Will felt more alive than he had in years. His head was a crystal decanter, and its contents were no longer murky with doubt. He knew, with absolute conviction, that he was correct. Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper. The smoke that had obscured his sight had cleared, and in its place was a shining awareness that nearly blinded him.
Behind bars, Will Graham was finally free.
He lay on his cot and heard the footsteps approaching and knew with a sense of inexplicable inevitability that they were coming for him. He sat up and turned slowly towards his visitor, and immediately the analysis began. The reflex was no comfort – it was simply a cold ability that simultaneously disgusted and amazed him.
He had more trouble with people than crime scenes; personality imprinted in bloodstains and fingerprints was easier to read than on a face. Therefore he had begun to think of people as locations to be scouted and categorized, and in this way he was able to see them more clearly. He had a vague idea of the psychological implications of this habit, but pushed the worries aside for later contemplation.
The man was evidently European (judging by the relative narrowness of the face, the sloping of the eye orbits, the narrow nasal opening). From the rumpled state of his clothes he decided the man must have recently been on a plane. The way he carried himself suggested a military background. He was depressed but had learned to hide it. Who he was and the reason for his coming still eluded him.
"Hello, my name's John Watson." The man stuck his arm through the bars. Will shook it warily. "I'm here to talk to you about the events of several weeks ago."