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There was something about the ER doctor that Will couldn’t quite place, but which lingered even now, days after they’d met. Lying in bed, his thoughts drifted back to the moment he’d looked the man in the eye, which was strange enough in and of itself, given his general avoidance of eye contact. But something had drawn his gaze upward, from the slight quirk of full lips and dangerously sharp cheekbones to his deep brown eyes. When their eyes locked, it was as if an electric current passed between their hands.
It wasn’t magic or voodoo, the way he read people, as some of the guys at the station liked to joke. Will saw it in the slightest creasing of the lines around the eyes, the posture, the minute twitch of the muscles around the mouth, or the shrug of a shoulder, the tilt of the head. This man’s expression was a perfectly bland mask, inoffensive and unremarkable. Will read nothing, because there was nothing to read.
And that was what made him remarkable. Just from their brief exchange, Will could tell he was highly intelligent and charming, well-bred and well-educated, and respected in his field. What possible reason would such a man have for creating a mask? What was it hiding?
Their meeting hadn’t lasted long enough for Will to feel his way around the edges and find a weak spot. Replaying the moment over and over in his mind, he found himself wondering if there even was one.
It hardly mattered, and Will shouldn’t linger on thoughts of the man like this. The case that had brought them together so briefly had already been handed off to the DA, and any further contact would be the work of the detectives, not the random officer who’d first come on the scene.
Generally speaking, Will was all too happy to return home at the end of his shift. Hide away in the solitude of his home, with only his dogs for company. The idea of going out to the bars and socialising with his colleagues was anathema to him.
And yet, he found himself constructing elaborate ways to run into Doctor Lecter again. Trips to the opera, no doubt, or one of the more prestigious restaurants about town, as long as they had Michelin star or two. The idea was so absurd it actually startled a bark of laughter from his lungs, and Will dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as if, somehow, with enough force, he could drive the thoughts from his head and finally sleep.
Doctor Lecter was a mystery, and Will had encountered so few of those in his life.
There was a task force working on a recent set of murders in the French Quarter. The hotel owner wasn’t the first, but he’d been the one to catch the public eye, as one of the city’s elite. He’d been found in the garden of his hotel, posed at the base of an apple tree. Stomach sliced open, intestines pulled from the cavity and twined around him like a snake, dead from a single stab wound to the back from an unknown weapon. It had been narrow, and long enough to pierce his heart and exit through the chest, and his tongue had been split down the middle and left hanging from his mouth.
Even before they’d found out about the embezzling scheme he’d hung on his old business partner, or the series of mistresses kept behind his wife’s back, the message had been clear to Will. Artfully done, but a bit on the nose.
Already then there were whispers of voodoo, and punishment for his sins.
Will’s protests that it wasn’t voodoo had fallen on deaf ears, but even the detectives couldn’t ignore it when he brought in the files of two other murders that had been left overlooked and unsolved. The woman who’d lost two husbands to suspicious suicides found with her head in the oven, dead from asphyxiation. The killer had gone through the trouble of installing an old-fashioned coal stove, no doubt for the aesthetic, which was completed by her neat curls and painstakingly applied makeup, and the gingham-printed shirtwaist dress.
And then the college student who’d been accused of date rape by three different women, though nothing had come of any of it. He’d been hung out the window of his dorm room, naked, with his hands bound behind his back, gagged, blind-folded. It had taken him a while to die that way, and somehow no one had seen or heard it happening. Or perhaps no one who had had cared enough to do anything about it.
It was the incisions made before death, neatly stitched back together, livers missing in each case that had drawn Will’s attention. Of course, for the absolute imbeciles that passed for detectives around here had only taken that as more evidence of them being related voodoo, and somewhere, between the bullpen and the pressroom, the name Joseph Danger, the negative aspect of Saint Joseph in the religion, had been assigned to the killer.
As far as Will could tell, the name had been picked at random from the Loa Petro, for all the connection Danger had to these cases. But once it was out there, there was no stopping it. It was all anyone was calling the killer now. The detectives were sure he was taking the organs for some sort of ritual, and it all bordered the truly absurd, listening in on their conversations, like something out of an over-the-top Hollywood film.
Will wasn’t sure why the killer was taking the organs, but he knew it wasn’t part of a ritual, voodoo or otherwise. There was always the possibility they were being sold on the black market; they had been removed with skill. But if he was taking them for profit, certainly there were better choice of donors, and why not take the rest of the organs, too?
