Tattlecrime

Freddie Lounds

A wolf among the sheep

His piercing blue eyes and boyish look could fool the untrained eye that he is nothing more than yet another troubled soul, trying to cope with the heavy burden of facing humanity at its worst on a daily basis, but not your keen reporter; since the first time she laid eyes on him, she was fully aware of the madness, the cruelty and the thirst for blood crouched deep inside Will Graham, desperate to be unleashed. And out did it come. Your loyal reporter brings you the first in many weekly specials here, on your favorite source of crime news; "A wolf among the sheep", the uncensored story about Will Graham, a true sociopath.

"Alright Mr. Graham, playtime is over." said the guard behind Will, slamming the lap top in front of him. "It's time for your therapy." Will was allowed to read a limited amount of news a quarter of an hour every day, under the surveillance of several guards. They said that it was to award him for not making any problems in prison, but he knew it was just a cheap bribe attempt to make him cooperate with his imposed therapists.

"Who do I have the honor with today?" spat Will sarcastically through his teeth. He got up on his feet and started walking slowly back towards his cell, escorted by two of the guards. His hands were tied and a chain was limiting the movement of his legs at every point when he was out of his cell.

"Dr. Chilton at 12:30, and two PhD candidates at 15:00. You're quite the celebrity around here." Pointed the guard out.

"Who knew I would end up being sociable behind bars." Mumbled Will to himself.

He was intentionally dragging his pace to slow down his progress towards the cell, since he knew it irritated them and increased their anxiety. They were walking close behind him, but not too close. How funny would it be to turn around suddenly and say boo at them, Will thought with a smile in the corner of his lips. Realizing what he considers a small pleasure in life made him feel even more like drowning into the depressing, never ending darkness he's found himself in.

With an awful slam of the metal cell door, he found himself once again restrained to the claustrophobic four walls of his confinement. This cell will be his home at least until the end of the investigation, and after that, he will be looking forward to a pleasant accommodation in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, as the psychiatric team studying him will surely throw away the key.

He couldn't tell the time anymore, it didn't even matter to him. He was trapped beyond the cell walls, beyond the accusations he was facing, he was trapped beyond time and space; all he could see were the details of the last few months flashing before his eyes, fragments of long, deep conversations, facts linking to each other like pearls on a chain...the chain which he could almost feel around his neck, getting tighter.

At some moment, as good as any other, the irritating, self important voice of Dr Frederick Chilton disturbed Will from deep thinking.

"Ah, Mr. Graham, how are we feeling today, any better?" he said melodically.

Will felt only deep loathing for this man ever since their first encounter, when he bragged about catching the Chesapeake ripper, slighting Alana and insinuating he would gladly dissect his brain; that loathing only got deeper now that he was his new favorite lab rat. He didn't want to dignify this man with a response, so he continued staring into the ceiling with a blank expression, making no sign that he was aware of Chilton's presence.

"Oh Mr. Graham, it saddens me that you still don't cooperate. I'm only acting in your best interest, just trying to be your guide in the healing process. We can win this fight together, we can fix you."

His words were left hanging in the air, since Will didn't show any sign of them ever reaching his ears.

"I asked for your case, given my rich experience with those similar to you." he said greedily, already seeing his name with a photo on the headlines in all the papers that had an impact in the country, before realizing how his words sounded.

This caused a reaction, since Will jumped on his feet, and walked towards the bars separating him from Dr Chilton. He smiled shakily, but his eyes clearly revealed his desires, as his fingers closed around the bars of his cell in the lack of Dr Chilton's neck between them.

"Those, similar to me?" he asked in a curious, amused tone.

"Well, you know what I meant. Other patients."

"Patients such as Dr Abel Gideon? Psychopaths. Killers. Feel free to call things their real name doctor."

"For example. But Mr. Graham, it is no secret to you why you are here. We can only work together in trying to..."

"Trying to what? Model my wild, untamed personality into a socially acceptable model? Purge my soul from the guilt of the taken innocent lives? Or perhaps even drive me into believing I'm someone else, the Chesapeake ripper, Jack the ripper or the tooth fairy?"

Will turned around on his heal, sliding back onto his bed. It was clear that the session was over even before it began. After Dr Chilton's steps were lost in the distance, he covered his face with his hand, digging his fingertips into his forehead. He was sane when he got here, but if he doesn't think of something soon, he will be consumed by the madness within the walls.

Dr Chilton returned to his office, where the inpatient Drs Bloom, Lecter and Jack Crawford awaited him.

"How is he? Did you notice any progress? Did he cooperate?" were the questions which united into an indistinctive noise, as they were fired at Dr Chilton immediately after he crossed the doorstep.

"I'm afraid he is still defensive and confined to himself; he refuses all of my attempts to help him." Said Dr Chilton theatrically.

