For Anna…always.

GUILTY KNOWLEDGE

Damn it, I should have said I was safe before I disconnected the call. He'll come storming in like a maniac if he thinks I'm in trouble.

No. He'd be controlled. Lethal.

Clarice moved backward toward the entrance of the apartment and reached behind her to open the door. She pushed it open just enough for the latch assembly to release from the strike plate, but not enough for the scents within the apartment to escape. Now that door was just slightly ajar, H wouldn't smash it down to get to her. Hannibal had senses far more attuned than any human she'd ever known, or even heard about. He'd understand why she called him the moment he entered the building. A corpse. They reveal themselves long before they're seen. She didn't go far into that room. Opening the door released the scent and any incursion on her part would compromise the scene, possibly complicating their decisions further down the line. If something more than clearing the scene of any incriminating evidence needed to be done, she thought it best they make that decision together. She was doubting that choice right now.

Before Hannibal's arrival, Clarice began wiping her prints from Popil's computer and any area that might raise a red flag. She wasn't concerned about inconsequential latent prints, like those that might be found around the apartment from previous visits. It was likely known they'd visited Popil prior to this. No sense shrinking from the fact. She was about to clear the room and wait for Hannibal when her eyes fell on something that sent chills up her spine. She grabbed it and quickly tucked it in her back pocket. This is something Hannibal would kill Popil for without a moment's hesitation of an instant of guilt, and she wouldn't blame him.

He's trying to set Hannibal up…

Seeing this, Clarice couldn't allow Hannibal to enter the building now. This was something she had to do alone. Clarice withdrew a pair of surgical gloves from her pocket and silently closed the door. She then took out her phone and texted: Don't come. It's a setup. Go somewhere safe and call me.

Hannibal texted back near-instantaneously: Understood. Are you safe?

Clarice responded: I am. You wouldn't be. Call soon.

Hannibal in danger. It was an odd thought, wasn't it? He was Danger. He was Death. She thought of the dungeon in Baltimore. Remembering one of the first things he said to her…

You use Evian skin cream, and sometimes you wear L'Air du Temps, …but not today.

No, not today. Today he was Love and she would do everything she could to protect him.

Hannibal called. "Hello, Dearest. How are you holding up? All well?"

"I'm fine."

"Fine? No, you're certainly not fine, Clarice. I know you, and I know the rush of adrenaline one feels when death hangs heavy in the air. If you have need of me, please don't hesitate. Together, we can handle whatever comes our way."

"I'm fine, H, really. I've got this." She wanted to tell him this was something they couldn't handle together, but that would need and explanation. This was something she had to tell him in person, not over the phone.

He paused for a moment, perhaps to give her some room, or maybe he could sense she was holding back. More likely the latter. "Did you identify the deceased?"

"Not yet. I'm just leaving the kitchen area now. The place is totally empty with the exception of Mrs. Popil, I assume…alive or dead. Love does crazy things to people, I guess."

Hannibal disagreed, "He can't love her. A man who claims to be in love, wouldn't spend several hours of his day visiting bakeries and shopping for croissants. Especially not during a time when ordering food and contactless deliveries are the norm, rather than the exception."

"That's my thought, though if you saw the kitchen you'd wonder why he's buying them. It doesn't look like he's eaten many. The trash is littered with stale pastry."

"I suspect the honey bottles are empty?"

Clarice checked the row of honey bottles lining the countertop beside the modest sink. "Empty as a casket."

She imagined Hannibal's lips curling upward into as wicked a grin as she'd ever seen when he said, "Not for long, I suspect."

She laughed at his black humor and he at hers. Most would be put off by their levity at solemn moments, but Hannibal and Clarice found humor in such darkness.

"Time to go in." She reopened the bedroom door— the stench of death immediately flooded her sinuses. She wretched, covering her face with her shirt to filter some of the stink. It didn't help, but made her feel as if she was protecting herself on some level.

"From that sound you're in the room. You disappoint me, Clarice. I've never known you to show such a strong gag reflex."

He always knew how to break the tension. She laughed. "Don't be such a wiseass, H."

"Heaven forbid, Clarice…heaven forbid. What do you see? Describe the scene exactly as you see it." His voice was precise. No emotion. "Is it Mrs. Popil?"

Clarice stepped further into the room and used her left leg to gently move the door closed. She wanted to open a window to vent the stench, but that could draw unwanted attention. She checked Mrs. Popil, in a bed beside the window on the right-hand corner of the darkened room. "No. I thought the source might be his wife, but it isn't. She's here. Doesn't appear to be conscious. I can hear her breathing. Labored."