During lunch, Will liked to slip into the taskforce room and look at the progress they’d made, or the lack thereof. The boards were covered in all the various leads on each case individually, but there was no significant connection between them. Will flipped through some of the photographs gathered from the office of Leonard LaSalle, the hotelier--shots of his wedding and children, and from fancy galas held in the very garden where he’d been found.
It wasn’t until later that evening, when he’d gone to check up on his father, that he realised what he’d seen. His father wasn’t doing well. Sick more often than not, days spent in front of the television in his ancient, worn recliner. At least he didn’t put up much of a fight when Will swapped out his beer for water, and he ate half the meal Will prepared him.
After, standing out on the porch overlooking the bayou, with the insects humming and the last golden rays of light stretching out over the horizon, Will let his eyes fall closed and his attention wander. It was something he’d been trying to practice lately, to put his thoughts in order and help distance himself from all the intrusions of the day.
He liked to imagine himself wading in a stream--the one in the woods out back from their place in Alabama near Lake Eufaula. Serene and picturesque, and far removed from the sounds of traffic or human life. It was there, with the gentle current swirling around his ankles, autumn leaves drifting down around him, that one particular memory caught is attention, like sunlight glinting off the water.
A photograph of LaSalle’s at one of his fancy parties. There in the background, in a fucking tailcoat, with a white bow tie, his hair slicked back from his brow, was Doctor Lecter. Chatting with some socialite at the edge of the frame, that same inscrutably pleasant smile on his face.
On the surface, there was nothing suspicious about his presence there. A young, wealthy doctor was just the sort to attend LaSalle’s fundraising soirees. Probably half the doctors and lawyers in the city were there that night, too, as well as the Commissioner and the Mayor. But the fissure running up his spine told him Lecter’s reason for being there wasn’t the same as the others, and his hunches were never wrong.
There were perhaps less risky ways of confirming his suspicions, but Will had to admit that something within him thrilled at the idea of provoking a reaction from Lecter. To see an honest twitch of emotion on his face, to catch a glimpse of what lay beneath his mask. Well, the impulse was so out of the ordinary for him, and it made Will feel a little reckless.
Not reckless enough to follow Lecter himself, but his patients were fair game. Though it was unlikely that Will would see anything even if he were to tail Lecter. He was too smart for that. Either way, it didn’t take long to find someone that fit Will’s own criteria for choosing a target, among those who frequented the emergency room.
After only a few days, Will watched Malcolm Bridges rolled into the ER during Lecter’s shift. Bridges was a familiar face at the precinct, brought in all the time for offenses related to his job as a low level enforcer for a local fence, and drug dealing. They never managed to keep him off the streets for more than a few weeks or a couple months at a time. Lack of evidence and witnesses who were afraid to testify.
Maybe Bridges wasn’t as prolific as most of the killers Will went after, but Will knew of at least two murders he’d committed, even if there was no proof to satisfy the prosecutors. Even without seeing the rap sheet on the guy, Will could have read the guilt on his face. The cocky surety that no one was ever going to pin the deaths on him, or anything else for that matter, every time they marched him into a cell. It was in the lift of his chin, the arch of his brow when he’d met Will’s eye in passing as he’d strolled back out with a swagger in his step.
This, the panicked breathing, the wild fluttering of his eyes, the muffled curse words behind the gag. This was far more honest and satisfying. Will pulled up a chair opposite him, straddled it and rested his chin on his arms folded over the back of it.
He’d been depressingly easy to snatch, high off the meds they’d prescribed him at the hospital. Will drew the bottle from his pocket, lip ticking upwards at one corner at the name of the prescribing doctor on the label. Maybe he’d flown under the radar with LaSalle, but there would definitely be questions around the good doctor now that it was two victims related to him.
“This is not my normal M.O.,” Will told him. “I’m don’t like to call too much attention to myself.” He had to roll his eyes, just thinking of the tableaux Lecter liked to create. “But I have to send a message.”
Bridges strained against his restraints, growling threats that Will didn’t need to hear to understand. That he didn’t know who he was fucking with, that he was going to pay for this.