His three visitors showed their concern in the matter each in their specific way, and they all sank into deep thoughts upon hearing the Dr's report. Jack's expression was as dark as it could be, as he stared through the room into the past. He was trying to justify his actions retrospectively, to ease his conscience. He couldn't stop blaming himself for pushing Will over the edge one too many times as he considered himself directly responsible for his agent's state of mind; his wish for results regardless of the costs might have sealed Will's future and sanity, and that was all he could think about now.

Alana, on the other hand, seemed truly broken. In fact, the best sign of her being broken was the fact that she didn't even bother to hide it from the three men in the room. Her eyes were sad, as a reflection of the hopes taken away from her, on which she secretly still clung. Dr. Lecter was the first to speak, his expression doubtlessly reflecting his deepest concern for his patient, his voice trembling as if he had to put in a lot of effort to speak coherently.

"Frederick", he started with certainty in his belief, "I must insist once again that you return Will to my care and therapy; I know all the aspects of his pathology better than anyone, and I care deeply about him as a friend, so I must insist to be given a chance to help him."

Dr Chilton liked the envy of his colleagues, the prestige of the most horrifying cases flooding the media, the real name makers for a rising psychiatry star such as him; that was no secret. Will Graham was his golden ticket, the profiler who crossed to the dark side, just the thing to point him towards the director's chair someday; he wouldn't give him up even if his life depended upon it, and he knew what that meant very well after recent events. With a sudden chill down his spine, he unconsciously touched his abdomen, as if he was trying to heal the scars Dr Gideon left on him, and then he shook his head, answering Dr Lecter.

"I'm so sorry Hannibal" he started with a transparently fake sympathy, "you know I would step down if I could, but the board feels that you are too personally involved in the matter already, they prefer that I handle the case myself."

Hannibal Lecter said nothing. His expression didn't change, he made no visible reaction to what he had just heard, but Frederick Chilton felt such unease as if there was no place for anxiety in his body so it was scratching his way out of him. He couldn't explain it, but ever since he met Hannibal, he had the urge not to be on the bad side of this highly esteemed professional, this calm, serene and stylish gentleman.

The three guardian angels Will Graham had left the hospital empty-handed like yesterday and many days before. They parted in front of the main entrance, not feeling comfortable in each other's companies, feeling as if the other's faces reflected the guilt and the questions tormenting them. Or two of them at least.

Jack Crawford was hipped that particular morning. Actually, he was like that pretty much every morning, but it was particularly evident that day. He was sitting behind his desk, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, an empty coffee mug with linings on the inside, which suggest that it was refilled many times, in front of the pile of papers in front of him. It didn't take an expert eye to notice that he had been sitting there the whole night. He crossed his fingers, inhaling deeply, and then looking back at the photos in front of him. The third one, already. Night train, multiple stab wounds, nothing connecting the victims or suggesting how and why they were chosen. His mind wandered off to Will but he shook his head in disapproval, shooing away those thoughts. You're on your own Jack, as you always are, you need to crack this one all by yourself, he pep talked himself.

After some time, which seemed like eternity, he angrily threw the files on the other side of the desk, getting up in rush. Refilling his mug, he was on his way to pathology, to make the most out of his forensic team.

"I've got nothing." Said Z some minutes later, shaking his head.

"Me neither." Added Price, shrugging his shoulders. "Sorry boss."

"This is unacceptable!" shouted Jack, banging the desk with his fist, which made everyone in the room jump. "Three people are dead in less than two weeks, many more could drop dead and you're telling me we have nothing?"

Beverly made a small step towards Jack, as if she was approaching a wounded animal.

"Jack, this isn't our thing. We gave you all the forensic facts, but you need somebody to put them all together into a story that makes sense." She made a brief pause, and then continued, even less confident in what she was saying: "Have you considered hiring a replacement for Will?"

The angry lion whose embodiment Jack represented in the eyes of his subordinates didn't jump and bite Beverly's head off for mentioning Will as they expected. He couldn't blame her for being right. It was the same question that popped into his mind every time he hit a dead end in this investigation, which was happening too often lately. He wasn't sure whether he wasn't replacing him out of loyalty towards Will, since that would somehow mean that he was forgotten, that his story is written out, or was it because he had so much faith in Will and it ended like it did, so he wasn't ready to trust somebody new. Either way, it was more of an emotional then a rational reason, and Jack, as a rational man, resented himself for it.

"Not yet." He simply replied, ending the discussion.

Will was hitting dead ends too. He was so determined to come up with a master plan which would fix everything, but the rage that was consuming him was drowning any seed of idea trying to germinate. He felt as if he was dropped on stage of a puppet show into a chair, a reflector pointed at his face and his hands tied behind his back. He couldn't help but admire the design, the precision and the flawlessness of the director of the puppet show in creating this tragicomedy. If only he wasn't the star of the show.

He heard footsteps approaching and spat grumpily: "The zoo is closed at the moment; the monkey has to sleep sometimes too."

