Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-Three

"Do you see the suit he's wearing?" Will pointed at the white king, aimed the question at Jack Crawford.

"Yes."

"You don't need me to read this message. He's…angry at Hannibal. I told you he was likely a former patient. Let's just hope he doesn't start re-enacting the Chesapeake Ripper's crimes. Imagine the press."

"Do you think that likely?"

Will forgot about the blue latex gloves, rubbed his hands down his face, stopped halfway and jerked his head back. "God, I hate the smell of these things."

"Do you think it likely that he'll escalate?" Jack repeated his question anxiously.

Will's shoulders drooped, discouraged. "No. He's…very proud, our Chess Master. He will stick to his own style…methods. It's six weeks since Georgia, almost exactly, isn't it?" He continued in a quiet monotone, talking for his own benefit. "The flaying is neat this time, the paint dry when he was moved and…beautifully done." He turned to Jack. "Does this look like he took extra care to you? It does to me. This white king is his best yet. If it weren't for the face… I almost want to check Hannibal's cell to make sure he's not missing – the resemblance is striking. He's taller than the others, on purpose. He's traded his father, or whoever the model was for the first three kings, for Hannibal."

The room was in a neglected part of Baltimore, old industrial, the building dilapidated. A truck went past on the street outside and the single-pane windows rattled in harmony, a trail of dust fell slowly from the rafters and added some texture to the chess board and the painted victim. Will took his mind back over a decade, recreated the Chesapeake Ripper's scene in this very spot. Hannibal Lecter stood here, he thought to himself, and cut out someone's kidney.

"He's taking back control. He's showing us that he's controlling things, not Hannibal. Was this location ever made public?"

"No."

"Well, obviously they're communicating then. They have to be communicating, somehow. Maybe indirectly. We need to…"

Jack cut him off. "Dr. Chilton is cooperating."

Disdain for the statement. "Dr. Chilton's cooperation is not reassuring me. I…don't trust that man."

"You don't like him."

"That's beside the point. I don't trust him. His motivation for his work has always been recognition of his achievements over a quest for knowledge. He loves the...limelight. He loves to publish and this would make a great article. I can just imagine the summary in the table of contents." Will moved his hands through the air dramatically, said, "Dr. Chilton's startling discovery that his former patient is the Chess Master eclipsed by a connection revealed with the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal Lecter." He dropped his hands. "…who is conveniently incarcerated in his facility. Can't you see the stars in his eyes? Is he conducting sessions with Hannibal?"

"He's taken on Dr. Lecter's case personally."

Will huffed angrily. "Perfect."

"Alright." Placating. "We have agents running an independent investigation at the Institution."

"Good. Good."

"Shall I leave you to it?"

"There's no need. It's obvious what he's doing here."

"We need a lead."

Will was staring at the white king.

"Will, we need a lead. I need something."

"Well, you're not going to find it here. Let me…talk to Hannibal again."

"What will that do?"

"He knows who's doing this." Will's attention skittered from Jack to the room to the chess game to the player to the king and back. He grimaced. "And because…this," a gesture at the bodies, "is disrespectful. He just might be feeling cooperative. You don't diss Hannibal Lecter…and get away with it."


"He's mocking you." Will had his head tilted slightly, angled away, as if avoiding staring into a bright light.

A shrug in minute detail. "To whom are you referring?"

"Your…ex-patient, your ex-admirer, the Chess Master."

Hannibal turned away and took two precise steps and turned again and sat on his cot. He brushed something offensive, out of place, from the front of his prison jumper. "I was hoping, as an old friend, that this was a social call."

"Help me catch him. He deserves it for desecrating your crime scene."

"Why, Will, would I help, assuming I could?"

"Satisfaction."

Hannibal looked at Will like a teacher at a young and naïve student, disappointment and patience, waved an arm to showcase his cell. "Look at everything I have. Who would not be satisfied with this?"

"Alright, what do you want? I…can't get you out."

"Books."

"Books. Okay, I'll see what I can do." Will pinched the bridge of his nose, moving his glasses up his face briefly. "Hannibal, as an old friend, I…I have to ask. How did you know…about Tim?"

A slight turn to his head was all the indication Hannibal gave that he was interested in the question.