Will snorted. “You’re probably right about that,” he muttered, and gave the bottle of pills a shake. “If it were up to me, I’d just have you overdose. Not painless, sure, but easier. But Doctor Lecter, the one I’m send the message to, he really likes to see them suffer.”
Bridges’ eyes went wide and the sounds that escaped his gag changed in pitch and timbre, from threats to pleas.
“So,” Will said, standing from the chair and going to his table of instruments. “I’m sorry to say, this isn’t going to be quick, and it’s definitely not going to be painless.”
Before he started, Will didn’t know if he had it in him, to do the things that needed to be done to craft the message for Lecter. There was a dramatic difference, after all, between the accidents and suicides he’d staged in the past and this display, this theatre of blood and gore.
In the end, it was shockingly easy, once he’d started. Like closing his eyes at a crime scene, or looking at a photograph, wading into the mind of the killer as easily as into his stream. Just as he often saw himself walking through those spaces, committing those crimes, he could now almost envision Lecter here alongside him, guiding his hand.
To the outside eye, it would be indistinguishable from Joseph Danger’s work. Only Lecter and himself would know any differently, as was his design.
Some parts of his routine were not really feasible for Hannibal to maintain when he was working the long shifts at the ER. It was satisfying work, but there were times, when he was eating his breakfast whilst perusing the news sites on his laptop, that he would prefer a slower pace. He certainly knew what his aunt would say, were she to see him bringing a computer to the table. But Murasaki wasn’t here, and Hannibal liked to stay abreast of current news relating to his work.
These past few weeks he’d been on the front page in one form or another, since the police had finally connected his crimes. He was still curious who was responsible for that, as it was most certainly not the lead detective, the most inappropriately named Detective Lestrade, who did no service to his famous namesake. Whoever had done the heavy lifting was, for now, remaining behind the scenes.
The moniker left much to be desired. Though, Hannibal supposed, it showed more imagination than Il Mostro. Lestrade’s insistence to the press that these killings were related to voodoo rankled on his nerves. He should have been satisfied with the fact that the police were busy chasing dead end leads, but Murasaki had always told him pride would be his downfall.
Perhaps she was right, for as much as Hannibal practiced self-control and restraint, those went flying out the window at the sight of the headline on The Advocate website. A fourth body had been found, Malcolm Bridges. Hannibal didn’t have to search his memory to place the name. It was fresh in his mind, having only treated him a few days before.
The details were scarce, but Lestrade was quoted attributing the kill to Joseph Danger. “Obviously there are things we can’t share with the press at this time, things that could be important if it goes to trial, I mean, this guy’s a real psycho. But there are definite similarities between this case the others that leave me confident they’re connected.”
This wasn’t the first time that his work had been mislabelled or credited to others. Pazzi, although a far more competent investigator than Lestrade, had followed more than a few wrong leads before setting his sights on Hannibal. Certainly he had never appreciated the less than complimentary comparison to those petty criminals, thieves and rapists and murderers, but this was something altogether different.
To have someone killing under his mantel might be flattering, if not for the fact that the killer had chosen one of his patients. Since Florence, Hannibal had taken especial care in choosing his victims so as not to lead back to himself.
Of course there was LaSalle, but between his business and social life, he’d associated with half the city at least. Hannibal was as much a suspect as anyone who’d ever attended one of his parties or rented a room in his hotel. He could concede now that it might have been reckless, but if anyone was deserving of his table, it was LaSalle.
There was a chance that it was coincidence, for how else could this killer know Hannibal’s identity to taunt him in this way?
Hannibal went about his daily routine as normal. He was on the evening shift, arriving at the hospital shortly before eight. With spring break season in full swing, they tended to have a steady flow of traffic throughout the night. Most of it was drinking related injuries or alcohol poisoning, and much of it handled by the residents and nurses.
There was, of course, the odd automobile accident, the shootings and stabbings, or the drunken students attempting to cannonball into their hotel pool from the balcony of their rooms. However, Hannibal spent most of his evening overseeing the work of the students, bouncing from room to room to check on patient progress, and handling paperwork.
At lunch, if at all possible, he would take some time to himself at one of the picnic tables in the courtyard and eat the meal he’d prepared. Tonight he was having the leftovers of a seafood coulibiac he’d been experimenting with, substituting with the local catch in place of the salmon. With the foaming hollandaise sauce he’d prepared, the result was delightful, but he had trouble enjoying it this evening, his thoughts preoccupied with this latest murder.