Clarice could also hear children laughing. People were talking around Hannibal and the sound of splashing water. There was a merry-go-round nearby. Hannibal was near the Warsaw Fountains. A memory flashed, as she imagined him leading her through Union Station, taunting her with his cat and mouse game of hide-and-seek, even riding the carousel there. She'd found out later how close she was to him— Hannibal brushing his fingertips across her hair to satisfy his own ego, or pride. Or maybe he was counting coo on her— the way a young warrior might rush at a lion or bear and smack it to prove his courage. He was so bold, reaching out to touch her. She hadn't felt it at the time, but saw it later on surveillance footage. Cheeky bastard. He took too many chances, and all for her. She wasn't about to let him take one now. He was courageous. Fearless. But he was the lion now, and she wouldn't allow him to be challenged.

"What does her breathing sound like? Is it fast and shallow like quick huffing breaths, or is it slow, with what sounds like a gurgle in the back of the throat?"

"It's the second." The woman seemed out of it, but Clarice remembered hearing something about the hearing being the last thing to leave a person, so she didn't want to say it aloud.

"Likely the beginning of congestive heart failure. She doesn't have long now. Further assessment?"

Clarice drew back the bedcovers to reveal Mrs. Popil with as much deference as possible. "She's clearly starved. There's a feeding machine hooked up to a thin tube had taped to the side of her cheek, entering digestive system by way of her left nostril. The bag was obviously tampered with, opened and resealed to replace the contents."

"See if you can determine what he's feeding her."

Clarice reached into her front pocket, tugging out a pale blue Spyderco Chaparral from within. Thumbing the knife open, she pierced the bag at the top, allowing some of the liquid to track onto the blade. She lifted it to her nose. Inhaling, she confirmed the contents before reaching for an alcohol swab to clean it off.

"Is he feeding her honey?" Hannibal asked as if he was standing beside her.

"Yes. Watered down to move through the feeding pump, looks like. Crazy bastard. She's emaciated and likely severely dehydrated." She reached for her wrist and took her pulse. "Pulse is very weak."

"And our dead friend?"

"Still dead," Clarice quipped. Though she understood none of this was funny, she could hear Hannibal chuckle on the other side of the line.

When he regathered himself, he asked, "Has Popil spoken at any great length about a caretaker, perhaps? That might account for the dead body."

"No. To be honest, the only thing he speaks about is you. From what little he's said about her, I got the impression he was handling her care alone."

"He has a so-called ailing wife in his care and yet he leaves her alone? As impaired as he's described her, that wouldn't be safe."

"I don't think he's thinking straight, do you? I think grief does that to a person."

Hannibal returned, "As does guilt."

"True." She couldn't argue with that. And as much as she had felt empathy for Pascal Popil, that empathy was turning to anger. "I'm going to check out the body next. I might be quiet for a bit, so don't worry."

"I shall always worry, Clarice, but I do understand."

Gallows humor aside, this needed to be handled with dignity. She'd been taught to respect the decedents in gross anatomy classes. All the bodies had been donated. There were very strict rules in handling them. She approached with reference. It had the feeling of them walking down the main aisle of a church, the air was that respectful. Devotional, even. Through the phone she could hear Hannibal pacing, imagining his hands clasped behind his back as he walked.

Clarice stood across from the body, inspecting it with as much detail as possible without touching it. She showed no outward signs of distress at the macabre sight, instead relaying every detail to her husband as she examined the body. "By the clothing, it looks like a tradesman or some sort of blue collar worker. Hands are rough. Calloused."

Hannibal said only, "Continue."

"The cadaver is tipped off to one side, still sitting semi-upright in a chair in a far corner of the room. Mrs. Popil is on her back staring up at the ceiling, but this body would be in full view if at any point she became conscious. Her vacant eyes are glossed over, but she is still breathing. I wonder why he left the body in this room?"

"If she'd in the state you describe, she's not likely to regain consciousness. It's probable he thought no one would ask to see a bedroom of a dying woman in the event of a cursory inspection of the apartment."

"Yeah, but a missing person report must have been filed."

"Plausible deniability, one would assume. Inspector Popil wouldn't have been considered a serious suspect with his war hero status and his life's work with law enforcement. If he denied guilty knowledge, he would barely draw a second question."

Guilty knowledge. She understood why Hannibal used that specific wording.

Clarice searched the body for any signs of impact, trauma, or decomposition. "There's insect activity— signs of flies and some beetles, but no maggots or insects burrowing under the skin. None seem generated by internal corpse activity, just house flies attracted to the scent of decomposition. Gasses, some bloat."

"Time of death?" Hannibal asked, appearing more interested in Clarice's assessment of the situation than any actual concern regarding the condition of the body.

"Insect activity wasn't generated from the body's natural decomposition process."

"What does that tell you, Clarice?"

"It tells me the intestines are likely intact."

"A prudent assumption, for now. Anything else give you an idea as to a time of death?"

"The smell. Not as pungent as it would be in more advanced stages. There's also no creaminess to the skin. It's dry. No breaks or lesions. No leakage onto the chair, other than what appears to be normal bodily fluids expressed upon death. No greenish pallor or black spots." Clarice then lifted the arm, rotating it at the shoulder and elbow joints to assess range of motion. "Rigor has worn off and putrefaction is in the very earliest stages. I'd guess this person has been dead no more than 36 hours, give or take."

