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justmcshaneTitle: Les Fleurs Du Mal
“– and you’re absolutely sure that you’re well enough to do this?”
“‘Course I am. Come on, stop fussing.”
“No pain, no residual shakiness–?”
“I’m fine , Professor–”
“You still seem rather warm...”
“Oi, get off! I said I’m fine!”
Beverly Katz rounded the corner to find the Doctor and Ace sitting in one of the empty labs – well, Ace was sitting on one of the countertops, anyway. The Doctor was pacing in front of her nervously. At her approach, they both looked up, breaking off from their argument.
“Ah – Miss Katz,” the Doctor said, nodding at her. “Thank you for coming so promptly. My apologies for calling on you so early in the morning.”
“No prob,” she told him. “It got me out of bed on time, so I’m not complaining.”
“Hiya, Bev,” Ace said. She looked a bit paler than usual, but otherwise perfectly healthy.
“Hey,” said Beverly, raising her hand in greeting. “I heard about the poisoning.”
“Yep,” said Ace, sighing. “Seems like everyone has. I’m fine, honestly.”
“In that case, I’ll shut up about it. Good to see you on your feet, though.” She looked over to the Doctor. “What’d you need, Doctor Smith?”
“Just Doctor. And information, if you would be so kind,” he said. “The events of the last few days have redoubled my determination to find this flower-obsessed killer, and both I – and Ace, apparently...” and here he shot Ace a worried look, like he wasn’t entirely sure that she should be up and walking around quite yet, “...have decided to rejoin the investigation, properly.”
“Awesome – it’s always good to have more people on hand. Especially now.” Beverly ran a hand through her hair. “So what do you need to know? Weren’t you at the hotel crime scene yesterday?”
“I was,” the Doctor agreed. “But Ace wasn’t, which brings me to my first request – would you mind bringing her fully up to date on the situation?”
“Sure, no problem,” Beverly agreed. “I was heading down to the lab anyway. We’ve got pictures down there.”
“Cheers,” Ace said, and then, turning on the Doctor, “ wait , no – I was coming with you, remember?”
He studiously ignored her, and looked at Beverly once more. “As for my second question. Would you happen to know where Will Graham lives?”
“Y –essss ,” Beverly said, stretching the word out dubiously. “Uh, why, though?”
“I intended to discuss with him the somewhat unusual events of yesterday,” the Doctor said. “There are some... things that I wish to know.”
Beverly stared at the Doctor for a good long minute, eyes hard and judging. He met her gaze evenly, and after a while she seemed to see something in him that she approved of, because she nodded. “Give me a sec. I’ll write down the address.”
“Thank you. The reason I thought it best you didn’t come,” the Doctor added, turning to Ace, “other than the obvious of course – is that Mr Graham doesn’t seem to like company very much.”
“You saying he’d be overwhelmed by my vibrant presence?” Ace looked slightly hurt, but mostly just amused.
“No – only that my own, equally scintillating personality might be too much for him as it is.” He patted her arm with a small smile. “And as much as you don’t want to admit it, you are still recovering.”
“I’ve seen him talk down megalomaniacs and dictators of all sorts, and here he is; fussing over me like a mother hen,” Ace told Beverly, sighing, and then: “all right, Professor. I’ll stay here; look over the files. Try not to get into too much trouble without me.”
“And the same to you,” the Doctor said with a slight upwards quirk of his mouth, and accepted Beverly’s scrap of torn-out notebook paper, standing as he scanned over it. “Aha, excellent. I will be on my way, then.”
Ace stood up as well. “Let’s go see those murder photos, then.”
“Sure. Hey, uh,” said Beverly, pausing briefly. “What’s up with the blue box?”
The Doctor and Ace exchanged a short glance, and then Ace said, “storage device,” just as the Doctor said, “personal possession.”
“Right,” said Beverly, unconvinced.
“It’s a storage device containing my personal possessions,” the Doctor corrected smoothly, “now go! Be off with you both! There is work to be done!” He proceeded to comically shoo them out of the room with his umbrella – Ace clutching her bag and giggling as he did so. As she crossed the threshold, and turned back to him, he neatly tapped her on the nose, and shut the door behind him.
“Wow,” said Beverly, who was also laughing. “Is he always like this?”
“Worse, usually,” said Ace somewhat breathlessly, over the faint sound of something otherworldly dragging itself away from reality in the other room.
Beverly paused and frowned at the now-closed door. “Hey, do you hear that?”
“Nope,” said Ace, too quickly, grabbing Beverly’s hand and dragging her onwards. “Come on. Crime scene to look over.”
They headed down to the forensics lab, chatting morbidly about murder and dead bodies all the while.
“I heard that Will Graham wasn’t able to get anything out of this one?” Ace asked as they approached the door to the lab. “Something about him walking straight out of the room without any information?”
“Who told you that – Doctor Smith?” Beverly asked. Ace nodded and she did too. “Yeah. It’s actually the first time I’ve ever seen him, you know, fail to get some kind of reading on a crime scene. Poor guy must be really stressed.”
“That’s kind of inconvenient for us,” Ace said, and then grimaced. “Ah – no, not like that; that sounds really bad. I mean, it’s bad that he’s not feeling great, but –”
“Yeah,” said Beverly. “I know what you’re trying to get at.” She leaned forwards, and pushed the door to the lab open. “But we managed to do all right with catching serial killers before he showed up, so I think we’ll do fine. Apart from that, how much do you know about this whole mess already?”
The answer to that was ‘not a lot’. The Doctor had been vague about the details, leaving Beverly to fill in most of the blanks – most easily accomplished by showing Ace the evidence.
The photos of the crime scene in question were comprehensive, and the notes that Beverly had made while there were even more so. Ace took maybe fifteen minutes to go over all of it, and then looked up at Beverly, frowning. “...I need to talk to the Professor. Pronto.”
“I mean, I could take you to Will’s place – but I doubt we’d be able to catch up to Doctor Smith. He’s got, what, half an hour headstart on us?”
“Probably a lot more than that,” Ace said.
“Well, we might end up missing him, even.” Beverly gave her a helpless shrug. “Probably best to wait until he gets back?”
“Yeah, screw that,” Ace said, and looked down at the picture she was holding in her hands. “I’ve had enough of feeling useless – I need to do something. And,” she added, looking thoughtful, “I think I know exactly what that something is...”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ace tucked the photograph into the inside of her jacket, and stood up. “Any chance you could give me a lift somewhere? I’ve just remembered another person that could help us out with the case.” She grinned. “Hopefully he won’t mind an early-morning visitor...”
Ace waved at Beverly as she pulled away, and then set off down the stone path that led up to Hannibal Lecter’s house, tugging her rucksack higher up over her shoulder as she went. The house appeared much different in the light of early morning – she could now see in full the light sandstone that made up the front walls and the sweeping, almost gothic, architecture. She could see that some of the front rooms were lit, although the blinds were drawn across them.
She went up to the front door – no doorbell there, only a fancy stag-shaped knocker bolted into the center of the old oak wood. It was pretentious, definitely, but it somehow felt right for the location. It gave off a gothic vibe, much like the rest of the house did – and Hannibal himself, really. She raised it, knocked twice.
Only seconds later, she heard the click of the deadbolt disengaging, and the door opened to reveal the man himself, barely looking ruffled despite the rather early hour of day it was. He was wearing a long dress shirt and an apron tied around his waist.
“Miss McShane,” he said, sounding somewhat surprised.
“Hi, Doc,” she said, grinning. “Uh, I don’t actually have a phone, so I couldn’t call ahead, but I had some things I wanted to ask you – about the flower murder thing? If you need me to come back later I will,” she added, taking a step back. “...I know it’s kinda early.”
“Nonsense,” he said, and opened the door wider, inviting her in. “I have no patients until at least ten o’clock. There is plenty of time to go over whatever you wish.”
“Thanks,” said Ace, relieved – it was cold out, and Beverly had already left. If he had declined her, she would have had to find her own way back to town, and she hadn’t been looking forward to doing that. She stepped into the house, and he closed the door behind them. She looked around the hall, and removed her rucksack, weighing it in her hands awkwardly. “I feel underdressed,” she said, indicating her red leather jacket, tights, and Doc Martens. “Hope I’m not ruining your aesthetic.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” he said easily, and indicated that she could hang her bag on the coat rack next to the front door. “You’re looking well,” he added, beginning to walk away.
