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Animal cruelty. A certain predisposition to psychosis is needed to hurt animals, even more than hurting men.
"But they're not human."
Will raised an eyebrow looking at Jack. "So we're just letting them go, killing dogs?"
"It's just someone who wants an easy adrenaline." Jack scoffed. "Hardly something we need to worry about."
Will didn't tell him that most of the killers, the bad ones, started that way, looking and searching for their own style and identity in the only way that would allow them to perpetuate the violence they needed to feel anything and don't get caught, then moved to humans.
Will didn't tell him that in his whole life, he hated always more the ones that hurt animals in comparison to the ones that hurt humans.
"Now, don't waste my time." Jack pointed at the clock. "Or Doctor Lecter's. Go, or you'll be late."
Will nodded, before grabbing his pack and heading off the office.
***
"You seem distracted, Will." Hannibal looked at Will. After his time in the hospital, where they found out that Will was sick with encephalites, Will brightened up. He was himself, finally fully himself, embracing that darkness that he wasn't able to accept before. It seemed that the only thing that stopped Will from his Becoming was the same sickness that Hannibal decided to let go freely.
"It's nothing." Will scoffed, maybe for the very first time.
Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "It's the Chesapeake Ripper?" He didn't kill anyone, in that time, but maybe Jack pressed his dear Will just to find something in the old cases.
" I wish ." Will muttered, making Hannibal's eyebrow rose. Will blushed slightly, noticing Hannibal's surprise. "Wait, it came out wrong."
"This is a safe place, Will." Hannibal reminded him, even if his blood singed by Will's confession. "You can feel the way you feel. There is no one here to judge you."
"I don't want the Chesapeake Ripper to kill." Will said. "I meant that, if it was him , Jack would investigate this."
"What are you referring to?" Hannibal asked, thinking about what Freddie Lounds wrote about recently.
"Someone is..." Will scoffed, seeming now disgusted. "They're killing dogs . They try to emulate other killers, in the same exhibitions of the corpses. They're not good enough , not only to emulate this killer, but even to not leave evidence behind."
"Which killer are they trying to emulate?" Hannibal asked, even if a part of him already knew. He didn't appreciate that they used animals, and especially dogs, for that. His Will cared too much about those creatures to allow anyone to hurt them.
"Guess, and the first two don't count." Will sighed. "Not that the Chesapeake Ripper would ever appreciate that kind of flattery."
"Why do you think that?" Hannibal asked. "Psychopaths appreciate that kind of devotion."
"If they were really devoted to him, they'd know better than to use dogs, or any kind of animals. They are not despised by the Chesapeake Ripper. He hunts the parasites. Animals aren't parasites, they are the only ones that he never hurts. Why would he? They are following the same basic instincts he is following, and, just like him, they don't get caught." Will shook his head.
"Your words reveal a contempt for the actions of this serial killer." Hannibal mused. "Even more than the one you feel for the Chesapeake Ripper himself, if I might say."
Will shook his head. "There's just something wrong with hurting an animal."
"And that isn't the same thing that is wrong with hurting a human being?" Hannibal asked.
"Usually some humans deserve to die." Will said. "If you ask Jack, he'd tell you that the Ripper deserves to die. If you ask Alana, she'd mutter that Hobbs deserved the fate he met. If you ask Beverly, she'd admit she's relieved that Budge died. We all think about killing someone, at some point in our lives."
"You thought about killing Hobbs?" Hannibal asked.
"No. It was just a reaction." Will replied.
"An instinct." Hannibal tried.
Will frowned, looking at him. "Can I ask you if t here's a reaso n why you keep trying to compare me and the Chesapeake Rapper?"
Hannibal smiled a little. Will understood what he was doing, without understanding the reason. "I wasn't..."
"I can tell that I don't have the ability to make a tableaux the way he does." Will said. "And I say he just because I never met a woman capable of lifting the kind of weight the Ripper does. It's not sexist, just statistics."
"I would never accuse you of being sexist , Will." Hannibal reassured Will.
