PLAYBACK BEGINS
HL: Tell me about the case, Will. How are you responding to the Chesapeake Ripper?
WG: It's like I can sense him all around me, although I can't see him yet. He has no traceable motive, no pattern. Except for the sounders of three, and those are just the ones we know about. I tend to think the matched sets are more for [pause] special occasions.
HL: I didn't ask about him, Will; I asked about you. In what ways do you sense him, as you put it?
WG: He exudes mastery, skill, order. It's not some desperate clutch at control, what he does. I can feel his power. But underlying that, such abysmal darkness. He lives in a bleak world, but its surface is alive with aesthetic wonders, sensualism. Mirthless jokes. I see his face in every beautiful thing that feeds itself on death.
HL: Will, I fear you're waxing rhapsodic. What do you mean by "feeds itself?"
WG: [Laughs] Death fuels his creation, or at least, that's how he sees it. The Ripper is an artist.
HL: You admire him.
WG: I admire his commitment to his work. Maybe not his chosen medium.
HL: [Laughs] But you say that death is integral to the act of creation for him. A sacrifice required to produce something truly exquisite. But sacrificed to whom?
WG: To himself, his own appetite. His canvasses are also altars.
HL: He seems to affect you on [pause] a different level than, say, Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Any dreams, Will?
WG: [Pause] Some.
HL: What happens in the dreams?
WG: It's [pause] difficult to remember right now. Just impressions.
HL: Lying to me will get us nowhere. This is a safe place, Will.
WG: [Sigh] They are intense. Unlike any I've had in connection with my work before.
HL: Do you become him? See what he sees?
WG: No, that's the strange part. I'm observing the Ripper from without. His face is hidden in shadow, but I can see his flashing eyes. Dexterous hands, precise movements. His presence is [pause] intoxicating.
HL: How so?
WG: It's his scent. Everything he is . . . spice, cut wood, burning. And blood, fresh and hot. In the dream I want to taste it.
HL: The scent contains knowledge you wish to access, to consume, in a manner of speaking.
WG: I would if I could, but I can't move. I have to stay still.
HL: Why?
WG: I am his model. He's painting my portrait—I can feel his scrutiny. It almost burns.
HL: Because you desire him sexually? [Pause] Will, look at me. Your subconscious mind is nothing to be ashamed of. Often it communicates in metaphors, such as the painting scenario you describe.
WG: I know, Dr. Lecter, but . . . yes. Desperately. I want him to tear me apart.
HL: And you're worried this image—the Ripper fucking you—will color your perception of his crimes, cloud your judgment.
WG: I . . . yes. Did you just . . .
HL: The sex drive and the death drive share a similar impulse, Will: that of self-negation. It's not so strange that a dream encounter with this killer should carry an erotic charge.
WG: So I really just want to die? Somehow that doesn't make me feel any better.
HL: We all wish to shed the burden of consciousness from time to time, Will, and you have more reason than most. It is as unhealthy to deny this desire as it is to indulge it too fully. I'm sure in time the meaning of this dream will become clear to you.
WG: In time he'll have killed again.
HL: How does that make you feel?
WG: Helpless. Exhausted.
HL: Go home and get some sleep, Will. I will see you soon enough.
RECORDING ENDS