“Am I?” Ace said doubtfully, following him through the foyer and down a long hallway.
“Better than when I last saw you, three days ago,” he amended. “I must admit, I am surprised to see you in such relatively good health. Especially considering the severity of your condition.”
Ace avoided his probing gaze, and shrugged. “It... wasn’t good, yeah. But the Professor knows his stuff, and... well, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You are,” he agreed. “Nonetheless, aconite poisoning of that degree is often fatal, although I am, of course, very glad that it wasn’t. You’re very lucky to be alive still, let alone standing – your Doctor Smith must be a miracle-worker.”
“I mean, that isn’t far from the truth,” said Ace, lips twitching slightly.
“Yes,” he said, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, added, “tell me, have you eaten?”
“This morning? Nope,” she said. “The Professor had some errand or other, and I got sidetracked with the case, and – well, I’m here now. Y’know the drill.”
He nodded. “In that case, would you object to a light breakfast? I was about to prepare my own before you arrived,” he gestured to his apron, “and I make it a point not to miss a meal – or allow others to – if I can help it.”
“Breakfast would be ace,” she said, brightening. “I’m starving .”
Hannibal stopped walking, and was silent for a moment. “You are not hesitant of dining at my table so soon?” he asked, head cocked slightly to the side. Studying her. “I know I would be, in your place.”
“What, you think I’m worried about a little poison? Nah,” she said, smiling. “I know it wasn’t your fault, Doc. The dinner looked delicious, really, I wish I could have tried it properly.”
“Consider this an apology for the events of Wednesday evening, then,” he said, and led her through the dining room. He quickened his pace as they passed through. Ace did the same, although she did glance at the carpet. It was utterly spotless – no sign that any blood had touched it at any point. He must know a really good cleaner. “If you do not have any particular preference, I will make something simple. We don’t want to overtax your no-doubt delicate stomach.”
“Sounds great. Although,” she added, grimacing a little as she glanced around the dining room. There were bowls of fruit on the table, paintings on the walls – no blood visible on the carpet, but she knew it had been there. “I don’t really want to eat in here. Sorry. I know presentation is one of your big things, but –“
“Then we shall eat in the kitchen,” he said, theatrical in his delivery but utterly serious all the same. He opened the door, sweeping a hand elegantly – ladies first. “Presentation is important, of course, but I consider the comfort of my guests to be of the utmost priority.”
They entered the kitchen, leaving the heavy darkness of the dining room behind. The change in color scheme was almost startling. Whereas the dining room had been almost drenched in rich, deep colors, and did not have any windows at all, the kitchen was lighter – sleek, almost modern, with plenty of natural light streaming in from the early morning outside.
“Nice,” Ace said appreciatively, glancing around and taking in the entire room from wall-to-wall. Her gaze fell upon on the glass double-doors leading to the outside of the house. “You do all your cooking in here?”
“Yes.” He followed her gaze, stopping in the doorway. “I suspect that our poison-wielding assassin entered the kitchen when I was not present. Once again, my deepest apologies.”
“Still not your fault,” sighed Ace. “Whoever it was, they obviously were trying to get the poison in; and I don’t reckon you could’ve done anything about it.”
“Nonetheless, I cannot help but feel responsible.”
“Well, thanks, I guess.” Ace played with the end of her braided hair for a moment or two. “You know, I just realized. All of the plates you served on Wednesday had the exact same food, right?”
“With the exception of Doctor Smith, yes. Everybody was served near-identical portions of saltimbocca alla romana, and... hm.” His eyebrows raised as he made the connection. “Yes, that is remarkably strange, now that you point it out.”
“Exactly. Why go for me , when the Professor was the most obvious – and easiest – target? And while we’re at it, how’d they manage to work out which plate was mine?”
“The obvious solution to that, of course, would be that I was working with the assassin – or that I, myself, added the poison,” said Hannibal, and went over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “The entire situation rather seems to implicate me, doesn’t it? – I’m surprised you aren’t more cautious of dining with me this morning.”
Ace snorted and grinned. “Yeah, right. Like a cold-blooded killer would confess his guilt to me while preparing to make me breakfast.”
He smiled too. “I suggest we stop discussing your poisoning for the moment. For your peace of mind, as well as mine.”
“Yeah, fair enough,” Ace said. “Still, it’s food for thought.”
“For thought? I’ve found I rather prefer food for the body and soul,” said Hannibal with a little quirk of his mouth. “Which, coincidentally, is what I hope to be preparing for you this morning. Now, that case that you mentioned before –”
“Oh, right – we got a bit sidetracked there, didn’t we? Yeah. It’d be wicked if you could talk it through with me.”
“You didn’t bring any notes with you?” he said, turning his back to rummage through one of the under-cupboards for utensils. Ace took the opportunity to leap up, seating herself on the edge of a counter.
“Just my thoughts,” she said, tapping the side of her head cheerfully, even though he wasn’t able to see it. “I didn’t have a chance to write anything down, but I bet I can remember it all.”
“Excellent.” Hannibal produced a frying pan with one hand, and reached over to take a knife with the other. “In that case, you can help me prepare the meal as we converse.” He turned, saw where she was sitting, and his expression became entirely unamused. “Miss McShane, kindly use the countertop as it was intended to be used. For example, not a place for the general public to seat themselves at will. There are chairs, or, if you prefer, an armchair in the corner for that.”
Ace laughed and slid off the counter, landing easily. “Sorry. Habit. Our kitchen’s a lot messier at home.” She circled around the central kitchen island to help him pull out various other items of cutlery. “Also, I should probably warn you – I’m a bit of a disaster in the kitchen. This might end up being a mess.”
“You cannot possibly create more of a mess than has been made with some of the people I have worked with in the past,” he said dryly, and crossed over to begin taking out ingredients from his large, lavishly-stocked fridge. “I’m entirely sure you’ll do fine. Take the green cutting board – yes, that one, over there – and find a suitable cutting knife from the rack.”
“The color matters?” Ace said, doing so.
“I color-code based on what is being placed underneath my knife,” he said, smiling as he set down a variety of fresh vegetables on the countertop. “It prevents cross-contamination between, say, raw meat and fresh vegetables. And speaking of cross-contamination – please do wash your hands quite thoroughly before we commence. I suspect that if you contract food poisoning again, nobody would trust me to serve their dinner for a very long time indeed.”
“Wouldn’t want to wreck your reputation,” she said, smiling, and went to scrub her hands clean in the sink. “So, what’re we making?”
“As I said before, something rather simple. A variant of the Italian frittata.” He passed her three capsicums – one red, one green, one yellow. “Dice these, please. As small and as even as you can.”
“Gotcha,” said Ace, twirling the knife with practiced ease, and bringing it down, cleaving the red capsicum in half.
“– and please try not to take my head off,” Hannibal requested, taking a hasty step back to avoid the arc of the blade, which had come dangerously close to his ear. “I try not to get blood on the floor if I can avoid it. I’d appreciate if you did the same.”
“Sorry,” she said, wincing, and began chopping the capsicum in a more sedate, less overtly dramatic manner.
“That’s quite all right,” he said, and began to crack eggs into a bowl, one after another. “Now, let us turn our minds away from our indistinct, poison-wielding foe, and over to more pleasant things, such as murder. This new body that you’ve found – tell me more.”
“Right, well,” Ace said, “I didn’t actually get to see it in person – I was still in the TARDIS, recovering, at that point, but the Professor filled me in, and Bev showed me pictures, so I figure I’ve got a pretty good idea of the details.”
“The TARDIS?”
“Oh, it’s – kind of like our mobile home? Except a lot bigger than you’d expect.” She shrugged. “We travel around in it.”
“I see.” He nodded. “Do continue.”
“So the general gist of it is – another killing with tons of blood, took place in a hotel room, flowers everywhere so we’re guessing it’s the same guy, and the room was locked from the inside so it’s basically completely impossible. No windows,” she added, “or other exits.”
“A locked room murder. Remarkable.” He finished cracking the eggs, swirled them around for a second, and then set the bowl aside, moving back to the refrigerator to gather more ingredients.
“That’s not even the weird bit,” Ace said, and moved onto chopping up the next capsicum. “You’re Will’s friend, right? How accurate would you say his whole psychic dipping-into-people’s-heads thing is?”
“I would say that he has a near-perfect track record thus far,” Hannibal said, returning to the counter with a paper bag of mushrooms. He shook out a few onto a cutting board of his own, and pulled out a knife from the rack of them located nearby. “But I would infer that, from your tone of voice, that record has been broken by this particular incident, unlikely as that may seem.”
