Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Ten

JH 'Sloppy' Floyd State Park. Will stared at the sign, ignoring the bustle behind him. The rest of the team were piling out of two rental cars, gathering cameras and equipment bags from the trunks. Jack Crawford was in discussions with an FBI agent from the Atlanta office and the park's warden.

"Let's go, people." Jack clapped his hands to get their attention when he was done his briefing. "Will!" He barked a little louder for his truculent profiler.

Will turned, waved carelessly at the sign. "Who chooses to go down in history with the nickname 'Sloppy'?"

Brian whispered in Jimmy's ear, "This from the guy who's known around Quantico as Will 'Wacko' Graham."

"I always liked 'Give-you-the-willies' Willy," Jimmy joked.

Brian liked Jimmy's offering, laughed aloud.

"I always liked Brian 'the Asshole' Zeller," Beverly snarled, smacked Brian on the head as she walked by. "And Jimmy 'the Geek.'"

Jimmy frowned. "Seriously? You've heard that? From who?"

Brian just smiled sheepishly at her, switching it up quickly to an evil grin for Jimmy when her back was turned.

The park warden took them as far as he could, crammed into his 4x4, then they had a half mile walk down a rarely used path to an old shack, left over from the days when the area was being considered for marble mining.

Same scene, different state. This one was completed. The flayed body was sitting at the table, just like Kentucky, Virginia and North Carolina, a second body was staked to a board, held upright, painted head to foot in white, wearing a white crown. He was the king, observing the battle, drowned in white paint. The autopsy report on each of the previous two kings listed a gallon of paint drained out from the stomach and the lungs.

Jack opened the door and held it, allowing Will in first, then followed; the local agent came in behind. The park warden stayed outside with the rest of the team, not caring to see for himself.

Will stopped just over the threshold and soaked it in, eyes wandering over each body, the chessboard then the room. "Nothing was disturbed?" He turned to ask, kept his eyes down as if searching the floor for evidence.

The junior agent answered, "No, sir. It was our office that got the tip and the door was locked on the outside when we arrived."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, sir. As sure as I can be."

"Thank you."

Will glanced quickly at Jack then, a request.

"Will you excuse us now?" Jack said to the other agent, not a request.

When they were alone, they both stood silently looking at the layout of the chess pieces. They could reset the game from memory. And here it was again.

"It's the same move," Jack finally said what they were both thinking. "The game hasn't progressed from Kentucky."

"No, it hasn't."

"What does that tell us?"

Will didn't answer, stepped closer, walked around behind the body at the table, got up next to the painted king and examined him. "There are flies in the paint." He stuck out a finger and brushed a wing. "He wasn't painted with the usual care or...he wasn't dry when he moved him."

"That's different."

Nodding absently Will turned back to the chess game. "How long was it between Virginia and North Carolina?"

"Six weeks."

"And between North Carolina and here?"

Jack thought a moment. "A little shy of six weeks."

"Five weeks then between North Carolina and Kentucky and only a week between here and Kentucky."

"Not much of a pattern."

"Hard to recognize a pattern with only four terms in the sequence…or…three." The last word came out almost a whisper.

"Three?"

Will ignored the question again, said angrily, "This is rushed…or…I don't know…sloppy. This is sloppy, just like the name on the park sign." He sounded as if it was a personal insult, a disappointment intimately felt.

"Why?" asked Jack. "Why did he feel rushed?"

"Well, that's the million dollar question, isn't it?" Will was sharp with his reply, angry along with the invisible killer still inhabiting the room.

"I'll leave you alone," Jack responded, recognizing that Will wasn't entirely himself just then, already cloaked in empathy for a murderer. "Come out when you're ready."

Will wouldn't talk when he came out, wouldn't talk on the long car ride back to the city; he brooded, paying little attention while the others expounded their theories, huffing his disdain when he did listen, finally speaking back at the hotel room in Atlanta, irritable, "No, he was not interrupted. He is angry. Something or someone has…pissed him off." Will sliced at the air with an imaginary knife. "The skinning this time is sloppy, messy, not rushed so much as…aggressive. Who's going to bother him out there? He wasn't…interrupted. He's frustrated."

"Maybe he's making up for the incomplete job in Kentucky? Dealing with his frustrations and doing it properly this time," Jimmy speculated. "That would explain why he's repeating the chess move."

"Maybe," Will replied, thinking. "But it doesn't explain why he's angry…still…a week later."

"From the beginning," Jack brought them back into line. "What do we know?"

Will tuned them out again, sat petulantly on the arm of a chair with his back to the room, leaning away, his nose almost pressed to the window, looking out over the buildings and wishing he were somewhere else, somewhere quiet, somewhere he could think without being bombarded with useless chatter. He longed for a bourbon and the company of a certain Kentucky Marshal, someone who didn't talk just to hear his own voice.

"Will." Jack had come up behind him, interrupting his thoughts. "What's bothering you?"

"I can't…think…here. And I'm starving. I'm going back to my room and order up a steak or something. I need some quiet to get my thoughts in order."

Jack looked Will over, submitted. "Fine. The bodies from both scenes are on their way back to Virginia. Take the night. We'll leave you alone on the flight tomorrow. Have some ideas for me when we get back to Quantico."

Will nodded and Jack let him go.

