Fortune's Fool (Hannibal Fanfiction)

VII: Unfair Fight

What made Will Graham a useful tool for Jack and the FBI was the same thing that made him a riveting psychiatric case, a freak show, and an endless supply of (mostly) untrue gossip for reporters and journalists: his empathy. More specifically, his empathy when extended to serial killers. It meant that he could get in killers' heads, reconstruct their thoughts, and catch them because he knew what drove them to kill. His strong memory and eye for detail were just as important in his opinion, if not more so, but that was less interesting, he thought spitefully. Less bizarre. Too mundane.

Well, maybe they had a point. There was a good reason he didn't like psychiatrists poking around in his head. There were things up there that he never unpacked, and he certainly didn't want somebody else to do so for him and judge every goddamn thing they pulled out of those moth-infested boxes.

Right now was a very good example of why.

Will stood outside the gate leading into the victim's backyard, eyes closed and breathing measured as he filtered out the unnecessary information from his environment and filled in what he needed instead. When he opened his eyes, he was alone. The general buzz of daytime was gone, replaced by the croaking of frogs, squeaking of bats fluttering in the trees, and the songs of cicadas and crickets. The only light came from the light pollution seeping into the night sky over New Orleans and the porch lights from nearby houses. But he could tell by weight and shape that he held an ax. He didn't need his vision for that.

Will reached out in the dark, found the latch on the gate, and opened it slowly, carefully. The hinges squeaked slightly in protest but were otherwise quiet. He left the gate cracked open for an easy escape and slipped through.

Pale light spilled from the sliding glass door into the backyard, its watery beam cutting through the dark. Will stood silently against the wall by the door, laying in wait. The light flickered against the grass as the person inside moved from the kitchen into the dining room, and after their shadow passed, he spared the quickest of glances inside.

The dining room was strangely barren, with only a wooden table and two chairs. An old white man stood with his back to the door, tall but stooped and weak. His hands shook almost imperceptibly as he set a microwaved dinner down on the table.

It wasn't a fair fight. It wasn't supposed to be.

This was his design.

The old man went back into the kitchen for a utensil, and Will took the opportunity to test the back door. It was still unlocked, by a stroke of luck; the old man had forgotten to lock it, or maybe he just never saw the need to. That would come back to haunt him very soon. Will darted back into the shadows as the old man came back into the kitchen with a fork. Pulled out a chair. Sat down. Frowned at the back door, which was open an inch.

As he stood up to close the door, Will lunged and pulled it open. The old man cried out in shock, anger and fear distorting his pale face. He took a step back reflexively and knocked into his chair, then threw out his hand to steady himself against the table.

Will struck. The old man lifted his hands in a futile attempt to block the ax, and his fork clattered to the floor. Drops of hot liquid hit Will's face as blood splattered across the table and floor.

He swung again. Bones splintered under the heavy ax blade like glass. One of the man's hands was now half a palm and a thumb; the rest was bone shards and pulp. Another swing took two fingers off the other hand and sunk into the old man's chest, lodging in the ribcage but missing all the vital organs.

That was alright; Will wasn't aiming for a clean kill. This wasn't cold-blooded. This was heat and rage and disgust. He wanted the man to suffer. He wanted him to go down crying and screaming for help like the innocent children he had hurt. Nobody would help him. Nobody would miss him. Nobody would care that he was gone.

This was his design.

Will tugged the ax from the man's chest and swung again, catching him in the shoulder. Then again, in the other one. The old man buckled and collapsed on his knees, gurgling blood. It was flowing faster now, almost black in the low light. It dripped from the meager furniture, pooled on the floor, stained the walls. It was in Will's mouth and hair. On his clothes. A lone line of droplets tainted the abandoned microwave dinner on the table.

He swung the ax again, and again, and again. Off came the lower half of an arm; there went the jaw; now the face, and across the abdomen, and straight through the spine. Will kept swinging and swinging, until the thing in front of him was nothing more than a bloody hunk of muscle and spilled guts and splintered bone.

Finally, he stopped, chest heaving from exertion. His blood sang. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. Raymond Frank Kennedy was dead, and parents across the area could sleep easy knowing that he had been removed from their community.

Will stood over the body, blood pooling around and under his shoes, the ax's handle slippery in his grip, and smiled.

"This is my design."

Will's eyes flew open. For a moment, he was disoriented. It was daylight again. Instead of the gate where he'd closed his eyes, he was standing in the empty dining room. There was no dead body. He wasn't drenched in blood or holding an ax. As he struggled to control his breathing, he became aware of Hannibal's presence a few feet away, and then it hit him.

"It wasn't in cold-blood," Will croaked. "He... It might have been premeditated, but it was still a crime of passion." He ran a shaky hand across his beard. "He, uh...I think it was his first kill. He'd never done it before."

Will began to pace around the edge of the room, restless and a little feverish.

"He thought he was doing the right thing. In getting rid of Kennedy, I mean. He saw him as a threat to any kids in the area, and since the police weren't going to do anything about it, he took matters into his own hands. I don't think he expected it to be so easy, but he knew well enough not to leave the weapon behind."

He stopped pacing, his jaw working.

After a few moments, Hannibal said, "So he's a fledgling killer, just spreading his wings. In his teens, perhaps? Early twenties?"

Will frowned. "I don't know. It's possible." He began pacing again, slower this time. "But I don't feel youth. He's not unsure of himself or angry at the world or his circumstances. He wasn't hot-headed enough to leave the weapon or linger over the body. This was his first kill, yes, but there's still some kind of experience there, and not in the typical psychopath way." Will stopped pacing and turned towards Hannibal. "He might not even have a history of violence. I don't know."

Hannibal pursed his lips, but he looked thoughtful, not annoyed. "So we check out the next crime scene and go from there."

Will nodded slowly.

They locked up the empty house and walked to the car. Will sighed quietly to himself as he took the car out of park and turned them towards the next crime scene.

This was going to be one hell of a long day.