Will pushed on. "I know you were in communication with Frederick Hayes…somehow…and likely the Chess Master as well. But no one knew about the Marshals' involvement. It was kept out of the papers, out of the reports…"

"To how many psychiatrists, psychologists, other specialists have you been referred?"

Will stared, puzzled by the question, but answered, "Dozens."

"Many of my own patients were referrals."

Will waited patiently, knowing there was more to come.

"Most psychiatrists, Dr. Chilton, for example, even Dr. Bloom, I am sure, myself too, will refer a patient on to a colleague should they arrive at an impasse in their treatment."

"Who? Who did you refer him to?" Will approached the glass barrier, so close.

"To whom, Will. Grammar is what separates our language from pidgin, from mere grunts and noises."

Will was now right up to the barrier, corrected his sentence, repeated, "To whom did you refer him?"

"Indulge me and remind me again – why would I tell you?"

"Books."

Hannibal stood and walked up to the glass wall, nose not even an inch from Will's.

"I know virtually nothing on the subject of snipers. Perhaps something on the training and use of those so skilled in the recent Afghanistan War?"

Will understood how the fly felt in the spider's web. "Not until you give me something."

"But will you provide me with my entertainment if I do?"

Will shut his eyes, nodded quickly. "Yes."

"I trust you." Hannibal turned and took a few steps back. "I referred a patient a number of years ago – his name escapes me and unfortunately my records are destroyed – who was becoming aggressive and rude. I felt I'd gone as far with him as I was able." He turned again and studied Will's eager face. "You and I are more alike than you realize, Will. We share much the same opinion of Dr. Chilton."

"Rude?" Will saw it all then, the maestro at work. "You passed him on to Dr. Chilton. You knew then what he was. Were you hoping he would rid the world of your least favorite colleague? Maybe even get caught in the process?"

"One can only hope, Will, and guide." A smile. "Instead, they seemed to get along. But I can find some small consolation in knowing that Dr. Chilton was clearly unable to cure my former patient of his psychopathic tendencies."

"Clearly."

"Books."

"Books."


It was a bad time of day to be in a hurry. Will left a message at Quantico, pushed through a few lights that were on the red side of amber, crawled his way around the ring road in DC to avoid the worst of the traffic in the core. He was in Jack Crawford's office in less than two hours, arriving in one piece by some miracle.

It was the first real lead they had.

Jack's assistant explained that he was in meetings with FBI heavies from DC so Will waited in Jack's office, leaning forward in a chair, elbows on his knees, hands flat up under his glasses covering his eyes.

He was picturing Tim, kept seeing him behind his eyelids in vivid imagery, drowned in white, serious and playing chess. He would have preferred naked and laughing but he couldn't always control the feed to his imagination.

It took him then to his conversation with Hannibal. The promise of books on the specific subject of Afghanistan snipers felt like a betrayal. He was offering up Tim in trade for the Chess Master. It sounded melodramatic and he growled in anger at his lack of choices. He was happy when Jack strode into the room, chasing away the unease. He stood abruptly.

"Will. What do you have?"

"The Chess Master is Hannibal's former patient, but…he's saying he doesn't recall the man's name."

Jack shut his eyes and shook his head. "I will never forgive myself for the slip in attention that allowed his records to be destroyed."

Will stopped, his ready speech knocked aside by the shock of a confession of fallibility from Jack Crawford. "You can't…blame yourself for anything that Hannibal Lecter orchestrated. The man is a genius – a monster and a genius."

"The best we can do is not enough."

"Don't. Don't think that way. He's…leading this game. We can only play catch-up. He's had lead position in the poles from the start."

Jack almost laughed. "Will, are you using a NASCAR analogy?"

Will shrugged, an apology. "This is the United States and we are in Virginia and...I had to race through traffic to get here."

A noise halfway between a huff and a murmur of agreement escaped from Jack. "So, did he give you anything we can work with?"

"He said...he said that he referred the patient on…to Dr. Chilton."

A look of surprise, then Jack gathered his scattering thoughts, said, "And you believe him?"

"Hannibal Lecter doesn't lie," said Will. "He conceals, manipulates, misleads. Somehow I think lying would seem…plebeian to him, like scratching in the dirt – not worth his time."

