The investigation would take a few months at least. It was to be incredibly thorough, not just due to the gravity and gruesome nature of the string of crimes it surrounded but because it centered around someone they had considered one of their own, lending a very personal spin on things. They began by tearing apart Will's house, his sanctuary, completely and mercilessly, analyzing the shards, shreds and threads of what was once a life. The analysts looked for the truth in every detail, and their results would be analyzed by a senior team, and theirs by a more senior team, and theirs, and theirs, until somebody was satisfied and a conclusion was reached.
The investigation would take a few months at least.
And it was going to hurt like hell.
True to her word, Alana went to the house, took the dogs, cried the entire drive home, and set the pack up for their new life as though on autopilot – utterly disconnected from the tasks and too exhausted, both physically and emotionally, to invest too much into them. Smarter than most gave them credit for, all 7 of the dogs were quiet, unobtrusive but gingerly affectionate, and perfectly well-behaved. They knew something was up.
When she returned the next week to pick up some of the dogs' toys, teats and such – an excuse she'd developed to convince herself she didn't want to go back out of morbid curiosity and the doomed hope of walking through those doors to a softly smiling Will Graham – she barely managed to hold it together, met not with the familiar warmth she'd always come to expect but the harsh black and yellow web of police caution tape and the even harsher state of affairs indoors. What little in the way of Will's possessions remained were scattered, tagged or bagged, ready for inspection. All signs of the man who belonged there were fading, filtered away, and it burned in Alana's chest just as the reasons why, the reasons she continued to doubt daily in spite of the overwhelming evidence.
Will Graham was a good man.
Is.
The investigation had been going on for 4 months at least. It was reaching the point where days were blurring together, an indistinct balance between cases, updates, and coming home to a lively bunch of overgrown puppies clamoring for love and food, with the occasional and still harrowing trip to the penitentiary to visit Will. The longer the visits became just part of the routine, the more numbed Alana became to the sight of him behind bars, up until the days she realized Gilbert – Will's shepherd/collie mix and, apparently, the very first stray he took in and called his own – was quite seriously ill. It was only two more visits before he had to be put to sleep, and facing Will that day could not be done without an onslaught of tears. She had, after all, come to love Gil and all the dogs over the months, and the loss hit her, but not quite so much as the thought that she'd let Will down, and he'd not even had the chance to say his goodbyes to one of the family. Prison and the ordeal that had led him there had worn Will down, but even he managed to break just that little bit more with the news.
The investigation had been going on for over a year. It seemed to be drawing to a close, and not necessarily for the better. Alana's hope had been centered around the investigators not actually finding the evidence to prove his guilt beyond reasonable doubt, but there was just far too much stacked against him and it was utterly crushing. There'd been a few more incidents with the dogs during that time, all of which she'd told Will about during their meetings; someone had tried to steal Buddy, the incredibly friendly little Jack Russell he'd found cowering behind some garbage cans on a brief trip to Sugarloaf Key, and Hanley had been hit by a truck chasing after a rabbit or god only knows what. His leg was broken and bandaged, but he was recovering well. Will, on the other hand, wasn't dealing quite as positively. For someone who delved deep into the minds of madmen and murderers, he'd managed to hold onto his morality and a level of innocence well, but incarceration was sapping all of that away from him, leaking out into the walls and floors out of reach like salt water to a man dying of thirst. Everything in those walls was tainted, and so too was he. Even Alana couldn't bring him back from those feelings of dirtiness and despair. He knew well that when he was convicted, and to him it was inevitable, he was going to be convicted, it was going to get just that little bit worse. When he opened his mouth and actually told Alana about it all without the inflection of feeling, just the cold, dead flatness of acceptance, she ached all over again for poor Will, and her belief in his innocence burst forth again with a far stronger fire.
The investigation was over. It had been dragged out longer than it probably should have, mostly out of denial and the desperation for the evidence to be wrong. Alana's visits became less frequent, life catching up with her just as much as she purposely buried herself in it. There were some heartless jabs, some asinine comments about her feelings and faith in Will, but she knew it was merely the backlash from so many people feeling duped, personally victimized by the apparent grand deception that was Will Graham. She liked to get away, however she could, and avoiding Will – though she was consciously feeling horrendous about it – was one very good way of doing just that. When she did see him she felt both relieved and guilty all the same. Hanley had developed an infection but she swore she was taking care of him, had taken him to the vet, was giving him the medication on time all the time. If there was even a hint of a reaction from Will it was indiscernible. His hopelessness still hit hard.
