Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Seven

Will stood just inside the entranceway to the bar and scanned the room. He regretted not phoning Tim directly to make his request. His clearly not-so-brilliant idea of tracking the Marshal down on foot again was forcing him to be sociable, not a role he was comfortable with. He had weighed his options before heading out from the hotel, being sociable against being out from under Jack's constant scrutiny, and decided it was worth the discomfort of walking around and talking to people just to get clear of that hotel suite and moving. Jack Crawford's sternly solicitous stares were suffocating. It was all suffocating. He was even getting tired of the word 'suffocating'.

Besides, he was now sober again after a sobering meeting with the FBI team and he wanted to get back on track. He had a serial killer to catch.

The guard at the courthouse told him to check this particular bar first, the suggestion offered with a liberal slap of disapproving undertone. Law enforcement came in two flavors in Will's experience, a generalization but an apt one: there were those who would welcome the return of prohibition and those who actively and generously supported the liquor industry. Will slotted himself happily in the second group. He thought the bar a perfectly reasonable place to look for a Deputy US Marshal, a perfectly acceptable after-hours venue for the profession. Unfortunately for him though, it meant being still more sociable.

He spotted the Chief Deputy immediately. He was hard to miss in a crowd, especially accompanied as he was by another man wearing a conspicuous cowboy hat looking like he missed the turn to Nashville, and a young, petite black woman who appeared to be plucked from the graduation hall at Harvard or the FBI academy – an unlikely trio. But Tim wasn't with them. Will accepted defeat and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, digging for his phone, just as Art looked up, recognized him and waved him over.

Damn, he thought, hoping to avoid any more conversations this night, but it was too late now for an escape so he grudgingly wound his way through the tables to meet the Marshals.

"Good evening," Art said, standing to greet him, "You here to arrest Tim? You missed him. I think he went home to play some online chess."

Will grinned at the poke to be sociable, ran his eyes quickly over the others sitting at the table. "No, I'm not here to arrest him – I'll leave that to the more official-looking FBI agents. I'm just...looking for an escort…preferably armed and…preferably a better shot than me. I was hoping Deputy Gutterson might be willing to take a trip back to the scene tonight. Would you happen to know where I could find him?"

"I think he's taking night school courses in animal skinning," Raylan offered.

Another social smile.

"Or he might be at home, curled up on the couch watching his favorite movie, Se7en." Rachel smiled coolly.

"I always have to watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre when I go over for movie night," Art commented.

"He makes me watch Psycho," said Raylan. "It gives me nightmares."

Everyone put on a social smile and Will accepted the jabbing, appreciated them defending their coworker.

"Sorry," Art said after a pause, and not sorry at all. "Don't mean to be rude. Let me make the introductions." He pointed to his Marshals in turn. "This is Deputy Rachel Brooks, Deputy Raylan Givens. And this, boys and girls, is Agent Will Graham, FBI."

"Actually, I'm Special Agent Will Graham…not really FBI. I'm a…consultant." He looked apologetic.

Raylan dodged and weaved, tried and failed to catch Will's eye. "A consultant, huh? I didn't think the FBI ever consulted with anybody but their 'mirror, mirror on the wall.'"

Will jerked a smile, half shrugged, a wry tilt to the head, nodded. "They seem willing enough to suffer me…when it's…to their advantage."

"Do they say 'please'?"

The expression on his face said it all, but Will answered anyway. "I'll assume you're kidding."

"Excellent assumption. I can see why they consult you."

Rachel was watching Will intently. She seemed to soften the more nervously he behaved. "It's an honor to meet you, Special Agent Graham," she said, standing too and shaking his hand. "That was a pretty tough case you wrapped up, catching Hannibal Lecter. Would you care to join us for a drink?"

"Uh, no…thank you, no. What I'd like is to…" Will took a deep breath, looked ready to bolt.

"Find Tim?" she finished for him.

He nodded again, jerky motions.

"Why are you so keen to head out there tonight?" asked Raylan.

"The killer didn't…finish the scene. I think he'll be back." The Marshals had to lean in to hear him. "And I want to see it at night...the way he did."

"Raylan, why don't you walk Special Agent Graham over to Tim's apartment," Art suggested, softening a little himself. "Then maybe you and Tim could run him out to Olive Hill together. I don't want another freaky murder going on out there. They've already had one and it might upset the good folk of Carter County if they got another in the space of a month. Three of you should be able to handle him if he shows up. Right?" he asked Will for agreement.

"Three is…more than enough. Thank you." Will turned to go, turned back, added a compliment, "Especially if all your people shoot as well as Deputy Gutterson."

"From time to time," Raylan replied, smiling, picked up his hat and led the way out.

"Raylan," Art's voice carried a warning with it, "I'd be just as happy if you didn't get to prove that to Agent Graham."

The FBI consultant was wound so tightly it was putting Raylan on edge. He threw a name out into the night hoping for some conversation. "Hannibal Lecter, huh?"

"Yeah." Will stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked a little faster.

Raylan decided if that was all he was going to get then it was invitation to poke around and have some fun. "You must get a lot of jokes like 'Hannibal, the guy with the elephants'?"

Will grimaced. "You have no idea."

"Oh, I beg to differ. That one's gone around the office a hundred ways."

"I bet."

"He really ate people's livers? I don't even like cow's liver so I can't imagine eating some poor idiot's…" Raylan gestured at his belly, searched for a better word but failed, "…liver. It'd be enough to turn you off your dessert."

"Not just liver. Brains, lungs, kidneys, intestines."

