Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Two

"This isn't the first body."

"No, it's…the third." Will's eyes flitted around the cave, unwilling to land. "I'm sorry, what's your name again?"

"Tim Gutterson."

"Well, Deputy Gutterson, I guess I should ask – did you move a piece?"

"Covering your ass or mine?"

"My ass doesn't need covering. I pretty much get to do what I want." A considered pause. "Within reason."

"I didn't touch anything. Had a good look though."

Tim answered the question honestly and it must've shown somehow because Will seemed to believe him, nodded, a quick smile.

"And how did you happen to stumble on a crime scene like this in a cave off a back road in your line of work?"

"It was in line with my work. I was tracking a missing person, someone in our care, WITSEC," Tim tilted his head slightly, made a wry face. "I have a feeling he wasn't much of a chess player."

"Who?"

"My federal witness."

"What makes you think..?"

"Best move would've been queen to queen's knight three." Tim gestured at the chess board. "Where is the queen? Any idea? Funny that it's the only piece missing."

"Likely rammed down his throat," Will replied absently. "I meant, what makes you think it's your guy? Hard to recognize without a face."

"Oh." Tim was stuck at the grisly reply to his question, glanced back at the body as if he might see the chess piece visible underneath the tissue on the neck. He finally shook his head to clear the image of the missing queen, said in response to Will's query, "Uh, his car was spotted abandoned on a back road just east of here. I tracked him and another man – two sets of footprints – to this cave."

"Ah. I see." Will turned to the body, squinted to blur the lines, soften the picture. "Do you want my job?" He looked back at Tim, hopeful, a bit despairing, teasing. "I think you're doing fine without me and…well, it's much nicer outside and apparently you play chess better than I do. So you were either lying to Jack Crawford just a minute ago or… Were you being a…a smartass?"

"Looks bad either way, doesn't it?" A wry smile.

"Yeah." Will chuckled. "It does." He searched the ceiling for something, apparently couldn't find it. "I hate caves," he said. "I need some fresh air."


Lexington wasn't too long a drive from the crime scene so it made sense that the FBI team would find themselves a better level of hotel in the city then suffer in a cheap roadside motel near Olive Hill or Morehead with thin mattresses and thinner walls, but it didn't make sense, except as an unfortunate coincidence, that they'd end up having a post-grisly-murder drink en masse at Tim's favorite bar. Yet there they were. And here he was trying desperately to find more shadow in an already gloomy establishment, not wanting company or conversation and kicking himself for not getting drunk alone in his apartment instead.

He glared at them, ordered another drink, glared some more, ordered another drink then quietly toasted their departure an hour later, watching relieved as they all headed for the door – all except Mr. Misery who waved them on and lingered, sipping a beer at an aggravatingly slow pace.

Tim reached behind the bar for a straw and toyed with the idea of blowing spitballs at the inconsiderate loiterer, started ripping the corners off a paper napkin, rolling and lining up tiny bits of ammunition to give his frustration an outlet. He was saved from himself when Will Graham gathered the money scattered around the table to pay the tab and made all the motions of leaving. But didn't. He stood facing the exit a moment, then looked over into the gloom and right at Tim, pulled his uncooperative mouth into a sort of smile and approached the bar.

"Is this your thing – hiding in the shadows?" he asked, flicked his eyes briefly at his own reflection in the mirror behind the row of bottles and then away and down, as if his image startled him, and over to the empty glass in front of Tim. "Their selection of single malt…sucks. No. That's…not fair. Their selection of single malt just doesn't exist. Clearly that's not the draw here. What is?"

Tim huffed impatiently, signaled the bartender. "A decent selection of bourbon. You're in Kentucky, dude."

"Well, recommend something then." Ignoring the brusque reply, Will waved at the liquor on display. "I've never tried bourbon and I need a good night's sleep. Cheap scotch isn't working for me so I'm game for something new."

Tim called over to the man behind the bar, "Ike, I think our east coast guest needs some Kentucky whiskey," lifted two fingers.

The bartender nodded, brought up another glass, poured and poured a refill for Tim.

"Put it on my bill and I'll settle up. This is my last," Tim added.

"Cutting out early tonight, are you?" The bartender slipped a receipt onto the counter and left them to it.

"A regular?" Will commented.

Tim raised his eyebrows and grinned with a bit of comedy, downed his drink, pinned a couple of bills beneath the empty glass and left.

"A pleasant evening to you, too," Will said under his breath, sniffed his whiskey, then sipped at it cautiously. He looked curiously at the neat line of tiny paper balls and a straw arranged by Tim's glass, smiled a more willing smile when he recognized what they were then frowned and ran a hand through the back of his hair, checking. He decided he might like Kentucky more than Virginia if all the folks here were similarly uninterested in him. He wondered if his dogs would mind a move.


