Chapter Three

Rechauffe

Will Graham was almost smiling. He had slept well last night. There had been no nightmares, no sudden waking. An entire month free from work. His dogs could sense his good mood. They were playing more, wagging more, and also testing the limits of his disciplinary action more. He patted the head of one as it licked him on its way to some important canine task.

His holiday from horror was because of Hannibal, of course. Things had become so bad that he would start seeing murderers in Hannibal's office, although he knew perfectly well that these murderers were either locked up or dead. It was more usual that they were dead. Perhaps, he thought, he was a sort of bad omen for murderers. Anyway, when he started throwing Hannibal's sculptures at illusory attackers, Hannibal declared that things had gone far enough. Both he and Alana Bloom besieged the office of Jack Crawford with a legion of reports, requests, and interviews, until they gained unconditional victory. Unconditional victory over Jack Crawford: that was something to boast about.

Will had tried to convey the intensity of his gratitude to them. Alana had smiled and said something platitudinous, probably in an attempt to distract him from the tears hanging in her eyes. He had given her a hug—a strictly friendly one, he assured himself—before leaving.

Hannibal had said gravely, "I can't have you ruining my sculptures."

As he recalled this, Will felt a little stab in his chest. Guilt. He really should call them. He had not spoken to them for the entire month of rest. He wanted to, badly; but when he picked up his phone to do so, he started sweating heavily, and he could feel the memories and hallucinations trying to press their way to the center stage of his mental theater. So he always put down the phone.

He wondered if he should try again. As he wondered, the phone rang anyway. He slowly picked it up. He noticed that he was hoping it was Alana or Hannibal and then hoping it wasn't. He cursed himself for his indecision. He looked at the screen.

It was Jack.

He threw the phone across the room with such a growl that the dogs all started barking and making small circles where they stood. It took the dogs a few minutes to settle down. It took Will almost an hour. When he did settle down, he closed his eyes and started forcing himself to breathe slowly. He noticed that his hands were hurting from being clenched into fists. He made himself relax his grip. He willed his legs to stand up, though it felt as if he were trying to move a limb already in rigor mortis. He swore inwardly; Jack brought death to his thoughts even indirectly.

When he did make it across the room to pick up the phone, it took a full sixty seconds of staring at the screen before he could make himself hit the callback button.

"Will, I was worried you didn't get my call."

Will could think of several good things to say to that, but he forced them all down and made himself say something factual. He knew it would still convey his feelings, because of the effort required just to pick the right words. "I did, Jack, I just didn't want to answer."

There was a moment of silence before Jack said, "I understand."

"And yet you called me anyway. That makes me question your…understanding." Will had had to slow down his angry thoughts before getting out the last word of his sentence.

"I wouldn't call you unless it was absolutely necessary. A very powerful government official requested you by name." Another slight pause. "Believe me when I say I called you with great hesitation."

"Your consideration is noted."

"Will you come?"

Will resisted the urge to hang up. Jack was not his enemy, he reminded himself. Jack wanted to protect everyone, which was why he wanted to catch serial killers. Jack wanted to protect Will, but Jack couldn't escape the feeling of being crushed by the burdens of responsibility. If Will was so good at empathizing, then he could empathize with Jack Crawford. "Have you spoken to Doctor Lecter and Doctor Bloom?"

"I want you to speak for yourself."

"As empowering as that is, I see no reason to resume work if they still recommend that I take leave."

"Will, this case is—it's bigger than anything we've ever dealt with. I can't say much over the phone. But it could have—major implications for everyone."

"Everyone?"

"The entire nation."

"And you want to leave the fate of a case that important in the hands of an unstable special consultant with no formal credentials?"

"I want to leave it in the hands of the best criminal profiler I know."

Will felt something bump against his knee. He looked down and saw one of his dogs, a white retriever, looking up at him with adoration. He reached down to scratch its head.

"Can I get you back in the field, Will?"

"I'll take a look at the crime scene, and then I want to be done with it."

He heard Jack sigh with relief. "All right. I'll see you there."

Will found the security procedures tiresome. It meant more time that he had to think about the case. The woman, Lydia Bristol, was direct and efficient, which made it more bearable. And, strange to say, she didn't seem put off by him. Even though he was conscious of being at his most autistic. Whenever he made a comment that seemed rude, pessimistic, or wry, she smirked as if in agreement.

The body was extraordinarily mutilated. All wounds were in the face. The skin of the face had been peeled back along cuts which followed some kind of irregular starburst pattern. They irradiated from the wound which had caused death, a small puncture to the cranium. The brains had been liquefied, apparently by whatever had pierced the skull. Some special instrument had been used to ensure this kind of death. The body was not arranged in any dramatic display. It was rather crumpled, and arranged more by the forensic team than by the killer. The killer had taken some care in choosing a weapon which would cause a bizarre death, but then he had left the body behind almost as if he had forgotten it. A flair for the dramatic, certainly, but not directed toward the victim. The killer's sense of drama was directed inward. The victim was a necessary condition of the drama, to be abandoned and cleaned up by stagehands. A casualty on the heroic journey being taken by the killer, who was carrying some magnificent intention.

All this was clear to Will Graham within a few minutes. When he rejoined Jack, he described these impressions. Jack listened carefully and with full comprehension, as always.

"So, a megalomaniac who is less interested in why his victims die than in the end which their deaths contribute to."

"Yes. And the weapon used to scramble the brains must be rare, which means it was chosen with great care. The killer wanted to make sure he destroyed the victim by destroying his mind."

"Erasing his knowledge?"

"His knowledge, his personality, his ability to choose. He's erasing the person. And then he…leaves the empty husk behind, to be cleaned up."

"By others as unimportant as the victim?"

"Exactly."

"The press isn't going to like this."

"That's not my problem."

"There are two more murders so far. I'd like you to take a look at those bodies too."

"It would be pointless. You'll find the same thing. Same kind of death, same negligent abandonment of the body. You need to look at any kind of power the victims had which would make them targets for a radical. And at the locations of the victims, to find out if they were just at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Jack smiled slightly. "Well, that is extremely helpful. Thank you, Will."

"I'm ready to go home now," said Will.