Five years earlier

Miriam Lass was a petite woman, but had a sturdiness in her walk. Alana knew who Miriam was before she introduced herself when she went to the Academy that first time. The two got along well. Similar experiences in strange ways...both underestimated at different points. No war stories shared, but there was an understanding that both knew they met the same subtle prejudice before: A combination of often being the only woman in the room and an undercurrent of presumed weakness.

"The line that strikes me is 'intelligent psychopath.' In my opinion, it lends itself to narrowing down what fields this person works in," said Alana.

"Medical field, definitely" said Miriam. "Maybe psychology?"

"It's possible. But the amount of skill involved in these murders indicates medical most of all. There is a richness to it. A level of care that surpasses just hacking at these people with a machete or scalpel alike." Alana glanced at the crime scene pictures of James Miller, the ph.d candidate in psychology. The careful, precise exposure of his ribs and coupled with the removal of the heart and lungs didn't send a chill down her spine. The pre-mortem removal of his eyes did. "It's as if he is keeping his skills sharp."

"Why would that be? Why would he need to keep his skills sharp if he is in the medical field?" Asked Miriam.

"Because he may not be in the medical field. He could be retired or unable to practice." Alana glanced at the clock.

"Unfortunately I have to leave. I need to finish up assisting with this class. Talk later?"

"Sure," chirped Miriam. "I think we made some progress. I have to ask a Jack a few procedural questions about pursing this angle, but I think you might be on to something. Would you be open to follow up in this if necessary?"

"Certainly! Anything to help," said Alana.

"Great, I'll be in touch."

Alana left the Academy beaming. The more she thought over the facts of the file in her head, the more she became confident that she could narrow down the endless categories of who the Chesapeake Ripper could be. A real profile.

She returned to her office to grade papers. "Undergrads," she muttered as she saw yet another paper on Pavlov.

"They seem to get younger every year," said Hannibal.

Alana laughed. "That implies I'm so much older," she said. "You can come in, the doorjamb is not comfortable."

She realized how late it was. It was dark out, and she noted that Hannibal had his necktie off. He moved some papers to sit down in the armchair.

"Catching up?"

"I was at the Academy today. The Ripper. Some progress, finally."

"New theory?"

"Medical...maybe ex-medical."

Hannibal brightened. "Interesting. What brought you to that conclusion?"

"The care in the incisions. No novice can do that."

"You seem to enjoy this," said Hannibal. He smiled.

"I do. And you seem amused."

"Not at all, I'm proud of you. It's great to watch someone find their passion. What they are talented at."

"Profiling serial killers?"

"Seeing beyond who they are as killers. Where are how are easy questions. Killers get caught when you find their location or narrow them down through their methods. You see who they are."

Alana laughed. "Flattering, but I'm not that good. If that was true, I would have found him by now."

"You can," said Hannibal softly. "I can tell."

He looked at her thoughtfully for a few lingering moments before catching himself. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink. Wine? Martini?"

"Beer. I like the more bitter, hoppy side of alcohol."

"Noted," said Hannibal.

She brushed by him to get her coat out of the closet, she swore she felt a certain heat and pressure as their hands touched.