"I've never had lung."

"I've never tried lung either. At least…I don't think I have."

"Let me give you some advice - you really should sound more certain when you're discussing that kind of thing with someone."

Will stopped, looked up the side of the building they were walking past. "I'll...take that under advisement. But you have to understand, we all…ate…at Dr. Lecter's table…all of us…at some point. There's…there's no way of telling what was being served." Will passed his eyes briefly over Raylan's face, long enough to see a look of disgust.

"Shit."

A humorless snort and Will wagged a finger at Raylan. "Never, never shit. Dr. Lecter was an excellent cook…no, no more than that…he…he was an extraordinary chef." He paused a moment, remembering, then added with a smile, "And he made…fantastic desserts. It'd be…difficult…to be turned off his desserts."

Raylan digested that piece of information. "So you really have no idea if you ever…?" He motioned toward his mouth. "No way to find out?"

Will shook his head and continued walking. "I'm not sure I care to find out."

"Talk about the elephant in the room."

"Ha. Yeah."

Tim's apartment was a quiet block further. Raylan had enough to think about to keep him from poking any more. He stopped at the doors of the building, pressed the code and waited for an answer.

"It wouldn't be a good thing for me if our conversation ended up in the paper."

Raylan turned to face Will, pushed his hat back and said, "I've been skinned a few times by the press. I don't give them jack."

A nod. "Miami."

"Shit. Does everyone know about that?"

Will didn't reply, eyes skittering over the intercom panel. "Maybe he's not home."

Raylan stared at the list of apartment numbers, frowned, then pulled his cell and dialed Tim's.

He answered after the first ring. "Why are you at my door, Raylan?"

"Why don't you answer the buzzer and find out?"

"'Cause I'm answering my phone. What do you want?"

"A romantic evening drive to Olive Hill. I've got an FBI consultant with me. I know three's a crowd, but…"

There was a pause that hung just a beat too long. "Buzz again. I'll let you in."

Raylan smiled at Will. "I think he sounded enthusiastic, don't you?"

Raylan made himself comfortable. The odd night over at Tim's apartment drinking away a frustrating case or celebrating a gratifying one had allowed him the opportunity to take ownership of a favorite spot on the couch. It was occupied currently by a collection of open magazines, all technical, all guns and ammo types except for a recent edition of The Economist hiding in the middle. He swiped them up along with a pen and dumped them onto the coffee table beside the plate of crumbs and the mug with a mouthful of cold coffee at the bottom and plunked himself down.

"Clear a seat," he said to Will and gestured magnanimously at Tim's usual spot.

Will hesitated just inside the door, eyes analyzing and filing away every detail of the place. He tried to stop himself from creating a profile but it was a difficult trait to just shut off and besides he was curious and he'd always found he couldn't say no to his curiosity, a demanding and controlling mistress. The apartment was impersonal unless you knew how to look and to Will it seemed a little forced, like the owner was hiding in here somewhere and had camouflaged his nest in neutrals to disguise himself. He searched for clues. The furnishings were a thrown-together stew of comfortable pragmatism. If there were any evidence of the purchaser in them at all, it would be only that they were honest choices, careless and functional – a couch needed, check, a TV, check, chairs and a table and a coffee table for magazines and books and breakfast dishes so the occupant could sit in front of the television mornings and watch the news, check, check, check.

Tim walked out of the bedroom at that point, pulling a T-shirt on. "Are we in a hurry or can I make us some coffee for the trip?"

Raylan looked at Will.

Will let Tim's question soak in slowly, distracted, eventually answered. "Coffee. Coffee would be great."

"How do you take it?"

"Black, thank you." Will assumed the question was for him.

"Okay."

Through the open bedroom door, he could see the bed, neatly made, clothes folded on one end, another stack of books and magazines on a side table, again neat, not at all like the casual chaos of the living room. Will dismissed the anomaly as a military habit and flicked his eyes back to the main room. His gaze was immediately drawn to the computer table in the back corner. There, there was the center of activity, not the TV. That's where Tim went first when he came in, though it was awkward to get to. His sidearm and star and wallet were sitting by the keyboard, the lights flickering on the chassis, on and in use. Will visualized it - Tim checking email immediately when he got home, an active online life. A photo in a frame stood out among the papers set beside the monitor, a visual for the virtual, Afghanistan and desert camo, a group of men, a collage of helmets and rifles and a grin or two. Nowhere else in the room was there anything personal, nothing even hinting at a past, or a present beyond work. Hard to let go of, those ties, that depth of camaraderie, the violence knitting together forever an understanding and a compassion. It'd be a constant search to reconstruct that closeness, the shallowness of day-to-day living shutting you down.

Will took a few steps closer to get a good look at the photo, trying not to be obvious about his scrutiny, leaning a little to see it better, too ashamed of his curiosity to walk around the couch and actually pick it up. He could tell it was Tim in the middle of the pack, outted by the grin; he was putting on 'the face.' Will imagined the raised eyebrows under the helmet, imagined the jaded eyes beneath the lenses of the Oakleys matching the jaded and forced smile for comedy, imagined it falling away unsupported once the photo was taken. It was a good likeness of him even completely covered in gear and Will turned and walked softly into the kitchen, wanting a glimpse of the real thing in his city marshal camo for comparison.

Tim was leaning against the counter waiting on the coffee, turned his head to see who was intruding on his last few minutes of solitude and their eyes rested together comfortably, a full lifetime of acceptance. It was a direct and open conduit catching both of them off their guard. Tim looked away first.

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