“Right on the money.” Ace tapped the knife against the cutting board twice, dislodging stray bits of vegetable that had congealed there. “‘Cording to the Professor, he went in there to do his thing, and came straight back out a couple of minutes later, claiming he couldn’t get a single read from the scene. It was well weird.”
“That is very strange, and more than slightly troubling.” Hannibal frowned at the knife in his hand, weighing it. “Dear Will’s gift allows him the unique ability to sympathise with anyone – no matter how strange, how disturbed, how terrifying. It may not be the healthiest thing, mentally speaking, for him to venture into the darkest of minds that this world has to showcase, but there is no questioning his ability to do so. For somebody to be so far removed from humanity that he is simply not able to connect with them in any way...” He shook his head, and then began cutting the mushrooms into neat, completely even, sixteenths. “Do you know if he obtained any information at all?”
“Well – actually, I think so? He said that it was almost definitely the same guy as last time, but that, uh, the details were obscured. That the ‘act itself was impossible’, so he couldn’t reconstruct it.”
“He was able to slot himself into the killer’s mind at the power station,” Hannibal said thoughtfully. “If it really is the same person doing it, then what has changed since then?”
“You’re the psychiatrist; you tell me,” Ace said.
He hummed thoughtfully. “Tell me more about the scene. You said there were flowers?”
“Two types,” Ace confirmed. “You know how last time, the floor was pretty much entirely covered in blood?”
“Yes. I took the opportunity to look in on it after you had left. Quite impressive.”
“ Impressive isn’t the word I would’ve chosen, but – anyway, this time, our killer got a bit more creative with the blood splatter. I’ve no idea how he did it, but, uh...” Ace trailed off. She put down her knife, wiped her hands on her leggings, and reached into an inside pocket of her jacket to pull out a photograph, laying it on the counter. “..well, here. See for yourself.”
Hannibal finished cutting the mushrooms, and then came over to inspect the photo. “Ah,” he said.
The photograph depicted the crime scene – a fairly small, moderately cramped hotel room with a pale, clearly dead man pinned against the wall, nailed into place with his arms spread-eagled. There was what appeared to be a note pinned to his chest, with another nail. Below him, dripping blood had been arranged into a pattern of alternating blank and bloody red squares in a rough but visible sixteen-by-sixteen grid. Flowers were arranged almost neatly along these rows.
Ace nodded. “The two types of flowers were white chrysanthemums, and black roses. Sixteen of each, arranged on each side of the ‘board’. Not exactly subtle.”
“Chess, then,” he said, passing the photograph back to her. “Or checkers, since all the pieces in this case are the same.”
“It’s gotta be chess,” Ace said, sighing and tucking the photo away. “Psychopaths always want to be dramatic about it, and checkers just doesn’t have the same style as chess does. I’m done with these,” she added, indicating the capsicum. “What now?”
He nodded over at a small pile of potatoes that he had left on the counter. “Wash those, and then do the same. As for the murder, I’m inclined to agree.” He stood still for a moment, watching her gather up the potatoes. “Do you know what the symbolism of those flowers are?”
“Uh – no,” Ace said, picking up her knife again and beginning to chop. “The Professor never got around to telling me. Care to share?”
“Certainly.” He picked up the bowl of eggs again, and moved over to the spice rack, scanning the various glass shakers that were arranged there. “Although the white chrysanthemum has many meanings, I believe the one that would be pertinent in this situation is its more archaic form. Truth.” He added oregano, then salt, and then milk from a fancy-looking metal jug. “As for the roses – true black roses do not exist, Miss McShane, although very dark red roses that appear almost black can exist, and dye can be used to create an imperfect simulacrum.”
“Huh. You learn something new every day, I guess. Here’s the potatoes,” she added.
“Excellent.” Hannibal turned to her, and indicated that they should swap places. “There’s a whisk on the counter. Please, feel free to exhaust the last of your energy with the task of beating them.”
She saluted, and went right for it. “So, the black roses? There’s got to be some sort of thing there, otherwise they wouldn’t have picked a type that doesn’t actually exist – what do they mean?”
“It may not entirely surprise you to hear this,” he said, “but black roses typically symbolise death.”
“Oh, nice. Very cheerful.” Ace stirred faster, tongue poking out of her mouth slightly. “You know, I wish psychopathic killers would just come out and say what they’re trying to communicate, instead of doing this whole symbolic, metaphorical bullshit-fest.”
“If everybody were as honest as you wish they were, it would put me out of a job,” he commented lightly.
“That might be a good thing, all things considered.”
There was a comfortable silence in the kitchen for a minute or two as they both worked independently of each other for a while.
“I must confess, I’m wondering – why come to me?” Hannibal asked eventually, briskly sweeping an amount bell-pepper mixture she had diced up into a measuring cup. He raised it to eye level, and frowned slightly, and then added more. “If it was flower-based knowledge that you were seeking, I’m sure that your friend, the one you call ‘Professor’, would have been happy to oblige you. His expertise in that area seemed more than adequate. Or, failing that, a simple search online or a trip to the library would have sufficed.”
“I mean, yeah, it is. And he would be.” Ace paused in her whisking, and shook out her hand briefly before returning to the task. “He was busy this morning, though, and I also wanted to ask someone about some psychiatrist-like stuff.”
“You could have asked Will,” he said.
“Is this your way of asking me to leave?” she asked, grinning, and ended up accidentally splashing some of the egg mixture over onto the countertop. “Oh, oops...”
“Not at all,” he said, and pointed over to the sink without looking. “There are towels over there. I’m simply trying to parse your motives for coming here.”
Ace weighed her words as she went about cleaning up her brief spill. “Will... well, he seems like a nice bloke, but he’s not as approachable as you are.”
“I try my best to be,” he said. “As both a psychiatrist and a person.” He crossed to the stovetop and turned on the central coil, placing a large frying pan on top. He drizzled oil into it, and after a few minutes, it began to sizzle merrily. “If you wouldn’t mind, pass me those potatoes.”
“Here you go,” said Ace, doing just that.
“Thank you. And I saw there was a note of some sort pinned to our unfortunate victim’s chest,” he said, switching back to the previous subject of discussion as he began to fry the chopped potatoes in oil. It smelled wonderful, even after just a few seconds. “You’ve neglected to mention its contents thus far.”
“Oh – yeah.” Ace shrugged. “Just more cryptic nonsense. It said, ‘your move, Time Lord’.”
“‘Time Lord’ is a somewhat unusual turn of phrase. Potentially a title of some sort, although certainly not one I’ve heard before. ‘Your move’ is somewhat simpler – no doubt alluding to the gory chess board he had created, and implying that he is playing against this ‘time lord’ in particular, who he sees as his opponent. Capsicum, please.”
Ace passed over the measuring cup full of chopped capsicum, watching as he added it to the potatoes. “Seems likely, yeah.”
“Mushrooms, too,” he added, and shifted around the vegetable mixture with a long-handled turner. “You know who his ‘opponent’ is. And you have not told Jack, for reasons I can’t quite discern.”
Ace started, nearly spilling the cup of chopped mushrooms that she had just picked up. “I – what?”
“Your tone of voice was somewhat indicative. As was your reaction just now.” He took it from her, added it to the pan, and then passed her the turner, guiding her in the direction of the pan. “Continue stirring.”
“No idea what you mean, doc,” she said, acquiescing, but looking uncertainly over her shoulder at him.
“Miss McShane, kindly do not play the fool with me,” he said sharply, opening the fridge again. “It does not suit you, and I feel I am owed more respect than that.”
“I – fine.” She sighed, and poked at the sizzling contents of the pan, almost moodily. “Yeah. I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“Please, do share. In your own time, of course.” He placed a tupperware container with already-cooked sausages piled in it on the counter, and took out a new knife and a red cutting board. “Leftovers,” he explained, off her curious look, as he began to cut them into segments. “It wouldn’t be my first choice, but I don’t have the time to procure new meat at the moment.”
“Right,” she said, and paused for a second. “The person the killer’s referring to; performing to – it’s... probably the Doctor. Almost definitely, actually.”
“Doctor Smith?” At her nod, he nodded too. “I see. And the reason you have not revealed this information to Jack, is...?”
“Personal.” Ace shrugged. “Ask the Professor if you really want to know. Not my place to say.”
