Author's Note: I own nothing (except my computer and an internet account). But seriously, I own nothing by F/X or Elmore Leonard or NBC or Thomas Harris; none of this will ever make me a penny. It's all for fun and on a dare, or should I say a challenge, from hallonim who insists on challenging. And I can't help it - I have to take it up and run with it. (Besides, the dare came with a nice cover image. Thank you, hallonim for that.)

This story is set after the incarceration of Hannibal Lecter, so post Season 2 of Hannibal (I know, doesn't exist yet) and can be set anywhere in the Justified timeline. This is a complete digression from my other Tim Gutterson fanfic. I hope it entertains. Reviews are lovely and welcome but never necessary; PM if you feel inclined; constructive criticism is always appreciated if sent to improve and with good intent. I apologize in advance for any errors about firearms or chess or life in general.

Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter One

"Clear the scene, everyone!" The man spoke with the assurance of authority, a general to his troops, clapped his hands impatiently when the minions around him didn't hop-to fast enough. "Let's go, people. Outside!"

Tim Gutterson stayed put. Something in the tone stiffened every vertebra along his back. Defiant, he slipped a step or two into the shadows.

"Come on, let's move it!" The voice boomed again, echoed back into the cave and around the walls, crashing and rebounding, multiplying aggressively.

Tim crossed his arms, imagined the voice as something tangible, elastic, imagined it bouncing off the hard surfaces then hitting the thick summer at the mouth of the cave where the rocks surrendered to living things and where a solid wall of Kentucky July heat swallowed any insignificant sounds like generals' orders. He turned his head to the entrance hoping to see the voice defeated. As if, he thought, tired, and eyed the sunlight hungrily.

Ten hours of waiting at a crime scene and the body wasn't getting any fresher smelling. He wanted to be out of here, out there where the sunlight beckoned, lulled stupid and oblivious by the heat, buffered from the aggressive scent of decay and the sounds of business as usual by the fragrance of green breathing and the hush of trees and wind tussling. He wanted to escape the voice and the cave and what it entombed, but he stayed, as much to buck authority and the memories of offhand and unthinking orders as to pet his curiosity. He leaned carelessly against the cold surface of the rock wall halfway back in the shadows behind the directed lights, silent, watching, faking indifference and knowing he was faking it.

Self-awareness is a bitch, he thought, irritable. He was just old enough and jaded enough to feel half ashamed of his immature rebel self. But he stayed put anyway.

The general turned in a circle checking for stragglers, confirming his power, arrogant eyes sliding past where Tim stood unseen, then he stepped over and spoke to the lone and miserable-looking FBI agent left behind.

"Will." A utilitarian greeting – familiarity, business. "It looks like him, doesn't it?" he spoke with confidence but deferential. He respected this minion.

The miserable man nodded affirmation. "It's him."

"You're sure?"

A flippant half a shrug in reply skipped over top of the brutal depths of the horror in front of them, made the minion interesting not just miserable. A half a smile followed the half-shrug and Tim thought it had to work hard to get there being so at odds with the man's dejected expression.

"Well, as sure as I can be, Jack. I've only been here five minutes. It's the same game, anyway. You didn't release any of that information to the press, did you?"

The general pressed his lips together, shook his head. He was unsatisfied with the response but he didn't appear to be the type of man who was ever satisfied; he said, "I'll leave you to it. Call us when you're ready." He ran his eyes once more over the scene, turned abruptly and walked out.

This wasn't like any forensics procedure that Tim had ever heard of, and he knew people in the FBI and the CIA and Lexington homicide. Leaving a man alone at a crime scene like this didn't seem useful, only cruel. Tim burned holes into the general's back watching him retreat to the cave entrance, flicked his gaze quickly then to the man – Mr. Misery, Tim named him – sentenced to remain behind, watched him for a reaction to being abandoned at the house of horrors.