"No, you just keep comparing me to a serial killer. To the serial killer." Will sighed, rubbing his face. "I'm sorry for being so rude, it's just... I don't like when dogs get hurt."
"It's comprehensible." Hannibal smiled. "Are you going to investigate?"
"Jack said that it's not in the FBI's competence." Will replied, a hint of anger in his voice.
"You're not FBI, though. I am not either." Hannibal offered.
Will blinked. "Are you offering to help me in finding the one that is hurting dogs? Why?"
"Because I care about you." Hannibal replied, being sincere as he was always. "I'm your friend. And I care about your life."
Will smiled, a little blush on his cheeks. "It won't probably be as interesting as the other cases."
"I can be satisfied by spending time with you." Hannibal replied.
****
The first dead dog is an awful sight.
It's a Pomeranian shoved inside. Snapped neck, stomach split open with surgical precision, guts glistening in the morning light like a grotesque bouquet.
Hannibal understood why Will saw this killer as an imitator. And he was right to think Hannibal despised him.
"The killer has a pattern." Will explained. He sat on Hannibal's table at his home, showing the papers he got together. "They're leaving mutilated dogs around the city, each one posed in a way that's increasingly elaborate, increasingly precise. The wounds are delicate, anatomical. Ritualistic. One's posed with a collar of fresh flowers. Another wears a crown of thorns."
"You know what this is," Hannibal said.
Will doesn't answer right away. They're at Hannibal's dining table. It's Sunday. Hannibal made rabbit.
"It has the rhythm of an offering," Hannibal continued, placing his fork down just so. “They’re raising their offers.”
"I wished they didn't use dogs for making these offers," Will muttered.
“Gifts aren’t often understood.” Hannibal replied. “Most of the time, we try so hard to fight the meaning of what has been gifted to us that we lose the bigger frame of the picture right in front of our eyes.”
Will leaned back in his chair. His eyes were dark and hooded, like he's trying to see through the room, through Hannibal, into something uglier. "It doesn't feel like a gift. This isn’t a gift. Offers and gifts are two very different things, doctor Lecter."
"Perhaps you're not able to appreciate it properly," Hannibal said, smiling. “Maybe, you’ll be able to.”
“When?” Will growled back. “I’d never accept what they are doing to these dogs.”
“When you can relate to the used language.” Hannibal replied. “It’s a road with two ways. The killer is going in one direction, but he isn’t on your same road. At this moment, he isn’t in your same State.”
“And you think someone else is?” Will asked.
“You tell me, Will.” Hannibal dared him. “Is there someone who’s talking your same language?”
***
They investigated, together.
Jack didn't question it anymore, not really. He saw Will emerging from Hannibal's car in the morning and raised an eyebrow. Will shrugged. Hannibal said, "We've found our rhythm."
Will decided that he preferred Jack to think whatever he was thinking at that moment rather than having him complaining of their investigations on some dogs’ murders.
They’re not humans .
No, they were better.
****
The fourth dog was left at a dog park. A retriever, eviscerated. The intestines were arranged in a spiral, a near-perfect Fibonacci sequence.
Will stared at it. Hannibal looked at him.
"Whoever it is, they're trying to communicate."
Will hissed. "They're using the wrong way."
"Does it matter?"
Will looked at him then. "Does it matter if someone is trying to communicate in the wrong language?"
Hannibal smiled. "It only matters if they succeed."
Will frowned. “Communicating is trying to send a message. This message is always the same.”
“They have a muse.” Hannibal nodded. “Someone they’re trying to impress so hard.”
“They are leaving a message, several of them,” Will said. “They haven’t received an answer, so their efforts are increasing. They need an answer, they crave the recognition that only their muse can give them.”
“But they have nothing.” Hannibal muttered, a smile crossing his face. “What will they do, then?”
“Without recognition, they are nothing.” Will said, his voice sure and cold as he talked. “They need it to survive. So, they’re going to raise the level.”
