Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-Two
It was a contradiction and it was part of the foundation of his unusual gift: Will could see more clearly with the lights off.
He preferred getting called to a crime scene after the sun disappeared, its full-spectrum white light shining on the other half of the earth, the shadows and darkness left behind providing a more compliant easel for Will's imagination. He understood what he couldn't see better in the dark and so could see more. That was the contradiction and it worked for him.
He lay awake making use of his gift, watching Tim struggle to beat his monsters back, drive them under the bed until the next night. At first Will attributed Tim's nightmares to the stress of the case, going into a second week now of being on constant alert. But that was wishful thinking. The truth had been circling in Will's head since before that, ignored, unwanted, awareness that Tim's unease had everything to do with him somehow, with them together, not with the job. Tonight Will was honest with himself in the dark and seeing clearly finally. He acknowledged that the pattern of nighttime disturbances had started before the trial, back when Tim stayed with him that first week. Looking back down the line of interrupted nights, he could see that it was getting worse. And he knew it was a clue, a part of the reason why Tim didn't do this.
The thrashing woke Tim up eventually. He was still finally, breathing heavily, turned to look at Will and found Will looking at him.
"What?" Churlish, he turned away.
"You are…decidedly more charming in the evening than you are in the middle of the night unless, of course, it's my nightmare that wakes us."
"How can you speak in such big fucking sentences at this hour?"
"I've been awake for a while."
Tim shuffled his pillow, trying to get comfortable. "Sorry," escaped, sounded small in the night.
Will slipped out of bed and came back a minute later with two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. Tim rolled back over and huffed.
"What?" Will threw back at him. "Tomorrow's Saturday and…this is when the stuff really tastes good."
He could make out the smile in the dark and Tim sat up and held the glasses so Will could pour.
"The horror," Will said.
"The horror," Tim responded, but it lacked enthusiasm. He finished off his drink in one swallow and lay back down.
"I think we need to talk about this," said Will.
Tim brushed off Will's concern, gave a sarcastic reply about not crying to his mama, rolled up against him and fell back to sleep.
The next morning Tim didn't say much, went to swim laps of the pond though it was chilly now, starting to feel like fall. Will tagged along for the walk, threw a towel at him when he dripped up onto the bank.
Tim disappeared for the rest of the morning, off to the outdoor range he'd sourced when he'd stayed in Wolf Trap for his vacation. He returned for lunch, insisted afterward on taking Will back to the indoor range attached to it. They spent another couple of hours there, more practice.
"You keep dropping your arm, dipshit. You gotta focus. Every bit of you has to focus. Sometimes the situation won't let you set up completely so what you do get time for has to be right. You gotta be consistent. Now lift that arm. Relax. And if you fucking yank that trigger back one more time, I'll shoot you in the kneecap."
They had to take a break then, Will was laughing too hard.
He had to admire Tim's meticulous approach to shooting, the attention to detail in every aspect from the stance to the grip to the specific brand of ammunition used. It was beyond necessity; it was craft, maybe art. Tim labored over each step of hitting a target with a bullet from a handgun and Will was improving because of it. It gave him confidence he hadn't felt in a while.
But he never said "thank you," never a hint of gratitude for the lessons, nothing to remind Tim of why he didn't teach people how to shoot.
That night Tim woke again, a shout or a sob in the dark. Will woke with him, counted to ten, opened his eyes. Tim was sitting on the edge of the bed, the sweat on his back gleaming in the reflected light, hair on end. He got up and dressed and left the room. Will gave him a few minutes then followed.
"If it's keeping you awake, I'll stay in town."
"No, it's not…it's not that. It's just… I know it's not fun."
Tim had no reply. Will sat on the couch beside him, pulled him over onto his lap. The biggest dog decided to join them and Will tried to shoo him off then Tim started laughing when the beast walked heavily across his chest looking for someplace comfortable to curl up. The dog gave up eventually and hopped down and settled back on the floor with the others.
They were changing places, Will realized, he and Tim. Will's dark nighttime imaginings were dwindling with the easy and welcome company, fading into memory. Tim's were ramping up. Will tried to find a connection, a reason, couldn't see how anything this effortless could trigger anxieties. He couldn't see the cause. But he knew it was there if he just knew how to look; he was missing a crucial piece of evidence.
Tim refused to discuss it, refused to look Will in the eye over breakfast. They repeated the routine from the day before then Tim headed back to Baltimore that night for an early start to the week.
And Hannibal changed his plea to guilty before court adjourned that Monday.
The court was in an uproar. He had fired his attorney. Speculation was that he recognized that his defense would never hold up and he hoped for leniency. Will didn't believe it was anything so mundane. There could never be leniency, not for these crimes, and Dr. Lecter was well aware of that.
There was a sigh of relief that filled the courtroom when it was announced. It spilled over, through the doors into the hallway and then outside and down the steps, through the city, the state, beyond. Everyone was jubilant or more soberly contented, happy to see an end, everyone but Will.
He cornered Jack, pulled him into a vacant office on the main floor.
"A quick finish to the trial now and then…back to the Institution? It doesn't make sense." Will was pacing; Jack watched patiently. "I think he wants to get back…back to his contacts there. Pleading not guilty, this trial could go on…for months. He wants it over with."
