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Graham was pacing in the ″Game Room″ as the cops called it. He was tossing and turning the murders over in his mind. Everyone was blaming Hobbs on the girl found in the field. But he knew it wasn't. It wasn't him because he wouldn't have done that. Hobbs didn't want to hurt anyone. Hobbs killed Elise. Hobbs killed to keep people from leaving him. The dead couldn't abandon him. His wife...
Loneliness and the fear of abandonment crashed around the room like a weight pressing down on Graham's chest. If someone is dead they can't leave. Hobbs was abandoned by his mother. If someone is dead they can't leave. He was left by his first wife, his daughter's mother. If someone is dead they can't leave. He couldn't keep a job and his wife was going to leave him again. When she is dead she can't leave. No one can leave you if they are dead, they are dead and the dead stay forever and I---
Graham yelped when his nails dug into his own shoulder. He could feel the pinch through his shirt. The panic drifted away and in its wake a headache pricked behind his eyes. Without looking, he flipped the Hobbs file closed.
There was always a collection of pain killers at the police station. Typically Graham just went for aspirin, but Excedrin had caffeine in it. He swallowed down a cup of coffee and breathed until his head and heart stopped beating a rhythm that would make a German metal band impressed. He needed to go into the Hobbs file again. He needed that girl in the field because she didn't belong there. Her killer... her killer would be insulted.
With his eyes still closed, Graham flipped through the files and pulled out the girl in the field. When the Hobbs file was safely closed he opened his eyes again. He placed the photograph on the desk in front of him, sat down and placed his elbows on either side of her displayed body. His hands knitted into his hair.
Slowly his eyes drifted closed...
The mocking bird fluttered away. He wasn't mocking anyone, he wasn't even proving a point. This was simply bad business... personal.... it... the reason was because Elise... The bodies of the girls were standing around him, a tight circle, ring around the rosy...ashes...ashes...
″Will?″
Graham started up with a gasp and clutched the ends of the desk so hard his fingertips were white. It was Doctor Lecter. He waited and breathed as the other man walked into the room. Doctor Lecter had an aloof way of trying to not touch anything but being almost invested in everything in the process. Graham shook his head. He didn't want to play mind games with anyone. Minds were... horrifying. He cleared his throat.
″Did I perchance miss something?″ There was an emotion hid below the smooth accent. It could have been regret. He could have just been fucking with Graham. No way to be sure.
″The copycat killed the girl in the field.″
″Well, we've been through that, haven't we?″
″Not like this.″
Doctor Lecter seated himself across the desk from Graham. ″Elaborate?″
″It isn't about the girl. He thought she was scum, but she wasn't the important part. The important part was being seen. We were paying too much attention to Hobbs. He didn't like it. He wants us to notice him.″
Lecter sipped what Graham knew was tea. ″Someone so narcissistic, I'm sure we will come across him soon.″
″He's not a narcissist. I mean... he is, in a way, but that's not what this is.″
″Can you tell me more about our killer?″ The tea cup sat on the desk and Lecter leaned back in a self assured, relaxed position that Graham could never quite manage.
″Wealthy... he has the space and the funds. He loves fine things... expensive things... he chooses people to ...make a point, in a way. He's saying something, it's almost randomly incidental. But this... this isn't about that girl.″ Graham took a drink himself and focused on Lecter's hairline. A trick to avoid the eyes. ″He's lonely... this is a cry for attention.″
Lecter sat back. ″Lonely?″
Graham nodded. ″He's desperate for company. He doesn't want caught but he needs someone to celebrate with him to revel with him. But it can't be anyone, it can't be a petty copycat. He needs someone he finds worthy and that display in the field was a desperate sort of plea for attention and-″ His head throbbed with vengeance. Graham groaned and pressed his fingertips into his temples.
″Perhaps you should go home, Will. You do not look well at all. It may effect how accurate you are.″
Graham shook his head but stood anyway. ″I think I do need sleep.″
He could hear the smile in Lecter's voice. ″See, you will be clearer in the morning.″
″I'm perfectly clear. My assessment stands.″ With that Graham slowly walked out of the room, leaving Lecter alone with pictures of the woman he'd killed.
Lecter picked up the photograph of the field and scowled at it. His secretary should have known better than to just pack up and leave without a moment's notice. Stupid sow, how rude can one be? He barely was able to resist the urge to crush the picture. Instead he dropped it back to the desk. ″A cry for attention?″ he hissed. ″What do I look like, a teenaged girl?″
Regardless of his protests, the comment would bother him well into the night.