He nodded again; took two slices of bread from the bag, and placed them in the toaster. “Thank you for telling me.” They switched places again, Ace passing off the turner to him. He added the sausage chunks to the now almost fully-cooked vegetable fry-up, and then reached over to get the bowl of whisked eggs himself. “I don’t believe there’s anything else left for you to do. You may sit down if you wish.”
“Ta.” Ace pulled out a stool at the counter, and elected to sit there rather than on top of the surface, like before. She watched him add the egg mixture to the frying pan, tapping the side of the bowl to ensure all of the mixture dripped out, and then discard the bowl before starting to shift the contents of the pan around once more. “Hang on,” she said, laughing as she realized, “you’re making scrambled eggs?”
“I am not,” he said with an impressive amount of dignity. “What we have been preparing is frittata , an Italian egg-based dish –”
“I know scrambled eggs when I see it, mate,” Ace said. “Can’t pull the wool over my eyes.”
He made a tiny noise of displeasure that sounded suspiciously like a huff, and was silent for a moment as he finished cooking. It took a surprisingly short amount of time for him to do so – the pan was hot enough that he had turned it off already within only minutes, and was sprinkling cheese on top of it. He neatly caught the toast as it popped out of the toaster on two plates, and then split the frittata between them, heaping it on top.
Balancing the two plates neatly on one arm, he pulled cutlery out from a drawer before coming around to place one of the dishes delicately in front of her, situating his own breakfast on the other side of the counter. “ Bon appetit. Although I hope you will wait for me to join you in a moment before starting – would you prefer orange juice or coffee? Or something else?”
“Juice’s fine, thanks,” she said, inhaling the smell of freshly-cooked eggs and smiling.
He crossed to the refrigerator again, and produced a stainless steel pitcher frosted with condensation. “Freshly-squeezed, just this morning,” he told her.
“Cool,” she said appreciatively.
“Yes, very.” He pulled down two glasses from yet another cupboard, and came to join her at the counter.
They sat there in silence for a moment, and then another. Neither of them made a move to begin the meal – Hannibal waiting for his guest to begin first; Ace waiting for...
“Ah, of course,” he said, with a small, rueful smile – realizing. “I forgot. My apologies, Miss McShane – I’ll start first, shall I?” Without waiting for a response, he picked up his fork and knife and began to eat.
Ace watched him for a second or two, leaning back on the stool and swinging her feet. “Feeling poisoned yet?” she asked when he was maybe a quarter of the way through his plate.
He gave the question consideration. “Not especially,” he said.
“All right. Good enough for me,” Ace said, and reached for her own set of cutlery. As Hannibal poured orange juice for both of them, she speared a potato with her fork and brought it to her lips. She ate it, and then grinned at him. “Delicious. Ta, Doc.”
“I’m glad,” he said, smiling back. She continued eating the breakfast, scooping up eggs and sausage with her fork, and accepting Hannibal’s glass of juice with her free hand as she did. “I seem to have forgotten the salt and pepper. Just one moment.” He rose from the counter, turning away to retrieve the necessary shakers from the spice rack.
From behind him –
Ace gasped, a sudden, stuttering noise that sounded like she was choking. Almost immediately afterwards, the sound of the glass that she’d been holding shattering – instantly, irrevocably – echoed through the kitchen.
At the sound of the smash, Hannibal turned around.
Ace was still seated at the counter, fork still in hand – although the glass had, of course, hit the floor moments before. All of the color seemed to have drained from her face, and she was staring at the food in front of her as if it had suddenly started moving around on the plate before her.
“Miss McShane?” he asked.
She dropped the fork on the counter, where it landed with a clatter, and rose to her feet abruptly. Her hands were shaking. Her breathing was uneven. “The – the food...”
“Miss McShane, look at me,” he said sharply.
She did. Her gaze was wild, almost animalistic, and for a second it almost appeared as if her eyes had gone yellow. But almost immediately, that was gone, and it was replaced by her regular eyes – terrified, horrified, staring right at him. “The – listen, Doctor Lecter; I don’t know how, or, or, why , or whatever it was – maybe it was on Wednesday? Must’ve been, no other way he could’ve got into here, you said – you said there was security, so –”
“Calm yourself,” he said, concern clear in his voice. “You do not sound well, Miss McShane. Do you believe you have ingested poison once more?” He moved towards the phone. “I will call Jack. He will be able to contact Doctor Smith for you, and –”
She shook her head, violently, and her knuckles whitened against the countertop. “Oh, no, not poison.” And here, she choked out a humorless, hysterical laugh. “Whoever tried to poison me on Wednesday? He messed with your fridge. That’s not sausage in our scrambled eggs, not normal sausage, anyway.” She jabbed a finger at the offending food. “I can taste it, Doc. That’s human meat. ”
His hand dropped away abruptly from the phone, and he was silent for a long, long moment – just staring at her inscrutably.
In his silence, her borderline hysteria began to drop away too, replaced by a kind of righteous fury that began to bubble up inside her, tinged with that same lingering horror. “Didn’t you hear me?” she asked, clenching her fists reflexively. “I said –“
“I heard what you said.” His tone was soft, betraying nothing.
A short silence, and then, “Doctor Lecter, there are people in our breakfast.”
“Yes,” he said simply. Unsurprised.
It took her less than a second to make the connection, and as soon as she did, she lunged for the fork that she had dropped, snatching it up and brandishing it as if it would be any sort of defence against him. “ You – you toerag, I trusted you!”
“You don’t now?” he asked. All traces of sympathy, of concern, were gone from his voice, although the mild curiosity that had tempered it still remained.
“You tried to feed me somebody ,” Ace snarled, still looking vaguely ill. “What kind of sick fucking game is this? Where – oh my god, did you – you’ve been killing people. You’ve been killing people to eat.” Her eyes widened. The expression on her face became, if possible, even more horrified. “Oh hell. You were a surgeon. You’ve been killing people; stealing their organs; cooking them – fuck. You’re the bloody Chesapeake Ripper .”
For a moment, Hannibal almost seemed to be as surprised as she was, and then he regained his composure almost immediately. “My congratulations, Miss McShane. You’re far more intelligent than I gave you credit for.”
Her expression grew even more grim at this confirmation, and her eyes darted from him, standing behind of the counter with no weapons in hand whatsoever, and then to the door leading out to the rest of the house, only a short distance away from her.
“Running would be most unwise, Miss McShane,” he said softly, noticing.
“More unwise than staying in a room with you for any longer than I have to be?” She laughed incredulously and a bit hysterically (although she never would have admitted it), and took a step backwards. “Yeah, no . I think I’ll be going now.”
He didn’t make a move to stop her, but the tension in the air inexplicably grew just that bit heavier as his stare intensified. “I’m afraid I can’t let you leave.”
“Okay, now you’re not even trying to steer away from the menacing psychopath cliché.” Another step backwards. “God, I was hoping you’d at least be a bit original.” Another step. Two more and she’d be at the door – but he still wasn’t moving to stop her.
She took her chance – lunged for the handle of the door leading to the dining room, twisting it and trying to tear it open.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hannibal move, almost dizzyingly fast. In one fluid movement, he snatched up two carving knives from the rack, and vaulted over the countertop with all of the grace of an Olympic athlete, raising the knife in his left hand at shoulder-level – bringing it down towards back. She felt him come at her, rather than saw it, and thought, over a sudden surge of terror and adrenaline, okay, this is more like it . Instinctively, she flung herself to the side. Hannibal’s knife narrowly missed her head by a fraction, embedding itself in the wood of the doorframe with a sickening thud.
She gasped out loud, and scrabbled for the handle again, panic making her movements jerky and uncoordinated.
Hannibal smiled down at her with the patience of a favorite uncle, and raised his other knife.
She wasn’t fast enough to dodge it entirely this time. It came down with another horrible thud that was, this time, accompanied by an equally sickening
crunch.
Length: 6710 words
Chapters: 6/? | previous: 1 2, 3, 4, 5
Fandoms: Doctor Who, NBC's Hannibal
Rating: Mature
Chapter warnings: (Highlight for chapter spoilers) should I even bother mentioning cannibalism at this point? It’s pretty much implied with the fandom. Implied stabbing. Possible paranoia fuel.
Characters: Seventh Doctor, Ace McShane, Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, ensemble cast
Summary: An unexpected detour leads to the Doctor and Ace teaming up with the FBI to investigate a series of disturbingly specific floral-themed murders. But with Ace's increasingly strange dreams, a hyper-empathetic consultant who can't seem to empathize quite so well any more, and one Doctor Hannibal Lecter in the mix, the murders may be the least of their problems...