Hannibal grinned. “They’ll hurt humans, then.”
Better them than dogs, Will thought.
Hannibal smiled even more hearing that whispered thought.
****
They visit a woman who runs a no-kill shelter. She's missing a thumb.
"It was my fault," she said, smiling shyly at their curious gaze. "Shouldn't have put my hand between a Chow and a bone."
Will watched her dogs. They liked her. They loved her. She's not their unsub.
"The way you watch people," Hannibal murmured to him as they leave, on his Bentley, "it's almost worshipful."
Will rolled his eyes. "I'm trying to see if they’re worth it." He replied, using their language that only they seemed to understand.
"And me?” Hannibal asked, maybe for the very first time in his life scared of the answer, of the possible outcome of their relationship. “Did I pass?"
Without encephalitis, it was hard to manipulate and control the dear Will to only spend time with Hannibal.
Will didn’t answer.
Hannibal didn’t allow that to uncover his fears.
****
The seventh dog was a greyhound. Just a sense of quiet devastation.
"You know what I think?" Will finally said, something strange in his voice.
"No, but I hope you’ll tell me." Hannibal said, looking at Will. He craved his everything, and he craved to have and obtain that everything because Will wanted him to have it.
"I think this isn't about the Ripper. Not really. I think it’s about how he is seen." Will explained.
"See what?" Hannibal asked, leaning over.
"I recognise this." Will pointed at one corner of the picture. There was a paper on the ground, with a photo printed on it.
Freddie posted the photo on her blog site just because of that picture: one of the first Ripper's tableaus, portrayed on the ground, a dog in the same position as the human victim, making clear the ode that was written all over the body.
"I think anyone who tried to catch the Ripper knows his murders." Hannibal said. “I think that everyone knows enough about the Ripper to be able to find one of his murders and show them to everyone.” He added, after a moment of pause, trying to understand what was so special about that murder.
"No.” Will shook his head. His eyes were focused on that single angle of Freddie’s picture. “It's not just a photo of his murder. It's the photo I took of that murder. The same one I put on purpose on my thesis just to be sure the FBI would judge me unstable." Will explained. "And I was right. By the way."
Hannibal was taken aback, the confession looming over them.
"You made them see you unstable on purpose? Why?" Hannibal asked, frowning in confusion, after he found again his voice and ability to talk.
"Have you ever seen Sherlock on the BBC?" Will asked, making a mental connection that Hannibal didn't understand. "They say about him that one day he's going to be at a murder scene because he was the one that put the body there." Will sighed. "They said the same about me. All my life. If I'm unstable, though..."
"You're not a danger. If they pity you, they’re not going after you." Hannibal hummed, once again amazed by Will’s ability to see all the pieces of the game. He was really the smartest person in every room he entered. If he only let his becoming to happen.... "What did you say? About the Ripper?"
"That he was an artist, in the simplest definition of that term. Human bodies were his paint, and the tableau the final painting. That no one would ever catch him simply because he doesn't need to kill. He isn't like anyone else. He isn't an amateur. He probably did the same thing these killers are doing, but he did at a very young age and on humans. He's probably a surgeon, or has been one. I'd say European."
"Why?" Hannibal asked, leaning over.
"Oh, it's just because... American killers are boring . And usually they're frustrated people who don't know how to find a place in this world. The Ripper is different. He found his place in the world. It's everyone else that didn't ." Will frowned. "So, you see, they thought me to be unstable."
"And you were right." Hannibal murmured. "Can I ask you why you never told Jack about all of this?"
"I don't know, Hannibal, you tell me." Will looked at him. "And maybe you can tell me why you let the encephalites go on that long."
"You know...?" Hannibal blinked, taken by surprise.
"About your little hobby?" Will snorted. "The Chesapeake Ripper tells an FBI Special Agent that he transferred his surgeon ability to culinary art." Will shook his head. "Tell me something: was it Hobbs or me that pushed you to create the Copycat?"
