Will Graham is dragged back into the force by the firm hand of Jack Crawford.
While The Dragon hunts in the shadows, waiting for the next moon.
Hannibal Lecter abides patiently within the walls of his cell to begin the games once more with the cro...
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"I think he had to touch her," Will murmured, nausea bubbling in his stomach as he stared wilfully at Crawford. "He didn't have a choice, it was as if he was compelled. I don't know, Jack. This one. He's odd."
"Aren't they all," snorted Crawford, taking a large gulp at his cheap can of cola. "Fucking freaks."
Jack passed him his own. A bright pink-red metallic can, vivid with the white twisting words of Cherry Cola. It was only seven-thirty in the morning.
"Sure, he moved her around," Jack acknowledged. "There were grip marks on her wrists and behind her knees. But every print in the place is from nonporous gloves. Don't worry, I ended up calling Price in. He'll be at the funeral home by now. The morgue released the bodies last night, but the funeral home's not doing anything yet. Did you get any sleep?"
Will snorted, wrinkling his nose at the sweet cloying scent of cherry. "Sleep? As if. It wasn't even an hour before the nightmares woke me, Jack. You know what this work does to me..." He hesitated, eyeing his colleague. "I think he had to touch her with his hands."
Crawford nodded. "I damn hope you're right, but the Chicago lab swears he wore surgeon's gloves the whole time. The mirror pieces had those smooth prints. Forefinger on the back of the piece wedges in the labia, smudged thumb on the front."
"He wanted," Will swallowed anxiously, "I think he wanted to see his face in there. He probably polished it afterwards."
"The one in her mouth was obscured with blood. Same with the eyes. He never took the gloves off."
"She was very beautiful," he said with a tilt of his head, considering the lush dark locks Will had seen in the picture. "You've seen the pictures? I'm sure he's not the first man that wished to intimately touch her."
"Intimate?" Hissed Jack, staring furiously at him, revolted at the mere thought. "She was shot twice! Never mind her broken limbs. Jesus, Will. There was nothing intimate about it!"
"They had privacy. Everybody else was dead. He could have them watch, even in death, eyes open or shut, however he liked. Yes," Will swallowed some more of the Cola. "I would say it was very intimate. Most passionate deaths are done by the hands of a lover, aren't they?"
Crawford scoffed. "They tried her skin for prints. Nothing. They did get a hand spread off her neck. I doubt he was her lover. In my opinion, angry lovers don't do what that fucker did."
Will shrugged, drinking the rest of the Cola with three long gulps, his fingers twitching as his throat buzzed with the echoing fizzle of soda.
"The report didn't say anything about dusting nails."
Jack nodded. "I expect her fingernails were smudged when they took the scrapings. The scrapings were just where she cut her palms with them. She never scratched them."