"Will, we've questioned Dr. Chilton's staff thoroughly. We don't know where Dr Lecter is getting his information from or if it's all just extrapolation. He's a brilliant mind. We all know this. He can conclude a lot given very little."
"That still doesn't explain the new plea."
"Maybe he's tired of the proceedings. A trial of this magnitude is exhausting."
"What else does he have to do with his time? He gains nothing by pleading guilty. We all know that guilty is a…foregone conclusion but…there's always a chance at a dismissal on a technicality, slim but... Now he has no chance. And he's enjoying the courtroom drama. He's reliving his most powerful moments. It's like a celebration of his achievements. Have you been watching him?"
Jack nodded.
"So why end it early? He's up to something, Jack."
Will looked to his boss to fix this but realized that they were both helpless to do anything except wait to see what Hannibal was capable of.
It was small consolation for Will to discover that Jack was concerned too, though he tried to hide it behind a mild and resigned smile.
"You've still got a few weeks left of your vacation," said Jack. "Enjoy them."
It was meant pleasantly, but sat ominously in the stale air after he walked out of the room.
Tim surprised Will, showed up Monday night at the house in Virginia after dinner.
"So what's the scoop? Hannibal tired of the show?"
"I don't know."
"Looks like I'll be back in Kentucky by the weekend."
"Tim, I'm suspicious of his motives. I…"
"Got a cold beer?" He didn't wait to hear the rest, walked a direct path to the fridge, dropping his bag on the living room floor on the way.
Will snagged him by the jacket as he walked past, hauled him around and pulled him in tightly. Tim didn't put a fight, let Will drag him upstairs. He came down for his beer later. Had another one at 3am, wide awake in the dark, shaking off another nightmare. Will followed right behind this time, down to the kitchen, sat across from him.
"What is it, Tim?"
"I'm thirsty."
"The nightmare. Is it the same every night? Different?"
Tim shrugged. "Surrounded by psychiatrists and psychologists, and if I remember correctly you have a Psychology degree, and you're telling me you don't recognize classic symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? I don't want to talk about my nightmares. It's boring."
Will couldn't argue; it'd be hypocritical. He'd said the same thing before concerning his. But now he could see his own reticence for what it was, reflected back at him in Tim's, it was avoidance not boredom. He didn't like to talk about his nightmares because they disturbed him, even in the daylight. Why wouldn't Tim be the same? He changed tack. "Different sufferers; different triggers. What's yours?"
"Being hammered with questions."
Tim downed his last mouthful of beer and went back to bed. He was gone before the alarm went off at 6am.
The courtroom was mostly empty the next day. It was just wrap-up, a formality of procedure. Tim didn't show up Tuesday night. Wednesday after dinner, Will got in his car and drove back to Baltimore to the hotel that was housing the Marshal's SOG team. Will had the front desk call his room; Tim told them to send him up.
The door was propped open with the deadbolt. Will pushed it open quietly, closed it and locked it, found Tim sprawled on his stomach on the bed, drinking.
"I hope you're here for sex," Tim mumbled, chin on his arm. "I could use some right now."
"Tim, sex and drinking don't solve problems."
Tim grinned. "They sure help."
"All they do is mask it for a short while. And you know it. What are you doing?"
"Drinking, and hoping for some sex."
There was a time and a place for solving problems and Will hoped it would present itself soon. He took off his glasses and joined Tim on the bed, flattened himself across his back. "Why do you get your own room?"
"There's always an odd man out. I've managed to wake the guys up in the middle of the night often enough that they don't bother fighting me for it anymore."
"Have you considered therapy?"
"Have you considered therapy?"
"My therapist was the cause of most of my problems."
"Mmm. You should try drinking and sex."
"I have. It's been great for my problems – not so good for yours."
"I'll be the judge of that, thank you."
Will pushed Tim onto his back and pulled off his shirt, passed his hand over the tattoo, the Pashto symbol for peace, or at least the beginnings of hope for it. He wondered when it had ended, that particular hope. There seemed to be no end to the horror, not that Will could imagine anyway, and he was good at imagining.
The trial of the decade ended early and without drama. Tim went home to Kentucky; Hannibal Lecter was incarcerated indefinitely at the Baltimore Institute for the Criminally Insane.
Will went home alone to try and enjoy the last two weeks of his vacation. He didn't try to call Tim each time he thought about him. He went to the range daily to practice, though.
He was interrupted near the end of his break, Jack Crawford knocking on his door early one morning.
"I need you to come with me."
"Why?"
Jack pressed his lips tight, looked at the dogs mingling around his legs, a long breath in, a long breath out. "Two more bodies have been discovered."
"The Chess Master?"
"So it would appear."
"I was…hoping I was wrong."
"We all were."
"Where?"
"Baltimore. The same location as Hannibal Lecter's first recorded murder."
"Well…there's a message there."
"I would like you to come read it and tell me what it says."
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Author's Note: I don't think you're actually allowed to change a plea mid-trial. I think they'd have to declare a mistrial and start again? Does anyone know for sure?
