Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Five
"My ears are still ringing."
Tim raised an eyebrow and his beer glass, took a mouthful, looked as though he did it purely to stop himself from saying something.
Will's hands came up sharply to ward off the sarcasm, "I know. I know. You warned me. Thank you." Then he chuckled. "Me and guns…it's…it's never…pretty." He grimaced and reached for another sip of the bourbon he'd ordered, determined to develop a taste, grimaced again when it hit his tongue. "I go to the range, but honestly, I'm hopeless."
Tim hadn't yet settled back down from whatever plane he had to occupy to make the shots he did. He ordered a drink, and listened. And Will seemed happy to talk, filling the space. He laid out the entire investigation to date, the FBI's hunt for this latest serial killer. He made it clear that he agreed with Tim's assessment, commented dismissively that the moniker 'The Chess Master' was a gross exaggeration, then he added his own insights, even some he hadn't yet mentioned to the rest of the team. Eventually he exhausted the topic and became acutely aware that his voice was the only voice. Usually he had to compete to be heard, even with his dogs. This silence was too rich, even for his taste.
He decided to work on drawing out his companion a little. It was a safe and familiar habit, one he'd learned moving around growing up, always the stranger in the crowd, a habit to combat the simple truth that no one really cared to hear about you or what you had to say; they preferred the sound of their own voices and the talk to be only about themselves.
"So you were a sniper in Afghanistan before you became a Marshal?"
He reached out and got bit.
"So you were teaching at the FBI Academy before Jack Crawford pulled you into the field and into the heads of serial killers and fucked you over?" Tim leaned back away from the table and crossed his arms as he fired off the words.
Will blinked, took off his glasses and folded them slowly and slid them into his pocket. Note to self, he thought wryly, not everyone likes to talk about themselves. "I didn't realize the US Marshals Service database included information about FBI personnel."
"It doesn't. I have a friend."
"FBI, or something even more insidious?"
"Both."
"Ah. A man with friends is a man to fear." Will pressed his lips together into a defeated smile. "I can't get away from the gossip…or my talent, it seems."
"You mean your gift?"
A wry huff.
"Mine is shooting people," Tim said slowly, "with extreme and deadly accuracy."
That was a conversation stopper, but it sounded to Will too, as if Tim were standing down, holstering his guns. Tim made the face again after his statement and this time Will knew what it meant.
"Is that a skill you honed in Afghanistan?"
Tim drew circles on the table with the condensation from his beer glass, dodged the question. "I'd like to trade in my gift. I'm tired of it."
"Regift it, you mean?"
Tim snorted. "Regift it – yeah. Something like that. Who could I trust it to though?" He seemed to seriously ponder the idea. "Art maybe. You. You want it? I think you'd use it well. For good rather than evil," he added facetiously.
"No." Hands up defensively again, and now it was Will backing away from the table. "No, thank you. I tried shooting somebody once. It didn't go very well – during or after."
"During?"
Will's face scrunched itself painfully. "I emptied an entire clip into a man and he still lived long enough to speak to me. And believe me – I really didn't want to hear what he had to say."
Tim stared at Will a moment then broke out laughing. "Shit. You're kidding me." His grin nearly split his face into two pieces. He looked like a grade school kid enjoying some toilet humor.
"The next time…I know…hard to believe they'd let me keep a gun after that…the next time I managed to nick this guy's ear…" Will pointed to the spot, a hapless frown and Tim laughed harder.
Will couldn't help but chuckle with him, wondering at the same time that Tim could find this at all funny. He reminded himself that the Marshal had likely shot and killed more people than anyone he knew and the thought was sobering. Whenever he pulled a firearm, Will expected not to have to use it – it was a shock to him if he did – but the man sitting across from him probably anticipated having to pull the trigger each and every time he got behind a rifle. What would that be like – the expectation of killing? Maybe you just get used to it, like public speaking or bourbon. Or maybe you don't, he thought. Maybe you hide the shock of it again and again behind a face – raised eyebrows and a smile for comedy.
Maybe he should try that face the next time he had to slip into the head of a serial killer.
He realized he had been staring at his drinking partner, that he enjoyed watching him laughing. Eyes are distracting, he reminded himself, and looked away and signaled for another drink.
There was something about Will Graham that held Tim's attention. He couldn't put his finger on what at first, but for once he found he didn't mind listening. Listening carefully was work, but if Tim was interested enough in what was being said, he worked at it. The rest of the time, he just faked it well.
Because he was 'taciturn,' the word some dewy-eyed girl had used to describe him one night trying to impress the tattooed young man with her vocabulary, because he was 'reserved,' the word his weapons instructor at Glynco had used to describe him when questioning him about his rather prodigious skills on the range, because he didn't feel much like talking since Afghanistan – call it what you want – he could fool people into believing he was a good listener, or more to the point, they fooled themselves that he was. Everyone who took a seat near him in a bar, deliberately or not, wound up regaling him with their life story, prattling on with tales from their woefully boring existence, loving the sound of their own voice. His silence encouraged it.