If there was someone out there who had drawn the connection between himself and these murders and had responded with this, they were a potentially formidable foe. Instead of his usual retreat to the courtyard, Hannibal spent his meal once again at the computer, scanning the news sites for any additional information, where none was to be had.
On his return, one of the residents was exiting through the rear entrance of the locker room as Hannibal entered through the front. He didn’t catch a glimpse of the man’s face, really not much more than the flash of dark curls and a well-formed figure in green scrubs as the door slipped closed behind him, but enough to ascertain that it was someone unfamiliar to him. A new resident, perhaps, though Hannibal made certain to commit all the new names and faces to memory upon introduction.
He could only attribute his preoccupation with this murder as his only excuse for not following the man. One that he almost immediately regretted, when he opened his locker and was met with a glossy photograph tacked to the back of the door.
At once, Hannibal could see how this murder had been credited to him. Malcolm Bridges sat at an antique vanity. His reflection was distorted in the foxing and crazing of the mirror, which had a sort of delicate, almost floral beauty to its pattern.
Resting in his hands, held out proffered before him, his liver. From the gaping cavity visible in his abdomen, it had neither been removed after Mister Bridge’s death, nor with any measure of care. The killer had made no attempt to close the wound, and instead, had stuffed the cavity with overflowing oleander blossoms. Yet save the glistening of his hands and the ruin of his clothing, there was no blood anywhere to be seen. Everything here was intentional, and the message was clear.
This killer knew him--had seen him. The liver was a gift. The flowers, a warning. The distorted lines of the mirror a longing to be seen and known in return. Every stroke of this masterpiece was an invitation to play a game, and a warning that Hannibal wasn’t the one making the rules.
There was no guarantee that this most recent murder would draw police attention to him, anymore than LaSalle’s had. All the same, the knock at Hannibal’s door the next morning was not a surprise.
“Ah, Detective Graham, was it?” he said by way of greeting, to the young man on his doorstep. How could he forget that scowling countenance, eyes narrowed in suspicion, from several weeks before? The man possessed quite lovely features, despite his dour expression.
“Just Officer, actually, Doctor Lecter. I’m sorry to disturb you so early in the morning.”
“I’ve just arrived home from my shift at the hospital.” Hannibal opened the door wider and swept his hand in greeting. “Please, come in.”
Officer Graham stepped inside, casting a quick, assessing look around the foyer. “Lovely home, Doctor.” There was a hint of suggestion in his tone, in the way his gaze lingered on the Dürer woodcut, as to how a young, newly established doctor could afford to live in this manner.
Hannibal opened his mouth to comment on it, but Officer Graham beat him to it, gesturing at the woodcut print. “Nice dog picture.” There wasn’t a single thing Hannibal could think to say in response, merely blinking several times in disbelief. Thankfully the officer carried on. “As I was saying, sorry to bother you so early, but I had some questions for you regarding a recent case.”
“I wasn’t aware that was under the purview of an officer,” Hannibal said carefully.
Graham’s lips twitched in something that was a cross between a grimace and a smile. “Things have been a bit chaotic at the station lately, as you might imagine, with the current serial killer investigation.”
“Ah.” Hannibal led Officer Graham through to the kitchen. “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please, that smells divine.”
Hannibal took down an extra cup and poured for them both. “It comes from Guatemala,” he said. “Where it is grown in the shade of guava trees.”
Officer Graham’s eyes fluttered closed as he brought the cup to his lips and inhaled deeply. Was that perhaps an honest expression of pleasure? He took a sip and hummed thoughtfully. “Roses, and coconut, and…” He took another sip and gave Hannibal a questioning look. “Is that tamarind?”
“Remarkable sense of taste, Officer Graham.” Hannibal was indeed impressed.
“I’m afraid Maxwell’s Masterblend is as fancy as I normally get. This’ll spoil me.” He retrieved a small notepad from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. “So, Doctor Lecter, I’m here about a patient of yours, Malcolm Bridges?”
It was the way he said the name that had the fine hairs on the back of Hannibal’s neck standing on end. The way his gaze flicked up from the notepad to meet Hannibal’s, something knowing and accusatory within.