"So it might not be our guy." Jack Crawford summarized the discussion, sipped at his morning coffee in a borrowed conference room.

"No, no," Will Graham said, emphatic, "it is our guy. The chess game was played out exactly like the last two, but with the next move added. He just didn't get a chance to finish the scene. It was discovered too quickly."

"By the Marshal," Jack completed everyone's thought. "What do we know about this Marshal?"

Will looked at Jack with an expression that suggested something bitter on his tongue. "You don't really think he'd call in his own murder, do you? What would be the point?"

Jack played at Devil's advocate, "Maybe he struck too close to home, recognized his mistake and is covering his tracks."

"You're reaching."

"The man's ex-military, Army Ranger. He's been in combat in…"

"Afghanistan – I know." Will finished the sentence and wondered how Jack knew all of this and it wasn't even lunch yet. "That doesn't mean anything."

"He has likely killed before. So now he has a taste for it. He would have training in…"

"Are you suggesting they teach Army Rangers how to skin people now?" Will questioned the logic. "Of course I can see how that would be useful in combat." The sarcasm in his words bit hard.

"Means and opportunity," Jack recited, talking overtop of the jab.

"And a serial killer doesn't need motive," Beverly Katz finished.

"The military is a favorite career choice for a psychopath," added Brian.

"Not to mention law enforcement," Jimmy piped in. "He fits the profile."

"It's not him." Will was getting annoyed. They weren't seeing what was obvious to him and it frustrated, rankled, rang in his head loudly, not just because they were being obtuse but because he felt their argument was more a symptom of their lack of trust in his judgment than their suspicions about the Marshal. Their distrust smothered him. It was palpable and irritated open wounds. How could they still hold him accountable? No one recognized the truth that time. No one.

"Brian," Jack turned to one of his team, "dig a little deeper into the Marshal. This all seems too convenient to ignore. I want a full background check. Find out what he did in the military, then call the Lexington Bureau Chief and find out what he was doing the last 72 hours. The body's fresh this time – a day or two, tops. Maybe he'll have easy-to-confirm alibis." He said this last for Will's benefit, a wire-thin smile to placate.

"It's not him," Will stated again, confident, dismissive.

Jack dropped the smile and leveled a look at his profiler, a look that carried with it a summary of the cost to all involved in catching the Chesapeake Ripper. It was a slap, a sharp reminder of Will's inability that time to see what was right in front of him. No one is infallible, the look said. And he was closest of anyone to the truth and the monster, Hannibal Lecter.

Will flushed slightly at the unspoken rebuke, dropped his eyes and took ownership of the guilt, at least a part. "It's not him," he repeated but with less certainty. "There aren't that many Hannibal Lecters in the world." He spat out the last, turned and drifted away across the room while Jack continued delivering his orders for the day.

After the other three agents were started on their day's tasks, Jack followed Will to the window, stood silently at his side like a sentinel. Like a chess piece, Will thought, playing with the parallel – a black bishop, or a rook, too powerful to be the king. No one would ever get Jack Crawford into checkmate. And what does that make me? A pawn.

"What are you thinking, Will?"

"I'm thinking that Lexington is a nice city," he lied. "I wonder how good the fly fishing is. Maybe I'll apply for a position at the University here, take up bourbon as a hobby."

"As you just said, there aren't many Hannibal Lecters in this world."

Jack was reeling him back in. Will knew the routine – a bit like fly fishing. He turned his head slightly in response but his eyes never made it to their meeting with Jack's. It was as much acknowledgement as he'd offer that he was still shaken by that one case. He was halfway maybe – maybe – halfway to getting past the betrayal. There's only one Hannibal Lecter in the world. He kept repeating it, hourly, and yet, still, everyone was Hannibal Lecter.

And that thought strung together the next. And this one he spoke aloud with a small shake of his head. "No, he's definitely not Hannibal Lecter. He's not a good chess player, either."

"Who?"

"The Chess Master, as Brian likes to call him." Will ran his finger and thumb under his glasses, rubbed the sides of his nose. "He wants to be. He hates that he's not smart enough. He was born into privilege but didn't live up to expectations. Maybe the victims all played online chess?"

"You think he might be choosing them that way?"

"It's a possibility. He's embarrassed…or has been…about his inability to play the game." Will wagged his head, added, "Among other things."

Jack pulled out his phone and called back to Virginia to put some tech people on a hunt for online chess sites and links to names from the case. Will felt a bitterness well up, mixed with gratitude, knowing that his leaps of intuition still counted for something. He headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Jack demanded, covering his phone with his hand.

"To see a Marshal about a missing person."

"You could call him. They have phones."

"I feel like a walk. Maybe I'll borrow somebody's dog." He closed the door a little harder than necessary, opened it again, peered in sheepishly. "Does anyone have any idea where the federal courthouse is?"


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