The conclusions I draw when I'm alone are astounding.
I have a huge list of plausible theories—organs are typically used in cooking and therefore cannibalism may be a factor to consider, all victims were of varying ethnicity, facial structure, gender, etc. and thus sexual attraction is not a factor, mutilation is done with such great precision that it's almost certain to be someone with medical background and one who possesses professional tools—and I'm dismayed to later learn that almost all of those had already been previously considered or evaluated. I'm tired, I'm stupid—I'm dazed and I can't breathe, like the corners of my vision are Space Funeral-esque static. That's what comes with stress, what comes with pressure: Jack has just called, told me to get on a plane and haul my stale, stupid body over to Virginia this second. Another murder. Ripper-certified, they want me there to do my thing, I've barely gotten settled down in the modest hotel provided when the door rings and I'm still figuring out how to get my arms into a coat.
Everything feels slow, like sap oozing out of a tree, amber solidifying around an ancient bug. I'm almost constantly dismayed with how little I can identify with this, how I hear the call and my first instinct is to fret about myself rather than the implications of another life lost. Am I selfish? I hope not.
I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger.
I open the door and Dr. Lecter is standing there in his strange glory, some ugly man with the bitter face of a lizard but the eyes of a pious dead saint roving their pupils up to God before they finally bleed to death. I smile, conscious of my heavy eyes and my messy hair, looking down at my hands as I step aside. I assume he wants to come in, but I don't really know what to say. I want to tell him some Rushmore trivia, because I always feel like pretending I'm Max Fischer when I'm stuck, but I can't do much more than gag a little as saliva drools down my throat in an effort to speak. "Good morning," I choke, and he seems sympathetic to my plight, offering a somewhat quizzical smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Thakore," he greets, and he stands in the doorway. I wiggle the handle with my hand, wrist rotating like a wheel, fidgeting with great distress. My name breaks through his accent like a nightmare surfacing from water—I don't know how to feel about it. He seems to stand there with the intent of letting me steep, watching me stutter and stammer and run like a rat on a wheel as I attempt to use my glorified superpowers of logic to draw a conclusion as to why he's here.
"I thought I'd drive you—the area is somewhat out of the way, as I unfortunately found, and I'd rather you didn't get lost. Jack suggested that I come get you." A careful pause, as if he's allowing me to process what he's just said. I'm tired. I'm sad. I'm disappointed. I nod, remember my manners, and feel a sloppy smile carve across my face.
"That's really nice. Thank you, Dr. Lecter, sorry for being so much trouble, I, uh, hope this isn't too much, seeing as you'll have to drive me back here after-"
He steps aside, curt, professional, with some edge of distance that makes me uncomfortable. He dissipates my worries like smoke, and I want to feel how tangible he is to ensure he isn't some freak of nature I conjured from a nightmarish miasma. I close the door, tighten my jacket around my body, and I follow him to his car.
He opens the door for me. Some ugly parody of chivalry, I guess, and I murmur my gratitude before I sit down, smell the insides, the distant lingering fragrance of herbs, dust, luxury. It's a nice car, I guess, and I feel bad sitting in it.
"Dr. Lecter, if you were already at the scene, could you describe it to me?" I ask after he pulls out of the parking stall, head swiveling to check behind us, eyes focused and fingers slack as he drives with careful but yet casual precision. Everything about him puts me on edge, like I'm sliding a knife under my skin with the slim hope of preserving capillaries; he answers, "it's perfectly acceptable to call me 'Hannibal.' Professionalism is a virtue of high esteem, but not a necessity that I recommend in situations that call for individuals to work together; I am your colleague, and I would like you to feel comfortable when assisting us. We are, as you can tell, profoundly affected by the tragedy at hand, but you are by no means a mere replacement." I might be terrified that he read my mind, but I'm only intrigued. My eyes focus on the road, and my blood coagulates in my brain. I can't think. Am I that impressionable, so evident, my stupid feelings etched out on my face like a gouache painting?
"Uh, Ameya is fine with me, too," I manage, and he indicates he's heard by nodding.
"Victim is male, and his wallet was left with him—it's a variable we haven't yet observed in relation to killers usually attributed to the ripper, but we are uncertain as to whether or not it was a careless mistake, an intentional lapse or if this is the work of an entirely other killer. Either way, Mr. Vince Vasquez died with severe lacerations to the abdomen and removal of his heart. Though not verified, it's estimated he's been dead for about a day." He pauses, sighs tepidly, and I look at him curiously, so astounded to find emotion oozing through the pores in his rigid visage. I have just met him, but yet I already attribute "emotion" to being uncharacteristic for him to portray. "It's…rather grizzly," he admits, voice unfeeling and unattached. It feels stale, a comment he was saving up at the back of his palate—I'm let down. He seemed so real, so vivid, but his voice is an entirely different wavelength than his expressive face. I don't know what to make of it, so I don't say anything—does he have the same miserable affliction as me, guilt for not being able to sympathize, misery that comes with an inability to properly identify with others? When all your apologies and words of condolence are rehearsed and replayed like a rickety record?
"Oh, I don't doubt that," I say somewhat bitingly, too busy mulling over how I feel about him to catch his fingers tightening around the steering wheel at my audacity.