What they didn't realize was that he really didn't give a shit. He didn't come to the bar to make friends; he didn't come to the bar to make strangers feel good about themselves; he came to the bar to drink. That's what the bottles were for. He would tune them out, completely, his thoughts drifting from their self-serving monologue to a repair he needed to do on his motorcycle or maybe to dissecting his latest results at the rifle range.
But not this time. This time Tim was riveted and it wasn't even work.
Will was drinking with a purpose and weaving with intimate knowledge the fascinating drama of the capture of Hannibal Lecter, a story that would make a good listener out of anybody. Every news channel, every paper, every radio station across the country had offered up to the public whatever juicy scraps the reporters could glean about the crimes of Hannibal the Cannibal, the serial killer of the century, the Chesapeake Ripper. It had been headline news for a month. Everyone wanted more meat, but everyone would have to wait until after the trial started for the full serving of horror. Not Tim, though. He was getting every gruesome detail, straight from the mouth of the very drunk FBI profiler who was responsible for Hannibal Lecter's arrest.
But it was more than the details that held Tim's interest. Will was telling the story from a very personal viewpoint. It was a story of betrayal. It was a Greek tragedy worthy of Sophocles.
Will was fixated on Hannibal's betrayal and came back to it again and again. But Tim could see other betrayals, more subtle, just as harmful. Will's gift had betrayed him, leading him on a self-destructive path with the lure of defending the helpless. Tim could see it; he understood it. And he could see too, the betrayal of unthinking orders, the blind motion forward focusing only on the goal, so many dead and wounded along the way.
Tim would gladly have put his eyes out with what he'd witnessed first-hand in Afghanistan, the sacrifices made, the cost to so many, all for a goal. At what point did the cost of reaching the goal outweigh the cost of not reaching the goal? The devil was in the details – what you saw when you got a close enough look at the brush strokes needed to complete the bigger picture. He drank himself stupid sometimes just to stop seeing it. And Will seemed to be doing the same thing tonight. One bourbon following the next until Tim called a halt and ordered some crap bar food to balance it out.
"Why don't you quit?" Tim finally blurted out, but he knew the answer even before Will replied.
"Why don't you quit?"
Tim made the face again and mirrored the glare he was getting from Will.
"It's just not that easy, and you know it," Will continued, his voice harsh but quiet. "I've tried. And apparently so have you. You can't run away from yourself; you can't hide from yourself. You wake up in the morning…and there you are. Quit. Then what? Some poor idiot who can't do the job as well takes your place and more people suffer."
Will was slurring his words but they still cut. His phone rang; he ignored it. He reached for his glass instead.
Tim stared.
"What?" Will snapped, ignoring his phone a second time.
"I'm trying to picture you as a homicide detective. It's not working for me."
"It didn't work out so well for me, either." Will relaxed a little. His phone rang again; he ignored it. "But I suspect you already know that. You've got some good sources. What don't you know?"
"Why you'd become a cop if you hate guns so much."
"Why would you go into public service if you're so anti-social?"
"Oh, that's not a problem." Tim cocked his head, grinned. "I deal with assholes, not people."
And finally, the fourth time ringing, Tim reached over and into Will's jacket for his phone and answered it.
"This is Special Agent Will Graham's cell," he said, and made the face, this time for Will's benefit; Will benefitted, laughing.
"To whom am I speaking?" A voice responded – so formal and demanding, it had to be the general.
"This is Deputy US Marshal Tim Gutterson. And to whom am I speaking?"
"Jack Crawford. Where's Will?"
"He's right here."
"Put him on."
"And he's fine – thanks for asking. He's just…," at this point, Will dropped his head onto the table, tears streaming down both cheeks, laughing uncontrollably, "…unable to speak on the phone right now."
"Why?"
"Oh, he's doing that thing…that feely thing. You know." Tim shrugged, smirked.
"He was due at a meeting two hours ago. Where are you?"
"How about I bring him to you? It'd be easier all 'round."
"Fine. My hotel suite."
"Okay." Tim hung up quickly, slid the phone across the table. "We gotta go," he said, shook his head despairing. "But we gotta get you somewhat sober first. Any suggestions?"
Will wiped a hand across his eyes. "Water?" He signaled the waiter, asked for water.
"And coffee," Tim added.
"You're not drunk?"
"Takes more than a couple of beers."
Will looked confused. "Is that…all you had?"
"Normally I'd be in for more, but I got the car keys, remember?" He dangled them. "Besides, looks like you needed it more than me."
"I should've stuck to beer." Will reached into his pocket, pulled out his glasses and carefully set them back on. "Glasses," he pointed seriously, "…they make you look more sober."
"Oh yeah – it's working."
Will looked serious then – even without the glasses he would've looked serious. "I really shouldn't be telling you about these cases. I've been doing a lot of talking about things that…well, that I shouldn't have…talked about. I shouldn't have talked about any of it. It could mean my job."
"It's good. It's safe with me," Tim assured him. "Just remind me never to accept a dinner invitation from any of your friends."
"Uh…yeah." A smile for the joke, tinged at the side with distaste.
It came to Tim then what it was about Will Graham that held his attention – Will hadn't pressed when Tim brushed off the curiosity about Afghanistan, just looked at him like he understood something that even Tim couldn't explain.
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