3

Death was close.

Will could sense his presence. Breathe it in.

Through the car window, houses and cars flitted by, slowing as they arrived at their destination. Michael Hanson's home. It's worn paint echoed dully, once welcoming but now desolate. Closed shutters and a tightly-locked door greeted them as they stepped onto the porch.

Crawford knocked on the door, glancing at Will.

"Can't have you spacing on me now," he muttered, breath clouding in the cold. Graham huffed, tearing his thoughts from Death's recent visit.

"I'm not."

The door creaked open, and a man—Michael—peered through, eyes sunken and feeble. "May I help you?"

"Yes, I'm FBI Special Agent Jack Crawford"—he rose his badge—"and this is Will Graham. We'd like to interview you on the case of your ex-wife, Mary Schiro."

Michael hesitated, then opened the door, seating them in the living room. "I learned about it yesterday," he said. "I just… I can't believe it."

"Many things are hard to believe," muttered Will, walking about the outskirts of the room and examining every inch of the house. Michael wearily glanced at him, finding better comfort in Jack's presence.

"Mr. Hanson," said Crawford, "we believe one of Mary's friends murdered her. Perhaps an ex-lover. Would you know anyone who fits the profile?"

"W-well, there weren't many people she talked to," Hanson replied. "There was this man…"

"Was he an artist?" Will butt in.

Michael nodded, glancing at the roaming man. "Mary rarely talked about him, but he came up during dinner one night. Bram Bates. She told me how he started getting too close to her. Creeped her out so much she cut ties with him."

Crawford nodded. "Have you ever seen Bram Bates?"

"Only once, but I'll never forget it," breathed Michael. "He looked at me with such a resentful gaze—I thought he'd kill me right then and there."

Will sat down on an empty sofa. "Do you know where he lives?"

Hanson shook his head. "No. B-but I know his art shop: Merry Brushes. At least an hour away from here."

Graham scoffed at that. "He carried her name wherever he went."

"We noticed that you recently divorced Mary Schiro," said Jack. "May we ask the reason for this?"

Michael twisted his hands, lower lip trembling. "I mean—I—I-I know I shouldn't—I really am a terrible husband—"

"It was because of Bates, wasn't it," Will said, leaning forward. Michael swallowed. "What did he do, Mr. Hanson?"

He took a deep breath, glancing away from their prying eyes. "Y-you can't really… blame me. A-after all, he—"

"Spit it out," said Will. A short pause fell over them, and Hanson took another breath.

"H-he confronted me one night. In my very room, while my wife was out with friends." He thickly swallowed. "He threatened m-me with a knife. Told me I didn't belong with Mary. That he'd make things right again."

Jack Crawford leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "And what did you do?"

"I didn't have to do anything," spluttered Hanson. "H-he just… left."

"No threats, no warnings, just…?"

"Out the window," Michael said.

Crawford glanced over at Will, who gave a confirming nod. With that, the special agent stood, straightening his jacket and offering a hand. "Well, Mr. Hanson," he said, shaking his hand firmly, "we appreciate your time. We'll make sure Bates is caught."

Hanson nodded, and the two agents left, slipping back into the car.

"Up for another interview?" teased Crawford, the car rumbling to life at the turn of his key. They rolled out of the driveway, already headed towards the art shop.

"Only if you do the talking," Will smirked.

An hour later, they arrived at the art shop—a dingy place in the bad streets of Baltimore. Its blue sign of Merry Brushes peeled, echoing of old kindergarten days. In the distance, rabid dogs barked and people shouted, swirling into the cacophony of honking cars and screeching tires.

"Have your gun?" said Crawford. Will nodded, patting his hip, and they slipped out of the car. A dull air swarmed the shop, and its lights were dark. They sidled up to the entrance and peered through the glass door, noting the disarray of shelves and racks.

Crawford clicked his tongue. "Poor place looks like a nightmare."

Will leaned forward and knocked on the door, the surface quivering beneath his fist. "He's here." He glanced at Jack's skeptical gaze, and to prove the fact, a built man slyly swung upon the door.

"Can I help you?" came the gruff greeting.

Crawford straightened, showing his badge. "Yes. FBI Special Agents Crawford and Graham. We're here for the murder of Mary Schiro, of which we believed you've orchestrated."

Bram Bates tilted his head, hand clutching the door. He sighed and shrugged, scratching his scruff. "Go n' cuff me, officer. I just closed up shop for good. Ain't nothing left for me in this world anymore."

He stepped forward with offered wrists, and Jack stepped back, hand ghosting over his holster. Bates smirked, eyes half-lidded. "Go on, sirs." He bowed. "Take me away."

The agents exchanged glances, and Crawford hastily obliged, securing the cuffs against him. He cleared his throat, but before he opened his mouth, Bates chuckled.

"I know my rights, no need to say em," he laughed. "We going, or what?"

Crawford scoffed and dragged Bram forward, stuffing him in the back of the car. Before they entered the front, the agent spoke up.

"Don't you think this is too easy?" prattled Jack.

Will stared at him before shaking his head and slipping into the car, Crawford hesitantly following suit. Their drive back to the agency was silent.

Will roamed the edges of Jack's office, glancing at papers of missing children and unsolved cases. His voice rolled about the walls, but it did nothing to keep him from daydreaming.

"Will."

He stared into the eyes of Mary Schiro, a recent addition to the wall of papers.

"Will."

He looked over his shoulder, blinking with an inquiring hum. Crawford sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I was just talking about the case you're looking at," grumbled Jack, hand waving to Mary Schiro's paper. "Bates couldn't have given himself away so easy. Not if he was acting on jealousy, like you said."