Hannibal voice was prideful. Pleased. "Very good, Clarice. You were always an apt student. To watch your growth, even from afar at times, to seasoned professional, has warmed my heart in ways I cannot explain."

She smiled. "I love you too, H." Clarice shifted the body just slightly to reveal a large wound from which blood had spilled. A steady stream seemed to have poured out along the inner right leg of the chair, soaking the upholstery and caking in large clumps. "Looks like we have a cause of death." Her voice was calm for a moment. Upon further investigation, she backed away, turned. "I shouldn't have called you here. More evidence of a setup."

"Of course it's a setup, Clarice. We've always known his sights were set on me. His method was the only suspect part of his plan."

"You're the suspect part of his plan, H, and I'm not having it."

"What is the cause of death?"

"The cause of death is a Harpy hooking into the femoral artery. The slash is deep, H. The wound is wide. He must have bled out quickly." Clarice bent low to more fully assess the angry-looking wound. "It's located on the anteromedial part of theman's thigh, at the lower edge of the femoral triangle. "He mutilated the man's genitalia, as well."

"Mutilated? In what way?"

"He's been castrated."

"Castrated? My crimes have never had a sexual component to them. He's grasping at straws if he thinks anyone will believe I had a part in a castration."

Clarice searched the room, finally coming upon an area where the heavy curtains covering the windows seemed askew. Drawing back the section of drapery, she found the Harpy jabbed into the wall. "I found his bits and pieces."

Hannibal asked, "That's all he's got left? Bits and pieces?"

"Well, that's all he's got left. They're stuck to the wall with a Harpy. They guy's torn-edged testicles hanging from the blade—swinging in all their gory glory in their new-found role as modified curtain tassels.

"Diabolical in the most disturbing way. I'll admit, Popil… you finally have my interest."

Clarice listened. She could hear a siren coming through the phone at the same time she heard it warbling through the window. He'd been moving the entire time. He was close.

"Where are you, H?"

"Across the street from the apartment. I'm watching your back, my Love. He'll be back soon anyway."

"Wait there. I'm coming down." Clarice ran down the stairs, reaching the bottom so quickly she beat the elevator down. She couldn't see Hannibal, so she followed the scent of his cologne. Running up to him, she quietly urged, "You have to go, H…I need you out of here right now. I'm sorry I even called you to the scene. I thought we were dealing with something entirely different. This is fucked, and I don't just mean dead-body-with-a-Harpy-fucked."

Hannibal took her in his arms to try and settle her down a bit, but she pushed him off and began pacing. His voice lowered, eyes darkening as he took in her serious tone and demeanor. "What did you think we were dealing with?"

She stopped pacing. Facing him, she scream-whispered, "Not a pair of balls as curtain hardware, that's for damned sure. And that Harpy isn't the worst of it, H. He's trying to pin all of this on you and I'm not having it. He'll be choking on his own balls if he thinks he's getting away with setting you up. Go. I've got this. Be seen. Make a production of yourself tonight. Flash cash and draw attention everywhere you go. Trust me, I need you very far from here tonight. I'm leaving now, but I'm going to come back later on tonight. I can't be thinking of where you are or what you're doing, you know?"

"You're having me establish an alibi? Your tradesman has been dead several days, Dearest. It's not going to matter if I have an alibi for tonight." Hannibal winked, continuing to tease, "What can they accuse me of, killing a corpse fly or taking a half-dead woman's pulse?"

Clarice grabbed her husband by his shoulders, turning him away from the crime scene and shoving him away from the building with as much discretion as possible. Hannibal, amused by her ability to move him so readily, only partially dug his heels in, so he slowed his movements, but allowed her to direct him away from the building's back door.

"You go find out where Dee and Logan have the kids, and take them out everywhere you can. I want Dad-of-the-year type of activities. Spare no expense. Draw attention to yourself with the kids, but keep close to Logan and Dee. I don't want you alone for one second, got it?"

"What's going on, Clarice? A pair of testicles swinging from a Harpy doesn't prove my involvement."

"No, but in tandem with this, it might." Clarice reached into her pocket and thrust the object she'd removed from Pascal Popil's desk. Hannibal looked down. It was the Omamori he'd buried in Lady Murasaki's grave— the talisman containing a paper scroll on which a prayer was inscribed. It had been sealed within the red brocade bag, the bag embroidered with images of the shrine, and its characters in gold. Closing his fist around it as much for its protection, she thought, as to squelch his own anger, eyes afire with a rage Clarice had rarely seen, Hannibal stated as calm as Popil's coming grave,

"I'm going to kill him, Clarice."

All she could say was, "I know…"

Until the next chapter, my friends,

LH