Alt links: AO3, Whofic, ff.net
Notes: Hello again - it's been 10+ months and I'm ready to make some characters suffer. Thank you to Jane for the marvelous meticulous beta work, as always, and to Jaybird for patiently sitting through me talking at lighting pace about the end section. Hopefully I can get back into a somewhat regular posting schedule soon - for this and other fics as well!
six.
“brunoise”
6.39 AM
Quantico, Virginia
“– and you’re absolutely sure that you’re well enough to do this?”
“‘Course I am. Come on, stop fussing.”
“No pain, no residual shakiness–?”
“I’m fine , Professor–”
“You still seem rather warm...”
“Oi, get off! I said I’m fine!”
Beverly Katz rounded the corner to find the Doctor and Ace sitting in one of the empty labs – well, Ace was sitting on one of the countertops, anyway. The Doctor was pacing in front of her nervously. At her approach, they both looked up, breaking off from their argument.
“Ah – Miss Katz,” the Doctor said, nodding at her. “Thank you for coming so promptly. My apologies for calling on you so early in the morning.”
“No prob,” she told him. “It got me out of bed on time, so I’m not complaining.”
“Hiya, Bev,” Ace said. She looked a bit paler than usual, but otherwise perfectly healthy.
“Hey,” said Beverly, raising her hand in greeting. “I heard about the poisoning.”
“Yep,” said Ace, sighing. “Seems like everyone has. I’m fine, honestly.”
“In that case, I’ll shut up about it. Good to see you on your feet, though.” She looked over to the Doctor. “What’d you need, Doctor Smith?”
“Just Doctor. And information, if you would be so kind,” he said. “The events of the last few days have redoubled my determination to find this flower-obsessed killer, and both I – and Ace, apparently...” and here he shot Ace a worried look, like he wasn’t entirely sure that she should be up and walking around quite yet, “...have decided to rejoin the investigation, properly.”
“Awesome – it’s always good to have more people on hand. Especially now.” Beverly ran a hand through her hair. “So what do you need to know? Weren’t you at the hotel crime scene yesterday?”
“I was,” the Doctor agreed. “But Ace wasn’t, which brings me to my first request – would you mind bringing her fully up to date on the situation?”
“Sure, no problem,” Beverly agreed. “I was heading down to the lab anyway. We’ve got pictures down there.”
“Cheers,” Ace said, and then, turning on the Doctor, “ wait , no – I was coming with you, remember?”
He studiously ignored her, and looked at Beverly once more. “As for my second question. Would you happen to know where Will Graham lives?”
“Y –essss ,” Beverly said, stretching the word out dubiously. “Uh, why, though?”
“I intended to discuss with him the somewhat unusual events of yesterday,” the Doctor said. “There are some... things that I wish to know.”
Beverly stared at the Doctor for a good long minute, eyes hard and judging. He met her gaze evenly, and after a while she seemed to see something in him that she approved of, because she nodded. “Give me a sec. I’ll write down the address.”
“Thank you. The reason I thought it best you didn’t come,” the Doctor added, turning to Ace, “other than the obvious of course – is that Mr Graham doesn’t seem to like company very much.”
“You saying he’d be overwhelmed by my vibrant presence?” Ace looked slightly hurt, but mostly just amused.
“No – only that my own, equally scintillating personality might be too much for him as it is.” He patted her arm with a small smile. “And as much as you don’t want to admit it, you are still recovering.”
“I’ve seen him talk down megalomaniacs and dictators of all sorts, and here he is; fussing over me like a mother hen,” Ace told Beverly, sighing, and then: “all right, Professor. I’ll stay here; look over the files. Try not to get into too much trouble without me.”
“And the same to you,” the Doctor said with a slight upwards quirk of his mouth, and accepted Beverly’s scrap of torn-out notebook paper, standing as he scanned over it. “Aha, excellent. I will be on my way, then.”
Ace stood up as well. “Let’s go see those murder photos, then.”
“Sure. Hey, uh,” said Beverly, pausing briefly. “What’s up with the blue box?”
The Doctor and Ace exchanged a short glance, and then Ace said, “storage device,” just as the Doctor said, “personal possession.”
“Right,” said Beverly, unconvinced.
“It’s a storage device containing my personal possessions,” the Doctor corrected smoothly, “now go! Be off with you both! There is work to be done!” He proceeded to comically shoo them out of the room with his umbrella – Ace clutching her bag and giggling as he did so. As she crossed the threshold, and turned back to him, he neatly tapped her on the nose, and shut the door behind him.
“Wow,” said Beverly, who was also laughing. “Is he always like this?”
“Worse, usually,” said Ace somewhat breathlessly, over the faint sound of something otherworldly dragging itself away from reality in the other room.
Beverly paused and frowned at the now-closed door. “Hey, do you hear that?”
“Nope,” said Ace, too quickly, grabbing Beverly’s hand and dragging her onwards. “Come on. Crime scene to look over.”
They headed down to the forensics lab, chatting morbidly about murder and dead bodies all the while.
“I heard that Will Graham wasn’t able to get anything out of this one?” Ace asked as they approached the door to the lab. “Something about him walking straight out of the room without any information?”
“Who told you that – Doctor Smith?” Beverly asked. Ace nodded and she did too. “Yeah. It’s actually the first time I’ve ever seen him, you know, fail to get some kind of reading on a crime scene. Poor guy must be really stressed.”
“That’s kind of inconvenient for us,” Ace said, and then grimaced. “Ah – no, not like that; that sounds really bad. I mean, it’s bad that he’s not feeling great, but –”
“Yeah,” said Beverly. “I know what you’re trying to get at.” She leaned forwards, and pushed the door to the lab open. “But we managed to do all right with catching serial killers before he showed up, so I think we’ll do fine. Apart from that, how much do you know about this whole mess already?”
The answer to that was ‘not a lot’. The Doctor had been vague about the details, leaving Beverly to fill in most of the blanks – most easily accomplished by showing Ace the evidence.
The photos of the crime scene in question were comprehensive, and the notes that Beverly had made while there were even more so. Ace took maybe fifteen minutes to go over all of it, and then looked up at Beverly, frowning. “...I need to talk to the Professor. Pronto.”
“I mean, I could take you to Will’s place – but I doubt we’d be able to catch up to Doctor Smith. He’s got, what, half an hour headstart on us?”
“Probably a lot more than that,” Ace said.
“Well, we might end up missing him, even.” Beverly gave her a helpless shrug. “Probably best to wait until he gets back?”
“Yeah, screw that,” Ace said, and looked down at the picture she was holding in her hands. “I’ve had enough of feeling useless – I need to do something. And,” she added, looking thoughtful, “I think I know exactly what that something is...”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ace tucked the photograph into the inside of her jacket, and stood up. “Any chance you could give me a lift somewhere? I’ve just remembered another person that could help us out with the case.” She grinned. “Hopefully he won’t mind an early-morning visitor...”
7.45 AM
Baltimore, Maryland
Ace waved at Beverly as she pulled away, and then set off down the stone path that led up to Hannibal Lecter’s house, tugging her rucksack higher up over her shoulder as she went. The house appeared much different in the light of early morning – she could now see in full the light sandstone that made up the front walls and the sweeping, almost gothic, architecture. She could see that some of the front rooms were lit, although the blinds were drawn across them.
She went up to the front door – no doorbell there, only a fancy stag-shaped knocker bolted into the center of the old oak wood. It was pretentious, definitely, but it somehow felt right for the location. It gave off a gothic vibe, much like the rest of the house did – and Hannibal himself, really. She raised it, knocked twice.
Only seconds later, she heard the click of the deadbolt disengaging, and the door opened to reveal the man himself, barely looking ruffled despite the rather early hour of day it was. He was wearing a long dress shirt and an apron tied around his waist.
“Miss McShane,” he said, sounding somewhat surprised.
“Hi, Doc,” she said, grinning. “Uh, I don’t actually have a phone, so I couldn’t call ahead, but I had some things I wanted to ask you – about the flower murder thing? If you need me to come back later I will,” she added, taking a step back. “...I know it’s kinda early.”
“Nonsense,” he said, and opened the door wider, inviting her in. “I have no patients until at least ten o’clock. There is plenty of time to go over whatever you wish.”