A female voice replied, clearly amused: "You had enough sleep monkey, now I brought you a banana."

Will recognized that voice immediately, but he had no clue as to why she was here.

"Beverly? What...why are you here?" he said, approaching the bars to meet her.

"How are you?" she first asked, gauging him with concern. "And don't forget our deal, when asked directly, we reply honestly to this question." The answer was quite evident, given how he clearly lost some weight, his beard and hair were even more untamed than usual, but his eyes were the clearest sign of all; they just seemed distant, empty.

He took a deep breath, and said flatly: "Played out."

"By whom?" she asked, surprised by his answer.

He just shook his head. He was definitely not planing to tell people the truth before he makes some sort of strategy; otherwise he would just seem crazy. Or, from their perspective, crazier.

"Why are you here?" he asked again, making an effort to smile at here since he was really glad to get a visit which didn't include psychoanalyzing.

"We have a case and we don't even know where to start. Jack's furious, he feels as if his hands are tied, we can't help him in any way and he is refusing to replace you." She told him in one breath, horrified by the words coming out of her mouth.

The corner of Will's lips twisted a bit, behind the now already long beard that he grew in prison. It was nice to know that Jack cared, although he would never admit that to himself, let alone Will.

"So", he started, "how can I help? The killer needs some tips?" he joked.

"Glad to see you still have a sense of humor. I brought the crime scene photos, and I was hoping you would do your thing. I know it's not a real crime scene, but I can't just Houdini you of here for that. I copied them while Jack was on a lunch break, well, some of them at least, I couldn't risk him noticing they were gone."

"Don't you think that this could just damage my already delusional mind?" Will asked ironically.

"I think that a brain such as yours is crying for distraction around here, even if mutilated bodies on a train qualify as distraction."

She handed him the photos, and he walked back to his bed. He positioned them on top of the bed to form a sort of mosaic, imitating a gateway he had to come through to get to the actual crime scene.

He shut his eyelids, calming his breathing for a few moments and a flash of orange light wiped the cell wall in front of him. Next time he opened his eyes, he was sitting on a train looking at the stabbed victim sitting across him. The white male in his late thirties was stabbed once in his neck, more accurately the throat and then multiple times in the abdomen. Will blinked once more and all the wounds sewed themselves up.

"I choose you because you are traveling alone. There is a map of the city in your pocket, so you're not from around here, you might need help in finding your way around, and I can provide help for you. You look like a sports type, strong, so I couldn't just approach you upfront and stab you in the neck so precisely without you trying to defend yourself, since you don't have any material under your nails. We talked first; I made you feel comfortable and relaxed. I stab you in the neck first, to stop you from screaming, and to reduce the physical advantage you have over me. You reach for your neck wound and I use the opportunity to attack you further, giving you multiple stab wounds to the abdomen. Then I wanted you to suffer, to make this as last as long as possible, that's why I don't go for the heart. I wanted you helpless now that I stripped you of any defense you might have had, and...I am female."

Will opened his eyes and turned around to catch Beverly's glance.

"Your killer is a she."

"What? How did you? Never mind... Are you sure?"

"Yes. I don't have many other details, but I think..."

He was interrupted by a bang on the wall nearby, as if somebody was hitting the brick wall with a club.

"Visit is over Ms." hailed the guard rudely, approaching them.

Beverly quickly took the photos from Will and showed them down her purse before the guard could notice. They exchanged a look of understanding and she rushed down the hall.

The forensic team had another brainstorming meeting that afternoon, but they didn't make that much progress since morning. They were going over the facts for the hundredth time, but nothing new seemed to come out of that. After an hour of reassessing the situation, Beverly finally spoke in a trembling voice. "What if the killer is a woman?"

The three men in the room turned towards her in confusion, wondering how she suddenly had that idea.

"Where did you get that now?" Z asked, surprised.

"Well, it could fit, I mean, there weren't any signs of struggle before the initial stabbing, she could have just chatted him on the bus and..."

Jack stood up, looking quite threatening. He walked towards her, leaning on the desk in front of her and crossing his arms.

"Beverly." He said in an authoritative tone. "What are you not telling me?"

She knew that he wouldn't actually physically hurt her, but that didn't make her fear Jack any less. She swallowed and said: "I...I went to Will. He came up with it. We were getting nowhere and I figured..."

Beverly Hatz was so traumatized by Jack Crawford's screaming at her, that she didn't actually hear what he was saying, her brain blocked it as a coping mechanism. But, although she didn't get the exact words, the tone was quite unmistakable. After what seemed as an eternity, Jack was out of things to shout at her. He sat back in his chair, breathing deeply, trying to resume control. After a while, he said, in a tone that suggested surrendering to the inevitable: "What else did he say?"

That evening, Will Graham got another surprise visitor. Before he could even express how surprised he was, Jack's glance already said it all. He pulled a chair to sit next to the bars of Will's cell and merely pointed out: "We need your help."