The investigation was starting to fade into the back of the minds of those involved. Everyone had cases to deal with, far more important personal problems to tackle, and even Alana was allowing herself to properly concentrate on other things for once, not just as an excuse to fade away into the background herself. Hanley's leg had had to be amputated but a complication had caused him to pass on the operating table, yet another devastating loss to add to the list. The next month Alana had opened the door to find only four greeting her. Almost as though she'd fallen asleep waiting, the little Shih Poo was laid flat out before the fireplace, head propped upon her paws, utterly still. Beth was gone, just like that. It felt like the universe was out to get her, and Alana only told Will about both Beth and Hanley the month following, by which point the grief had subsided and only anger remained.
The investigation was dragged back into the public consciousness when the news of Will Graham's escape broke. Given his mental state, many believed he'd been helped. Nobody connected the relative silence of Dr. Hannibal Lecter to any of the events, and why should they? People attributed his early retirement from psychiatry to the loss of Abigail and the shame of Will Graham, and none would even begin to associate him with anything that would aide Will in any way, not after their history. Still, he was absent from the field and from his home, and the time he'd taken was definitely suspect.
Alana King shared her humble home with her loving husband Linden, their two rambunctious children, Cara and David, and their four equally rambunctious dogs, Harrison, Charlie, Buddy, and Winston. The dogs had always been with them - even before Linden and Alana had settled into their perfect family home – but now they were a family, a complete unit, and some days Alana struggled to recall when they were anything but. The ghost of Will lingered in the back of her mind, clawing away feebly, trying to scrape through to the surface to be heard but only marginally finding that release. At night she'd sometimes hear his pleas and awaken in a sea of sweat and regret, gasping with his name on her lips, and Linden would curl his arms around her sharking, sobbing form, kiss her forehead, and lull her back to sleep with the promise that everything would be okay. His patience was her salvation.
The years passed with no sight or sound of Will or Hannibal. The years passed, the kids grew, and the dogs grew older, wilted and faded into shadows of their former selves. They were still very much loved, doted upon, and treasured as the loyal friends they had always been. Harrison died next, followed soon after by Charlie, and the whole family mourned deeply, Winston and Buddy included. The morning after, David opened the door to find a single squeak toy laid on the mat, a parody of a ball and chain somewhat simplified and marbled in the coloring process. He picked it up in confusion and brought it in to show his mom. To Alana the identity of the sender was obvious, but the others were baffled. They only stayed baffled for a short while, pushing the matter aside and eventually forgetting it happened at all.
When Buddy was found to have a brain tumor the whole family drove out to the veterinary surgery to say their goodbyes. They had to go as a team, as family, to support each other and be there for Buddy as he passed away. The idea was mortifying but it was the best option for everyone. It was an appropriate day, grey and miserable, drenched with rain and a cold that seeped slowly into the bones. Highly unusual for June. Several hours passed before they came home, battered and wrecked emotionally, but they entered to a dark and empty house, silent, cold, and abruptly unfamiliar. Winston was gone. Winston was nowhere to be found, and they were suddenly alone with each other. They would search for weeks for him, putting up posters, calling the authorities, and driving around the area at night to cry out into the darkness in the hopes of guiding him home. They would search, and it would all be in vain. Winston was gone.
The happy panting and audible swish of a vigorously wagging tail ensured no silence could fill the room, adding another level of warmth that the harsh lines and boxy, Scandinavian couches simply couldn't bring on their own. The house had class, had style, but lacked the love and joy an animal could provide. It was especially effective here being so remote, still alien, unsettled, with these people. He could hear Bedelia on the phone just down the hallway, her tone and pace light and unassuming, ever the psychiatrist. Close beside him, he could feel the soft breaths of Hannibal Lecter every bit as easily as he could feel the heat of Winston's as he stood happily gazing at Will, still loyal to his old master. On one level he felt quite awful, quite guilty, about taking him away from Alana and her family so soon after the loss of Buddy, after all they had done and how deeply they felt. Still, he reminded himself, he justified his and Hannibal's actions, Winston was his dog, a friend who he'd been separated from not by choice but by circumstance, and their reunion had been a long time coming. Winston seemed to agree, gazing at both men excitedly, lovingly, and nudging at their hands with his muzzle every so often affectionately. Hannibal didn't nudge Will, gently petting Winston with a small smile gracing his face, but he prodded him into action with words alone.
"Things are as they should be at last," he cooed, earning a soundless nod from Will. Hannibal turned to him, face falling into a look of understanding and sympathy, genuine, when he saw him staring at Winston with a new level intent. "Winston will be here when we get back, I promise. Bedelia will take care of him whilst we are away, and we won't be gone long." There was a glow of joy and relief that blossomed and flooded Will's eyes at that and he nodded again, this time with more vigor. "Come, Will," Hannibal insisted, making it seem more like a suggestion than a command, "We have work to do."