a/n ; thanks for the nice reviews. they r very encouragin' to read when I write. If you have any critiques or suggestions as to what should happen/what I should do feel free to share 'em w/ me
My time at Dr. Lecter's feels like an intermission. I was there, poignantly, vividly, submerged in vreare like meat left to marinate. Infatuation, a crush that eats me inside out like a parasite: even now, back into the sterile reality of the autopsy room, surrounded by the dead and the decaying with no one but other FBI agents for company, his radiance makes me nauseous and weak at the knees. Not frail, but immobile: I feel like someone chopped my tendons in two.
"Definitely not Jadestone's work. This incision is perfect. A steady hand, a well-sharpened instrument; this is like a surgeon decided to have a go at some Aztec sacrifices. You might also want to note that—despite pre-mortem mutilation being consistent—this victim had his heart sliced out, not torn. Jadestone's was obviously torn." The nickname is affectionate, paltry: maybe Beverly is dehumanizing him not by creating an "it" but by treating him like a pet. That's my stab at pretending to be Dr. Lecter for the day, but I don't need to pretend when he's three feet away from me.
"Quintessentially the Chesapeake Ripper's work," he muses, and I look at him with bright-eyed wonder. Obviously. The evidence lines up, compute it properly and this is what you get: I nod and bite my tongue.
"Yeah, I'd say," Beverly nods, her latexed fingers moving under the victim's jaw to inspect the fine, downy hairs of his face, matted down with nothing but dust. "No drug, no obsidian, no jadestone: I doubt they're related, anyways. Don't put too much stock in trying to relate them because of time or missing hearts, it was probably just a coincidence."
"Two organ-harvesters running amuck," Crawford grimaces through a tight jaw, a polemic hiding behind his stuffy expression of disdain.
"Would it really be too much to anticipate that this wasn't a coincidence?" I say, exasperated, Will's words disfigured and re-presented, a regurgitated mockery of his futile attempts at mysteriousness and my hard-headed desire to be a paragon of justice. But, I mean, this is just what I think. "What are the chances they'd happen back to back? You even told me that ripper murders are so often done in lieu of a specific event and the chances of him knowing to mirror the organ removal while leaving his specific signature are statistically very slim," I venture, and I do my best to sound curt and withdrawn. I place my hands on the autopsy table, leaning forward, intent and focused, etching my own niche in this room to juxtapose Lecter, Crawford and Katz. Rigid, round, relaxed, respectively, and then there's me: poised and prime.
I already promised myself not to allow hubris to become my hamartia. I straighten my back, direct my eyes to the walls as if I've no time to waste on them when their incompetency is holding me back and therefore claiming lives at the hands of mad men.
"I'd say the cases are related. Will Graham told me-"
And the forbidden word ruins any sort of spell I've managed to cast over them: Crawford's entire visage melts like a squashed, soft candle, aghast that I would consult with He Who Must Be Forgotten. Before he opens his mouth like a frog ready to catch flies and proclaim that I'm fired, I'm discharged, whatever, Katz smoothes the situation over like a mere rumple in stiff fabric. Her voice pushes through, determined, chipper and headstrong, "He told you about suspicions that the Ripper being able to access inside information and therefore mimic the cases being investigated. Yeah, I considered that too, but this was literally released three days ago."
"One day to plan, one day to anticipate and one day to act," he says, and I suddenly realize why I had so wearily anticipated hearing Dr. Lecter speak about the situation. Is this situational irony, is an inaudible laughtrack being played to mock me and my inability to listen to Will Graham and see the murderer right in front of me? He is a man of God, and he already noted that interfering with the natural course of events between me and this murderer's capture would be upsetting a test that has so kindly been laid out for me. Even if he was capable of murder—which I doubt, which I detest to consider—he would not interfere with this particular case. I know him too well.
Or maybe I don't—the parts of his personality that I have not examined are simply molded out of my own thought and inference and patched. The submerged quarter that I have yet to observe could be anything—Schrodinger's Cat, I guess. I won't know until I see it: and until I see it, I consider every possibility.
I consider Crawford as the Chesapeake Ripper. He's too gawky, awkward, brutish—he doesn't have the precision or the patience or even background. Katz? I doubt it—her internal love for old fashioned morality literally beams from her like a radiant halo. Lecter, then? Of course not: there is no logical reason for why he would want to do something this obscene.
"Either way, the Ripper wanted to make himself known; he didn't want to be responsible for Jadestone's sloppy work," Katz concludes, stripping the latex gloves off her hands like skin and tossing them into the trash. "I'm almost certain we should expect more victims courtesy of Jadestone. I mean, if what Ameya's theorizing holds any water, then there's going to be enough heads to line a temple's stairs before he considers himself done."
I nod, the weight pressing down on my spine and squeezing fluids from the vertebrae like a sponge, the horrendous capacity of responsibility threatening to drown me. I don't care about the lives to be saved or lost, the money to be made and spent, but I do care about my reputation. Dr. Lecter's eyes are on me, luminous and almost gaudy-colored, and I can't disappoint.
They continue. Katz goes over specifics, Dr. Lecter provides the detailed medical insight and helps draw a few more obtuse conclusions, Jack looks impatient and unsatisfied. Prying words from me rips nails and breaks bones: I'm so hesitant to speak unless I can be entirely certain of my words. I don't want to be like Graham, throwing darts in the dark, I want to be a computer, precise and perfect. I want to be perfect. I am not perfect, I decide: when Katz and Dr. Lecter leave, Katz chattering like a lark and Dr. Lecter's heels thudding against the floor like a metronome to keep her steady, Jack decides it's time to remind me of the first rule he's established.
"Do not speak to Will Graham," he hisses, words wrung from his throat like an arrow flung from a bow, and I nod. Shameful, obedient, I hate being reprimanded even when I know that I am right. How am I supposed to set a standard if I can't even decipher what my standard is?
"I won't, sir, I'm sorry. I asked for insight on the Ripper case, and he didn't give me much help, so I know better—now, of course—than to talk to him." I withhold the part about Dr. Lecter, the wavering suspicion that lingered in the air. It's unspoken, however, and the melancholy, pleading look for me not to get involved rings as clear as a cathedral's bell. I don't understand. If Will, his top agent, his go-to miracle, pointed fingers at Dr. Lecter, why didn't Jack investigate? Personal vendettas, he said, were lethal to justice.
Jack hasn't said anything. His face is sullen and ashen, pockmarked cheeks sagging from a worn skull and tired eyes. "I won't, sir. I promise," I say, as if my assurance actually means much more than a few faulty words.
My word, for all its worth, seems to convince him—though I doubt this is the case, I figure he just doesn't know what else to do with me. Solemn and sluggish, he gives me a nod of his head, leaving me to my company.