Palatial Intimacy

I - The Beginning

Quantico, VA
March 30, 2030

"Alright. Tell me about it."

FBI Inspector Will Graham, forty-one, brown and blue, sauntered down the hallway of Quantico Headquarters with his boss, Jack Crawford. The bags under his eyes were larger than usual, having not slept long before his alarm had startled him. Crawford was smacking on a stick of wintergreen Extra, as if taking his stresses out on the artificial sweetener, and his hands were shoved in his pockets. Neither of the men were in a good mood.

"You looked at the file, right? You should know."

"I know about the case, Jack. Tell me what you're about to make me do."

"We can't get Lecter to talk to anyone. He talked for the first few hours in here, but for about two and a half days no one's heard him say a word. We need to get something, otherwise we can't make a move either way. We can't let him go, but we also can't charge him."

"What's the lawyer claiming, that he didn't do it?"

"Yes. He's claiming Chilton did it, Chilton's lawyer is claiming Lecter did it. Vicious cycle.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter, currently known to the media as "Hannibal the Cannibal," was found to have tens of pounds of human meat in the freezers of his home. They had been artfully slaughtered, pieced apart like a professional butcher would treat Wagyu. They'd found weapons, buzzsaws, recipes, and multitudes of other evidence that led them to believe he'd killed hundreds of people and eaten as much of their bodies as he could. Tire tracks at a recent murder scene had been an exact match for his car.

Meanwhile, Doctor Frederick Chilton was in similar waters. There weren't any clever puns in the news surrounding his name, but the evidence was the same: pounds of human meat, all of the proper materials required to butcher any kind of meat — even the tire tracks were the same. Both men had the exact same tires. Both were also claiming innocence.

Neither of the men had alibis for any of the murders that were suspected to be connected. Chilton claimed with all of his heart that someone was framing him. Lecter did the same, until he stopped talking altogether.

Chilton had told authorities that Lecter had always been off, that he was clearly hiding something. According to all documentations of his life before his arrest, however, this couldn't be father from the truth — he was a respected surgeon and psychiatrist, a man of the arts, graduate of multiple honorable schools. No one could have seen this coming, according to all witnesses. He was beloved across all fields.

Lecter hadn't said anything about Chilton, and none of the other witnesses had great things to say — he was apparently kind of a dick.

"You've got a bunch of circumstantial evidence, but no concrete proof. So you want me to figure out if he's guilty."

"Yep. Problem is, he won't let anyone inside. This tech is great, but you've got to get around all the consent issues. Maybe soon we'll see more developments."

"I think getting consent is important. It's really important, in fact."

"Not when it comes to something like this. If he did this stuff, he deserves to be tortured. Dozens of people taken, slaughtered, and eaten up. It's disgusting."

"Who's in charge of Chilton?"

Jack came to a stop in front of one of the interrogation offices, punching in the door code. "We're taking care of him after Lecter. I've got my eye on him more. Complete silence for days is suspicious. It's almost like he's in his own world. Spaced out."

"It could be the trauma of being arrested and falsely accused," Will suggested. They entered the main office, standing behind the one-way glass that allowed them to look into the interrogation room.