Mr. Misery hadn't stopped staring at the body. A moment passed then he seemed to come to himself suddenly, nervous to be himself, twitched a glance behind him to the mouth of the cave, too late for any last minute human contact. He took a deep shuddering breath and regretted it almost immediately, gagging at the aggressive odor of rotting flesh. He brought his hand up to cover his nose and mouth and walked quickly to the entrance for fresher air, composed himself then squared his shoulders and approached the display again.

He studied the body, and Tim studied it with him though he'd stared at it long enough before the locals and the coroner and then the Feds had arrived. It was neatly flayed head to toe, sitting on a chair at a table, posed, a chessboard laid out to play, in play actually, some pieces moved, the game already started in more ways than one. Through the brief conversation between the Feds, Tim gleaned one fact – this wasn't the first body. They were on the trail of a serial killer.

The FBI's investigator rubbed his hands over his face and when he pulled them away his eyes were closed then open suddenly. He seemed to fade away then, or maybe he pushed himself aside, the nervousness gone as he transformed, hardened. He walked to the table, a gloved hand reaching out, and set the chess pieces back to their starting squares. One was missing – Tim had looked for it after he'd called in the homicide – but Mr. Misery pretended it was there and placed it solemnly as well. He moved a white pawn first, deliberately, then a black to counter, another, another, finishing finally with the move of a white piece, a knight, set it down so slowly it appeared as if he were unsure where it went but he placed it back exactly where it had been. Tim remembered – remembered every detail.

"You're so stupid," Misery whispered when the knight was positioned.

Tim stiffened, thought he'd been found out, but the investigator never looked his way and Tim realized that he was speaking to the victim not to him.

"You don't see my play, do you?" the man continued, walking around behind the chair to view the board from the other side. "You should've moved your queen," disdain, anger, a freezing tone that brought the temperature in the cave down another degree or two. "You're an idiot. How do you expect to survive in this world? You're a fraud. They'll see underneath it all. They'll skin you alive. Do you want me to demonstrate?" He acted out pulling a knife. "The victim is alive when I begin. He will suffer for his failure. He will feel everything. This is my design."

This is my design. The words sat threateningly in the chill and motionless air. Tim was so lost in the pantomime that he forgot to shift his gaze – remainders of a soldier's superstition, a hunter's notion that prey can feel eyes on them. It was a habit he would never shake off, burned into his instincts, a part of the Army Ranger still living in him. He looked quickly away.

"Who's there?" nervousness back in the tone. "Who's there? Show yourself, please."

Maybe not a superstition.

The investigator pulled a small penlight from his pocket and started peering into the recesses of the cave, his hand going for his sidearm.

"It's alright," Tim said, letting his voice give him away and a thin cut of light snapped over to where he was leaning. He pushed off the wall and walked into the glare. "I'm Deputy Gutterson with the Marshals Office." He tipped the star on his belt to bring it to the man's attention. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Shaken, flustered, Misery turned away and wouldn't look at the Marshal directly.

"You're the one that found him?" His voice didn't carry the same assurance as the general's. It questioned itself, every word.

"That's right."

A quick nod, skirting eyes, "You're not supposed to be in here."

"Neither's he." Tim gestured at the body. "You gonna kick us both out?"

A huff, amused, "Yeah, well, I don't think he was allowed to say no to the invitation to stay. And you, I believe, weren't allowed to say no to the invitation to leave."

A grin for the clever parallel. "I tend to ignore invitations."

Misery looked directly at Tim then, a short laugh, humorless. "A bit antisocial, are we?" He relaxed a little. "I understand that preference." Back to the scene. "Do you play chess, Deputy?"

Tim shook his head, figured the man already had an answer formed, had probably already fit him into a stereotype so it didn't really matter how he replied. "I'm a real-time player," he joked.

"Ah," another quick nod, "Iraq or Afghanistan?"

"Afghanistan." Tim was surprised into answering – the man was quick at hearing what was unspoken.

"Explains why you don't have trouble looking." Misery delivered his statement with force, anger.