“Thanks,” said Ace, relieved – it was cold out, and Beverly had already left. If he had declined her, she would have had to find her own way back to town, and she hadn’t been looking forward to doing that. She stepped into the house, and he closed the door behind them. She looked around the hall, and removed her rucksack, weighing it in her hands awkwardly. “I feel underdressed,” she said, indicating her red leather jacket, tights, and Doc Martens. “Hope I’m not ruining your aesthetic.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” he said easily, and indicated that she could hang her bag on the coat rack next to the front door. “You’re looking well,” he added, beginning to walk away.
“Am I?” Ace said doubtfully, following him through the foyer and down a long hallway.
“Better than when I last saw you, three days ago,” he amended. “I must admit, I am surprised to see you in such relatively good health. Especially considering the severity of your condition.”
Ace avoided his probing gaze, and shrugged. “It... wasn’t good, yeah. But the Professor knows his stuff, and... well, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You are,” he agreed. “Nonetheless, aconite poisoning of that degree is often fatal, although I am, of course, very glad that it wasn’t. You’re very lucky to be alive still, let alone standing – your Doctor Smith must be a miracle-worker.”
“I mean, that isn’t far from the truth,” said Ace, lips twitching slightly.
“Yes,” he said, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, added, “tell me, have you eaten?”
“This morning? Nope,” she said. “The Professor had some errand or other, and I got sidetracked with the case, and – well, I’m here now. Y’know the drill.”
He nodded. “In that case, would you object to a light breakfast? I was about to prepare my own before you arrived,” he gestured to his apron, “and I make it a point not to miss a meal – or allow others to – if I can help it.”
“Breakfast would be ace,” she said, brightening. “I’m starving .”
Hannibal stopped walking, and was silent for a moment. “You are not hesitant of dining at my table so soon?” he asked, head cocked slightly to the side. Studying her. “I know I would be, in your place.”
“What, you think I’m worried about a little poison? Nah,” she said, smiling. “I know it wasn’t your fault, Doc. The dinner looked delicious, really, I wish I could have tried it properly.”
“Consider this an apology for the events of Wednesday evening, then,” he said, and led her through the dining room. He quickened his pace as they passed through. Ace did the same, although she did glance at the carpet. It was utterly spotless – no sign that any blood had touched it at any point. He must know a really good cleaner. “If you do not have any particular preference, I will make something simple. We don’t want to overtax your no-doubt delicate stomach.”
“Sounds great. Although,” she added, grimacing a little as she glanced around the dining room. There were bowls of fruit on the table, paintings on the walls – no blood visible on the carpet, but she knew it had been there. “I don’t really want to eat in here. Sorry. I know presentation is one of your big things, but –“
“Then we shall eat in the kitchen,” he said, theatrical in his delivery but utterly serious all the same. He opened the door, sweeping a hand elegantly – ladies first. “Presentation is important, of course, but I consider the comfort of my guests to be of the utmost priority.”
They entered the kitchen, leaving the heavy darkness of the dining room behind. The change in color scheme was almost startling. Whereas the dining room had been almost drenched in rich, deep colors, and did not have any windows at all, the kitchen was lighter – sleek, almost modern, with plenty of natural light streaming in from the early morning outside.
“Nice,” Ace said appreciatively, glancing around and taking in the entire room from wall-to-wall. Her gaze fell upon on the glass double-doors leading to the outside of the house. “You do all your cooking in here?”
“Yes.” He followed her gaze, stopping in the doorway. “I suspect that our poison-wielding assassin entered the kitchen when I was not present. Once again, my deepest apologies.”
“Still not your fault,” sighed Ace. “Whoever it was, they obviously were trying to get the poison in; and I don’t reckon you could’ve done anything about it.”
“Nonetheless, I cannot help but feel responsible.”
“Well, thanks, I guess.” Ace played with the end of her braided hair for a moment or two. “You know, I just realized. All of the plates you served on Wednesday had the exact same food, right?”
“With the exception of Doctor Smith, yes. Everybody was served near-identical portions of saltimbocca alla romana, and... hm.” His eyebrows raised as he made the connection. “Yes, that is remarkably strange, now that you point it out.”
“Exactly. Why go for me , when the Professor was the most obvious – and easiest – target? And while we’re at it, how’d they manage to work out which plate was mine?”
“The obvious solution to that, of course, would be that I was working with the assassin – or that I, myself, added the poison,” said Hannibal, and went over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “The entire situation rather seems to implicate me, doesn’t it? – I’m surprised you aren’t more cautious of dining with me this morning.”
Ace snorted and grinned. “Yeah, right. Like a cold-blooded killer would confess his guilt to me while preparing to make me breakfast.”
He smiled too. “I suggest we stop discussing your poisoning for the moment. For your peace of mind, as well as mine.”
“Yeah, fair enough,” Ace said. “Still, it’s food for thought.”
“For thought? I’ve found I rather prefer food for the body and soul,” said Hannibal with a little quirk of his mouth. “Which, coincidentally, is what I hope to be preparing for you this morning. Now, that case that you mentioned before –”
“Oh, right – we got a bit sidetracked there, didn’t we? Yeah. It’d be wicked if you could talk it through with me.”
“You didn’t bring any notes with you?” he said, turning his back to rummage through one of the under-cupboards for utensils. Ace took the opportunity to leap up, seating herself on the edge of a counter.
“Just my thoughts,” she said, tapping the side of her head cheerfully, even though he wasn’t able to see it. “I didn’t have a chance to write anything down, but I bet I can remember it all.”
“Excellent.” Hannibal produced a frying pan with one hand, and reached over to take a knife with the other. “In that case, you can help me prepare the meal as we converse.” He turned, saw where she was sitting, and his expression became entirely unamused. “Miss McShane, kindly use the countertop as it was intended to be used. For example, not a place for the general public to seat themselves at will. There are chairs, or, if you prefer, an armchair in the corner for that.”
Ace laughed and slid off the counter, landing easily. “Sorry. Habit. Our kitchen’s a lot messier at home.” She circled around the central kitchen island to help him pull out various other items of cutlery. “Also, I should probably warn you – I’m a bit of a disaster in the kitchen. This might end up being a mess.”
“You cannot possibly create more of a mess than has been made with some of the people I have worked with in the past,” he said dryly, and crossed over to begin taking out ingredients from his large, lavishly-stocked fridge. “I’m entirely sure you’ll do fine. Take the green cutting board – yes, that one, over there – and find a suitable cutting knife from the rack.”
“The color matters?” Ace said, doing so.
“I color-code based on what is being placed underneath my knife,” he said, smiling as he set down a variety of fresh vegetables on the countertop. “It prevents cross-contamination between, say, raw meat and fresh vegetables. And speaking of cross-contamination – please do wash your hands quite thoroughly before we commence. I suspect that if you contract food poisoning again, nobody would trust me to serve their dinner for a very long time indeed.”
“Wouldn’t want to wreck your reputation,” she said, smiling, and went to scrub her hands clean in the sink. “So, what’re we making?”
“As I said before, something rather simple. A variant of the Italian frittata.” He passed her three capsicums – one red, one green, one yellow. “Dice these, please. As small and as even as you can.”
“Gotcha,” said Ace, twirling the knife with practiced ease, and bringing it down, cleaving the red capsicum in half.
“– and please try not to take my head off,” Hannibal requested, taking a hasty step back to avoid the arc of the blade, which had come dangerously close to his ear. “I try not to get blood on the floor if I can avoid it. I’d appreciate if you did the same.”
“Sorry,” she said, wincing, and began chopping the capsicum in a more sedate, less overtly dramatic manner.
“That’s quite all right,” he said, and began to crack eggs into a bowl, one after another. “Now, let us turn our minds away from our indistinct, poison-wielding foe, and over to more pleasant things, such as murder. This new body that you’ve found – tell me more.”
“Right, well,” Ace said, “I didn’t actually get to see it in person – I was still in the TARDIS, recovering, at that point, but the Professor filled me in, and Bev showed me pictures, so I figure I’ve got a pretty good idea of the details.”
“The TARDIS?”
“Oh, it’s – kind of like our mobile home? Except a lot bigger than you’d expect.” She shrugged. “We travel around in it.”
“I see.” He nodded. “Do continue.”
“So the general gist of it is – another killing with tons of blood, took place in a hotel room, flowers everywhere so we’re guessing it’s the same guy, and the room was locked from the inside so it’s basically completely impossible. No windows,” she added, “or other exits.”
