"You're a killer, Will." Hannibal circled his office in a taut blue suit that still made a very soft 'crinkle' when he took a step.
Will was sitting at Lecter's desk; he could not move. "No," he said quietly.
"No, Will. You are." He stopped walking, and stood parallel to where the man
sat. "I knew it for certain that day in Minnesota."
"If I kill it's to," said Will, a lump in his throat, "protect people."
"Oh, no, no, no," said Lecter, shaking his head. "Not on that day. I was completely unarmed, but you were going to shoot me, Will. You were going to shoot me, because you were so overcome with emotion." He tilted his head. "That's what separates the artists from the tactless, Will: passion, and emotion." He resumed his slow walk around the room.
"But you must learn to reign that in, to channel it into your work. Otherwise, you become reckless."
Will wiped the sweat from his forehead; his hand glistened in the fluorescent lighting from the lamp.
"But you'll learn, Will. I have confidence that you'll learn."
"You're telling me that you kill people for the art? It's an expression?"
"You'll understand it all, Will."
"So...what's that mean? You pick your victims based on their artistic potential?
On their ascetics?"
Lecter shook his head. "Will, you know that's not it."
"Well, what is it, then?"
"What do you think, Will? How do you think I choose them?"
Will bit his lip. "You live for beauty. For art. You've got an appreciation for
life. And that extends to the living."
Lecter's eyes were shining, boding him continue.
"So, when you take a life, you do it in order to…preserve…the overall value of
the human race. You get rid of the ugly ones."
Will paused. "But what about Abigail?" He breathed deeply; his breaths were
shaky. "Had she become ugly to you? Because she helped her father?"
"That's not why, Will. You know that's not why."
"Why'd you do it, then?"
Hannibal stopped moving, and leaned against his desk, crossing his arms, looking
at Will with anticipating eyes.
"You're not just an agent of beauty," said Will, not looking at him. "You're an
agent of morality, too." Will felt his chest tighten. "She knew too much, sure,
but if you wanted to, you could've kept her quiet and alive. You didn't,
because you wanted to help her, to save her from her life-a life in prison."
Hannibal smiled. "You've got a beautiful mind, Will."
"But...I still don't understand," said Will. "Why would you frame me? To cover your tracks?" He shook his head. "That's too simple."
"You know why, Will."
"If so many people think I'm a killer, it's easier for me to accept it. It's not
like I can evade the thoughts when I'm locked up. I'm powerless. Doubting
myself. The solitude of the cell is a perfect place for me to really think about
who I am."
"I'm your therapist, Will. It's my job to help you find yourself."
"Do you really care whether I know myself or not, as long as you've got someone
who understands you?"
"Of course, Will."
"You don't just need someone who understands. You need someone to…to do things
with. A…partner."
"A friend."
"A true friend. Someone who accepts you. Imitation is the ultimate show of
admiration, and admiration is the best form of acceptance."
"You have that potential, Will. Not just for imitation. You have the potential
to surpass me. We can explore that potential together."
"No," said Will loudly, shaking his head vehemently. "I don't want to."
"Not yet," said Lecter, beginning to walk. Will jumped as he felt Lecter's
hands, shivering as his hot breath touched his ear.
"You will."
Now Will was sitting upright in his cot, staring at the broken wall. He looked
on the floor; there was a small pool of his sweat. He didn't recognize who he
saw inside it.