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

Chapter 13

Thanks to the consideration of one madman and the obsession of another, you now had for the moment what you always wanted, an office in the storied subterranean corridor at Behavioral Science. It was bitter to get the office this way.

You never expected to go straight to the elite Behavioral that she could earn a place there. You knew you would spend several years in field offices first.

You was good at the job, but not good at office politics, and it took you years to see that you would never go to Behavioral Science, despite the wishes of its chief, Jack Crawford.

A major reason was invisible to you until, like an astronomer locating a black hole, you found Deputy Assistant Inspector General Paul Krendler by his influence on the bodies around him. He had never forgiven you for finding the serial killer Jame Gumb ahead of him, and he could not bear the press attention it brought you.

Once Krendler called her at home on a rainy winter night. You answered the telephone in a robe and bunny slippers with your hair up in a towel. You would always remember the date exactly because it was the first week of desert storm. You were a tech agent then and you had just returned from New York, where you had replaced the radio in the Iraqi U. N. Mission's Limousine. The car to a defense department satellite overhead. It had been a dicey maneuver in a private garage and you were still edgy.

For a wild second, you thought Krendler had called to say you'd done a good job. You remembered the rain against the windows and Krendler's voice on the phone, speech a little slurred, bar noises in the background. He asked you out. He said he could come by in half an hour. He was married. "I think not, Mr. Krendler," You said and pushed the record button on your answering machine, it making the requisite legal beep, and the line went dead.

Now, years later in the office you had wanted to earn, you penciled your name on a piece of scrap paper and scotch-taped it to the door. That wasn't funny and you tore it off again and threw it in the trash.

There was one piece of mail in your in-tray. It was a questionnaire from the Guinness Book of World Records, which prepared to list you as having killed more criminals than any other female law enforcement officer in United States history. The term criminals was being used advisedly, the publisher explained, as all of the deceased had multiple felony convictions and three had outstanding warrants. The questionnaire went into the trash along with your name.

You were in your second hour of pecking away at the computer workstation blowing stray strands of hair out of your face, when Crawford knocked on the door and stuck his head inside. "Brian called from the lab, Y/N. Mason's X-ray and the one you got from Barney are a match. It's Lecters' arm. They'll digitize the images and compare them, but he says there's no question. We'll post everything to the secure Lecter VICAP folder." Crawford says.

"What about Mason Verger?" You ask. "We tell him the truth," Crawford said. "You and I both know he won't share Y/N, unless he gets something he can't move on himself. But if we try to take over his lead in Brazil at this point, it'll evaporate." Crawford said.

"You told me to leave it alone and I did." You said. "You were doing something in here." Crawford said. "Mason's X-ray came by DHL Express. DHL took the bar code and label information and pinpointed the pickup location. It's in the hotel Ibarra in Rio." Crawford told you.

You raised your hand to forestall interruption. "This is all the New York sources, now. No inquiries at all in Brazil. "Mason does his phone business, a lot of it, through the switch-board of a sports book in Las Vegas. You can imagine the volume of calls they take." You said. "Do i want to know how you found that out?" Crawford asks.

"Strictly legit," you said. "Well, pretty much legit - I didn't leave anything in his house. I've got the codes to look at his phone bill, that's all. All the tech agents have them. Let's say he obstructs justice. With his influence, how long would we have to beg for a warrant to trap and trace? What could you do to him anyway if he was convicted? But he's using a sports book." You said.

"I see it," Crawford said. "Nevada Gaming Commission could either trap the phone or squeeze the sports book for what we need to know, which is where the calls go." Crawford continued.

You nodded. "I left Mason alone just like you said." You said.

"I can see that," Crawford said. "You can tell Mason we expect to help through Interpol and the embassy. Tell him we need to move people down there and start the framework for extradition. Letter's probably committed crimes in South America, so we better extradite before the Rio police start looking in their files under Cannibalismo. If he's in South America at all. Y/N, does it make you sick to talk to Mason?" Crawford asks.

"I have to get in the mode. You walked me through it when we did that floater in West Virginia. What am I saying, 'floater.' She was a person named Fredericka Bimmel, and, yes, Mason makes me sick. A lot of stuff makes me sick lately, Jack." You said.

You surprised yourself into silence. You had never before addressed Section Chief Jack Crawford by his first name, you had never planned to call him "Jack" and it shocked you. You studied his face, a face famously hard to read.

He nodded, his smile wry and sad. "Me too, Y/N. Want a couple of these Pepto-Bismol tablets to chew before you talk to Mason?" Crawford asked.

Mason Verger did not bother to take your call. A secretary thanked you for the message and said he's return your call. But he didn't get back to you personally. To Mason, several places higher on the notification list than you, the X-ray match was old news.