“A locked room murder. Remarkable.” He finished cracking the eggs, swirled them around for a second, and then set the bowl aside, moving back to the refrigerator to gather more ingredients.
“That’s not even the weird bit,” Ace said, and moved onto chopping up the next capsicum. “You’re Will’s friend, right? How accurate would you say his whole psychic dipping-into-people’s-heads thing is?”
“I would say that he has a near-perfect track record thus far,” Hannibal said, returning to the counter with a paper bag of mushrooms. He shook out a few onto a cutting board of his own, and pulled out a knife from the rack of them located nearby. “But I would infer that, from your tone of voice, that record has been broken by this particular incident, unlikely as that may seem.”
“Right on the money.” Ace tapped the knife against the cutting board twice, dislodging stray bits of vegetable that had congealed there. “‘Cording to the Professor, he went in there to do his thing, and came straight back out a couple of minutes later, claiming he couldn’t get a single read from the scene. It was well weird.”
“That is very strange, and more than slightly troubling.” Hannibal frowned at the knife in his hand, weighing it. “Dear Will’s gift allows him the unique ability to sympathise with anyone – no matter how strange, how disturbed, how terrifying. It may not be the healthiest thing, mentally speaking, for him to venture into the darkest of minds that this world has to showcase, but there is no questioning his ability to do so. For somebody to be so far removed from humanity that he is simply not able to connect with them in any way...” He shook his head, and then began cutting the mushrooms into neat, completely even, sixteenths. “Do you know if he obtained any information at all?”
“Well – actually, I think so? He said that it was almost definitely the same guy as last time, but that, uh, the details were obscured. That the ‘act itself was impossible’, so he couldn’t reconstruct it.”
“He was able to slot himself into the killer’s mind at the power station,” Hannibal said thoughtfully. “If it really is the same person doing it, then what has changed since then?”
“You’re the psychiatrist; you tell me,” Ace said.
He hummed thoughtfully. “Tell me more about the scene. You said there were flowers?”
“Two types,” Ace confirmed. “You know how last time, the floor was pretty much entirely covered in blood?”
“Yes. I took the opportunity to look in on it after you had left. Quite impressive.”
“ Impressive isn’t the word I would’ve chosen, but – anyway, this time, our killer got a bit more creative with the blood splatter. I’ve no idea how he did it, but, uh...” Ace trailed off. She put down her knife, wiped her hands on her leggings, and reached into an inside pocket of her jacket to pull out a photograph, laying it on the counter. “..well, here. See for yourself.”
Hannibal finished cutting the mushrooms, and then came over to inspect the photo. “Ah,” he said.
The photograph depicted the crime scene – a fairly small, moderately cramped hotel room with a pale, clearly dead man pinned against the wall, nailed into place with his arms spread-eagled. There was what appeared to be a note pinned to his chest, with another nail. Below him, dripping blood had been arranged into a pattern of alternating blank and bloody red squares in a rough but visible sixteen-by-sixteen grid. Flowers were arranged almost neatly along these rows.
Ace nodded. “The two types of flowers were white chrysanthemums, and black roses. Sixteen of each, arranged on each side of the ‘board’. Not exactly subtle.”
“Chess, then,” he said, passing the photograph back to her. “Or checkers, since all the pieces in this case are the same.”
“It’s gotta be chess,” Ace said, sighing and tucking the photo away. “Psychopaths always want to be dramatic about it, and checkers just doesn’t have the same style as chess does. I’m done with these,” she added, indicating the capsicum. “What now?”
He nodded over at a small pile of potatoes that he had left on the counter. “Wash those, and then do the same. As for the murder, I’m inclined to agree.” He stood still for a moment, watching her gather up the potatoes. “Do you know what the symbolism of those flowers are?”
“Uh – no,” Ace said, picking up her knife again and beginning to chop. “The Professor never got around to telling me. Care to share?”
“Certainly.” He picked up the bowl of eggs again, and moved over to the spice rack, scanning the various glass shakers that were arranged there. “Although the white chrysanthemum has many meanings, I believe the one that would be pertinent in this situation is its more archaic form. Truth.” He added oregano, then salt, and then milk from a fancy-looking metal jug. “As for the roses – true black roses do not exist, Miss McShane, although very dark red roses that appear almost black can exist, and dye can be used to create an imperfect simulacrum.”
“Huh. You learn something new every day, I guess. Here’s the potatoes,” she added.
“Excellent.” Hannibal turned to her, and indicated that they should swap places. “There’s a whisk on the counter. Please, feel free to exhaust the last of your energy with the task of beating them.”
She saluted, and went right for it. “So, the black roses? There’s got to be some sort of thing there, otherwise they wouldn’t have picked a type that doesn’t actually exist – what do they mean?”
“It may not entirely surprise you to hear this,” he said, “but black roses typically symbolise death.”
“Oh, nice. Very cheerful.” Ace stirred faster, tongue poking out of her mouth slightly. “You know, I wish psychopathic killers would just come out and say what they’re trying to communicate, instead of doing this whole symbolic, metaphorical bullshit-fest.”
“If everybody were as honest as you wish they were, it would put me out of a job,” he commented lightly.
“That might be a good thing, all things considered.”
There was a comfortable silence in the kitchen for a minute or two as they both worked independently of each other for a while.
“I must confess, I’m wondering – why come to me?” Hannibal asked eventually, briskly sweeping an amount bell-pepper mixture she had diced up into a measuring cup. He raised it to eye level, and frowned slightly, and then added more. “If it was flower-based knowledge that you were seeking, I’m sure that your friend, the one you call ‘Professor’, would have been happy to oblige you. His expertise in that area seemed more than adequate. Or, failing that, a simple search online or a trip to the library would have sufficed.”
“I mean, yeah, it is. And he would be.” Ace paused in her whisking, and shook out her hand briefly before returning to the task. “He was busy this morning, though, and I also wanted to ask someone about some psychiatrist-like stuff.”
“You could have asked Will,” he said.
“Is this your way of asking me to leave?” she asked, grinning, and ended up accidentally splashing some of the egg mixture over onto the countertop. “Oh, oops...”
“Not at all,” he said, and pointed over to the sink without looking. “There are towels over there. I’m simply trying to parse your motives for coming here.”
Ace weighed her words as she went about cleaning up her brief spill. “Will... well, he seems like a nice bloke, but he’s not as approachable as you are.”
“I try my best to be,” he said. “As both a psychiatrist and a person.” He crossed to the stovetop and turned on the central coil, placing a large frying pan on top. He drizzled oil into it, and after a few minutes, it began to sizzle merrily. “If you wouldn’t mind, pass me those potatoes.”
“Here you go,” said Ace, doing just that.
“Thank you. And I saw there was a note of some sort pinned to our unfortunate victim’s chest,” he said, switching back to the previous subject of discussion as he began to fry the chopped potatoes in oil. It smelled wonderful, even after just a few seconds. “You’ve neglected to mention its contents thus far.”
“Oh – yeah.” Ace shrugged. “Just more cryptic nonsense. It said, ‘your move, Time Lord’.”
“‘Time Lord’ is a somewhat unusual turn of phrase. Potentially a title of some sort, although certainly not one I’ve heard before. ‘Your move’ is somewhat simpler – no doubt alluding to the gory chess board he had created, and implying that he is playing against this ‘time lord’ in particular, who he sees as his opponent. Capsicum, please.”
Ace passed over the measuring cup full of chopped capsicum, watching as he added it to the potatoes. “Seems likely, yeah.”
“Mushrooms, too,” he added, and shifted around the vegetable mixture with a long-handled turner. “You know who his ‘opponent’ is. And you have not told Jack, for reasons I can’t quite discern.”
Ace started, nearly spilling the cup of chopped mushrooms that she had just picked up. “I – what?”
“Your tone of voice was somewhat indicative. As was your reaction just now.” He took it from her, added it to the pan, and then passed her the turner, guiding her in the direction of the pan. “Continue stirring.”
“No idea what you mean, doc,” she said, acquiescing, but looking uncertainly over her shoulder at him.
“Miss McShane, kindly do not play the fool with me,” he said sharply, opening the fridge again. “It does not suit you, and I feel I am owed more respect than that.”
