Graham knew too well that he contained all the elements to make murder; perhaps mercy, too. He understood murder uncomfortably well, though. -Thomas Harris, Red Dragon
And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived that this also is vexation of spirit. -Ecclesiastes
Will Graham sits on a couch in his living room, sleeping dog curled at his side and empty gin bottle in his hand. The television is on, throwing flashes of blue light on the darkened room. His eyes are open, but Will Graham does not watch.
Occasionally, the television's bright beam hits Will's face, and for just a moment someone looking upon the scene could view a horrible reminder of Will's past. Will Graham never considered himself to be a handsome man, but now no one else will, either. Just like Jack had said, it really did look like Picasso had drawn him.
Angry pink patches float on the ocean of tan skin, and the left side of Will's lip droops and disappears like a sunken, broken ship in the rough seas. White, raised scars extend like sharp, jagged cliffs, and the place where his nose used to be is now just a shapeless protuberance, rocks jutting out from a shallow place in the depths.
His left eye barely opens, and when it does open fully the flesh and scars around it stretch unnaturally. The surgeons had tried their best, but countless surgeries seemed to have no effect on the maelstrom that was Will Graham's face.
The stirring of the dog at his side brings Will out of his trance, and his good eye settles on the television. It takes a couple seconds for his alcohol-hazed mind to remember why it's on in the first place.
Buffalo Bill
The name feels like a shard of ice in Graham's chest. He knows he shouldn't be doing this to himself. Shouldn't be getting into this stuff again. He had seen all he needed to know about what he was doing in the look on Molly's face.
Again? Her tired eyes seemed to say to him. Why do you always do this to yourself, baby?
But Will couldn't help it.
Graham had promised himself (and Molly and Willy too) that after Francis Dolarhyde he would be done with murder. And in a lot of ways, he was. Jack Crawford knew to never call on him again, because if Will didn't refuse him, Molly would, and much less politely. But even though Will Graham wouldn't be physically going after any serial killers, nothing could stop him from going after them mentally. Murder was in Will Graham's soul, and he knew too much about it to ever stop trying to get into its head.
And Will Graham was trying his best to get into Buffalo Bill's head. But Crawford was releasing next to nothing to the press. Will knew why, but that didn't mean it didn't frustrate him any less. Still, Graham could at least see a few things clearly. He always could.
All of the victims so far had been a bit on the chubby side, and from the pictures Will had seen they all tried their best with what they had. Plenty of quality material there for Bill to work with. They had all been skinned, every one of them. He's using the hide for something, Will thought over and over again to himself. However, for what, Graham didn't know. And his inability to see the whole picture was driving him crazy.
But Will Graham would have to wait. Would have to wait until that trainee Starlish or whatever the hell her name was could figure it out. Will had read the news articles about her and he knew somewhere in his being that she would indeed be the one to put this case to rest. Will couldn't say how he knew, but his instincts had served him well enough in the past. He caught his own demented reflection in the television screen. Well, almost well enough.
But really, Will knew the reason he was up watching television half wasted at 3 o'clock in the morning had less to do with fishing for scraps of information about Buffalo Bill than it did with his old friend Dr. Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter.
Lecter was said to be entering into a deal with Senator Ruth Martin, the mother of the most recently kidnapped victim. In exchange for information about Bufallo Bill, Lecter would be transferred out of Dr. Chilton's asylum. And to a place with a window, Will's senses told him.
Will could feel Lecter's mind inside his, and he knew Lecter had the information Senator Martin was seeking. He also knew Lecter would never give it to her. No, Lecter had a plan. And Will Graham was certain his plan was escape.
Will did not fear for himself. Nor did he fear for Molly and Willy. He knew Lecter wouldn't come after them. The doctor had no reason too. Lecter had played with Will Graham like one played with flood, crushing and stabbing him along until Graham was flat, broken, and utterly uninteresting. And Hannibal Lecter had no patience for the uninteresting.
But Lecter did have a taste for food. Oh yes, that he did. But Will knew Lecter would take a break from the most delicious delicacies for a while. Maybe he'd have a few light snacks along the way, but Graham knew Lecter would enjoy savoring the knowledge that there would be bigger and better meals to come.
Will knew these things as certainly as he knew that the sun would rise tomorrow morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that, no matter who murdered whom. He knew them as certainly as he knew Molly would purse her lips and sigh with an old and crusted sadness when she found him, hung over and passed out, on the couch in the morning, television still on and gin bottle still in hand.
Will knew these things as he drifted off into a troubled sleep, into a dream world where murder and mercy intermingled in a sort of mad dance. And just like Will knew it would, the breaking news alert flashed on the screen at 4 am to report what Will's unhearing ears were listening for. Lecter had escaped, but Will knew in his heart he truly didn't care. As much as he yearned for them, Will knew his days of murder were over. But he was certain Clarice Starling's were only just beginning.