Lovelorn: A Hannibal Collection

Fantods

(n.) state of extreme anxiety; distress

Will Graham awoke in a sweaty startled mess. This of course was not an unusual circumstance. The drowsy man had grown quite accustomed to placing a towel underneath him and going back to sleep. Undisturbed nights came rare, the shadowy figures from his mind chased him into the day, peeking from behind trees, lurking around corners. Watching him.

He glanced at his alarm clock. The artificial light glowed hazily from his nightstand. It shone through the clear plastic of pill bottles and the lens of glasses nearby. 6:34 am. He would be getting up soon anyway. Will rubbed his eyes and moved to sit on the side of the bed. A familiar whine came from the floor accompanied by a cold nose peeking over the edge. One of his many dogs, Winston, had come to wake him, his tail wagging madly. The man smiled and leaned over, reaching a hand out to ruffle the dog's fur. Winston moved up against him, his cold nose tapping against Will's knee. Beside him, his phone buzzed on the table. He grabbed at it and answered with a gruff voice,

"Morning."

Jack Crawford was on the other end of the line. He was already out on the field with a small team of first responders they often worked with. It took a few moments to clear the fog from his mind and realize he was calling for him to come down. It worked best for him to interpret the evidence while it was still relatively fresh.

"There's these marks on his body that could give us a clue to who our killer is, or someone who knew him intimately. It feels like all the evidence is right here but, there's just something missing. We need your help, Will." His voice wasn't demanding but Will wasn't a fool, he knew better than to think of this as a request.

"I'll head out in 10."

Crawford voiced his approval and the call ended with a click. He left the phone on his nightstand and went to his closet. Yawning, he pulled the plain tee off over his head and looked for something more formal to change into.

Will lazily trudged down the stairs after getting ready for the day, he had thrown a white and grey flannel on and ran his fingers through his messy curls a few times. This was as good as it got for him. He would never understand the appeal of dressing as if attending a formal dinner party each day.. unlike one of his companions.

The crime scene was at a red-brick abandoned building on the outskirts of Baltimore, he pulled into the parking lot. The air outside felt cool on his face. The sun had barely risen higher than the trees that shrouded the building. As instructed he stepped over the low rising fence and trampled through the greenery that crawled up the side of the building. He had to duck under a low hanging tree branch, the base it connected to had been split open. He could see the flash of light reaching down from the skies to strike it as if it was still there, suspended in air. Behind the initial structure, a smaller mock chapel lay nestled within a grove of trees. A few agents were scattered around the outside, searching for anything that could be of use to finding the killer.

Will was careful to step around the caved-in stairs leading to the doorway. Jack came to greet him as he entered the building.

"Welcome to Grace Trinity United Church. The last service that took place here was an evening communion, after that everything was moved to the new location down the road." Jack pointed a vague direction behind Will. He glanced, the frame of his glasses impairing his view. Early morning light peered in through stained windows of the chapel. A thin beam came to focus on the frame, nipping at his eyes. He turned towards the center of the room where a grisly figure hung still as if he were the pendulum inside a broken clock.

Will's eyes flutter closed and Jack fades away. Alone in his mind, he let the heavy gold pendulum of the man swing before him. He can feel gentle weight on his eyelids as the air around him thickens. He inhales, and the scent of rust and old wood sting his nose.