“Yes,” Hannibal agreed, while in his mind palace observing the layout of the room and every available weapon close at hand. “I read about his passing, though I must admit, given his choice of profession and his recent visit to the ER, I wasn’t overly surprised. Sadly with some of my patients, I feel as though I am merely prolonging the inevitable.”
Graham did smile then. A wide, genuine expression that utterly transformed his face from attractive to truly remarkable. “Yes, but you must also admit that the manner of Mister Bridge’s death was--”
“Extraordinary?”
Graham’s smile sharpened. “An odd choice of word.”
“Hmm,” Hannibal agreed, “but fitting. If the papers are to be believed.”
“Right,” Graham said. “The papers.” As if he didn’t believe that to be Hannibal’s sole source of information. Could it be possible that there was more to this than a standard questioning on Graham’s part?
“Well I was just wondering if there was anything you could remember about Mister Bridge’s recent ER visit that might aid in the investigation. Someone he was with, someone who might of visited, anything he might have said?”
There was something not quite right about Officer Graham. He was clearly keener than the detectives of his precinct, which might explain why they’d send him to an interview, if not for the fact that Lestrade clearly thought very highly of his own investigative skills. So, perhaps Graham wasn’t here officially, in which case, he must have had a strong feeling to break protocol. It would also mean that no one knew he was here.
“There was a young man who came in with him, and another gentleman who came by after surgery. I don’t recall their names off the top of my head, but I do keep notes. I can get them, if you’ll excuse me for a moment?”
Graham nodded amiably and sipped at his coffee as Hannibal left the room.
This was not ideal. Even if no one knew of Graham’s presence, Hannibal would prefer not to attack him here. There wasn’t enough time to change or to prepare. He would have to move quickly and quietly to subdue him--it would be a shame to kill him before learning just how much Graham had gleaned, and how. Could he be the one who’d connected the dots for the detectives?
Yes, he could subdue Graham and remove him to a different location, and there they could have a conversation about how much he knew, and how much of that he’d shared with detectives. He removed his shoes, snatched a linoleum knife from his art table and pocketed it just in case, and made his way back to the kitchen.
Entering from the dining room rather than the hall would place him behind Graham’s position at the island, and given the time of day, it was unlikely that Graham would catch his reflection in the French doors. Hannibal pushed through the door silently, and came up short at the sight that greeted him: room empty, Graham’s cup still steaming on the counter, the French door ajar.
Hannibal reached into his pocket, wrapped his hand around the hilt of the knife, and went to the door.
Before he could close his hand around the handle, Graham’s voice sounded from behind him, stopping him in his tracks. “Is this because of the comment about your Dürer?” he asked, tone cheeky, followed by the sound of a gun cocking that stopped Hannibal in his tracks.
Hannibal turned on his heel to see Graham tucked between the wall and the refrigerator in the little nook that led to the pantry, gun raised and a wide grin on his face. Hannibal’s fingers tightened on the knife, and Graham make a tisking noise.
“Ah-ah-ah, Doctor. Hands where I can see them.”
“I apologise, Officer.” Hannibal brought his hand from his pocket and raised both before him in a gesture of surrender. “Is there a reason you have your gun unholstered?”
Graham jerked his chin in the direction of Hannibal’s feet. “The same reason you’re in stockinged feet, I’d wager.”
The island was between them, on it the hot coffee. If Hannibal could distract him, find some way to disarm him, then Hannibal could best him in hand to hand combat. “If you move a muscle, I’m going to shoot you,” Graham said. “And that will make the rest of our conversation far less pleasant.”
“And what is it that we have to discuss any further, Officer Graham?”
“Just Will is fine,” he said. “As you’ve clearly surmised I’m not here in any official capacity.”
“And why are you here, Will?” Hannibal asked.
Graham reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, the sound of rattling pills against plastic as he withdrew a blue pill bottle with a white label. It was a familiar combination, from the hospital pharmacy, and Graham tossed it underhand to him for Hannibal to catch easily. There was a smear of blood across the label, but Malcolm Bridge’s name was still legible.
This was not a piece of evidence recovered from the crime scene, else it would be properly stored. No, this was something removed from Bridge's before his death. Hannibal glanced up at Graham with a new appreciation. He would still most certainly have to kill the man, but this could be a fascinating interlude.
“It's a clever little person suit you've crafted,” Graham said. “But I'm more interested in what's underneath.”