"The FBI special agent tells the Chesapeake Ripper that he had a date with him." Hannibal replied, enjoying the sight of blush on Will's cheeks. "It was you . Pure empathy. I thought I found the perfect partner."
"And you let him go crazy ." Will blinked. "Wow, you're terrible."
"You know what I do with my trophies." Hannibal replied, frowning. "And you still eat at my table."
“Like I said, everyone thought about killing." Will shrugged. "A homicide is always wrong. What makes me or Jack better than you? Morality? It's decided by men. Law? Decided by men."
"You don't like having men decide your fate?" Hannibal asked, leaning, interested.
"I don't think men should judge something that was natural." Will said. "Insticts."
"You follow my code, then." Hannibal smiled.
"Wolves', actually." Will replied.
"Pack mentality, then." Hannibal tilted his head. "Tell me, I am one of your pack?"
Will blushed. "Yes."
"Before or after you found out about me?" Hannibal asked.
"I had something in my mind since our second meeting. Boyle was a present and you were the only one there." Will shrugged. "But you don't treat me like I'm unstable or crazy, or broken. And you were kind with my dogs, so..."
"Ah." Hannibal nodded. "If I knew it was the only thing that was needed to bring you by my side, I'd done it before."
"It would have been fake, and I'd hate it." Will shook his head. "Even if you intended it sincerely, the fakeness would have been too strong to allow me to accept it."
"Then I'm pleased that things went the way they did, like if God played a hand in them."
Will chuckled. "No God. Just you."
****
The eighth body wasn’t a dog.
It’s a man. Hung upside down in a slaughterhouse, throat cut. His organs were removed and replaced with fur. Flaps of skin stitched with what looked like sinew. A taxidermy horror.
He worked for Animal Control.
Will tilted his head. Hannibal’s standing very close.
"Message received," Will said.
"What message would that be?"
Will turned to him. "They’ve moved on to people."
"And yet," Hannibal said, voice low and warm, "they're still using dogs to speak."
A language Will spoke.
****
They tracked the unsub down eventually. A veterinary student. Kicked out for dissecting animals improperly, using them for sculpture. She's younger than Will expected. Pretty in that pale, dead-eyed way.
She smiled at Will when she saw him.
"I made you something," she said.
Will glanced at Hannibal, who entered right after him. "See? Told you it wasn't a gift."
****
It got messy.
She's fast with a scalpel and creative with sedatives. Hannibal killed her. Will watched him do it. There's a long moment afterward, when they're both breathing hard and covered in blood.
"Did you enjoy that?"
Hannibal wiped his hands on a silk handkerchief. "Immensely."
Will shook his head. "You're lucky you're cute, because otherwise you're just a ridiculous cannibal."
"You think I'm cute?" Was the answer Will received.
****
They’re back at Will’s house. The fire was on. His dogs were quiet now, solemn, like they knew their leader was finally at peace.
Will sat on the floor. Hannibal joined him, hugging him from behind.
"She was trying to be you." Will said at the end.
"A poor imitation." Hannibal replied.
"She thought killing something I loved would make me see her." Will replied. "The same way I saw the Ripper."
"Did it work?" Hannibal asked, feeling almost hesitant to know the answer.
Will looked at Hannibal. "You don’t get to ask that."
"But I do, Will. I always do."
Will stared at him. Then he leaned in and said, too low to be anything but a confession. "It only works when you do it."
***
They didn’t kiss. But something passed between them anyway. Like teeth scraping.
The dogs watched.
Will didn't sleep that night.
But he didn't make Hannibal leave, either.
In the morning, there's a new article on Freddie Lounds' blog.
"We have a copycat," Will said.
Hannibal smiled over his eggs. "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."
Will raised an eyebrow. "Are you flattered?"
"I’m always flattered when someone sees the art." Hannibal looked at Will. "Especially if that someone is you."
Will stirred his coffee. "Guess we’ll have to kill them too."
They eat in silence for a while. Hannibal felt his monster purr, around his heart.
Then Will added. "...But after breakfast."