“I – fine.” She sighed, and poked at the sizzling contents of the pan, almost moodily. “Yeah. I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“Please, do share. In your own time, of course.” He placed a tupperware container with already-cooked sausages piled in it on the counter, and took out a new knife and a red cutting board. “Leftovers,” he explained, off her curious look, as he began to cut them into segments. “It wouldn’t be my first choice, but I don’t have the time to procure new meat at the moment.”
“Right,” she said, and paused for a second. “The person the killer’s referring to; performing to – it’s... probably the Doctor. Almost definitely, actually.”
“Doctor Smith?” At her nod, he nodded too. “I see. And the reason you have not revealed this information to Jack, is...?”
“Personal.” Ace shrugged. “Ask the Professor if you really want to know. Not my place to say.”
He nodded again; took two slices of bread from the bag, and placed them in the toaster. “Thank you for telling me.” They switched places again, Ace passing off the turner to him. He added the sausage chunks to the now almost fully-cooked vegetable fry-up, and then reached over to get the bowl of whisked eggs himself. “I don’t believe there’s anything else left for you to do. You may sit down if you wish.”
“Ta.” Ace pulled out a stool at the counter, and elected to sit there rather than on top of the surface, like before. She watched him add the egg mixture to the frying pan, tapping the side of the bowl to ensure all of the mixture dripped out, and then discard the bowl before starting to shift the contents of the pan around once more. “Hang on,” she said, laughing as she realized, “you’re making scrambled eggs?”
“I am not,” he said with an impressive amount of dignity. “What we have been preparing is frittata , an Italian egg-based dish –”
“I know scrambled eggs when I see it, mate,” Ace said. “Can’t pull the wool over my eyes.”
He made a tiny noise of displeasure that sounded suspiciously like a huff, and was silent for a moment as he finished cooking. It took a surprisingly short amount of time for him to do so – the pan was hot enough that he had turned it off already within only minutes, and was sprinkling cheese on top of it. He neatly caught the toast as it popped out of the toaster on two plates, and then split the frittata between them, heaping it on top.
Balancing the two plates neatly on one arm, he pulled cutlery out from a drawer before coming around to place one of the dishes delicately in front of her, situating his own breakfast on the other side of the counter. “ Bon appetit. Although I hope you will wait for me to join you in a moment before starting – would you prefer orange juice or coffee? Or something else?”
“Juice’s fine, thanks,” she said, inhaling the smell of freshly-cooked eggs and smiling.
He crossed to the refrigerator again, and produced a stainless steel pitcher frosted with condensation. “Freshly-squeezed, just this morning,” he told her.
“Cool,” she said appreciatively.
“Yes, very.” He pulled down two glasses from yet another cupboard, and came to join her at the counter.
They sat there in silence for a moment, and then another. Neither of them made a move to begin the meal – Hannibal waiting for his guest to begin first; Ace waiting for...
“Ah, of course,” he said, with a small, rueful smile – realizing. “I forgot. My apologies, Miss McShane – I’ll start first, shall I?” Without waiting for a response, he picked up his fork and knife and began to eat.
Ace watched him for a second or two, leaning back on the stool and swinging her feet. “Feeling poisoned yet?” she asked when he was maybe a quarter of the way through his plate.
He gave the question consideration. “Not especially,” he said.
“All right. Good enough for me,” Ace said, and reached for her own set of cutlery. As Hannibal poured orange juice for both of them, she speared a potato with her fork and brought it to her lips. She ate it, and then grinned at him. “Delicious. Ta, Doc.”
“I’m glad,” he said, smiling back. She continued eating the breakfast, scooping up eggs and sausage with her fork, and accepting Hannibal’s glass of juice with her free hand as she did. “I seem to have forgotten the salt and pepper. Just one moment.” He rose from the counter, turning away to retrieve the necessary shakers from the spice rack.
From behind him –
Ace gasped, a sudden, stuttering noise that sounded like she was choking. Almost immediately afterwards, the sound of the glass that she’d been holding shattering – instantly, irrevocably – echoed through the kitchen.
At the sound of the smash, Hannibal turned around.
Ace was still seated at the counter, fork still in hand – although the glass had, of course, hit the floor moments before. All of the color seemed to have drained from her face, and she was staring at the food in front of her as if it had suddenly started moving around on the plate before her.
“Miss McShane?” he asked.
She dropped the fork on the counter, where it landed with a clatter, and rose to her feet abruptly. Her hands were shaking. Her breathing was uneven. “The – the food...”
“Miss McShane, look at me,” he said sharply.
She did. Her gaze was wild, almost animalistic, and for a second it almost appeared as if her eyes had gone yellow. But almost immediately, that was gone, and it was replaced by her regular eyes – terrified, horrified, staring right at him. “The – listen, Doctor Lecter; I don’t know how, or, or, why , or whatever it was – maybe it was on Wednesday? Must’ve been, no other way he could’ve got into here, you said – you said there was security, so –”
“Calm yourself,” he said, concern clear in his voice. “You do not sound well, Miss McShane. Do you believe you have ingested poison once more?” He moved towards the phone. “I will call Jack. He will be able to contact Doctor Smith for you, and –”
She shook her head, violently, and her knuckles whitened against the countertop. “Oh, no, not poison.” And here, she choked out a humorless, hysterical laugh. “Whoever tried to poison me on Wednesday? He messed with your fridge. That’s not sausage in our scrambled eggs, not normal sausage, anyway.” She jabbed a finger at the offending food. “I can taste it, Doc. That’s human meat. ”
His hand dropped away abruptly from the phone, and he was silent for a long, long moment – just staring at her inscrutably.
In his silence, her borderline hysteria began to drop away too, replaced by a kind of righteous fury that began to bubble up inside her, tinged with that same lingering horror. “Didn’t you hear me?” she asked, clenching her fists reflexively. “I said –“
“I heard what you said.” His tone was soft, betraying nothing.
A short silence, and then, “Doctor Lecter, there are people in our breakfast.”
“Yes,” he said simply. Unsurprised.
It took her less than a second to make the connection, and as soon as she did, she lunged for the fork that she had dropped, snatching it up and brandishing it as if it would be any sort of defence against him. “ You – you toerag, I trusted you!”
“You don’t now?” he asked. All traces of sympathy, of concern, were gone from his voice, although the mild curiosity that had tempered it still remained.
“You tried to feed me somebody ,” Ace snarled, still looking vaguely ill. “What kind of sick fucking game is this? Where – oh my god, did you – you’ve been killing people. You’ve been killing people to eat.” Her eyes widened. The expression on her face became, if possible, even more horrified. “Oh hell. You were a surgeon. You’ve been killing people; stealing their organs; cooking them – fuck. You’re the bloody Chesapeake Ripper .”
For a moment, Hannibal almost seemed to be as surprised as she was, and then he regained his composure almost immediately. “My congratulations, Miss McShane. You’re far more intelligent than I gave you credit for.”
Her expression grew even more grim at this confirmation, and her eyes darted from him, standing behind of the counter with no weapons in hand whatsoever, and then to the door leading out to the rest of the house, only a short distance away from her.
“Running would be most unwise, Miss McShane,” he said softly, noticing.
“More unwise than staying in a room with you for any longer than I have to be?” She laughed incredulously and a bit hysterically (although she never would have admitted it), and took a step backwards. “Yeah, no . I think I’ll be going now.”
He didn’t make a move to stop her, but the tension in the air inexplicably grew just that bit heavier as his stare intensified. “I’m afraid I can’t let you leave.”
“Okay, now you’re not even trying to steer away from the menacing psychopath cliché.” Another step backwards. “God, I was hoping you’d at least be a bit original.” Another step. Two more and she’d be at the door – but he still wasn’t moving to stop her.
She took her chance – lunged for the handle of the door leading to the dining room, twisting it and trying to tear it open.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hannibal move, almost dizzyingly fast. In one fluid movement, he snatched up two carving knives from the rack, and vaulted over the countertop with all of the grace of an Olympic athlete, raising the knife in his left hand at shoulder-level – bringing it down towards back. She felt him come at her, rather than saw it, and thought, over a sudden surge of terror and adrenaline, okay, this is more like it . Instinctively, she flung herself to the side. Hannibal’s knife narrowly missed her head by a fraction, embedding itself in the wood of the doorframe with a sickening thud.
She gasped out loud, and scrabbled for the handle again, panic making her movements jerky and uncoordinated.
Hannibal smiled down at her with the patience of a favorite uncle, and raised his other knife.
She wasn’t fast enough to dodge it entirely this time. It came down with another horrible thud that was, this time, accompanied by an equally sickening
crunch.