Jack walked quickly behind his desk and picked up his phone. "The Baltimore Institute for the Criminally Insane, Dr. Chilton's office." He brought up a hand, tapped his lips with his fingers thoughtfully, waiting, spoke tersely to the assistant, "I don't care what important meeting he's in, tell his secretary to interrupt him."


Tim stared at the chess board and contemplated his next move. He had options and he considered them patiently and calmly.

He'd built a career on patience and calm – that and an aversion to panicking. They were the traits that made him stand out in his squad, made him first pick from the ranks of specialists for promotion to sergeant, got him past the screening for sniper school, and helped him through Ranger training before that. His personality had been pounded and shaped by being the smallest of four brothers running wild and unsupervised. He was trampled, pummeled, in turns ignored and picked on. He learned to stay low, put on a brave face no matter what, go with the flow, keep quiet and tough it out. Will was right – there was never a mother to cry to.

He and his brothers were feral, factious, frequently on a reckless adventure that started with a dare from one of the older two, boredom and a cry for attention, trickling down, oldest to youngest, until they were all involved. The stupidest thing they did was swim across the Ohio River - often. The last time they attempted it, Greg, the oldest, backed out and the second, Paul, taunted and pleaded in turns, convincing the younger two to join him and alienating Greg. There was a fist fight on the bank of the river and Greg turned and left them and Paul was livid, screaming insults. In the end only three of them went in; only two of them came out. Tim was panicked in the river that day. Panicking didn't help anything.

He was angry at his older brother for a long time after, but to be fair to Greg, he had never backed out before, just maybe that day he had finally grown up.

Greg had led the way when they hitchhiked and walked across the state, determined to see the Pacific Ocean. They'd almost made it to the Indiana state line when some trucker handed them over to a Trooper who took them home. They'd been gone two days and no one had reported them missing and the neighbors weren't particularly pleased to see them back. Greg was twelve and the youngest, Christopher, was seven. The trooper waited six hours until after well after midnight for someone responsible to show up at the house then finally admitted defeat and left.

And it was Greg's idea to play chicken on the railway bridge. Tim was particularly proud that day – he'd lasted the longest before the oncoming train, scrambling finally down onto the trusses and hanging on underneath listening to the screaming curses from the other three as the freight cars passed inches overhead, eyes shut tight against the bits of dust shaken down amid the roaring and clacking.

There were so many close calls, but the river was the marker, everything else was leading up to or away from it. If Greg hadn't backed out, if Greg and Paul hadn't argued, if Tim and the youngest, Christopher, had balked standing on the bank that spring afternoon when the Ohio was swollen from the rains and the remains of the winter runoff, maybe the game would've ended differently for them.

Life was a bit like chess, you had to think a few moves ahead, be daring and smart.

They drifted apart after that. Greg joined the Marines, Tim signed the papers at the recruiting office the minute he turned eighteen and purposely went Army to put more distance between them all, and Christopher got into drugs and disappeared.

The end.

He didn't think about his brothers often – life runs miles in between and other events and people pushed that day down on the list. But he had time to kill right now and was using it to think about a lot of things.

"Are you ready to make your move?"

Tim focused back on the board. He already knew which black piece needed to be moved to which square – it was decided over thirty years ago in a game played in Moscow – but he wasn't going to make this easy; he wasn't made that way.

"This isn't bullet chess, asshole. And we both know what move I'm gonna make 'cause we both know this game and we both know that black wins. You're gonna lose this and then be pissy that I don't screw up, so why would I wanna hurry it? I'm gonna enjoy watching you lose – even if it's a foregone conclusion. Hey, how about we play a real game, winner take all, you and me – one you don't have a playbook for. I win and you untie me and I pound the shit out of you, proper. You win and you get to sharpen your knife and practice the medieval art of flaying your prisoner."

"Make your move."

Tim made the face. "Are you a pussy? You too scared to play an uneducated, lower-class, ex-Army grunt?"

The Chess Master was a big man. Tim had sized him up quickly – more brawn than brains. Will would've had that figured from the evidence. The wry thought went through Tim's head before the fist slammed into it and kicked some stars out of their orbit.

Tim shook his head a few times, clearing it. "It makes you mad, don't it? Knowing that you, Mr. Ivy League, can't beat me at a real game of chess, knowing a fist to the head is the only way you can beat me. What a fucking loser. No wonder your dad didn't want anything to do with you."

The next fist arrived and knocked him out cold.


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