Return Of The Cannibal(Hannibal x Reader)(Book 2)

Chapter 7

Buzzard's Point, the FBI's field office for Washington and the District of Columbia, is named for a gathering of vultures at a Civil War Hospital on the site. The gathering today is of middle-management officials of the Drug Enforcement Administration, the Bureau Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms and the FBI to discuss your fate.

You stood alone on the thick carpet of your boss's office. You could hear your pulse thump beneath the bandage around your head. Over your pulse you can hear the voices of the men, muffled by the frosted-glass door of an adjoining conference room.

The great seal of the FBI with its motto, "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity," is rendered handsomely in gold leaf on the glass. The voices behind the seal rose and fell with some passion; you could hear your name when no other words were clear. The office has a fine view across the yacht basin to Fort McNair, where the accused Lincoln assassination conspirators were hanged.

You flashed on photos you had seen of Mary Surratt, walking past her own casket and mounting the gallows at Fort McNair, standing hooded on the trap, her skirts tied around her legs to prevent immodesty as she dropped through to the loud crunch and the dark.

Next door, you heard the chairs scrape back as the men got to their feet. They were filing into this office now. Some of the faces you recognized. Jesus, there was Noonan, the A/DIC over the whole investigation division.

And there was your nemesis, Paul Krendler from justice, with his long neck and his round ears set high on his head like the ears of a hyena. Krendler was a climber, the gray eminence at the shoulder of the inspector General. Since you caught the serial killer Buffalo Bill ahead of him in a celebrated case 10 years ago, he had dripped poison into your personnel file at every opportunity, and whispered close to the ears of the Career Board.

None of these men had ever been on the line with you, served a warrant with you, been shot at with you or combed the glass splinters out of their hair with you. The men look at you until they aall looked once, the way a sidling pack turns its attention suddenly on the cripple in the herd.

"Have a chair, Agent Y/N." Your boss, special Agent Clint Pearsall, rubbed his thick wrist as though his watch hurt him. Without meeting your eyes, he gestures toward an armchair facing the windows. The chair in an interrogation is not the place of honor.

The seven men remained standing, their silhouettes black against the bright windows. You could not see their faces now, but below the glare, you could see their legs and feet. Five wearing the thick-soled tasseled loafers favored by country slicksters who have made it to Washington. A pair of Thom McAn wing tips with Corfam soles and some Florsheim wing tips rounded out the seven. A smell in the air of shoe polish, warmed by hot feet.

"In case you don't know everybody, Agent Y/N, this is Assistant Director Noonan, I'm sure you know who he is; this is John Eldredge from DEA, Bob Sneed, BATF, Benny Holcomb is assistant to the mayor and Larkin Wainwright is an examiner from; our office of Professional Responsibility," Pearsall said. "Paul Krendler - you know Paul - came over unofficially from the Inspector General's Office at Justice. Paul's here as a favor to us, he's here and he's not here, just to help us head off trouble, if you follow me." Pearsall said.

You knew what the saying was in the service a federal examiner is someone who arrives at the battlefield after the battle is over and bayonets the wounded. The heads of some of the silhouettes bobbed in greeting. The me craned their necks and considered you as they were gathered around. For a few beats, nobody spoke.