Polydactyly
Michelle Grentz was born under Soviet rule and raised Canadian. She remembered nothing of the USSR save for the cloven scar in her head, hidden beneath tangles of golden silk, and the nightmares that came with it. Newly relocated to Baltimore, Maryland, she is starting to think she may be in over her head, but the slow translation of her father's journals hold answers to a past she never even thought to question, including the identity of her long lost "Annabell."
Notes: Story begins in Season One, Episode Eight of Hannibal (TV), Fromage, and dances a pirouette around canon. Starring characters and heavy influences from Hannibal Rising. Character ages are based on the ages of the actors.
One
Michelle Grentz rubbed at her face with her hands before wringing her fingers in her lap like a soggy dishrag, yielding water in the form of sweat. Michelle was a woman who kept a cool and controlled head, but the lights of the room were bright enough for her to feel a headache building up behind her eyes and it made her nervous. Her headaches were always severe and if she were to submit to this interview with a clear mind she would have liked to be capable of answering the police's questions coherently.
Everyone in the Baltimore Philharmonic Orchestra was affected by Douglas Wilson's murder. Michelle was probably the least affected of all of them. She was the orchestra's newest addition, and the most prestigious. In privacy, Wilson was what might have been called the least prestigious, something that he would have taken in good humor had he been alive to hear it. The local nature and unusual brutality of the murder had led to the FBI being put on the case and everyone in the orchestra found themselves answering more questions than people generally liked, especially the grieving. A few people were sitting alone, Michelle among them, but glancing around the concert hall she noted which instrumental groups huddled and whispered amongst each other like conspiring ravens. She frowned at them.
The interviews came and ended steadily, and she took a few minutes to escape to the bathroom, washing her sweating palms and throwing back her migraine medication. By the time she reentered the stage, the FBI were waiting for her.
"Name?"
"Michelle L. Grentz."
"Age?"
"Forty-three."
The interviewer, a tomboyish woman with short fingernails and a ponytail that was peeling back her hairline, spoke some formalities into a tape recorder before proceeding.
"Miss Grentz, how well did you know Douglas Wilson?"
Michelle folded her hands on the table, displaying the long, elegant fingers of a pianist. "Not well. I only joined the orchestra three months ago. Douglas was a very open and friendly man, but we never had reason to pursue one another socially outside of work. I spoke with him a few times when we went out to dinner in groups."
"Did he ever mention or speak about anyone that might have had reason to hurt or kill him?"
"Not that I recall. The trombone was Douglas' second instrument and he still played it a bit weakly, and unless instrument skill was a key in his murder I really can't imagine why someone would wish the poor man dead."
The FBI Agent ran them through a few more routine questions before dismissing the pianist. Michelle was plenty eager to head out and get away from the harsh lighting. She could feel her blood pounding in her temples in a painful staccato. Her medication wouldn't kick in until it hit her intestine and she needed to have a lie-in to ward the migraine off from getting bad until then.
Despite herself, she paused when passing the concert hall, peering inside. It was strangely empty now; only one man was standing around with an inquisitive eye. Doug was still on display like a second-hand violin strung up in a pawnshop window display, unplayable and non-repairable. It was sad and obscene, and she would not be surprised if a few members of the orchestra quit their jobs, fearful of being the next victim. She wondered if his family would have him buried or cremated. She wondered if the murderer got any sound of that lacerated larynx—an Adam's apple couldn't be played.
"You look like you've had a revelation."
She had enough dignity left in her to not jump. Turning, she saw the man whose face so often graced the national newspapers. He had a forceful presence she was surprised that she had missed, for he must have been watching her for a few moments at the very least. His hands were hidden in the pockets of his coat, but she imagined them to be very heavy hands. He had dark skin and darker eyes, though they peered out with a bright and sharply analytical gleam.
"I'm Agent Jack Crawford," he introduced.
"Michelle Grentz."
He looked from her to the slumped corpse and back again, his brown furrowed with curiosity. "Did you know Wilson?"
"Not well."
"You saw something."
"Pardon?" She felt her headache growing.
"Just now, while you were looking inside. You had the look of someone who has had an idea. Mind telling me what it is?"
She minded a little bit, yes. She pressed a hand to her temple and lightly scratched her cheekbone. "I had the thought that whoever killed Doug can't have known much about the human body. Or maybe even about singing. The voice box is more like a fleshy cleft in the throat, and produces sound by… contracting or widening when we breathe. Like… like when you hold a blade of grass between your thumbs and blow at it, it squeaks." She gestured at the auditorium. "Whoever turned Doug into a human cello tried to play on cartilage. Which wouldn't do anything, really." She tried to imagine the act and shuddered, her mouth pinching as she thought of a bow scraping across the dead man's exposed throat.
Crawford looked thoughtful, as though he was actually weighing her observations.
"Do you know much about human anatomy, Miss Grentz?"
"More than Doug's murderer, I would guess. But what I know is music, Agent Crawford. This guy probably does too, for all that he may not understand that a man can't sing if he's not breathing. Not just anyone knows how to build an instrument; that takes years to accomplish with the proper training."
He had an intimidating stance, but Michelle decided that she liked Jack Crawford. He was blunt and straightforward, but she supposed that came with the job. She could see cogs grinding in his mind like a tightly wound clock. This was a man who loved his job, but was also in sore need of a vacation.
He broke eye contact to observe the concert hall and the lone living man sitting in it. "I've read about you in the papers. You're the Philharmonic Orchestra's shining jewel, though it's a step down from the Metropolitan in New York."
Not this gossip again. "The Met is a demanding job and I attracted some unsavory attention. I thought getting away from the tabloids for a while would be good."
He nodded in understanding. "Nevertheless, you have a sharp eye."
"For music, Agent Crawford. If Doug's death hadn't been so," she gestured widely to the auditorium, "Musically centric, you'd find me thicker than Les Miserables."
At that, he quirked a grim-smile, "As a high-end musician, would you happen to know of any instrument-makers?"
Through the building throb behind her eyes, Michelle rummaged through her purse. Her business card was simple, eggplant-purple typeface set in pale grey. Even as she extended it, she felt the circles under her eyes deepening.
"Call me tomorrow morning. I'm owed a few favors and I'll see what I can do for you."
As he took it from her, she noted that his fingers were longer than she had expected. He had hands that spent more time filing reports than getting elbow-deep in someone's guts, however often he may have seen it.
"Thank you."
It was a very informal dismissal. He suddenly stepped away to talk to his colleague down in the stands. From a distance, Michelle recognized him as Will Graham. His presence in the local rag wasn't presented as very savory, described unflatteringly as Jack Crawford's unwitting human bloodhound. He hid behind a clunky pair of black-framed glasses that looked as though they would tempt a steroid-pumped jock to put his fist through them. Through the lenses, he made a flickering glance in her direction.
Michelle pressed her temple against the swell of her rising migraine, turning heel and striding out to her car.
Continues next week...
Author's Notes:
GUESS WHO'S BACK AFTER A 2+ YEAR ABSENCE, BABY.
SURPRISE. IT'S ME.
Love,
Megii