desk, peering up at his students.
Hannibal wasn’t even sure he knew the answer to that question. It demanded a black or white answer, and Hannibal felt it was somewhere in the dark grey area. It was a good question, a right question, and it cemented Hannibal’s fascination with the profiler asking it.
“Before Garret Jacob Hobbs murdered his wife and attempted to do the same to his daughter, he received an untraceable call. I believe the as yet unidentified caller was our copycat killer.”
Hannibal smiled, for once uncaring if anyone saw him. If his murder was a painting, Will’s interpretation of it was a life-size marble sculpture. Will wasn’t gifted, he was a gift.
Hannibal didn’t know for how long Will had looked over the case files, but he doubted it was very long at all. Will Graham had the ability to look at a crime scene once and learn everything about it. From there, it was a simple matter of joining the strings together. Will was a master embroiderer in this tapestry of sin.
As Hannibal’s pride and delight faded, however, he found himself concerned. Will Graham was more than he’d thought, and it was troubling. Will could catch Hannibal, if he wasn’t too careful. One wrong step, one showing of the hand, and the game was up.
Hannibal knew that, at this moment, standing in the back of a lecture hall filled with future FBI agents, he should devise a plan to kill Will Graham. His survival impeded Hannibal’s. But the idea was displeasing to Hannibal, disagreeable in a way that he didn’t fully comprehend. Will’s death was… unsatisfying. It was setting a trap in a game of cat and mouse. It was wrong, unsophisticated, lazy. Not just lazy though, no; it was unsportsmanlike. Dirty fighting.
Hannibal was the sort of man that preferred a simmer over a rushing boil. He was the turtle that won the race: the marathoner, not the sprinter. Will Graham was neither the hare, nor the finish line: he was the race itself. How Hannibal chose to follow the curves and hills of Will’s mind was the challenge.
And, when Will came to him about seeing Garret Jacob Hobbs, smelling faintly of roasted caramel and inflammation, Hannibal started to devise a plan.