The room was too warm maybe. Or maybe he'd spent too much time in airplanes and cars the last three days. Maybe he was just hungry. Will paced his hotel room and waited for his food to arrive. It was like there were a hundred invisible biting insects flying about, irritating. He couldn't see them, but that didn't mean they weren't there. He swatted at the air, a reaction to his own frustrations, trying to clear his head. There was something right in front of him that he was missing, clearly not insects – he wasn't that crazy – but if not insects, then what?

His thoughts defied his attempts to organize them, came at him randomly and agitated. The missing king, the sporadic timeline, the glances of distrust and concern from the team, the flies in the paint, Georgia, Kentucky, the glass rinsed and replaced, the look – raised eyebrows and a smile for comedy. He couldn't tune any of it out. It was his talent, his 'gift' as Tim put it, his curse.

Will sighed and flopped down on the bed, fell onto his back. He knew what the empty glass meant; he just didn't want to admit that that was all it was – hello and goodbye. Cold images from the crime scenes intermingled with warm glimpses of his last night in Kentucky and he lingered longer and longer on the latter. The very different sensations and thoughts fought for his attention. He wasn't going to unlock any puzzles that way, either about the case or his feelings for the Marshal. He gave in finally, let Tim Gutterson push The Chess Master and Jack Crawford clear out of his head.

It had been so easy, so familiar, like catching up with a long-lost friend though he was sure they'd never met before. He couldn't remember ever being so relaxed with anyone. It was liberating. It was exactly like the cool warmth of solitude, but better, more like living. The old solitude was a closed, stale box; in this new solitude, you could feel the air.

Apparently Dr. Lecter's assessment was very accurate. He reached for his phone and checked messages. But he knew before he looked that there wouldn't be one.

He closed his eyes and pictured Tim sleeping – he'd drifted off first. Will got the impression Tim didn't sleep well nights and he wanted to find out if his hunch were true. He wanted a closer look at that tattoo as well, the one on Tim's chest. He'd spent some time tracing the lines of it but had no idea of its significance. There hadn't been time last night to ask, too busy with other things and then so relaxed, lying with him, drifting off, it was all so familiar. It was the familiar that you feel when you're dreaming and nothing is familiar but you know it anyway, intimately. How could you not know it if you created it? It was the sort of familiar that he could get used to.

Familiar. The phone call tipoff twigged something familiar. Will assumed the call was made by the killer, leading them away from Kentucky. Maybe that was true, but why the change in the timeline? Always there were two victims with no traceable connection between them. Always they were killed separately: the seated victim flayed at the scene, the watcher murdered somewhere else and carried in. Always the white king was a man with money and the chess player was a loser, in life and in death. Hunting down so particular a prey took time. And there was no time between Kentucky and Georgia. Where was the white king?

His dinner arrived with a knock on the door and a call of 'room service'. The tray was wheeled in and Will tipped the server and shut the door behind him. He poured the bourbon first, took a sip and regretted ordering it – it tasted like Tim Gutterson. He licked his lips to prolong the memory, and lifted the cover from his meal. The aroma of meat drifting up from the plated steak brought up the image of Hannibal Lecter. His appetite disappeared. He grabbed his wallet and headed for the elevator.

Jack Crawford answered the door when he knocked, surprised to see him back. "Will?"

Will brushed past, stood in the entranceway to the room. "The tipoff phone call – when was it made again? In relation to the murders."

"It's impossible to say for certain, but the time of death of the flayed victim and the time of the call were within a few hours – one side or the other."

"Who would know, in that short a time?" Will studied the floor. "Where's the white king, Jack?"

"We've discussed this. The Marshal showed up. The killer didn't get a chance to…"

"No, no. I think…I know…that the king is set up before the game starts. He's there to watch. It's his father…maybe…and maybe he was always judging – wealthy, imperious. He's re-enacting his relationship with his father. Do you see?"

Jack nodded slowly, understanding. "So where's the white king in Kentucky?"

"Exactly." Will looked up. "I think it's a different killer."

"I thought you said it was his golden ticket."

"I think it is, but the golden ticket of a different killer. I think The Chess Master was…is…angry at being copied. That's why…" Will gestured out the window nodding, his thoughts racing ahead of his speech.

"Another copycat?" Jack's face broadcast his doubt.

"Why not? It's common enough."

"The game was copied exactly."

"It could've been leaked."

"Leaked." Another look of disbelief. "By whom? We've kept the details of the game very close."

"Someone inside."

Jack huffed, turned to look at the rest of the team. "Which one of them do you suspect?" he asked facetiously.

"I'm thinking...even more inside. Someone close to the killer."

"Will, this story sounds a bit too familiar to me. Hannibal Lecter cannot possibly be involved." His voice was firm. "He's well guarded and continuously under observation."

"Do not underestimate Hannibal Lecter. We've made that mistake once already." Will looked at Jack and saw him measuring, saw compassion.

"Maybe you need some time off."

"I had some…time off."

"I don't mean in a prison cell, Will." Again, the concerned look.

Will had already opened the door to the hall. "I'm not…crazy...Jack. Where's the white king?" he repeated the question as he walked out.

More agitated than before, Will stepped into the elevator distracted, eyed the floor buttons only after the doors had closed. His finger hovered briefly over the number '7' for his room then dropped down and pressed the button for the lobby. He had the keys for one of the rentals. Jack had given them to him, to allow him some solitude on the drive to the airport the following morning.

They had missed something in Kentucky. He could be there in six hours if he pushed it. He checked his watch. It was only 8pm.

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