Will stared at Jack through heavy lashes. "You of all people should be used to this," he said. "Yes, we should always have the benefit of the doubt but"—his eyes squinted—"don't you remember Katherine Pimms? Gave herself away, just like that. Just like some other cases we've had." He shrugged to the side. "Perhaps we have ourselves another easy one."

Crawford made a motion of rebuttal, but Will quickly cut in. "Look. We'll stay alert. Look for more clues, but I don't think we should be so invested in a case already solved."

"Very well," sighed Crawford. "But if something happens—"

A firm knock on the doorway. "Jack?"

"What," he snapped, looking at the visitor. Beverly Katz.

"You might want to see this."

Jack and Will exchanged looks, and they tore from their positions, following after a rushing Beverly. "He's been murdered," she was saying. "Michael Hanson. But there's no evidence of struggle, no wounds—nothing. Just a black handprint on his chest."

Will's breath stopped, and he froze in place. Beverly and Jack looked back at him.

"What did it look like?" he whispered.

Beverly glanced at Jack, the two of them unnerved at his sudden demeanor. "Is there something wrong?" Her features tensed. "Have you seen a case like this before?"

Will rushed ahead, tearing past them. "I want to see the body. Now."

The two exchanged another glance, but followed, resuming their journey. They took one car, raced to Michael Hanson's house, and ducked beneath the yellow caution tape. LED lights stabbed the air and the surrounding officers, sickeningly bright.

"In the living room," said Katz.

They slipped through the door, greeted with the same room where Will and Jack interviewed Hanson. His body slumped on the green sofa, eyes drooped and glazed, as if in a dreamlike state.

Will rushed forward and examined Michael's chest, cold now. He'd been dead for at least six hours.

Shoving on rubber gloves, Will prodded the handprint, solid black and daunting like pure ink. It was warm.

"Yes…" he whispered, fingers trembling. He took a deep breath, and that heavy, thick air swarmed his lungs, dripping with power. A faint smile stole his lips. "Yes…"

This was the hand of Death himself.

"What is it?" demanded Crawford. Will smirked, disposing his gloves and shaking his head.

"This… this is the work of no ordinary man," he said, satisfied. "Bates found himself someone much higher than he'll ever be. Higher than any of us will ever be."

He looked around at the scene, and his hands twitched. The lack of blood really did unnerve him. It begged him to kill again. Make the scene look right.

"What does that mean, Will?" said Jack.

Will rose a hand to dismiss them, and he closed his eyes, heart pounding faster than their retreating footsteps. The scene cleared—swish...swish—and suddenly, Hanson was roaming the house, brewing himself a cup of tea. Will slowly opened his eyes, wading into the room, eyeing Hanson as he sat on the sofa with his cuppa. A knock tore on the door.

Michael snapped towards the sound, and Will followed, eyes lazily taking in the scene. Carefully, Hanson croaked a "Come in," and the door creaked open.

No fingerprints, no evidence, rang the officer's report in his head, and a regal man slipped his way through the door. Calm and composed.

Will always imagined what Death would look like. Countless days, he spent daydreaming—wondering how Death appeared. How his eyes glimmered, or how graceful he walked. How he killed.

Will stared at his construction of Death, slowly wading into the scene. He always hated assuming what he looked like—always pictured Death in a blurry way. Assumption led to disappointment. But what he always held onto was the image of Death's gait: something eerie and regal, made with importance. One foot in front of the other, each step hissing with meaning.

Hanson sat still on the sofa, setting down his cup. "May I help you?"

Death looked down at him, face drawn back and emotionless. "You've lived a lax life, Michael Hanson," he breathed, kneeling down before him. "But lately, it's been riddled with unease—to the fault of Bram Bates."

Hanson swallowed, staring down at him. "I-I've never seen you before." His fingers dug into the sofa. "How do you know my name?"

"I know all names," Death replied, head tilting eerily. "I know all stories. I know when they end, or when they should end. I know when I wish to know."

Hanson quivered in his seat, and Death placed a calm, cool hand on Michael's knee, stilling him. "Do not fear me, Michael," he said, voice breathless and riddled with authority. Hanson nodded, relaxing on the sofa. "I am saving you from a more brutal death. You should be honored."

Michael swallowed and nodded, watching as Death rose. He placed a hand on his chest, his print clean and neat, and Hanson's eyes closed with a final motion. Absolutely peaceful.

Will inhaled and opened his eyes, and Hanson's body returned to the way they found it. Limp and cold, growing stiff, and with the black handprint stark against his pale skin. Crawford walked into the room.

"Well?"

Graham looked over his shoulder, slipping out of the house with him. "Tell me, Jack," he began. "Have you ever… questioned the concept of Death?"

Jack stared at him, huffing into the cold air as he looked away. "I'm sure we all do." His eyes glazed over. "It's how we lose people. Family, friends…"

"But have you ever put a face to the act?"

Crawford stopped, feet crunching in the snow. "You're not suggesting that this was done by some storytale."

"And you expect me to applaud your belief in God."

Jack scoffed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Fair point," he hummed. "But you can't really believe that… that Hanson could've died by supernatural means."

They loaded back into the car, rubbing their hands and blasting the heat to warm up.

"I've seen it before, Jack." He stared pointedly at the agent. "The same handprint, the same smell." He looked out the window at the blaring lights and scurrying officers. "Anyone can see it. There's no evidence, nothing. No struggle, no sign of injury or poison." He nodded firmly. "This was Death's work."

"But why would Death agree to work with Bram Bates?"

Will smiled, giving a silent chuckle. "Well, maybe, Jack"—his eyes glimmered as he glanced over at him—"maybe Death's finally found his niche."