Tim wanted to be offended but the anger seemed self-directed so he let the comment pass, accepted it at face value. They were left then in silence with the game's loser, wondering at the insanity of men. It felt oddly comfortable, the quiet companionship, something Tim had missed since giving up the Army, a desperate and meager linking of empathy in a world of cruelty and chaos.

The shared and short peace was broken when the general and his voice returned in force. "What are you doing in here?" He walked over aggressively, up close and in Tim's face.

"Jack," the other man's hand came out, calming, smoothing, "it's okay. I…I called him in. This is the Marshal that found the body. Uh, Deputy…" He looked up at Tim, a question.

"Gutterson," Tim filled in, "Deputy Gutterson."

"I needed to know if any of the pieces had been disturbed. I had to be sure."

Jack, the General, studied Tim's face carefully when he asked, "Did you move the pieces, Deputy? Any of them?"

"Nope."

"It would be a temptation, a seemingly harmless thing to do – curiosity. Most people can't help touching. It wouldn't be like you were really disturbing a crime scene if you put them back, right?"

Tim didn't appreciate the suggestion that he didn't know how to do his job, the general speaking at him like he was a fifth-grader. "There were six pieces moved on the white side – three pawns, the queen's rook and bishop, the queen; five on the black side – again three pawns, king's knight and rook. The black queen is missing and no, it's not in my pocket. Did you want to know which squares they're on?"

The general's grin brought to mind a horror movie and Tim worried that maybe he didn't have enough experience with this man to be properly afraid but he returned the grin anyway, fatigue making him reckless.

"So you play chess, Deputy Gutterson?"

"Do I look like I play chess?"

"But clearly you're familiar with the game."

Tim spoke in a near monotone, "It's 1500 years old. You'd have to be sleeping through life to miss it. I read once – and yeah, I know how to read – that in India where chess originated, the rooks were chariots and the bishops were elephants. Imagine warfare with elephants. The logistics of carrying that much food around with you. And I thought today's technical warfare was a bitch for maintenance." A roll of the eyes.

The general didn't look amused. "Elephants. It does stretch the imagination."

Neither man had moved since the confrontation began, toe to toe. Tim refused to take a step back, even outranked. He had had drill sergeants spit in his face and not given them the satisfaction of blinking. He would make damn sure this general couldn't find any buttons to push.

And maybe the general realized it. He ended the conversation, took the step back. "This is Special Agent Will Graham. If he asks for your help, you will help him. Am I clear?"

"Yessir."

"Will, kick him out when you're done with him." He dismissed them both and headed back to the sunlight.

"Who's the asshole?" Tim asked.

"Uh," an awkward chuckle, "the asshole is Special Agent Jack Crawford. He's the head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit at Quantico." Will looked directly at Tim briefly, piercing. "Elephants?" He shook his head. "Christ, you sure know how to…piss off the wrong guy."

"He pissed me off. I was just returning the favor."

Graham screwed his face into a disbelieving knot. "You should learn to pick your fights more carefully. Do you have any idea who he is?"

"The head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit at Quantico?"

"I wasn't testing your memory."

That made Tim laugh.

Will Graham looked at him again, his gaze intense. "Do you…do you know who I am?"

He seemed afraid of the answer, eyes dashing away as soon as he'd finished speaking, busying himself adjusting his glasses.

He must be somebody to have asked like that, Tim thought, and felt for him; he understood not wanting to be known before having the chance to be known. You must be the sniper. How many times had he heard that, a chain around his neck and a heavy sign hung on it. Sniper. Albatross. How many kills d'you have? If Tim were to tell someone he was a soldier or a cop or a US Marshal, the question would be 'you ever kill someone?' But when you're a sniper, you're already a killer. The question wouldn't be if but how many, the same question they would ask a serial killer when they caught one – like the one responsible for skinning this poor asshole. Tim wondered what the difference was – the difference in how they saw him compared to this killer, the difference in how he saw himself compared to the killer. And that's when he stopped wondering.

Do you know who I am? Will had asked. Tim decided to give him a fair answer. "Nope."

Will looked disproportionately relieved.

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